The birthplace of DH Lawrence

A few weeks ago I met my mother in Nottingham. Nottingham, of course, is famous for its castle, its sherrif and its outlaw, Robin Hood. Nottingham is also the birthplace of one of my favourite authors, D H Lawrence. The house where he was born, actually in a village called Eastwood about ten miles outside the town, has now been converted into a museum. The place has been preserved much as it was when the Lawrences lived there.

It was an end terrace, the museum shop having been built on later, and here is my mother standing outside.

D H Lawrence was devoted to his mother. She was well-to-do in comparison with Lawrence's father and had been a teacher - which is probably one reason why he read and wrote so well.

From the museum shop you go into the kitchen with its range, sink (without running water), sewing machine, table and chairs and stairs off leading to the bedrooms above.
The only other downstairs room in the house was the parlour which was kept for special occasions. This had a grand fireplace, the obligatory aspidistra, dresser, a piano and bookshelves. It also had a large window and deep window sill - Lawrence's mother sold items such as baby clothes. However all shop business was done in the kitchen via the back door. The front door was kept for important visitors such as the minister and also the coffin. The table was covered with a thick cloth. Apparently this was supposed to be a feature of Victorian prudery - the table legs were supposed to remind people too much of naked legs and so had to be covered. However, according to a very interesting book I am reading at the moment (HOPE AND HEARTBREAK: A Social History of Wales and the Welsh 1776-1871 by Russell Davies) this is a myth. The table legs were covered merely to prevent scuffing by hob-nailed boots.

The Lawrences were lucky because they had their own backyard and off this was a wash house with dolly tub, a copper for boiling water, a mangle, stove and a few washboards - all very interesting.



Upstairs there were two bedrooms - one for the parents and one for some of the children, and then up some more stairs there was another bedroom in the loft. There was little in these rooms except the bed, a chest of drawers and a table with a jug and basin. People needed so much less then than they do today.

I found the street unusual - a row of terraces, the sort you generally find in the middle of town, but these led to open fields and we were able to see the same view of countryside that Lawrence would have seen because little seemed to have changed.

David Herbert Lawrence didn't live long in this house. They were an upwardly mobile family - they moved within the village to another larger end terrace and then a semi-detatched house. Lawrence didn't seem to like Eastwood or its inhabitants very much, and once he left he rarely came back. He went to university in Nottingham, and thentaught in Croydon before eloping with Frieda, the wife of one of his teachers, to the continent. Like most writers he seemed to lead an unhappy life, forever flitting around from place to place - the fact that Frieda was German and related to the famous Red Baron probably did not not help matters very much, especially during the first world war.

He died at the young age of 45 of tuberculosis. There is a very interesting website devoted to his life in Eastwood here.