After isolation

Growing Up Too Soon

Growing up in Dover in the early 1950s, the town still carried the visible scars of war. Bomb sites lay open between rows of houses, and rubble stood as quiet reminders of a conflict that had only recently ended.

After being cleared from the hospital, I returned home to Claire House. My head was still bald from the ringworm treatment, though a faint stubble had begun to appear. Returning to boarding school was no longer an option, and David had already come home — much to his relief. Soon after, 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. A large ancient mulberry tree stood proudly on the grounds, heavy with fruit at the time of my first visit. The uniform was bright red — a peaked cap, single-breasted blazer, and grey flannel trousers — and I loved it.

The only difficulty was the distance: twenty-five miles from Claire House. Dad solved it cleverly. I took a bus from outside our home to Folkestone, then another on to Hythe. The journey took just under an hour. Despite my bald head, the boys were friendly, and I soon made a good friend. Lessons were enjoyable, and I even began learning a couple of languages. Wearing my colourful uniform on the bus often sparked conversations. I suppose I have always had a touch of the showman in me.

Weekends were quieter. Life around Claire House could be harsh, with poverty lingering in the nearby streets. Yet friendships forged earlier at Belgrave Primary provided some connection and familiarity.

Then came the unthinkable.

One afternoon, returning home from a football game, a neighbour stopped me with news that shattered everything: my father had died from a massive heart attack. I was only eleven. Baby Phillip had been sitting on Dad’s knee when it happened.

In that instant, childhood felt abruptly over.

The days that followed were confused and painful. During a family discussion about the funeral, Zena — upset by something I had said or done — insisted that I should not attend. The reasoning was never fully explained. Being excluded left me with a deep sense of incompleteness, a quiet wound that lingers even now.

Life without Dad was challenging. Mum carried the heavy responsibility of managing Claire House and its finances. I lost my place at Manor House because we could no longer afford the fees and, by February 1952, I enrolled at Astor Avenue Secondary Modern School. Michael stepped forward to help Mum, supported by Biddy and Irene.

My school days became routine — physically present, but often somewhere else in my thoughts. I would walk home each lunchtime, eat quickly, and return. While classmates laughed and bonded, I often felt apart, observing rather than belonging.

At weekends, I cared for Phillip, taking him out in his pram. One afternoon at Penchester Park, I noticed a white bundle drifting slowly down the river. It was a baby who had fallen from an overturned pram. Without thinking, I jumped in and managed to pull the child to safety, returning the soaking bundle to a distraught mother. I was drenched, but the relief and gratitude in her eyes made the moment unforgettable.

Life around me continued to change. Michael married Irene. Lionel remained in the navy, later participating in King George’s funeral. David joined the Merchant Navy, working aboard cross-channel ferries. With my brothers grown and occupied, much of the responsibility at home fell to me. Helping Mum and caring for Phillip became part of daily life.

As I entered my teens, a small opportunity for independence appeared. Mrs Cotton, who lived a few doors down from Claire House, owned a fruit and vegetable shop on Tower Street. She offered me a part-time job delivering produce, and I eagerly accepted. Saturday mornings — and occasionally Wednesday afternoons — became my own time to earn pocket money and spend as I wished. It was my first taste of responsibility beyond the family, and I relished it.

Dover in those days had four cinemas, each with its own character. The Odeon, perched high above the town, was the most prestigious, with its 1930s décor and an organ that played before each film. I rarely visited — it wasn’t easy to reach — but the experience felt grand. The Gaumont, more centrally located, became my regular haunt. I once took my heavily pregnant mother there; after the film she mistakenly linked arms with a stranger, and I had to jokingly “rescue” her.

The Plaza, known affectionately as “The Flea Pit” because of its low prices, and the ABC Grenada near the market square completed the quartet. At the Grenada, I attended Saturday morning children’s screenings — a habit that lasted for years. Cinema became a passion. I watched nearly 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 drew me — by modern standards it was mild — but the storytelling, the characters, and the drama.

By my late teens, rock and roll had arrived. Saturday night dances at the Town Hall and the Co-op Hall were electric, with live performances by Lonnie Donegan and Bill Haley & His Comets. Coffee shops with jukeboxes became gathering places. One evening, dressed in my best, I walked straight into the glass door of a newly opened café, providing instant entertainment for everyone inside. I never returned — though I laughed about it for years.

Youth culture in that era was vivid and, at times, intimidating. Teddy Boys in long jackets and drainpipe trousers, wearing crepe-soled “beetle crushers,” strutted the streets. Mods, sharp in suits and riding Vespas, followed. I steered clear of both, preferring to remain a quiet observer rather than belong to any group.

Through it all, my life remained anchored in responsibility at home. With Michael married, Lionel at sea, and David working away, I became Mum’s primary support, especially for Phillip. Every weekend and school holiday brought duties — but also small adventures and moments that quietly shaped my character.

Looking back, those years were a mixture of loss, growth, and discovery. Grief had forced me to mature quickly, yet joy still found its way in — through cinema, music, work, and unexpected acts of courage. The challenges instilled resilience; the small victories nurtured compassion. Without realising it at the time, I was being shaped for whatever lay ahead.