Shifting Ground: From Albion Place to Dungeness

Balancing Acts and Hard Choices

After settling into our new home over several months, and with a reduction in my wages at the Post Office, it became clear that I would need to supplement our income to meet our growing financial responsibilities. Drawing on my background in catering, I began looking for part-time work in Canterbury’s hotels, focusing on restaurant shifts during evenings, weekends, and public holidays. Rejections came first, but eventually I secured a part-time waiter’s position at the Slatters Hotel.

Slatters was a busy establishment, particularly during the summer months, and before long my “part-time” role expanded to most evenings, weekends, and holidays. The extra money helped, but it came at a cost. Sheila was left managing Paul largely on her own, with another baby due at any moment.

When the time came, it caught us completely by surprise. During a routine visit from the midwife, Sheila’s waters broke right there at the front door. Just hours later, on the 12th of May 1962, Julia was born at home in 2 Albion Place. I returned from work to the wonderful news that I was now the proud father of a beautiful daughter.

Despite the joy, our material circumstances were stark. We had no refrigerator, no washing machine, and no dryer — appliances that would have eased daily life considerably. With two young children now depending on us, the weight of responsibility pressed heavily on my shoulders. Even with the additional income from Slatters, saving for such necessities felt painfully slow.

Around this time, Lionel — now working for West Piling Construction — began urging me to join him. How he had secured the role I never quite understood, given his background in the Navy’s catering department, but he was persistent. He claimed the wages were nearly double what I earned at the GPO. When I questioned him further, he admitted the job involved daily travel to construction sites, with his current posting at Dungeness Power Station. He offered to drive me there and back, covering petrol and travel costs.

The offer was tempting. At the GPO I earned £12 a week, supplemented by £1.50 an hour at Slatters. West Piling promised a flat £20 weekly wage, with overtime and travel allowances. The price, of course, was walking away from the steady career I had begun building in telecommunications.

I approached my superiors at the GPO, hoping for a pay rise to help meet my family’s needs. My request was dismissed outright. Instead, they suggested I study for the Elementary Telecommunications Practice examination — a process that would take over a year, with no guarantee of success. Faced with immediate financial pressures, the promise of future advancement felt hollow.

Sheila and I talked it through repeatedly. She gently reminded me that one of the reasons I had left hospitality was so we could share evenings, weekends, and holidays together — and now I was back working most nights in a hotel. Her words struck home. With a heavy heart, I resigned from the GPO and joined Lionel at West Piling.

Our new routine began at Dungeness Power Station. The mornings were early, with a drive of over an hour each way. The work was physically demanding — preparing the bases for pylons that would carry electricity into the national grid — but the pay was better, and I was grateful to be home most evenings. Saturday overtime boosted our income further, while Sundays and holidays were reserved for family time.

Julia’s baptism took place that Easter. Auntie Kitty and Uncle Bill travelled down from Blackburn to act as her godparents. With limited space at Albion Place, they stayed at the Slatters Hotel, though we welcomed them as warmly as we could. Later, Sheila mentioned that Kitty had not been impressed by our house — a remark that lingered with me longer than I cared to admit.

For several months, work at Dungeness continued. The scale of the project was impressive, and although the labour was tough, it helped stabilise our finances. Eventually, however, we were reassigned to a new site on the outskirts of London, adding another half-hour to the commute. Lionel’s reliability began to waver. He arrived late, causing us to be late for signing on, and on one occasion ran out of petrol on the motorway. Frustration grew among the team.

Then, one morning after yet another difficult journey, Lionel announced without warning that he had had enough and was leaving the job.

I was stunned. Without Lionel, the arrangement that made the work possible collapsed. Worse still, I had burned my bridges with the GPO. Returning to Slatters Hotel full-time felt like a dispiriting step backwards, yet the thought of failing my family was unbearable.

At a loss, I turned to Mum at Claire House in Dover for advice. During our conversation, she mentioned that the cross-channel ferry company — my former employer — was launching a new ship and recruiting crew. It felt like an unexpected lifeline. At the same time, she told us about a new housing development in Whitfield, just a couple of miles from her home. When Sheila and I visited, we found a row of newly built semi-detached houses — just within reach, provided we could sell Albion Place.

Once again, life stood at a crossroads — work, home, and family pulling in different directions — and the choices ahead would shape far more than just the next chapter of our lives.

 Life has a way of circling back on itself, and just when I thought my days at sea were long behind me, it came knocking again.