Category: Blog (Page 1 of 2)

In Oatlands Park Is Pleasure

December 30, 2021 / Rosalind Bassett

On this 73rd anniversary of Denton’s death, it feels long overdue to tell you about my last Denton adventure earlier this year. I visited Oatlands Park hotel, where Denton stayed with his father and brothers during the summer of 1930, forming base camp for In Youth Is Pleasure. Still family-owned (well, four families own it) the hotel is situated a mile or so from Weybridge train station. I presented myself there on one of the hottest days of 2021, eager to locate the parts of the hotel described in ‘In Youth Is Pleasure’, and to avail myself of a delicious lunch in four-star surroundings. Oh, the things I do for Denton!

Unusually (and delightfully) I was accompanied on this research outing by a dear friend. Greg has always been intensely interested in my Denton research expeditions, and as lunch in a four-star hotel was part of the experience, he was in! We were early for our lunch booking, so we walked around the grounds to work up an appetite. I particularly wanted to see the pet cemetery and the location of the grotto, which was demolished in 1948. Mindful of the luck I had in finding so much of Broadstairs remaining as Denton would have known it, I hoped my luck would hold in Oatlands Park.

The hotel… stood in charming parkland, with terraced gardens and lawns sloping down to a little artificial lake almost entirely surrounded by huge overgrown brambles. Only the lake and its banks were neglected; the rest of the grounds, with the fountain, the grotto, the cottage orné, and the elaborate pets’ cemetery were kept in very trim order.

Well, my luck didn’t hold. Comparing the 1914 Ordnance Survey map with the present day shows how much the parkland has shrunk over the last century. The artificial lake is long gone, as is the fountain, grotto, cottage orné and pets’ cemetery. These delightfully unique, quirky features have been lost to urbanisation, a primary school and housing estate now occupying the site where they stood. However, the grotto remains immortalised in the name of the road that once bordered Oatlands Park’s grounds, and there’s a full account of it in the International Grotto Directory.

The grotto
1914 ordnance Survey map
2021 map

Happily, the headstones from the pet cemetery are now arranged in a respectful, protected circle around a sycamore tree next to the terrace. Sadly, they’re impossible to read. I was looking forward to photographing some of the more idiosyncratic inscriptions (“Here lies PUCE, my sweet Cat. Murdered June 5th 1831”), but they’ve worn away to the degree that only the odd letter here and there is visible.

So, let me show you around the interior. The entrance to Oatlands Park is no longer through the tall stone gate pillars, but the cars still come into a broad sweep of lawn. Denton remarks that “fine cedars were dotted about before the house in a haphazard pattern, making it clear that some of their number had died from old age.” There are still mature cedars dotted about, including possibly the most mature cedar in England.

Oatland Park’s disused entrance gates (Nigel Cox)
The approach to Oatlands Park
Cedar trees on the lawn
Arty shot of cedar trees
Ancient credentials

Something of a living Gaia, Greg suggested that we put our hand against the cedar tree opposite the hotel entrance to tune in and pick up Denton vibes. Totally something Denton would have done – the boy who licked a boat’s window frame to experience his surroundings as fully as possible would happily commune with a cedar tree. And, whilst I was pressing the ancient, desiccated bark against my palms, Denton arrived. Standing in solemn, arboreal reverence, feeling slightly foolish, I spotted a pigeon huddled on the grass. To this urbanite, it seemed odd, as London pigeons are generally either strutting busily or perched well above ground. Looking closer, the pigeon had a broken wing and leg, and didn’t seem terribly happy. Across the way, an extremely well-dressed woman was speaking urgently and authoritatively into her phone, whilst her companion stood guard over the injured bird. “She’s phoning the local vet”, she explained.

How marvellously Denton. I’m not sure it would have made it into a story, but I’m pretty certain an injured pigeon would have been the subject of existential musing in his journal, or at least a couple of lines of poetry.

It was time for lunch. We escaped thankfully into the air-conditioned coolness of the reception. Denton records that

…the central courtyard was glassed over to make a huge tea lounge…

It’s not huge by today’s standards, but it’s certainly beautiful. Now an extension of the bar and reception, it’s a comfortable place for a natter over a cuppa.

En route to the dining room, we passed the main staircase where Orvil hurried on his first day to run outside and explore the grounds of the hotel before dinner. The balcony overlooking the reception area is most likely the place where Denton looked down into the court, as there’s no view into the court from the top of the stairs.

He found his way down the passage to the head of the broad stairs. Below him in the court he saw groups of people sitting in armchairs. They wore that very sad look of people who have nothing to do before they dress for dinner.

When he realises he’s late for dinner, he rushes back and tidies up as best he can before finding his way to the glass doors of the dining room.

He heard dishes clinking and the hum of talk. ‘Will I ever find them in this huge room?’ he asked himself.

In that same huge dining room, over a glass of pre-lunch champagne, we indulged in some Denton-esque people-watching. There was a little hubbub outside – two women dressed in wedding outfits unsuccessfully navigated the deep gravel path towards the restaurant terrace, doubly hampered by high heels and trying to simultaneously light cigarettes for each other. On the terrace, two beautiful young men gazed adoringly into each other’s eyes, clearly having very recently said “I do”. Once the bridesmaids tottered onto the terrace in their ruined heels, the wedding party made its way onto the lawn and out of sight for lakeside photographs. Exchanging nods of satisfaction, Greg and I stopped staring and gave ourselves up to enjoying an excellent lunch.

After lunch, we met with Hannah, the very helpful Marketing manager of Oatlands Park, who had lots of photographs, news cuttings and vintage menus to browse before showing us around the hotel. We first visited the ballroom. Hannah showed us a very old picture of it looking distinctly art deco, with a small stage, but there’s no date on the picture. However, Orvil describes the sprung floor for the dancers, and this photo shows a carpeted ballroom, without the heavy green and black polka-dotted curtains that Orvil despised so much.

The new ballroom wing jutted out from one side of the old house. It was built of genteel-coloured brick that could not be called red. Its dinky little lead casements, by contrast, made the tall thin sashes look more beautiful than ever.

Approached down a corridor of gorgeous wooden panelling, nothing appears to remain of the original ballroom decor or the whitewashed corridor with the musicians’ cloakroom. Slightly relieved that there was no need to conscientiously imagine (or recreate!) Denton’s naked self-flagellation in a long-vanished cloakroom, we retraced our steps from the ballroom to climb a smaller staircase next to the lift. Presumably this was the staircase that made Denton realise “for the first time, that he had a strong prejudice against lifts, that he never used them when he was alone”. Like the main staircase, it’s beautiful.

On the second floor, Hannah showed us a lovely little bedroom overlooking the stable yard, from where Denton borrowed a bright blue bike. The stables are currently being refurbished to become a spa, which is an excellent reason to return to Oatlands Park as far as I’m concerned.

The old stable-yard seemed full of chauffeurs, whistling, shouting, smoking, as they hosed or polished their cars.

Curiously, Denton didn’t mention the rumoured ghost of Oatlands Park. It’s perhaps unsurprising that such a self-obsessed adolescent didn’t pick up on ghostly gossip, but the first story he ever wrote was about a ghost. His vivid imagination could easily have revelled in the supernatural possibilities of staying in a haunted hotel. The Grey Lady is reputedly the ghost of a maid who threw herself off the bell tower after an argument with her fiancé. This wing of the hotel is closed for refurbishment, so we weren’t able to visit, but I was intrigued by the story, and you can read more about it here if you are too.

After several hours of soaking up the Oatlands Park atmosphere, it was time to leave. Once again, I’d been extraordinarily lucky. We had visited at the same time of year as Denton, and seen much of the hotel (if not the grounds) as he would have seen it. Gazing up at the glass roof over reception, deciphering the pet cemetery headstones, dining in the same dining room – once again, I felt privileged to have shared that experience with him.

I’ll next be turning my attention to Denton’s final resting place. A couple of readers have asked if I know anything about it, and there are varying theories about what happened to Denton’s ashes. Watch this space…

Dashing in Denton’s shoes

July 10, 2020 / Rosalind Bassett

I recently had the opportunity to recreate part of the journey that Denton makes to Dr Easton’s house in A Fragment of a Life Story. Touchett (Francis Streeten) persuades Denton to see a religious film with him at the parish hall, but Denton loathes the experience. Overcome with “the horror of living”, Denton pushes his way out and makes his way down into the town of Tonbridge. He reaches the “great black station-yard where the trains were shunting and snorting”, but the station-yard is no longer visible from the road; it’s hidden by buildings and the road bridge. However, across the road, the library is still easily seen.

On the other side of the road, outside the public library, a youth stood, whistling mournfully and hunching his shoulders. When the youth glares at Denton for staring at him, Denton lets “the wind sweep me on at once.” He crosses over the train track and heads a hundred yards south towards Pembury Road.

I looked up at the spire of St Stephen’s Church. It appeared to me as a huge sharpened stake, put there by God for an instrument of torture. I imagined a gigantic body hurtling down from heaven and landing on the spike, pierced through the belly, the arms and legs spread-eagled and turning like windmills in their agony.

A policeman sees Denton staring, but Denton hates his friendly greeting and continues south to see the person he loves more than anyone else in the world.

I started to run up the hill, towards the doctor’s house… I pushed through the dripping bushes at the gate; one of them had an aromatic smell which I shall always remember, for, as I passed, I tore off a piece and crushed it between my fingers.

There’s no longer a gate, and, 80+ years on, I doubt that the bush on the left of the photograph is the same bush . A bolder person than I might have rung the doorbell and asked if it was OK to run round to the drawing room window and peep in, as Denton did. Maybe next time…!

Even all these years later, it’s oddly moving to walk in Denton’s shoes. Many of the buildings that he would have known still exist. Looking at them, knowing that Denton would have looked at them too, brings him a little bit closer.

Short stories

July 5, 2020 / Rosalind Bassett

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I’ve tried to reflect my thoughts on Eric Oliver a few times now, but they’re still swimming about hazily and don’t want to be captured just yet. So I’ll leave Eric for another time and reflect on the first few short stories in ‘Fragments of a Life Story”, published in 1987; The Vast House (which was previously unpublished), Narcissus Bay, and At Sea, both of which were published in Brave and Cruel in 1948.

The Vast House recounts Denton’s memories of visits to his maternal grandmother in her huge Shanghai house. A wheelchair user, she relied on servants to care for Denton, and he adored the footman, Will. He reflects from his adult vantage about the innocence of a young boy enjoying the sensual contact of boisterous play, staring at Will’s physical form whilst he relaxes over a pipe, and furtively wearing Will’s clothes. Denton also describes for us the “boredom and disappointment” of his grandfather’s solitary life as a result of his grandmother’s lesbian relationship with her live-in friend Emma, their mutual passion and devotion excluding all others.

This is the most sensual of Denton’s stories that I’ve read so far, which is possibly why it wasn’t finished or published. His simple joy in Will’s companionship touches the heart. Was Denton indeed such a precocious, self-aware little boy, or does the adult Denton endow him with those gifts? At Sea seems to be similarly knowing in the retelling. Denton (Robert in the story) describes sharing a cabin with his mother on one of their frequent transatlantic trips, and his appalling behaviour towards Mr Barron, a fellow traveller who invited her (but not Robert) to a party in his cabin. Typically Denton, he describes Robert’s behaviour as matter-of-factly as he describes his protagonists’ appalling behaviour in all of his books, and he presents it without any attempt to excuse or justify. He’s asking an adult audience to empathise with a self-absorbed child who is old enough to know better. It also invites judgement on his mother, to a degree; not many mothers would ask their child to choose their clothes for them, and then wear what they chose even if they didn’t agree with the choice! To a modern audience, Denton’s childhood memoirs are a gloriously-described window on the past, an opportunity to reflect on our own childhood behaviour and values, and an invitation to make value judgements.

Young Denton never seems to grasp that the intensity of his relationship with his mother doesn’t trump the requirement to behave appropriately in public, hence his bewildered outrage when she’s forced to rebuke him in front of others. Rosalind was expecting too much emotional maturity on his part to engage in the complicity of being a little boy in public and a mini adult in private. So to some degree, she reaps what she sows, also inculcating a sense of entitlement to personal power that shows up in Denton’s extreme independence in his teenage years and beyond. This is evident in Narcissus Bay; Denton expects his friends to listen when he wants to speak, to do what he wants to do, and agree with his opinions (although lots of children do this, to be fair!). He patronises the adults in the story, feeling sorry for Adam’s mother because “she was so very benighted and unaware of real things”. He bathes, fully clothed, to demonstrate power over the boy who isn’t allowed to bathe.

Denton’s short stories are wonderful to read. Relatively insignificant daily activities elevated to intense vignettes that stay with you long after the reading. But I don’t want to finish reading them! Next up: The Happiest Time, The Coffin on the Hill, and The Barn.

Comparing biographies

June 21, 2020 / Rosalind Bassett

Two hefty Denton books remain to read; Denton’s journals, and his short stories. However, I’m getting myself a bit stuck on his biographies. I thoroughly enjoyed reading James Methuen-Campbell’s version of Denton’s life and times, which was published in 2004. JMC’s attention to detail is astonishing; I’m not surprised the book took him seven years to write! The tiny details that he’s bothered to track down, without the modern godsend of Google, demonstrate his intense interest in Denton and his work. As well as his writing, JMC charts Denton’s artistic career, which is a topic that I know little about and makes me keen to know and better understand that side of his creative output.

I’m now reading Michael De-La-Noy’s biography of Denton, which was published 20 years earlier in 1984. His journalist background shows up in more of a story-telling style, although he relies on quoting large chunks of Denton’s own stories and journals. That’s OK, as he also provides alternative perspectives from Denton’s family and friends. What’s not OK is that MDN sits in judgement in a way that JMC doesn’t; for example, he sneers at Denton’s mother for “mollycoddling” him. His tone throughout is that of an editorial opinion piece, and I’m not interested in MDN’s opinion. I’m interested in hearing a factual account of Denton’s life, insights from his friends and family, and how he was perceived by contemporary commentators.

What exasperates me about both biographies is how often Denton’s activities and motivations are ascribed to his sexual orientation. He was a whole human being, as fabulous and as flawed as anyone else, perhaps more intensely both. As Edith Sitwell said many times, he was a born writer, a great writer. Of course Denton is an important LGBT role model, publishing homoerotic stories pre-LGBT social acceptance and celebration. He gaily referred to himself as a “real, live fairy”, but it broke my heart a little to see one of his letters refer matter-of-factly to “homosexuality and other neurotic abnormalities”. He shrugged it off when In Youth Is Pleasure was displayed in a bookshop under the banner “Of interest to students of abnormal psychology”. But let’s not just celebrate Denton for being a brave and honest LGBT author. He wrote about much more than homoerotic experiences. Gay or straight, his writing is exceptional, full stop.

Both biographies were written when many of Denton’s inner circle were still alive. First-hand accounts of Denton’s life and times, albeit remembered several decades later, add poignance and intensity. MDN does this better, as he met up with Denton’s family to provide context to his early life, and he quotes extensively from Denton’s correspondence with his friends. However, of Denton’s two biographers, I would far rather have a natter over a cuppa with JMC. He celebrates all of Denton’s work. He lets us see Denton as his contemporaries saw him without constantly adding his own two penn’orth. And he didn’t rely on huge swathes of Denton’s own words to tell his story. Thank you, James Methuen-Campbell, for an insightful and respectful Denton biography.

Finding flow

June 15, 2020 / Rosalind Bassett

In 1940, Denton moved away from the depressing, functional flat in Tonbridge to a modern concrete box a few miles away in St Mary’s Platt. The war was well underway by now, and Denton was less accessible to many of his friends so his social life shrank. He became quite depressed, and his relationship with Evie came under strain; according to Gerald Mackenzie it was volatile, sometimes even violent, with household items being hurled about.

In September of 1940, inspired by J. R. Ackerley’s Hindoo Holiday and possibly galvanised into action by a bomb exploding yards from his house, Denton made a start on Maiden Voyage. The routine of writing steadily every morning calmed Denton. It gave him a sense of serenity and focus. At the same time, he began his largest art work, ‘Harvest’, which now hangs in the Tate.

I know nothing about art, and I’m a little worried that I won’t do justice to Denton’s once my exploration reaches that element of his legacy. Is ‘Harvest’ any good? I’ve no idea. I have no idea about the artistic merit of any of Denton’s daubs, but he seemed to sell quite a lot of it during his lifetime, albeit for modest sums. The few pieces that I’ve seen online appeal to me greatly – vivid colour, the ordinary made fantastic, nightmarish in an Alice-in-Wonderland-y way. It seems odd that someone who didn’t care for written abstract seemed quite at home with it as an artist.

It’s a great personal sorrow that so much of Denton’s art work is hidden away in private collections and archives. From what I’ve read, though, Denton does seem to have painted with commercial intention rather than to express himself. His paintings don’t seem to have been created with the hope that someone will adore it or cherish it – just buy it. Self expression seems to have been achieved primarily through his writing. I may change my mind about this impression the more I discover of Denton, but his painting and writing are showing up as two very different animals to me.

Starting Maiden Voyage seems to have marked the beginning of a much happier, more settled period for Denton. Despite domestic upheaval at the end of 1941 when the Hop Garden burned down, 1942 was one of the most satisfying years of Denton’s life. He had secured patronage for Maiden Voyage, come to the attention of influential People Who Matter, had some poetry published, and his paintings were starting to attract attention. He reflected on the year in his journal.

“This may all be only a beginning, but it means something, and I must go on and on and on.”

An exotic tropical bird

June 13, 2020 / Rosalind Bassett

The few years after leaving Broadstairs were difficult times for Denton. He wrote in his journal of “those endless days and nights of 1936 alone and desperate”. He wasn’t alone, as Evie was keeping house for him, but she was a devout Christian Scientist and didn’t believe that pain existed, so probably wasn’t especially empathic. I keep coming back to, and marvelling at, Denton’s youth. Severely injured, just turned 21, with none of the talking therapies or rehabilitation that would be offered today. Surely anyone would find it very difficult to rebuild body and mind following such a major trauma without love and support. JMC makes a passing reference to a suicide attempt soon after Denton moved into Hadlow Road, and I can quite see how this could come about. I can’t imagine why JMC doesn’t tell the story in the biography instead of mentioning it in the notes. It’s not that I want the distressing detail of a young man’s despair, but it’s a significant event.

Happily, Denton settles down in Tonbridge and builds a circle of friends. Gerald Mackenzie visits regularly. Significantly, Francis Streeton stops Denton in the street to make his acquaintance. Most people in the street today would assume that Francis was a chugger and do their best not to engage, but Denton did. They became friends, but it appears to have been uncomfortably one-sided. Denton was extremely rude about Francis’s idiosyncratic appearance and behaviours, and as far as I can tell Francis was nothing but a good friend to Denton.

Speaking of idiosyncrasy, Ronald Benge, one of his acquaintances, wrote my favourite thumbnail of Denton. Writing to JMC for the biography, he said “One was impressed by his intense interest in everything and everybody. There was, of course, most noticeable this extraordinary vivid quality, compounded by his appearance and high-pitched excitable speech. He was like some exotic tropical bird and his dress was flamboyant, so that some of his acquaintances were embarrassed to be with him in public – the small slight figure limping along and full of spontaneity and laughter”

I love love love this description of Denton! It’s so easy to picture him, perhaps with a cape flying behind him, greeting acquaintances and listening, bright-eyed and inquisitive, to their news. I associate Denton at this time with vitality and activity. Never does he get onto his bicycle and ride it; he always jumps onto his bike and pedals it. I have so much respect for his determination to live life to the full despite his pain and frequent illness.

1940 saw Denton move away from Tonbridge and the embarrassment of his behaviour towards Dr Easton. A new chapter began, quite literally. Denton began to write Maiden Voyage.

Convalescence

June 9, 2020 / Rosalind Bassett

After four months in hospital, Denton moved to Southcourt nursing home in Broadstairs. In AVTAC he recounts how his mother’s friend, Clare (Irene Dallas in real life) escorted him in the ambulance from hospital to Southcourt. The journey is around 90 miles, with no motorways, so it was quite the long haul. They call briefly into Denton’s room at Blackheath so he can pick up some essentials. Endearingly, Denton doesn’t even think about clothes – his only thought is “which of my treasures do I want to take with me?”. Clare eventually enters in exasperation and grabs an armful of clothes before bustling him back into the ambulance.

Let’s not forget that Denton is still only 20, AND he’s privileged to have been looked after in one way or another his entire life. The people around him have taken care of practicalities like clean clothes and food. All Denton needs to think about are the only things that can still bring him joy; his treasures. JMC’s biography recounts how, even as a ten year-old boy in Shanghai, Denton’s friend Nancy Quinlan recalls that they had to play in the spare room. They couldn’t play in his bedroom because there were “fans, feathers and shells” displayed on tables and they feared knocking something over. Denton became an extremely discerning collector as an adult, but the thought of that little boy’s bedroom crammed to the gunnells with (probably) cheap tat is adorable.

But, Dentonesque, I digress. He spent a few months in Broadstairs, and probably left sooner than he should. One word (OK, ~~two~~ three words): Dr Jack Easton, who appears as Dr Farley in AVTAC. For an author who loves to embellish, it’s interesting that Denton does quite the opposite when recounting his behaviour around Dr Easton. He makes it all sound very dispassionate and brisk, when in reality his behaviour constituted solid grounds for a restraining order.

The good doctor decides to move to Tonbridge, 60 miles away, to progress his career. Denton can’t countenance life without Dr Easton and decides to move to Tonbridge too. In AVTAC, he presents this as a logical decision – this doctor knows me and my case, so I’ll move to be near him. Of course! Who wouldn’t?

Two days after Dr Easton’s departure, still barely able to walk, he gets on a train and arrives at Dr Easton’s house in a state of near-collapse, requiring a stay in a Tonbridge nursing home to recover. Not the pleasant house hunting day trip with Evie depicted in AVTAC, although the unfinished book ends in the middle of that day. Who knows how honest Denton would have been about his subsequent behaviour had he completed the book? He lurked in Dr Easton’s garden, peered through the windows, broke into his house on at least one occasion, and called him at all hours of the day and night. This obsession lasts for three years.

Three. Years.

Dr Easton finally writes a much more polite letter than Denton deserves to tell him that their friendship and professional relationship must end.

The surprise is that Denton is normally as brutally honest about himself as he is with his opinions of other people and their behaviour. Disagreeable and vulnerable by turn, he doesn’t flinch from presenting himself in an unflattering light. What prevented him from being so honest on this topic, I wonder? From his journals, it sounds as though 1936 was (understandably!) a desperately unhappy year for him, so perhaps it was just too painful to acknowledge the reality of events.

Happily, life gets better…

Building a Denton-worthy blog

June 4, 2020 / Rosalind Bassett

One of the things that I can’t help wondering when reading Denton’s work is “what if that happened today?”. What if Denton had been knocked off his bicycle today – would his injuries be curable? What if Denton were writing today? With the LGBT community now widely celebrated and accepted, would he be more open about his experiences in his writing? What would have happened if Denton had been sent to school at the age of 5, as is now the law in the UK? If he hadn’t experienced the constant travelling that broadened his mind and fired his imagination so much, would he have grown into the artist and writer that he did?

I know there’s no point getting too navel gaze-y about it, but it’s the sort of thing I’d love to mull over with other Denton fans. I hope that this blog will be a vehicle to do that and much more. I’d be delighted if I could foster a community of Denton fans who return regularly and share their views.

A community won’t happen for some time, because I’ve purposely refrained from promoting the blog, or optimising it for search engines. There isn’t yet sufficient material to make it worthwhile visiting – if I visited a website with four blogs and five holding pages, I wouldn’t be terribly impressed! However, I don’t want it to start feeling like a chore. I like the hour each day that I spend writing the blog and experimenting with the look and feel for the website. This is my first website, and I’m looking forward to being able to manage the technical side of blog as easily as I write it.

If you do find this blog page, thank you for reading it! There’s a link to it from Denton’s Wikipedia page – when I followed the link I was surprised to find that there wasn’t a dedicated Denton website, and even more surprised to find that the domain was available. The author of the Wikipedia page got in touch the day after it launched to say hello and offer assistance, which I really appreciate; thank you Steven, and I hope I didn’t grab a domain that you were planning to use!

The structure of the site may change as my knowledge of Denton evolves, but at this stage I’m planning to host the kind of information that I’d like to browse myself. Obviously, a complete list of publications and how to get hold of them (if they’re still in print). A catalogue of his art, with pictures where possible. Pictures of the many places that Denton lived, then and now. A searchable resource detailing all the significant people in Denton’s life, and their alter ego if they appeared in one of his stories. And links to other Denton commentators; reviews, articles, whatever I can find. I’m aiming to create a resource that Denton fans will find informative, thought-provoking, and a pleasure to browse.

The collision

June 2, 2020 / Rosalind Bassett

Two police officers are directing onlookers away from the scene of a car crash and discussing how it had happened. PC Butterman is looking puzzled.

“Why can’t we call it an accident?”

“Because accident implies there’s no one to blame”, comes the grim response from PC Angel.

Whenever I see Denton referring to his “accident”, it reminds me of this scene from Hot Fuzz, and frankly, reader, it gets my dander up a little. It wasn’t an accident, it was gross negligence. On 9 June 1935, Denton Welch was knocked off his bike by a careless driver. It was a quiet stretch of road with no apparent reason for anyone to lose control of a car. However, Annie Huntley did, and Denton’s body was ruined for the rest of his life.

Denton’s description of his experience in hospital is horrific. The nurses were dismissive of his pain; they inflicted casual torture upon him by binding his terribly injured leg cruelly tight before it was put in plaster; they expected men to be stoic in the face of life-changing injuries and death. The social context is relevant, of course; the Great War was still in living memory, and the appalling injuries and suffering of soldiers in the trenches. I do wonder if Denton exaggerated the inhumanity of the nurses for greater effect, but it seems that everyone agreed he was in a particularly awful hospital. However, he couldn’t be moved for a month because of the severity of his injuries.

Eventually ensconced in a Broadstairs nursing home, along comes Dr Jack Easton. There’s a photograph of him in JMC’s biography (hooray!) and Denton’s description did him great justice. Dr Easton is the first person to acknowledge the suffering that Denton had endured for the last few months – no wonder Denton fell for him! Simple gratitude towards a member of the medical profession who at last acknowledges that Denton has more than a slightly grazed knee.

Denton never returned to live in London. Several commentators have suggested that, dreadful though it was, being forced to relocate out of London to recuperate allowed Denton’s genius to flourish as it otherwise may not have done. Alan Bennett, for example, speculates that if Denton had continued at Goldsmiths he would probably have ended up as part of the Soho or Fitzrovia set, indistinguishable from all the other London creatives anxious to make their name. Edmund White wrote that Denton’s gift was refined by suffering and illness into a “white-hot flame”.

Denton, however, doesn’t (yet) strike me as someone who was particularly ambitious to make a name for himself. He does mention in a couple of letters to Eric Oliver that he thinks he might be about to become well-known, but doesn’t seem to be particularly excited by the prospect. On the contrary, he talks glumly about the people who write to him asking if they can visit, and he feels that he needs to say yes to some of them. Does anyone these days write to famous people saying “I’d love to meet you, when can I drop by?”, and expect them to say “Yes of course! See you for afternoon tea on Saturday next!”. Unthinkable now – a matter of courtesy then.

But back to Annie Huntley. Denton doesn’t mention her at all in AVTAC. He vaguely refers to Bill taking care of some legal matters. Maybe he talks about it more in his journals, but the further I read into AVTAC, the more I wanted to know what had happened to the driver who had been the cause of so much suffering and a life changing course. I know that there was a court case, and Denton was awarded £4,000 in damages (approximately £280,000 today) which allowed him to live independently, but what happened to Annie? Did she go to jail? Was her driving licence revoked? Did she express remorse? Did she apologise? It’s commendable that Denton didn’t allow himself to dwell on it (again, the journals may contradict this perception when I read them) but how could he have not thought more about it? He seems to have just accepted that this was his life now, and not thought with resentment of the person who caused it.

Next up – the convalescent stalker.

Happy days at Goldsmiths

May 31, 2020 / Rosalind Bassett

Portrait of Denton Welch by Gerald Mackenzie Leet, 1935

Today, I’ve read James Methuen-Campbell’s account of Denton’s time at Repton and China, and I’m delighted to have seen him through different eyes. Denton’s account of Repton in Maiden Voyage left few insights to be gleaned from his biography, other than he had teachers called Snape and Tonks. It tickles me to think that JK Rowling’s characters of the same name might have been inspired by JMC’s biography!

Delightfully, JMC’s account of Denton’s time at Goldsmiths is all new information. Denton was clearly very happy there. He finally achieved the independence he’d wanted all his life, moving into a room of his own at 34 Croom’s Hill aged 17. His landlady? Evie Sinclair, with whom Denton lived for most of the rest of his life.

From a slow start at Goldsmiths, Denton built up a circle of mainly female friends, which calls into question my previous comments about his misogynist leanings. Denton’s friend and classmate, Helen Roeder, told JMC that Denton liked to have dumpy little girls around him, which made me smile, and he was seen as very protective and caring. He seemed to feel most secure when he was around women.

In the middle of the Goldsmiths chapter appear some photographs. One of the best parts of any biography is the photographs. I gaze and gaze at them, trying to peep beyond the borders into the space beyond, trying to guess what the people in the photographs are thinking when they’re taken. JMC’s biography includes several photographs of Denton and Eric Oliver in 1946, both individually and together. When you look closely at them, it’s clear that they were all taken on the same day, as they’re both wearing the same clothes in all of the pictures. Presumably Evie is the one taking the pictures*; I wonder what it was about that day that they wanted to remember.

It’s a shame that no colour photographs of Denton exist; by all accounts he was a flamboyant and colourful dresser. His self portraits show him wearing colourful clothes, and Gerald Mackenzie’s 1935 portrait of Denton (presumably pre-hospital) shows him wearing the mustard colour that his mother adored.

Tomorrow’s reading will be difficult. Denton’s unconventional early life made it hard for him to adjust when he finally went to school. After a decade of struggling against fitting in, at Goldsmiths he found security, friendship and ambition. All that came to an abrupt end on 9 June 1935. More tomorrow…

*Update: Gerald Mackenzie took the pictures. He visited Middle Orchard for the day, not long after Denton and Eric moved there, bringing his camera.