In Memorium: Sabrina - A Potted History of Bridgnorth by Geoff Speechly

Today would have been your 95th birthday!!
2nd September 1930 - 16th March 2021
Geoff, High Town Writers still miss you and
have happy memories of performances of 'Sabrina'.

 

Sabrina, Goddess of the Severn,

Could lead a man to hell or heaven

1 - The Roman

Narrator

               The Romans came, with sword and law

               And taught crude Britons soon the score

               They worshipped gods like Zeus - and meaner

               But at Bridgnorth they found - Sabrina !

Legionnaire

               We must have marched a thousand leagues

               To conquer this benighted spot

               What would I give for a cup of wine

               Or a lusty wench that's really hot !

Sabrina 

A goodly sight, this Roman chap

               I'll see if I can catch his eye

               And if the audience doesn't clap

               I'll grab him, love him - and he'll die !

 Legionnaire

               O Bacchus ! What a wondrous sight !

               Is it a wench or a dream I see ?

Sabrina 

O, I'm a maid, I'll prove this night

               Come Roman man :I'll set you free !

               SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

 Legionnaire

               O Gods! O Sabrina! – I who am about to die salute you!

2 - The Saxon

Narrator

               The Saxons came in time of yore

               And plundered us from shore to shore

               And they were pretty rough ; none meaner

               There's not a doubt they met Sabrina….

Saxon

               What have we here ? Another town.

               For sacking and for pulling down

               We'll burn the place and kill the men

               Destroy the cock but keep the hen!

Sabrina

O rude uncultured Saxon beast

               I'll see you soon regret this feast

               For Bridgnorth maids and Bridgnorth men

               Sabrina's spell will work again

Saxon   

Great balls of fire! A hefty wench

               This dish I'll taste without a wrench

               Come lass, let's frolick in the hay

               You'll not forget this joyful day!

Sabrina

               I'll frolick, friend, but you're the one

               Who nevermore will see the sun

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Saxon   

Gott in Himmel: du hast mich  getötet… – ich sterbe!

3 - The Dane

Narrator

               In former times, despite the rain

               Our city fair was taxed by Dane

               And though their habits were much cleaner

               We know for sure they met Sabrina

Dane

               Now what's this place ? They call it Quatt !

               The name's a mess, I like it not

               Our taxmen now will sally forth

               Across the bridge to south and north

Sabrina

               This fellow's dull compared to Saxon

               He calls himself a Danish Taxman

               Ah, well, though I won't be hasty

               Let's tempt him with an English pastry!

Dane

               O Woden ! What is this I see?

               A vision yet untaxed by me !

               I'll take her measure, scribe her rune

Sabrina

               You're right, my Dane, come take my boon !

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Dane

               Valhalla – I come!

4 - The Norman

Narrator

               In elevenhundredand twenty-two

               Which Bridgnorthmen e'er will rue

               The Normans came and built their keep

               And tried to turn us all to sheep

Norman

               We brought our culture to this land

               Rude English  habits we have banned

               Now Lords and Ladies  served by serf

               Can all enjoy our Norman earth

Sabrina

               These Norman gangsters must be humbled

               Methinks his tongue of "ladies" stumbled

               Let's see if ancient English lore

               Tonight our honour can restore…

Norman

               Mon Dieu! Quelle beauty do I see

               Ma chėre, what luck for you to meet with me

Sabrina

               Indeed your fortune's doubly blessed

               Now I'm the host and you're the guest!

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Norman

Elle m’a tuè! Quand même; Vive l’amour !

5 - The Welshman

Narrator

             The Marches dripped with blood; impaled

               On Welsh ambition our English town

               Became a field of battle and renown

Welshman

               By Cardiff, Anglesey or Rhyll

               Never before did my heart thrill

               To see so soft an English village

               Ripe-ready for Welsh guile and pillage

Sabrina

               The cheeky Celt! How dare he gloat

               Before he's even crossed my moat

               I'll tease him, be so coy and meek

               And then I'll parboil up his leek !

Welshman

               By Llanfairfechan and Glendower

               I've never seen so fine a flower

               Come, English Maid, and be my love

               I think you're sent from heaven above

Sabrina

               Oh yes, my little laverbread

               One kiss - and then you'll find you're dead !

                SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Welshman

               O Angeu-eth! – I die! – cymru am byth!

6- The Roundheads

Narrator

               In sixteen-hundred-and-forty-six

               In Parliament, by knavish tricks

               Our sovereign lord quite lost his head

               And Cromwell took his place instead

Roundhead

               These Royalist dogs and their cold bitches

               With Papist plots, warlocks and witches

               Shall now the power of Cromwell feel

               With Roundhead flesh and Roundhead steel

Sabrina

               This fellow's pretty hot, he thinks

               He'll get no favours from this minx

               Or rather if he dares to touch

               He'll burn from fingernail to crutch

Roundhead

               Come lass, forget your bonnie Charlie

               Now with a real man you'll parley

Sabrina

               O Soldier brave, you little know

               Just quite how far this wench will go

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Roundhead

               My God – the she-devil’s cooked my goose!

7 - The Cavaliers

Narrator

               In course of time, the good Lord willed

               That Ironsides' ardour should be chilled

               So Cavaliers now roamed the land

               And freedom reigned, naught more was banned.

Cavalier

               By Royal command I've ridden far

               Please show me to the nearest bar,

               I'm thirsty and uncommon dusty

               Just find for me a girl that's lusty !

Sabrina

               Whether their heads are round or Royal

               There's but one thing that makes them boil

               I'll not object to a little loan

               But me they'll never call their own

Cavalier

Fair lady! Let me but now thy praises sing

               And I will grant thee everything

               I'll bring you lutes and daffodils

               If you would only cure my ills

Sabrina 

Such honey'd words his lips have passed

               'Tis such a pity they're his last!

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Cavalier

               Thou treacherous Woman - I am undone!

8 - The Irish

Narrator

In eighteen-hundred-and-sixty-two

               The Railway came, the town pierced through

               And snorting trains with fiery funnel

               Rushed proudly through the newbuilt tunnel

Irishman

               My name is O'Malley and I came to dig

               Not to roister or rampage: although the jig

               Which I dance on a Saturday night is fine

When I ravish their women and drink up their wine

Sabrina 

               Here's importunate Dublin and confident Cork

               And sometimes there's action as well as the talk

               But they'd better take care if they tangle with me

               I'll not be seduced by a riddle-me-ree

Irishman

               Oh look at the beauty of this Bridgnorth maid

               The glory and ecstasy of how she is made!

My dear English darling, my heart's at your   feet

               I crave but a kiss, like the soup before meat!

Sabrina 

A kiss you shall have, but hungry you'll be

               For no more will you taste the sweet joys of Tralee

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Irishman

               Begorrah! I’ll never drink Guinness again!`

9- The Airman

Narrator

               In nineteen-hundred-and-forty-two

               At Stanmore trained the boys in blue

               They came from every land and nation

               And Bridgnorth was their comfort station

Airman 

Saturday night, a forty-eight

               Don't miss the bus or we'll be late

               The pubs are open, the girls are willing

               I'm glad I took the Sovereign's shilling.

Sabrina

               They may be rough at times I know

               But when to war the lads must go,

               They do deserve a little fun

               Before they face the horrid Hun.

Airman

               Good ‘eavens! Miss, you're quite the best!

               You're even better than Mae West!

Sabrina

               Farewell, my friend, away you fly

               Not from my lips will I send you die

               I must be getting sentimental

               I though he was, though rough, quite gentle

               WAVES AIRMAN AWAY

10-The Tatung

Narrator

               From cleverness born in the East

               In Low Town grew a powerful beast

               Where once the peasants listless hung

               To Bridgnorth came- and later went - Tatung

Tatung

               This occidental place is strange

               They do not know our latest range

               And if a salaryman feels randy

               All he can do is dream with brandy

Sabrina

               It's sad our friends from the Pacific

               Now have gone - but it’s terrific

               That they're not really far abroad

               But ten miles north to great Telford

               EXIT TATUNG WITH ORIENTAL BOW

11-The Tourist

Narrator

In nineteen-hundred-and-eighty-five

               Bridgnorth really came alive

               Divorced from juggernaut and truck

               Relying on part skill, part luck

               The By-pass-men did pass us by

               And tourists now to us do fly

Tourist

               I am the Tourist, last of all

               Now to Sabrina's wiles I'll fall

               But will she accept me? What must I give?

               Can I but love her, and still live?

Sabrina

               Yes sir, you can; the others' mistake

               Was never to give but only to take

               So welcome, Stranger, come to my arms

               And I will enfold you in my charms.

               THEY KISS  

 

WHOLE CAST

               So friends, you've heard our wondrous story

               This land is part of England's glory

               So join with us this lovely day

               And shout aloud Hurray - Hurray !

                              HURRAY!!!

Take care what you fish for - a song arising from the July workshop - by Ann Reader

The light dances on the clear water 

But hidden depths often deceive 

The fishing fly that might have caught her

Is tangled up fast in the reeds

The fisherman holding on tight to his line

Bemoans the loss of his trout

Shimmering scales transformation sublime 

A beautiful maiden climbs out.

Take care what you fish for Take care what you fish for

I guard every river and stream

If you upset me you’ll wish you’d not met me. 

Was it her voice or a dream?

He tries but he can not forget her

Daily he’s back at that place

Gazing steadfast at the water

Hoping to see her fair face

So many visits but still there’s no sign

He doubts the truth of his eyes 

So he returns with his rod and his line

And casts with the best of his flies 

Take care what you fish for Take care what you fish for

I guard every river and stream

If you upset me you’ll wish you’d not met me. 

Was it her voice or a dream?

The beautiful trout leaps up high 

Her ripples and rings spreading wide

Once more he loses his fly

But the maiden is there at his side

You dream of me like I’m a lover to you 

Oh yes that is true he replied 

Yet you would kill me, my family too

And yet give no care how we died

Take care what you fish for Take care what you fish for

I guard every river and stream

If you upset me you’ll wish you’d not met me. 

Was it her voice or a dream?

If you want me then you must come with me 

To visit the world where I dwell 

Besotted he begs her “forgive me”

He’ll go he is under her spell

He takes her hand with no thought or care

And follows her into the brook 

Trapped in the reeds he cannot breathe there 

He’s caught like a fish on a hook

Take care what you fish for Take care what you fish for

I guard every river and stream

If you upset me, you’ll wish you’d not met me. 

Was it her voice or a dream?

If you upset me, you’ll wish you’d not met me

Her haunting voice was not a dream

In Memorium - Val Pedrick's Novel Idea

Although we remember Val most of all for her paintings, her poetry and her play-scripting, she was also keen to develop her fiction writing - or perhaps what we might now call 'Creative Non-Fiction'. To celebrate her birthday today we are sharing the outline of a story that might-have-been Val's debut novel, the tragic tale of Hannah Phillips of Astley Abbots which is steeped in the superstitions of the day.

Val
6th August 1943 - 17th July 2019

My name is Hannah Phillips. Today is Tuesday 10^th May in the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and seven. Usually, of a Tuesday, I’d be cleaning bed chambers at the Little Severn Hall where I am a ‘Lady’s Maid’, to the young Misses Amber and Ruby Pargiter. But today, my mistress, Lady Pargiter, has given me a day off to prepare for my wedding tomorrow.

Wednesday is said to be the luckiest day of the week for a wedding – better than the unlucky days of Friday or Saturday, I’m told.

Madam is very particular about the bed chambers – I even ‘ave to dust the tops of the wardrobes! Not easy for me as I’m only five-foot nothin’ as Miss Ruby often reminds me. Miss Amber didn’t seem too pleased when I told ‘er my Jack was goin’ to see the Master for permission to ask for my ‘and in marriage.

‘Er said, “Phillips, I think you could do better than Beddowes the under gardener – but do you love him and does he love you?”

“Er, I dunna rightly know, Miss,” says I, “if you please Miss, I think we love each other as well as we might. We only sees one another at church on Sundays. Times ‘e’s down by the Severn when I go visit my family once a month and ‘e rows me across t’ save me ‘aving to paddle the ford. If you please, Miss.”

“Well,” says Miss Amber, “You could help me in the school room, like your younger sister, Catherine. She has learned to read and write and is helping to teach your young sisters and the other estate children too. They will maybe be able to  become governesses or the like, which is better than being a lady’s maid. You have learned good manners, how to sew and how to speak well, Phillips, in your ten years with us and we’re very fond of you.”

“Lorks, Miss, begging your pardon, but there weren’t no schooling when I started ‘ere as a scullery maid ‘n I were on’y twelve. I’m ‘appy as I am. Y’ know I’ve a fine ‘and at the needle, me mother taught me to cook, an’ we’ve been promised a nice little cottage to live in on the estate, with free fuel an’ a garden an’ all, Miss.”

“Ah well,” says Mis Amber, “at least you’re not carried away with the thought of getting married for the sake of the pretty dresses and rings and excitement, like Ruby. She’ll marry the first man to ask her, who I think will be that new curate at St Calixtus. He’s been fawning around her recently.”

“Well now Miss,” says I, “y’ know I’m not one f’r excitement ‘n fancy dresses, but the Mistress has given me a lovely old blue dress of hers, as she says blue is the traditional colour for purity in brides and will bring out the colour of me eyes! Me little sisters have Miss Ruby’s outgrown sprigged white muslin gowns to wear, which Madam says I can use bits of to make us matching caps with white lace and blue ribbons. Ma says matching caps is so the evil spirits can’t tell who is the bride when we’re walking to church, as that’s when I’ll be in most danger from ’em!”

“That’s all superstitious nonsense, Phillips, you should know that,” says Miss Amber, “but I shall make you a present of a pair of the finest white kid gloves and enough yards of blue ribbon so you sew and titivate to your heart’s content!”

I’ve had to alter my dress of course as the Mistress is taller and bigger all round than me and it’s all ready now, save for the last stitch to put in the hem, which tradition says I must not do ‘til just before I leave for the church. Eh but I can’t wait to see my Jacks’s face when I walk down the aisle in my finery! He’s only ever seen me in my workaday black, white cap and apron and Sunday-best grey fustian. My Jack’ll be smart too in a good brown suit and breeches of the Master’s - what the Mistress give me – the Master might get a shock though.

Well it’s time I stopped speakin’ to me mommets, I need to go and pick flowers and mek the church ready for tomorrow. Mother’s busy in the kitchen bakin’ the ‘bride’s pie’ – she’s actually mekin’ two – one wi’ meat and one sweet mince – there’ll be a glass ring hidden in one o’ them and I wonder which girl will get that piece of pie an’ll be the next to wed. The Master telt Jack to sweep out the barn and set up tables with benches as the Mistress is giving us a wedding breakfast. Madam said it’s time for a celebration at the Hall and we all need cheering up after the sad death of our scullery maid Betsy. She dies from the awfu’ disease that so many maidens get – ch-chlor-osis. We could tell she had it because her face went yellow-green. We made her a maiden’s garland’, which was carried before the bier on a white rod and then hung in the church, as she was a virgin and is now married to God. We made the wreath with a crown of heart-shaped wood, decorated with gloves, lace, ribbons and primmie-roses, which are the flower for maidens with that illness – being yellow and green.

Good thing brought some of Mother’s potted meat and a slice of ‘er bread with me, but instead of ‘avin it for me dinner I gave it old Enoch to tek me across the Severn in ‘is coracle – ‘n’ I was so dizzy being swirled roon’ in the current. I didn’t feel much like eatin’ anyway!

Mekin’ me way through the perfumed woods I filled me basket wi’ bluebells, they’ll fill the church with lovely scent. I picked pink cranesbill and white wood anemones, like little stars. I didn’t bother with the pretty red field poppies because they shed their petals so soon. I was tempted though by the creamy may blossom foaming the hedgerows, but I remembered Mother’s anger when I brought a branch into the house last May – she screamed at me to take it out as it would cause a death in the house and sure enough my poor granny died soon after – she was a good age though! I’m sure Mother still blames me! But I couldn’t resist picking a branch or two today for the church – anyways Miss Amber say it’s superstitious nonsense.

It's my usual duty of a Tuesday, after I’ve cleaned the bed chambers at the Hall, to walk across to Astley Abbotts and tidy the church ready for any Wednesday weddings. So today I gave everywhere an extra seep and polish of the wood and brasses. Then I spent a few hours making garlands with my pretty flowers, and ivy form the church yard, fixing them onto the ends of the pews until I was satisfied that everything was perfect form my wedding day. I gradually, though noticed a putrid pong, like a rat had died hidden away under the floorboards somewhere. But it was getting late and there was not time to search the church, I just hope that by the morrow, the bluebells would have masked the stink, whatever it is.

I hurriedly grabbed my basket and set off through the hay field to pick cornflowers and forget-me-knots for my bouquet, to match my clue dress and the ribbons. Pink corncockle and white daisy corn chamomile, for the maids’ posies. I was tempted again by the cream blossom in the hedgerows, the colour of my hair. My Jack loves my hair – he said he fell in love with the flaxen curls which always escaped from my maid’s cap.

Today I’m wearing an old work gown, and I’ve left my long hair loose but covered my head with a shawl to keep the twigs and leaves from getting stuck in the curls. Anyway, pretty as the may blossom is and I could have smuggled a spring in each of the posies, It has wicked thorns which would prick the little maids’ fingers, spilling spots of red on their white muslin gowns – not to mention what Mother would do to me if she saw me take it in the house!

My basket’s full now with lovely spring flowers. I’m feeling hungry and a bit faint and wishing I hadn’t given my dinner to old Enoch. Mother will have supper ready for me though. My last supper at home – she’ll have made my favourite – pig’s chitterlings. I know she’ll miss me, and I’ll miss her and my father and sisters.

I hope old Enoch is there though to take me across the river, as with the rain we’ve had, the ford is high, and the current is strong …

  Hannah Phillips drowned crossing the Severn

on the eve of her wedding,

May 10^th 1707.

 

At the meeting when Val read this out and explored the idea of developing a novel from the story, she shared some of her notes with us:

• It is two of three years since I first discovered Hannah Phillips’ maiden’s garland, preserved in a glass case at St Calixtus Church, Astley Abbots. It has a heart-shaped wooden frame, which I like to think was carved by her fiancé and possibly decorated by her sister, Catherine, with faded gloves, fabric and ribbons. I have often thought of Hannah since. One source states that only her purse was found near the ford but her body was never recovered. There are no birth or burial records for her as far as I know. The church leaflet mentions that Catherine Phillips, Hannah’s sister set up an educational foundation that still exists today.
• May blossom, or midland hawthorn c. laeigata has flowers which stink of putrid flesh soon after being gathered, because trimethylamine, which is formed when animal tissues decay, is also present in hawthorn flowers.
• The oldest surviving maidens’ garland was made in 1680 and is displayed in St Mary’s Church, Beverley, Yorkshire.
• The most recent known maidens’ garland on display a t Abbots Ann, Hampshire was made for Florence Jane Wisewell, who died aged 72 years in 1953.
• A church at Minsterley, Shropshire, has the largest number of surviving crowns, six suspended on wooden pegs, each finished with a wooden heart inscribed with the maid’s initials and date of death. One is displayed in a glass case so visitors can get a closer look.
• On Facebook a few days ago, Sam, aka Delphine Woods, posted a link to the-history-girls blogspot.com and a blog by Deborah Swift entitled, ‘Funeral for a Virgin – maiden’s crowns’. I told Sam about Hannah and suggested her story would be a good idea for a novel. On re-reading Deborah Swift’s blog, I noticed that she also suggested that, ‘such an interesting custom deserves to be immortalized in a novel.’
• So I can not even claim this as my own, ‘novel idea’!