I would like to end this section with another photograph of the charming lady who features at the beginning. She taught us all a lesson and perhaps there is still plenty of fun to had when one grows old!

Indeed, there is a knack to .....

"Growing Old Gracefully" 

"I was expecting someone about sixty with tinted hair, an enamelled face, tight corsets, like a sort of toughened up Queen Victoria" quoted the girl in John Wyndam's book, 'The Trouble with Lichen' (1960).

Growing old gracefully, comes easily to some, but not to others. Vanity pays a heavy price in later years, and the aging actress may be one of the hardest hit in this respect.

"Married to your Corsets" 

 

In Edith Thronton McLeod's excellent book 'Beauty After Forty', she speaks simply and eloquently about how to look your best. Poor Miss McLeod would shudder at the female life forms that one encounters on the streets of Britain today.   Certainly no great lover of boned corsets herself, she is, however, adamant about torso control and well-fitted foundations. She illustrates her book quite charmingly with the adjacent pictures.   My husband was amused by the picture on the right. "It's sad when grow old and so confused that you wear you corsets over your dress!" Really.   What we see on the right is an extreme example of the advertisements showing a lady wearing a girdle over her knickers. It's simply for modesty.

The following account eloquently describes many of the trials of growing old.

The Squire’s Wife   (Beccles, Britain 1974 - 1977)

The country squire had been married for many years. Mrs. M., was a vigorous and forceful lady, who did not suffer fools gladly (amongst whom she appeared to regard her husband). On this committee and that committee, Mrs. M. was tolerated by the phlegmatic rural community, in the same way that all pestilences had been tolerated for centuries. That was by quiet hope, and prayers for the divine removal of the affliction.

Inevitably, Mrs. M. was also a local magistrate who suffered from none of the modern, socialist, ‘soft’ approach to criminals. Unfortunately, the length of sentence decreed by this paragon of rectitude was closely controlled by her temper, and her temper was largely controlled by her back. Now this may appear very unprofessional, however, it is a historical fact, that many thousands of soldiers have been sent to their deaths, simply because the General's 'piles' were playing up!

Mrs. M’s assault on each new day followed a pattern. Rising at 6.30 am precisely, she would emerge from her bed, a somewhat less than attractive apparition in her voluminous nightie. She would pick up some underclothes and retire to the bathroom. She appeared to have the eyes of an owl, for all this was achieved with merely the glow from the lamp standard outside their house.

Emerging after a noisy 10 minutes clad in brassiere and surgical stockings under her house-coat, she would shuffle to her chest of drawers, her abdomen supported by her hands. This gave Mr. M. the first clue as to the potential severity of Mrs. M’s temper. Was she stooping? Would she groan as she bent over to retrieve her Spencer corset from the Ottoman chest at the foot of the bed? The corset would be laid on her bed; she would sit into the corset and fasten the back suspenders and side suspenders. She would then pull her long knickers up to her knees and insert her feet into her shoes (the latter act being impossible once corseted). Lying down, the innumerable hooks and eyes that closed the front of the device would be attached. Occasionally she would mismatch the hooks with the eyes, which would call forth an angry fusillade of “tut-tutting”. Recumbent on the bed (in the Trendelenberg position), and wriggling her abdomen into its proper place, Mrs. M. would attack the laces and work them up from the bottom of the corset, tightening the device inch by inch. The sound track that accompanied this process always amused her husband, as with much puffing and straining, Mrs. M achieved the desired tension, largely proportional to the condition of her back. On regaining the vertical, the final tension was administered, the bow was tied, and the spare lace tucked behind the flap. At last with the lights on, Mr. M. had to admit that the corset certainly did its job well, for his wife’s desperately saggy abdomen was now as flat as a board, and her troublesome spine rigidly encased in its steel and brocaded satin cocoon. The sound track continued as Mrs. M. started to complain about her back, the weather and the state of the younger generation. Her corsets would join in the daily tirade, since once tightened beyond some critical tension, they tended to creak alarmingly as she moved around the bedroom.

Mr. M’s dilemma was his inside knowledge of his wife’s temper. If she was sitting on the bench at the magistrate’s sessions that day, he knew how she would behave, and it seemed rather unfair that some hapless felon should be parted from his family for an extra three months, simply because his wife’s back was ‘playing up’. What to do?

Mr. M. was a popular figure at the local town’s Conservative club, where he played snooker with several colleagues, coincidentally, most of them lawyers. He felt that he could not possibly interfere in the process of law, however, he also felt that his wife’s decision-making process was unreasonably erratic; a fact well known to his legal friends at the snooker table. It was at one of the club’s social functions, that Mrs. M. unreasonably snapped at one of the lawyers. Mr. M. later apologised or her behalf, and seeing his chance, added “You can always tell when she’s going to be bad tempered; you can hear her stays creaking”. This apparently light-hearted aside revolutionised the magistrate’s court, as the court secretary listened for the tell-tale creaking of Mrs. M’s corsets, and informed the lawyers whether to proceed that day or to suspend until a later date!

Mother's Bridge Friends  (Winchester, Britain 1958)

Every other Wednesday, Mother liked to play Bridge and this usually provided a pleasant distraction for me during the holidays. Mother's Bridge friends were all older than her, I think in their late fifties and sixties, and I would position myself by the landing window to watch them arrive. Mrs. P., a large and well dressed lady, was normally quite prompt and she usually gave Mrs. L. a lift. These two were always good value. First of all there would be the performance of Mrs. P. attempting to get out of the car. First the door would open followed by one monstrous leg in its fitted stocking and sensible shoes. The next leg would emerge and then grasping the door frame in both hands, the magnificent bosom of the woman would emerge, closely followed by the rest of her body which could then be levered up to the vertical. I often wondered how she could ever get behind the wheel of her car so vast was her bosom.  She carried this prodigious bust like the ram of an ironclad. Indeed, ironclad she might have been since I saw no flexibility in her figure at all. In contrast, Mrs. L. was slim, tall and extremely elegant for somebody well into their sixties. It was only when she walked that the restrictions of her surgical corset became apparent. I learnt that she suffered periodically with that bane of the elderly, a bad back. I had overheard from Mother that during these spells, she enlisted the help of Mrs. P. who had been a nurse, to help her into her corsets on a Monday. Release from her tea-rose brocaded prison depended on the expert eye and good offices of her friend. Her periodic incarcerations could last a week, so poorly was her back and so helpless was the old lady when thus afflicted. She was often heard to say "Agatha's awfully strong you know, but it's good for my back; not to mention my figure!" She was a delightful lady who I imagined resented the embarrassing indignity of her weekly ritual with her formidable partner. I frequently wondered how these corseted old women ever were allowed to drive, for surely there was no earthly way that they would have the flexibility to drive properly.

What’s in a Name ? (Bexhill, Britain 1962)

My father had an irreverent way with names and frequently the butt of his unkind inventions were mother’s bridge cronies, or crones as father would remark.

Juniper was a singularly appropriate name for a stout lady called June. This jolly old soul kept her spirits high on a daily ration of gin, the calorific consequences of which were controlled by an old-fashioned laced corselette. Of course I never saw the garment, but the tell-tale bulges under the armpits gave away her secret. Her powerful foundation ensured that her clothes fitted perfectly over the corset, but her unfettered arms and legs had grown to fill her sleeves and skirt to the point where her very locomotion was impeded.

Polly’s years overseas had played havoc with her complexion which had deteriorated into a myriad of fine wrinkles on a distinctly yellow base, a consequence of anti-malarial prophylaxis. Heavy make-up (Polyfilla) filled the cracks and restored an approximation of English Rose colouration. My father used to tease me and suggested that she used to spread her make-up with a trowel. This wasn’t so far from the truth and her heavy make-up rendered her expression curiously immobile.

Bendy Wendy was a tall, thin woman whose height had engendered a stooping posture. My mother always said that her poor posture would give her back problems and ultimately this was the case. Sometimes she would appear stooped, and other times she would be ramrod straight depending on whether her condition necessitated the wearing of her corsets. “It’s a lumbo-sacral support” she once announced proudly although indistinctly since her neck was held immobile in a collar (not a modern spongy thing I might add but one of those perforated leather devices that can pull apart vertebrae, or so the old woman claimed).

Varicose Vera had alarmingly knobbly legs that even the power of her heavy-duty surgical stocking could not conceal. She always wore two sets of stockings, with more fashionable support stockings over the elastic ones. Supporting all this hosiery caused her quite some trouble until she came on the solution of wearing a corselette over her corset (that must have been a good commission - Ivy). In this way, both sets of stockings were secured and the engineering of the corset concealed, or so she believed; incorrectly. At least she was happy, even if the click of neighbouring suspenders accompanied her every move. Father once said “I think she’s got the four musketeers under there!”

One poor lady to whom my father’s warped humour never had to be applied was unfortunately called Miss Mellon. A completely average woman in all regards she possessed the most disproportionately enormous bosom. This can be remedied these days, but in the 1960’s, she simply had to live with it. Convention and comfort demanded that she wore a bra and whatever corsetiere she frequented (for no off the shelf model would have fitted, I’m sure), ensured that her breasts were hoisted into place. This feast of engineering left the women with a serious blind-spot and she had to hold her cards well up to see over her bust. As all heavy-breasted women know, back and neck-ache are constant companions. When she partnered Bendy Wendy, the difficulties of articulating clearly and even seeing the cards properly resulted in some very strange bids indeed.

Not one of these women could move as nature intended, whether it was tightly confined thighs and legs, an immobile visage, hair or neck, I was often reminded of a group of puppets. With nylon commonly being worn and meaty stocking-clad thighs acting like a generator, to attempt a hand-shake was to risk electrocution!

My mother, in such company, seemed almost boringly normal and average, but even she was a victim of 1960’s fashion and sported a hurricane-proof hairstyle completely lacquered to immobility. Her girdle held her in but limited her flexibility. As Vivian Vance once said before meeting the Queen, “If I wear a girdle to fit into my dress, I can’t curtsey!”

Confinement and Locomotion

The comments above caused me to search our web-site for articles on similar subjects. I've grouped them together with a view to expanding on this topic in the future.

It took me ages to help my friend dress, the process being complicated by the corset and the back fastening of the dress which was covered by at least 30 buttons. There was no way that my friend could release herself from the dress and corset without help. In fact, I remember having great difficulty in removing my own dress that evening since my arms filled the sleeves so tightly that reaching behind my head to undo the zip was nigh on impossible.  

The bride needs bridesmaids to control the flowing train. She needs help to alight from car, even to sit down, and undressing by herself is impossible. Her mother, heroically girdled to fit a dress two sizes too small barely dares to breathe. Her feet ache in unaccustomed shoes and any attempt to sit causes her thighs to spring open alarmingly. Granny totters around, the rubber, elastic and steel contraption that is her  foundation confining her locomotion to that of a marionette. Even the gorgeous young thing in the modern twin set is reduced by her panty-girdle, pencil skirt and heels to a ludicrous mincing gait. Not one of the ladies can sit in comfort, going to the loo is a nightmare, and nobody walks in the way that nature intended. An extreme example perhaps? I don't think so, and that's why everybody stands at weddings!

Did stiff, old ladies walk like that because they wore stiff, old corsets? Certainly, the joints stiffen with age, but a woman's locomotion is very dependent upon her underpinnings. Ask any young secretary from the late 1950's clad in tight skirt, heels and panty-girdle of tourniquet strength!

She strutted into dinner at an Eastbourne hotel, each step a jerky battle of muscle and elastic. She sat rigid and erect with her less formidably corsetted friends. When the soup came, she could not raise her hands as far as her mouth and in embarrassment left the table. Some while later she returned, less erect, but with mobility restored.

The Husbands' Education

I had very little to do with my wife's underwear, other than foot the bills I suppose. I was quite shocked at one bill from a corsetry emporium in London (Rigby & Peller at a guess - Ivy) but let it pass. A few weeks later my wife was dressing for dinner and I heard unusually strong language emanating from the dressing room. My wife was tugging at her girdle that seemed stuck around her thighs. I watched the spectacle with fascination as she crossed her legs, grabbed the garment and with a convulsive heave jerked the girdle an inch at a time up her hips. Her contortions jumped her off the ground in what looked like a potentially dangerous fashion. My rapt attention was not appreciated, however, once the girdle was properly located she turned round and to my astonishment said "Well do something useful. Lace me up!" I realised that this girdle laced half way down the back; in fact it was the only method of entry hence the heroic struggle.

I courted an elegant older lady for years before we wed. Marrying late in life is a steep learning curve. She was surprised that my teeth were my own (hers were not), and I was surprised at the complexity of her corsets. My first wife had worn a girdle all the time I knew her, but this long, unyielding structure with its intricate lacings and buckles that my new wife wore was quite alien to me. "It's good for my back and it keeps my tummy flat!" she said the first time I saw her thus attired; "Haven't you seen a woman in corsets before?" I wisely refrained from saying "Not since my Granny" so I had to admit that I hadn't. The device certainly gave her a fine figure of which she was proud and I, in turn, was proud of my new wife despite her complicated underpinnings.

Talking about complex underpinnings, regard the yards of lacing on the left, granny looking put out that you have photographed her in her abdominal corsets before she's had a chance to put her teeth in. I wonder if it is her corsets or lack of teeth that she finds embarrassing? The poor old dears on the right have just spent a day with the grandchildren and can now relax. Have a cuppa, lie back and unlace those corsets, unhook those suspenders and reeelaaax.