After isolation

Growing Up Too Soon

 
Growing up in Dover during the early 1950s, the town still carried the scars of war. Bomb sites lay open between rows of houses, and piles of rubble remained as silent reminders of a conflict that had ended only a few years earlier.
 
After being discharged from hospital, I returned home to Claire House. My head was still bald from the ringworm treatment, although a faint covering of hair had begun to grow back. Returning to boarding school was no longer an option, and David had already come home himself — much to his relief. Soon afterwards, I was enrolled at Manor House Day School in Hythe.
 
The school was set in a grand old mansion surrounded by beautiful gardens and mature trees. One of the first things I noticed was a huge old mulberry tree, heavy with fruit. The uniform was bright red, consisting of a peaked cap, single-breasted blazer, and grey flannel trousers. I thought it looked splendid and was proud to wear it.
 
The only drawback was the journey. Manor House was about twenty-five miles from Claire House, but Dad soon worked out a way to get me there. I caught a bus from outside our house to Folkestone and then another on to Hythe. The trip took just under an hour each way.
 
Despite my bald head, the other boys accepted me without much fuss, and I soon made a good friend. I enjoyed the lessons and even started learning a couple of languages. Wearing my bright red uniform often attracted attention on the bus, and I never seemed to mind. Looking back, I suppose there has always been a little bit of the showman in me.
 
Weekends were quieter. Life around Claire House could sometimes be hard. Poverty was still common in parts of Dover, and many families were struggling to rebuild their lives after the war. Fortunately, I still had friends from my days at Belgrave Primary School, which gave me a sense of familiarity and belonging.
 
Then everything changed.
 
One afternoon, as I was returning home from a football match, a neighbour stopped me in the street. The look on their face told me something was wrong before they even spoke.
 
My father had suffered a massive heart attack and died.
 
I was only eleven years old.
 
Baby Phillip had been sitting on Dad's knee when it happened.
 
I can still remember the shock. One moment, life was carrying on as normal; the next, everything seemed uncertain. At eleven years old, it felt as though childhood ended that day.
 
The weeks that followed are something of a blur. During a family discussion about the funeral, Zena became upset about something I had said or done and insisted that I should not attend. The reasons were never properly explained to me.
 
Being excluded from my own father's funeral hurt deeply. Even now, all these years later, it remains one of those things I have never fully come to terms with.
 
Without Dad, life became much more difficult. Mum was left with the responsibility of running Claire House and somehow keeping the finances afloat. We could no longer afford the fees at Manor House, and in February 1952 I transferred to Astor Avenue Secondary Modern School.
 
Michael stepped forward to help Mum, supported by Biddy and Irene, but everyone had their own responsibilities. As time went on, I found myself taking on more duties at home.
 
School became something I attended rather than truly enjoyed. I would walk home at lunchtime, eat quickly, and then head back again. While many of my classmates seemed carefree, my thoughts were often elsewhere.
 
Much of my spare time was spent helping Mum and looking after Phillip. At weekends, I would often take him out in his pram for a walk.
 
One particular afternoon remains vivid in my memory.
 
I was in Penchester Park when I noticed what looked like a white bundle drifting slowly down the river. At first, I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. Then I realised it was a baby.
 
An unattended pram had overturned, and the child had fallen into the water.
 
Without stopping to think, I jumped straight in.
 
Fortunately, I managed to reach the baby and bring the soaking bundle back to the riverbank, where a frantic mother was waiting. I was completely drenched, but seeing the relief on her face made it worthwhile. Looking back, I suppose instinct took over. There wasn't time to think about danger — only about getting to the child.
 
Life carried on.
 
Michael married Irene. Lionel remained in the Royal Navy and later took part in the ceremonies surrounding King George VI's funeral. David joined the Merchant Navy and worked aboard cross-Channel ferries.
 
With my older brothers building lives of their own, much of the day-to-day responsibility at home gradually fell to me. Helping Mum and caring for Phillip simply became part of everyday life.
 
As I entered my teenage years, an opportunity arrived that gave me a little independence.
 
Mrs Cotton, who lived a few doors away from Claire House, owned a fruit and vegetable shop in Tower Street. She offered me a part-time job delivering produce, and I jumped at the chance.
 
Saturday mornings — and occasionally Wednesday afternoons — became my opportunity to earn a little money of my own. It wasn't much, but it felt good. For the first time, I had pocket money that I had earned myself, and I could spend it as I pleased.
 
Like most teenagers, I quickly discovered where much of it would go.
 
Dover had four cinemas, each with its own character.
 
The Odeon stood high above the town and felt the most glamorous, with its impressive 1930s decor and organ music, before the film started. I rarely visited because it was quite a trek, but it always felt special.
 
The Gaumont, located nearer the town centre, became my regular choice. On one memorable occasion, I took my heavily pregnant mother there. After the film ended, she absent-mindedly linked arms with a complete stranger, thinking it was me. I had to step in and "rescue" her, much to everyone's amusement.
 
Then there was the Plaza, affectionately known as "The Flea Pit" because of its cheap admission prices, and the ABC Grenada near the market square.
 
The Grenada became my second home on Saturday mornings. For years I attended the children's screenings and developed a love of films that has never really left me.
 
I watched almost every film starring Humphrey Bogart, James Cagney, George Raft, Lon Chaney, Peter Lorre, Clark Gable, John Wayne, and many others. It wasn't violence that appealed to me — by today's standards, most of those films were fairly tame. It was the stories, the characters, and the sense of adventure.
 
By the time I reached my late teens, rock and roll had arrived.
 
Saturday night dances at the Town Hall and the Co-op Hall were packed with young people eager to enjoy the new music. Artists such as Lonnie Donegan and Bill Haley & His Comets brought an excitement that seemed to sweep through the country.
 
Coffee shops fitted with jukeboxes became popular meeting places. One evening, dressed in what, I thought, were my finest clothes, I confidently strode towards a newly opened café and walked straight into its spotless glass door.
 
The laughter from inside was immediate.
 
I was mortified.
 
Needless to say, I never went back, although the story provided plenty of amusement for years afterwards.
 
Youth culture was changing rapidly. Teddy Boys appeared in their long jackets and drainpipe trousers, wearing crepe-soled shoes known as "beetle crushers." Later came the Mods, sharp in their suits and riding Vespa's.
 
I admired them from a distance, but never joined either group. I was happier being an observer than a follower.
 
Through it all, family remained my priority.
 
With Michael married, Lionel at sea, and David working away, I became Mum's main support at home, particularly when it came to looking after Phillip. Every school holiday and weekend brought new responsibilities, but also new experiences.
 
Looking back now, those years were some of the hardest of my life, but they were also some of the most important. Losing Dad forced me to grow up much sooner than I would have liked, yet there were still good times along the way. The cinema, the music, my delivery job, and the people I met helped carry me through.
 
At the time, I was simply getting on with life as best I could. Only later did I realise that those experiences — the hardships as well as the happy moments — were quietly shaping the person I would become.