Denton’s odyssey

Lockdown started easing. The sun started shining. I raised my head from three months of nonstop work, and decided awarded myself some long-overdue Denton time. I hopped on a train to Broadstairs.

Denton’s second biographer, James Methuen Campbell, describes Broadstairs in 1935 as “known almost exclusively for providing two different types of service: the education of the young sons of the wealthy and homes for the recuperation of the sick…  The air was bracing.”

And bracing it is! Now a town of some 25,000 souls (roughly double the population of 1935), I liked it so much that I spent an hour of my final afternoon gazing into estate agents’ windows and doing sums in my head. But I was there for the Denton experience, specifically to do four things. I wanted to retrace Denton’s steps on his dramatic odyssey to prove his independence; to visit the ‘flinty church’ where a young boy bravely returned to his campanology duties having recovered from the bell falling on his head; to track down his aunt’s mother’s house, where Denton took tea, and to visit Walter Sickert’s house as Denton did in ‘Sickert at St Peters’.

Armed with my JMC biography, ‘A Voice Through a Cloud’ and some extremely helpful information from Steven, the marvellous author of Denton’s Wikipedia pages, I first sought the location of Southcourt nursing home, where Denton was sent in October 1935 to convalesce after five months in hospital. He had (sort of) family there – Sir Harry and Lady Fox, Denton’s uncle and aunt, at Corlismore, and Lady Fox’s mother, Louisa Noott, at Upton Lodge.

Southcourt was just three minutes from my airbnb – hurrah! Off I went, wondering if Gerald Mackenzie had taken the same ten-minute walk from the train station, or if he had hopped into a taxi. Unlike me, Gerald didn’t have Apple maps to help him navigate, and the first A to Z wasn’t published until 1936. Easier all round to hop into a station taxi, especially in later trips where Gerald generously brought Denton some painting paraphernalia.

With a few exceptions, I knew from the 1934 Ordnance Survey map that the houses I passed on Swinburne Avenue were all there in 1936, so I was looking at houses that Denton would have recognised. I felt unexpectedly emotional seeing the world as Denton would have seen it.

The large building that was Southcourt Nursing Home is on the junction of Swinburne Avenue and Ramsgate Road. It’s now been converted into flats, and, thrillingly, a ‘For rent’ sign was jammed into the bushes that crowned the boundary wall. Almost jumping up and down in my excitement, I eagerly checked the estate agent’s website to see if I could book a viewing. Sadly, the flat had now been rented. A small girl was sitting outside the front door of Southcourt with a dog, eyeing me suspiciously. I smiled at her and sidled around the corner, out of sight, to take a forensic look at the website pictures. The newly-rented first-floor flat was on the the east side of the building, nowhere near Denton’s room. I hadn’t missed out on any Denton vibes.

JMC’s biography places Denton’s room in the west wing, on the ground floor. A comparison of the pictures shows that the french doors have been replaced (probably several times since 1935) and practicality won the day, replacing the wooden balustrade of the walkway above Denton’s room with metal railings.

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Now that I’d found Southcourt, I wanted to recreate one of the most emotional events of A Voice Through A Cloud; Denton’s desperate walk to his aunt’s house following his brother’s visit. It hadn’t been a good experience for either of them. Denton was painfully aware that Bill was simultaneously anxious to both please and escape. After Bill’s departure, Denton realised that visitors made him feel like a prisoner, sapping his sense of agency. 

I felt that the room, the house, the garden and the strip of road outside were as poisoning as ironspiked walls. I must get out and away from them. I must go down to the front and see my aunt and brother again… If I could do that, the rat that was gnawing me inside might stop. It seemed the only possible thing to do.

Could I still walk the exact route that Denton took 85 years earlier? It seemed doubtful. So many towns have been reshaped in the name of development. But there was no harm in trying.

In AVTAC, Denton puts on his gloves and coat, grabs just one stick, and calls to Matron that he’s going out to practice walking. 

There was a bridge over the railway station outside the nursing home. I crossed it now and looked down into the deep cutting. Far below me the steel rails, like never-ending stilettos, seemed to pierce into the grey, veined, bulging heart of the future. They were for me a symbol of sharp tingling excitement, everlasting inquisitiveness and fierceness.

The bridge is indeed right outside Southcourt, a matter of a few moments’ stroll. I was surprised that JMC described it as being several hundred yards away in his biography. 

Across the bridge, the road curves around to the left, there’s a new-ish development to the right, and straight ahead was a rough footpath. Could it be the one that Denton describes?

I started to walk down the track which led to the front. On the left was a hedge, on the right a wooden fence and scattered houses with undeveloped gardens, and mournful strips of field still unbought.

Yes it could, and, to my amazement, yes it was. The track is still there. It’s clearly had a desultory application of tarmac at some point, but it’s very worn and it’s still very much a rough, uneven track. I shuddered to think how dangerous it would have been for Denton to shuffle along it had he been making his odyssey in the dark. It was a good five-minute walk to the end of the track for me – how much longer it must have been for poor Denton, every step a Herculean effort of will. The track is now hedged on both sides, with nowhere to rest.

About half way down I clutched the fence and leant against it. My body was crying out for stillness and relief, but my mind said contemptuously, ‘Go on! Get down! Don’t fall to pieces here!’

The track is long and straight, and for the first few minutes appears to stretch endlessly ahead. I completely understood this nightmarish scenario for a feverish, physically weakened young man.

I began to see my aunt’s house as a goal – a goal like the Cross in that child’s prayer book picture, where a woman with streaming hair is shown clinging to the base in utter exhaustion, while storm clouds part, the sun breaks through and one sees the terrible length of her pilgrimage.

…

When I came out onto the road behind the houses on the cliff, a tram was just passing…

No tram, but this is what Denton would have seen (minus the yellow car!) as he approached the end of the lane and emerged on the road.

It was another five-minute walk down the hill, past large, beautiful dwellings, some of which would have been there as Denton passed by. However, I doubt he stopped to notice them on this occasion.

… I was close to the house I had gazed at every day on my walks with Nurse Goff, and now I was through the gate with its rose arch…

Denton’s uncle and aunt, Sir Harry and Lady Fox, lived in a grand house called Corlismore, at 23 Western Esplanade. I’d had so much luck so far – everything was almost as it had been in 1935. Would my luck hold? Would Corlismore still stand?

Sadly, no. Apparently the only house of its contemporaries to have been demolished, it’s now a modern building of very expensive apartments.

I can’t think of anywhere more beautiful to live – perched on a clifftop overlooking the North Sea, although the sea view is now marred/enhanced (depending on your aesthetic) by the 100 turbines that comprise the Thanet Windfarm, seven miles offshore. The penthouse apartment is the most expensive property in Broadstairs, currently valued at £1.3m. I checked my purse – sadly, I was a bit short, so I walked on.

What a treat to have had the opportunity to walk once again in Denton’s shoes! I crossed the road to continue strolling along the blowy seafront, marvelling at his courage. My walk took place on a sunny, crisp spring afternoon. Denton trudged that mile, alone and on the verge of collapse, on a ‘grey and sullen’ November afternoon. It was a turning point in his recovery. Although it resulted in two weeks confined to his Southcourt bed, he now knew for certain that he could, and would, live an independent life again.

My next visit was to the church that Denton visited as his strength returned. More on that next time…