The Bluecoat's Looked After Children - Complete writing

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Margy McShane and all the writers who participated in the Looked After Children strand of the EchoesandOrigins project, which was financially supported by the Heritage Fund, LCVS and Art Friends Merseyside. A special thanks to Michelle Girvan, a collaborative doctoral award PhD candidate at University of Liverpool, who provided historical research into the charity school in the eighteenth century.

Cover: James Cliffe, Emma as a Blue Coat Girl, oil on canvas. The artist had a studio at the Bluecoat where this was painted, probably in the 1960s/early 1970s. With the garden as a backdrop, it evokes the building’s time as a school, its sitter wearing the traditional Blue Coat uniform. The painting was purchased by Celia Van Mullem and presented to the Bluecoat Society of Arts.

Merseyside

The Bluecoat’s Looked After Children

Contents

Introduction by Margy McShane 5

The Butterfly in the Blue Coat by Irene Stuart 6 Son of Mine by Julie Swallow 7

The Foundlings by Angela Cheveau 8 Ellen Lowry by Christine Day 10 If I Were A Boy by Irene Stuart 11

A Mother’s Love by Janet McCusker 12

Bluecoat, Now and Then by Julie Swallow 13

Songbird: To My Daughter by Angela Cheveau 14

Folly Fair by Gengwalchen Akumu 16

Family Affair by Julie Swallow 17

Oh Dear, What Can The Matter Be? by Kathleen Wildman 18 Going To The Fair by Corrina Robinson 19

George Harrocks Reminiscing by Kathleen Wildman 20 A Letter To Mam by Janet McCusker 21

Richard Fowler’s Response by Kathleen Wildman 22 Reynolds & Fitch by Janet McCusker 23

Money For Old Rope: Haikus for the Bluecoat Children by Margy McShane 24

Richard Fowler by Irene Stuart 26

Richard Fowler by Corrina Robinson 27

Richard Fowler – a Sonnet by Angela Cheveau 28 Bluecoat Blues by Julie Swallow 29 Dress and Bonnet by Janet Robb 30 Bluecoat Poem by Jade Harris 31 Girl, 14 by Corrina Robinson 32

William Seed by Margy McShane 33

William Seed by Angela Cheveau 34

William Seed’s Journey by Corrina Robinson 35

William Seed: Another Page In History by Kathleen Wildman 36

William Seed by Christine Day 37 History Lesson by Julie Swallow 38

by Margy McShane

For nearly two hundred years, countless children lived, worked and were schooled at the Blue Coat Hospital, but little is known or recorded of their characters and personalities. The aim of this project was to research and commemorate the lost lives and voices of those children and, for me, it was a privilege to facilitate a group of writers to that end. The writers, drawn from various community groups, each brought a unique lived experience and writing skills to the project. We focussed on three individual schoolboys and looked more generally at the schoolgirls, about whom there is scant information. As we researched and workshopped, the children seemed to emerge, whispering their stories to us.

In the archives, we found a photograph of the bible of William Seed, presented to him on leaving the school in 1872. Less than a year later, apprenticed to a seafaring master from among the Blue Coat’s wealthy trustees, he drowned at sea. In Liverpool Record Office, a silhouette book of cherubic profiles accompanied the school reports from 1722. Among these was one Richard Fowler, scathingly described as stubborn, self-important and doomed to failure. An account in the Blue Coat Hospital Yearbook of 1800 described a riotous truant spree involving over a hundred boys on a trip to Liverpool’s annual Folly Fair. One of these scallywags, serial truant, George Harrocks, was later expelled along with thirty five of his A.W.O.L accomplices.

As we progressed, the subliminal whispers became a cacophony of voices. It got a little weird in the workshops sometimes. Seagulls shrieked overhead, as we wrote of George Harrocks and the rioting schoolboys. Rainfall, strangely appearing only from the courtyard window, somehow felt like tears for poor, drowned William Seed. William, George, Richard and the many Blue Coat girls, destined to duty and anonymity, were suddenly in our care — we mourned their losses and rejoiced in their rebellions. The writers spoke of feeling ‘haunted’ by the children. We were cyphers, channelling their forgotten stories.

The selection on the following pages celebrates the characters that came to call on us. Each piece is deeply personal and presents a coming together of a writer and a Blue Coat child. Although Scouse, as a Liverpudlian dialect, was yet to be established at this time, I like to think of the children as proto-Scousers: self-assured, rebellious, defiant; plotting mutiny, weaving mischief, waiting to be heard.

Listen carefully, the children are calling…

TheBluecoat’sLookedAfterChildren, Bluecoat installation view, 2022.

Photos by Rob Battersby

The Butterfly In The Blue Coat

by Irene Stuart

Take her said mother away from this poverty to a better life

Give her a future as bright as the stars above as bright as she is

Her father works hard and I do my best to help but we are still poor

A curly haired child angelic face and nature deserves happiness

A blue coat for her a butterfly to emerge please, please, please take her

Leaving me, we wept but she had done the right thing the right thing for me

Son of Mine

by Julie Swallow

I beg of you son learn to read I beg of you son learn your sums I beg of you son learn some manners

I beg of you son learn some more of what it is to be a gentleman I beg of you son of mine Obey your masters Honour the Lord Work at your lessons Work the hardest of all Then some more son My son, first born, more bonnie than a spring lamb Sweeter than a ripened blackberry Cheeks smoother than a pebble tumbled by the sea Skin softer than a single silky rose petal I loved the very bones of you before Hung dangling by your ankles you screamed More cherished than thick cream set atop the milk Gift given to us, your ma and da Blessed were we, until your da was lost at sea Your innocent da punished and perished Son, though I launder and sew I’m afeared you I can’t feed I need you to get an education Son of mine, I’m sending you to school Though our flesh be set apart You remain bound to my heart A very precious part of me

The Foundlings

by Angela Cheveau

Carved from the corners of these city streets faces forever set in marmoreal, moonlit, stone, we are creeping out of the shadows of ‘this peaceful dome’ we are coming, branded by poverty and scorched with a sin not ours to shoulder, want singed into the holes in our clothes, lack lodged in our throats from the streets we come clothed in tattered rags and stitched dreams, from rot and ruin, from sickening squalor and the stale stench of need from rank cellars and cess-filled crevices we come crawling out of grime-soaked doorways drenched in gloom, from fatherless homes, from penniless, starving, mothers we come from dirt and decay, the dying and the dispossessed, from the poor, the pauper, the penurious pinch of lives drowning in detritus, beggared at birth we are the rotten buds, the canker of corruption, spent blooms of mercantile misery and maritime wealth, the spoils of this colonial curse carried heavy upon our shoulders, we are the tabula rasa inscribed with the will of the state blank slates on which the world writes its wicked ways but we are coming, we are coming, not for retribution but to tell how we rose up from our destitution, how we rose up high above our station by being blessed with an education we are coming, hear our wooden clad feet clattering across this cobbled courtyard the coarse wool of our stiff clothes scraping at your skin the veil between us stretched gossamer thin, scent the sour smell of beer brewed for breakfast the buttermilk on our breath, hot in your ear, we are here, we are the whistle of wind raising hairs on your arms, we are the whispers you hear in the dark, we are the shadows shifting on the stairwell if you squint you might catch the glint of our needles, hear the scratch of our quills on the skrip, might feel our cool cheeks press against the back of your hand we are coming, two by two, hand in hand, we come in our ribboned bonnets and cloth caps, battered boots with holes in our soles, the sound of our chaunts haunt the corners of your mind, our footsteps resounding through cold empty corridors, locked doors, our muffled

mutterings mouthed in the quiet spaces, church pews echo with the sound of our scriptures, we are coming, we breathe soft in the stillness between your words, willing our voices to once more be heard, we scamper amongst the lines that you write, willing you to uncover our plight, tugging at your mind in the middle of the night we are always hiding just out of sight, everywhere you look, crawling out from every nook, dirty faced, we watch from these oval windows silhouetted against the dying light, sepia tinted sunset fading we are lambent lights flickering soft in the shadows, we are here to say we existed, to say that we mattered, we are the heartbeat of this city built on the blood of slavery and empire, we are risen once more from the darkness to regain our voices, our faded faces pressed, like petals, between the pages of your mind our fingerprints smudged on this glass, our stories seeping through cracks in the concrete bleed in to brick, our words, carefully carved into the weathered stone of this crumbling façade we are liver birds lit by the sinking sun we are the throbbing heart of this place, of these streets, our voices pulse through your veins, the silver sliver of the river Mersey winds through our bones and yours, pools in our eyes, we are here with you, rising up from the ashes of history our bones burning bright, untouched by Times scouring sand we are reaching up with our tiny hands unearthed, we are rebirthed, by digging your pen deep in the dust, ploughing the soil of our stories you bring us to light, and highlight our glories, and we are here, we are here, we are found! At last.

by Christine Day

Ellen Lowry is my name. Brought here by my mother, she cried to leave me. So many tibs here, row upon row, sleeping in this big room.

Working on the laundry we must obey our masters. I’m to go into service, so I’m told, for a better class of family than ever mine is deemed.

I don’t miss the lice and vermin, the gnawing pain in my empty stomach and the cold stones on my bare feet whilst trolling to sell my bundles of chip wood.

But there are no Mother’s kisses here and to cry is thought ungrateful. I’m reminded daily of my station and how I should be grateful for our masters’ charity. It’s a hard road to follow but I have hopes for a better tomorrow.

If I Were A Boy

by Irene Stuart

If I were a boy I’d learn my sums, reading too and writing as well

My name not a cross I’d be ever so clever and use an ink pen

But I am a girl no education for me why waste time on girls

If I were a boy I’d set sail for the oceans the world I would see

Adventures galore I’d go to America the land of the free

I’d move to New York When my sea days are over and never look back

But I am a girl adventure is not for me just silly daydreams

A needle woman working till my fingers bleed but I have no choice

No chance do I have to better myself, to change no prospects for me

Marriage will follow it is the way of my kind Life of servitude

Then many children some will survive, some will die I will grieve for all

I wish I were a boy a life to look forward to but I am a girl.

A Mother’s Love

by Janet McCusker

I hope you know I did it for you

I hope you know I miss you

I miss your constant chatter I miss your laugh I miss brushing your hair

I miss you sitting on my chair Asking questions I could never answer I miss the innocence in your eyes Your look so true so fiery blue

I miss your storytelling on a starry night to your brothers’ and sisters’ cries of delight All huddled and cuddled four in a bed Hanging on every word you said

I miss your kiss goodnight

I hope you know I tried To keep you always by my side

I hope you know I love you My forever firstborn I hope you know

I hope you know How hard it was to let you go

I did it for you For the future you For the wonderful woman You are yet to become I did it for you

I hope you know

Wordsoflovefromamotherforherdaughter whowassenttoTheBlueCoat,aged8.

Bluecoat, Now and Then

by Julie Swallow

Sipping coffee, Sucking small sweet caramel chocolate squares I think of skinny, malnourished boys

Dipping grey stale bread in tepid broth I worry when writing the right words escapes me Where boys longing for escape were whipped for less

Talent surrounds this table topped with treats

I consider how small boys were treated here before Bluecoat Boys detached from families

Whilst we connect with “the facts” That their lives were not their own But we are enhancing ours

Songbird: To My Daughter

by Angela Cheveau

My girl, sing me a song about the shape of light spread your wings wide and soar up into flight when you were a child, you sang like a bird as the sun sank into gold, your voice could be heard soaring these rooftops, drifting through streets your tiny voice singing made my whole life complete. Daughter you were born with a God given voice to sing of our stories, show we weren’t given a choice so let your song carry high, over this city don’t let them tell you have to be pretty be proud and stand tall, always carry yourself with grace oh, daughter of mine, you are the strength of this place in public, you must simper, must nod, do as you are bidden but always remember that your power lies hidden folded up tight inside the hem of your dress keep these words of mine close and never confess words are your power so never ever forget to keep singing your songs, face down every threat in this life there are men who will want you brought down but my girl, keep on going and never break down descended from women with spines forged from steel who refused to bow low, to fold up, or to kneel in secret by lamplight, ‘neath the flicker of candles we gossiped and whispered like ruffians and vandals in secret we cussed, we fought and we swore we drank gin and read tea leaves whilst scrubbing the floor in secret we flourished, we knew all the tricks we discussed world affairs, even politics a secret society with our heads always bowed in public we knew not to ever be loud we passed through our lives softly like ghosts just series of notches on the master’s bedposts our bodies not ours, the landowner’s men our only sword in this life, the might of our pen they can take your body girl, but never your mind

there is no man alive by which you are defined and if there is one thing I’ll tell you, that I need you to know its that you’re here on this earth, to learn and to grow you are not here to gild yourself, to pose and to preen you are here to speak out, to be heard, to be seen but the world will try to deny you, to make you feel small to make you believe you have no worth at all so, listen to me now, my tiny songbird your songs are important, deserve to be heard I want to guide you, and show you, as mother showed me to point out the pathway to one day be free our magic is passed down in the words that we speak in us telling our daughters to never ever be meek in school you must seem quiet, seem gentle, seem mild but inside your heart you will always be wild you are not some, doxy, some hoyden, some plaything no, you have the heart, the soul, and the stomach of a king let tyrants fear you, be bold, brave, be seen know that inside you, breathes a goddess, a queen rise up from the ashes of your poor broken childhood like the phoenix you are, do all the things that I never could keep singing my daughter and transcend your birthplace and when life tries to break you, look it right in the face because you are a woman, you have magic in your bones you are descended from witches, from healers, from crones you are the granddaughter of those that they failed to burn you are descended from brambles, bracken and fern the strength of the oak tree flows deep in your veins so don’t let this life wrap you in chains deep down in your heart you know the magic’s still there you are born of sea-spangled sunlight, of water, of air, at school keep your head down and do as you are told but inside keep your fierce close, be fearless, be bold one day we will all rise again, be who we were always meant to be a lineage of sisters who can finally fly free.

Folly Fair by Gengwalchen Akumu

bitter tasting words aimed at prideless innocents shot from cruel sideburns

shuddering delight gleaned from trampled dreams and faith downcast children sigh

greedy tirades rain words stinging from the holy book His brutality boys from poverty live acts of vandalism ripe for discipline!

sweat furrows under master’s shining silk top hat glazed over grey looks now! shouts a pupil pushing free from oppression youthful rebels dash school’s out for st. george!

Family Affair

by Julie Swallow

One hundred foundlings Fled to find the Follies Fair One took out a shop

Window pane, glass smashed Fair lost his head and heart there Watched bared chested men’s

Bare knuckled punches And a brown bear in a chain Let out of its cage

A man throws sharp knives Round the shape of his poor wife Large cookie cutter

Ate hot ches er nuts

Watched pretty girls in ribbons Turning somersaults

His heart flipped over This felt like family he sought He claimed a new home

When the fair left town Boy who read well in chapel Found freedom elsewhere

Oh Dear, What Can The Matter Be?

by Kathleen Wildman

Theyearis1800.GeorgeHarrocks,age12,istryingtomakehimself look decent for the fair, with the aid of his friend, Postlethwaite, whose deceasedfatherwasapparentlyabarber.Sadly,itappearsthatnoneof hisfather’sskillswerepasseddowntohisson...

Oh dear what can the matter be, Postlethwaite cut me hair, and it just doesn’t flatter me, It’s not gonna improve between now and next Saturday. When we are going the fair.

It’s all silky and shiny, and he’s encouraged more curl, If me mam walked in now she’d say, “I always wanted a girl” “Ooh, yer look lovely George, give us a twirl” There’s no way I’m going the fair.

He’d said “I’ll do it just fine ‘cause me dad was a barber” and he comes up with this style, that yer just wouldn’t harbour, I’ll have all the boys after me, it’s the girls I would rather. When I am down at the fair..

He set off flashing his scissors with gusto and ardour, And I must confess no-one could have tried harder, I wish I could have avoided all this palaver. I’ll never get to the fair

He’s made such a mess that I’ll just have to shave it, Folk’ll think I’ve had lice, but I’ll just have to brave it, If they skit me I’ll say “Watch your ‘ed or I’ll cave it. I’ll act ‘ard when I’m down at the fair.

I’ve arranged to meet up, back of tents, with young Valerie, She’s got a figure would grace, any art gallery, I’ll ask can I kiss her, I’m sure that she shall agree. I can’t wait to get to the fair.

I CAN’T WAIT TO GET TO THE FAIR.

Going To The Fair

by Corrina Robinson

It seemed like a good idea at the time. We were so much wanting to go to the fair, to listen to the music and see the players, though we had not a farthing between us to spend on the stalls.

We broke sticks off trees and played at soldiers and kicked stones around the pavement but then Billy got carried away and threw his stone at a shop window. We’ll be for it tomorrow because everyone knows us in our blue coats.

I wanted to stay out till dark to see the gas lamps lit and all the brass to sparkle and have a laugh at the drunkards fighting and the ladies raising their skirts to dance.

Most of the boys went back when their bellies started to rumble, but I was a-feared what would happen to me, especially because of my previous transgressions. May as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.

I was sorry though in the night when I was cold and hungry, I wished for my bed rather than a bush and I didn’t get much sleep for fear the watchman would find me and set his dog on me. I decided that in the morning I would go to stay with my grandmother, though it be a few days walk, it would be worth it to see her again after so long away in school.

George Harrocks Reminiscing

by Kathleen Wildman

Memories, sweet memories are the ones we surely find, When sitting quietly in later years, they’re in the forefront of our mind.

One such memory for me, as vivid now as then, Is one that will never, ever fade, it revisits time and time again.

I see me, twelve years old, as bold as brass, with new found freedom, A hundred and six rebel boys behind, I’d won the vote for who to lead them.

I took full control, the Fair, our goal, and it was in our sights now. No rigid rules and regulations, not for me, to no man I bow.

In the still of night I’d readied the gate, by removal of its staple, So a speedy exit could be made, we were ready, we were able.

In the early morn, secrecy sworn, we made our swift escape. If any masters then had seen us, they’d have stood with mouths agape.

But they did not, and what they got, when they awoke, those stern reposers, Was news, that with little fuss, a mass exodus, had gone on under their noses.

A Letter To Mam

by Janet McCusker

Dearest Mam,

It wasn’t me Mam, honest it wasn’t, I know they said I did it but I never Mam.

I only followed George and James, they had already stormed the gate, it wasn’t as if we were going far Mam, we were only going up the road.

The fair was on and you should have seen some of the sights. It was rampacked Mam, there was a brass band and stalls with lots of lovely bits and bobs. We loved it all but couldn’t afford any of it, we had no money mam.

Ohhh and the roast chestnuts they looked so good Mam, and the smell mmmm....

You and the little ones would have loved everything, I just know you would. The twins would have loved the Punch and Judy show and the Swing-boat rides too, and in the middle was a big tent Mam. We snuck around the back and had a peek inside.

Oh Mam there were all sorts going on! We saw jugglers and acrobats and horses but then we had to make a run for it in case we got caught.

Anyway Mam, it really wasn’t my fault, I only followed George and James and the others big boys.

I nearly forgot Mam, John Fowler had a bare knuckle fight but he lost. The other fella must have stood six foot five, so John had no chance because he’s only five foot four in his socks.

I do hope you will still come to see me next week on my Birthday. I’m really looking forward to seeing you. Still come Mam it really wasn’t my fault.

Richard Fowler’s Response

by Kathleen Wildman

I deem this report to be a total misrepresentation of both my character and my abilities. I was indeed both shocked and disgusted upon reading the defamatory contents. Modesty forbids me listing all my qualities here, but I feel the need to defend my reputation against these libellous allegations.

I have been naught but an asset to the Blue Coat Hospital during my term of education. This, in no small way, due to the appreciation and generosity of the congregation every Sunday at chapel, upon hearing my readings and my magnificent renditions of various hymns, such as ‘Hark A Thrilling Voice Is Sounding’. This, a very appropriate title for my solo in the choir.

My academic attainments can be judged on this written response alone. Despite your report, I have self procured an apprenticeship. The position of an articled clerk in a company of Lawyers ‘Wilkins and Walpole’, which proves your opinion of me being ‘unprovided for any situation’ to be an absolute misjudgement.

When I’m a man I hope to have the good fortune to meet you again on level terms and discuss this matter further and resolve it one way or another. Despite the rumours that may have met your ears, Mr Compton the choirmaster did not assist me in any way with the compilation of this letter and he’s never even met my mother.

Make of this what you will and good day to you.

Signed, Richard Fowler

Reynolds & Fitch

by Janet McCusker

To My Dearest Mam,

I know you didn’t like my report Mam. I didn’t like it much myself, but I will show them Mam, I will. I will show them that it’s not only reading I am good at.

Mr Reynolds from Chapel says he will take me on, and with your permission I am to start Monday next, apprenticed to a Mr Davies at Reynolds & Fitch.

I will be learning lots from Mr. Davies, Mam. And Mr Reynolds says my handwriting is already copperplate and my numbers are exceptional, and that if I work hard and listen and learn from Mr Davies then one day I could become Chief clerk. And who knows Mam, maybe one day Head of all Shipping!

The wages won’t be much to start Mam, but I will always see you right. And Mr Reynolds wants someone who can live above the shop and be responsible for the boiler and the fires in the morning. So you won’t even have to feed me Mam, only on my day off once every other Sunday.

There’s another lad lives there too Mam, John, he used to go to our school, and he’s a good lad so you won’t have to worry.

I will show them Mam. if you let me, I will, you just watch.

Money For Old Rope: Haikus for the Bluecoat Children

by Margy McShane

Mute, sightless, barefoot we are the secret children of shadow and stone Cherub-silhouette orphan, ragamuffin-child of the seven streets

Distant cotton for humble, coarse-clothed blazers, in inner-city blues

The masters’ record Richard Fowler, with ‘ideas above his rank’ and William Denver, ‘not much integrity but useful in the school, considerable proficiency in accounts’ all are weighed, measured Spinning, making pins Jane Wallace, Ann Gage keeping their heads down Emma Hall, Lucy Fisher. Their absent fathers keep the ship afloat

While Merchants chart routes colonial legacies the sails swell with pride

A mixed cargo of cotton, tobacco and worse Treasurers, Trustees

all at sea, drowning in respectability pockets lined, palms greased

Charity and piety reputations to be made gateway to heaven

Their philanthropy and us, the deserving poor hostage to fortune

One Folly-Fair day like rats from a sinking ship we rampaged the town

Smashing and crashing upsetting the apple carts hard-faced scallywags

Tearaway riff-raff terrorising gentle-folk we ran them ragged Our notorious, no longer anonymous cherub-faces BOLD

Freedom short-lived, we returned, pleased, briefly-appeased, and whispered in dorms

Back to spinning yarns we stowaway our spirit for another day

Weave a silent tale until our fingers bleed truth money for old rope

Richard Fowler

by Irene Stewart

Father, hear me out, I did nothing wrong.

I know I do not have the quickness of some of the other boys but I worked hard at my lessons. I have a head for figures, my penmanship is neat and I am assured it to be fairly legible.

The reason I have been sent home from school and told never to return, is due to my desire to be a clerk. A worthy occupation in which I intend to use my skills to advantage and profit.

The masters deemed my refusal to be apprenticed to a mechanical trade a mark of self-importance which I wholeheartedly deny, Father. They referred to me having an ‘air of confidence’ way above my rank which they attributed to the praise I received from the Chapel congregation, upon hearing my powerful reading voice. I do not know why they should complain of this, as my readings resulted in a large amount of pence in the collection plate.

Mother told me on her death bed that I should ‘do my best’ and that is what I have done. I have done nothing wrong and it’s not fair that I should be returned home without being indentured as is my want.

Richard Fowler

by Corrina Robinson

They think me not good enough for a clerk but I’ll show them. I’ll not take the rotten position they have planned for me and dirty my hands with industry, I will find my own situation at a bank or insurance office, there are plenty to try.

I know I am a good speaker, the church pennies attest to that. I shall talk my way into clerking and if I am asked for letters of reference then I shall use my clerking skills and write my own for I do not need to be held back in my ambition by my soon to be former masters.

A marble portico will start my day and I shall mingle with the fine sorts and even be taken for a gentleman myself when not at my desk.

And when I am twenty one and hold the position of chief clerk I shall visit the school to see if a boy in chapel reads as well as I then I shall pay handsomely and the boy shall ask of old bluster guts, ‘who was the dandy in the blue silk that put in the sovereign?’ Richard Fowler be his name.

Richard

Fowler,

A Sonnet

by Angela Cheveau

Dear ma, I was never ‘dismissed’ from school But I chose to leave of my own accord. I left because my master was a fool And being so clever, I was just bored. I am not some lowly ballard master, Not I, I am destined for greater things. To stay there would have been a disaster You should hear me when I’m singing me hymns. I was born to a desk of polished oak, Not some half-rat nanty narking about. I will one day wear a thick velvet cloak. I am a better man than Nathan Sprout. The master bowed to me, ma, when I left, Wept tears of sadness, the school left.

Bluecoat Blues

by Julie Swallow

Tangible tales from titbits

A sonnet sewn from snippets Pre-Scouse scally-wags Salvaged from silhouettes Green-fingered grandad’s “Little seed” lost at sea Pence, praise, punishment, prayers Hard lessons learnt, reports, that which remains Schooled, then sold into bondage Beyond the courtyard And the gates What fate Awaits Orphaned boys

1800 Follies Fair Fearless Flee for Freedom 107 boys were there 25 expelled 7 missing

Here, women weave words For ghost girls, gone Silenced Sent into service Richard Fowler read aloud His urine sold Long before Robbie scored

In Chapel requests for God’s mercy But Merciless non-care for Malik Child of Colour in Care Oxymoron Two centuries later

Dress And Bonnet

by Janet Robb

I am standing and all is whirling. Who am I?

I am eight. This I know.

Why am I wearing a dress and bonnet? Where is my ma?

My nana said she’d followed my pa, But where? Where did they go? Who am I now and who will I be? Can anybody tell me? My sister is with the big girls. Bigger than me. My brother is gone to sea. I am eight. This I know.

But that child will die And in her place another one will grow, Part of a stricken tree, Strong enough to flourish, Strong enough to let her be This eight year-old in her new dress, In her new bonnet.

Now remains the question. Who was she then, And who could she have been?

Bluecoat Poem

by Jade Harris

I am a lady

I have to be, I am disciplined, I don’t show too much emotion, It wouldn’t be ladylike. I keep my head down, I am so grateful to be here. My parents are so proud. I knit, I do my lessons, I am complacent, I do what I am told, And say no more about it. But secretly I dream And count my blessings 1, 2, 3, 4, That I am a bluecoat girl and nothing more

I am a bluecoat girl, I wear my blue cape and my blue cap.

by Corrina Robinson

Six years of sewing, stiff necked and pricked fingers. Six years of scrubbing, starching, smoothing. On my knees in dusty corners and on my knees in church. And when I am sent out of here how many more years of sewing and scrubbing lay before me?

I will not do it. I will be nobody’s servant. I will sew myself some britches and I will cut off my hair and change my name and I will join a ship as the boys here do. But I will not sew sails and I will not scrub decks and I will not go on my knees and give my blood for the king.

I will become a pirate and live a life of freedom. I will curse and fight and play at cards and drink rum and all manner of unladylike deeds.

With my gold I shall commission a man of science to make me a monkey that runs on clockwork and he shall be my servant and do my bidding. Together we will sail the seven seas and travel to the ends of the Earth and in all that time I will take no husband nor nurse any infants nor ever go to church until the day that I am buried.

And in all my life my only master will be the wind and my only mistress the sea.

William Seed

by Margy McShane

WilliamSeedwasbornin1856,thesonofThomasSeed,aLiverpoolshipwright,andhiswife Catherine.HewaspresentedwithaBibleonleavingBluecoat,aged15years.In1872,Williamwas apprenticedtothe“MiraFlores’ownedbyWilliamNicol,aLiverpoolmerchant.Williamwasdrowned oneyearlater,aged17onthe27thAugust1873atCapeClearoffthecoastofIreland.

I came across our William’s bible this morning. Funny how that happens. One minute you’re dusting, next minute floods of tears. Comes over you in waves, they say. Just like my lad. Washed overboard. Seventeen years old. Nearly a man.

My Thomas has never got over it. He builds ships y’see. And it was him that got William into Bluecoat when he were eight. ‘Connections’, he said. And I’d have one less mouth to feed here.

We were so proud when he got in. Those lovely blue coats! And he could read and write. Poems an’ such. I can’t read myself but Thomas read one to me once, from one of his letters home.

And then he were off to sea. Apprenticed to one of Mister Nicol’s ships. He looked so grown-up. Only away a year, and then...

They gave us his bible. Nowt else. We never had much.

So I lost William twice really. Once to Bluecoat. Then to the sea.

William Seed

by Angela Cheveau

From humble origins I came from nowt, ‘little seed’ me ma called me, said I was to be planted in the rich soil of the big charity school, to blossom one day into a fine man with fancy words, an’ new worlds to explore. In me dreams I sailed, ‘neath seas of stars, I steered me ship, master of me own destiny. Crawled out of the grime-soaked gutter, from parents with pockets full of poverty, bent low with sadness and shame I soared above the dirty streets clothed in tattered dreams, days dreamin’ of a better life, nights conjurin’ fantasies, spinning a master’s garb from me faded blue coat, woven from old sail canvas, I fashioned a jacket with bright buttons of battered tin glittering sunlit silver. I rose up, left the grimy streets behind to sail on mirrored seas, Until one night, me fortunes changed forever. I, a lowly mate, the silver moon a flipped

coin, was tossed on fates twisted kiss, swept into the arms of the seethin’ sea, rocked gently in its soothin’ lullaby. I dreamt once more of me Ma’s kind face, her pride at the sight of me bright blue coat eyes haunted by hunger but filled with hope, an I whisper a prayer with the frothin’ sea bloomin’ all around me like white flowers floatin’ an’ I, sinkin’, sinkin’ me lungs fillin’ “Ma, can yer see?” “Can yer see the flowers bloomin all around me?”

“Your little seed, blossomed into the man you once prayed for?” Her lovely face driftin’ gentle as a snowflake her warm smile spreadin’ over the waters, the touch of her soft hand as I sink down into the fathomless sea folded deep within her gentle embrace.

MiraFlores(‘lookattheflowers’)

William Seed’s Journey

by Corrina Robinson

I came back here the first night, I knew not where else to go. But another boy had taken my place, as I took a place here, when my brother John was put out to sea. All the boys sound asleep, dreaming of mischief and adventure.

Next — to my mother with our Maggie, and much weeping about me having no last rites and no grave to rest in and prayers to St Christopher, my father, Neptune or anyone else that would carry me up to heaven. To be lost so close to home, yet so far away. Our Maggie saying the ship must be cursed to lose two lads on the same voyage.

I met our Tom and Lizzie and Will and Cath. Will, whom I was named for, ten days off seventeen, my life so much longer than any of these babes.

For many a year I watched over our John as he sailed the seven seas and Maggie’s husband too. Bill was a captain but Maggie kept her boys away from the sea. My name lived on with their second son.

And now, here again, to listen to my name being called and my story told.

William Seed: Another Page In History

by Kathleen Wildman

History’s written on this page, That fills me with disbelief and rage, That God let these innocents depart this life, When all they’d ever known was struggle and strife, That he could really be so cruel, To take these boys, barely out of school. Boys who’d hardly lived at all, Like William Seed, a mere child that’s all. Many lives lost and nothing gained, Just mothers who’ll never be the same.

Because his mam she couldn’t cope, He went straight from the orphanage Full of hope, up the gangplank willingly, Of the ‘Mira Flores’ and off to sea, With a head full of dreams to be fulfilled, He was slight in stature, but very strong willed. Determined to make his mam feel proud, To fulfill this wish, he was not allowed. A raging storm, the ship could Ill afford, Washed poor William overboard.

No sailors wept, just grateful were they, That they’d lived to see another day. Why these things happen, is a mystery,

Is It merely just to fill, another page in history?

William Seed

by Christine Day

Was his call for me?

As he was claimed and swallowed by the sea

As I now cry out for him

In my grief and salt wet tears

My own ‘little seed’ No resting place can he be given Only the waves enfold him now No mother’s arms to shield him from harm

Nothing remains except these Holy Scriptures But I cling to this one reminder of his being Beseeching that he’d never gone And I’d no Bible left to mourn his empty place

History Lesson

by Julie Swallow

Within a year of leaving school William was washed away on the waves His bible saved Little seed recedes not waving but drowning Many more men and maids were made from minors here Made to measure Tabulations of the tyranny of truancy Shadow silhouettes show scholars schooled Within these walls Boys and girls grown and groomed to serve Mistresses and masters

Children caught in the captivity of charity Capital, chattel, commodity

Looked after, looked over, locked up Boys were taught, so they could be bought Bonded into business Lasses learnt lessons and laundered Whitewashing when wealth was wrought Bluecoat built on the backs of black blood

By Bryan Blundell and Blundell’s boys

And more besides The procuring of powerless pupils from penury The outrage of outsourcing option less orphans Reports were writ pertaining to pupils proficiency and pleasantry Powerful pronouncements for prospective profiteering Some would sail ships Some preach or teach Rescued from ruin but ruthlessly ruled Relentlessly reminded of their rank And whom they had to thank Besides the Lord

Boy at the school gates, photo c. late nineteenth century

Find out more about the Looked After Children project and the history of the Bluecoat at thebluecoat.org.uk