52 Angela Jeffs
Bloody Hell! Liberty bodices were undercover. So were suspender belts. But then there was that other belt, to which huge pads were attached: sanitary towels. My mother introduced them to me the day she told me about periods, which she referred to as ‘the curse’ rather than using its correct medical terminology: menstruation. It was a Sunday afternoon in 1951, just ahead of my starting secondary school, and she had sent my father out into the garden 'to avoid embarrassment'. (This being the man who – on the night of his honeymoon – asked my mother if they were now going to do something naughty.) What different times they were. Most boys now know what a period is from the age of ten or even younger. And it has been in vogue in recent years for girls to have parties in celebration of such bodily changes; ignorance – if not shame – largely went out of the window years ago, and a good thing too. Not for all girls, of course. Those of certain different cultures are expected and even forced to handle the experience differently. How my heart aches for them, their bodies not allowed to bleed naturally. Rather they are cut, and mutilated, and physically redefined to meet patriarchal rules. But do the men do this cruelly dirty work? No, it's women who make these girls suffer, just as they did. A cut for a cut makes the whole world bleed. My own mother made me suffer, but not in any way I would describe as remotely comparable. Remembering her own corseted mother suffering in the name of fashion and male approval, she most likely thought the Liberty Bodice was just that: a step towards freedom – and a healthier daughter. One certainly helped keep me fractionally warmer through the horrendous winter of 1947! But then came added suspenders, to hold up teenage stockings.
