Well, readers, it turns out that going back to work after furlough made quite a dent in my Denton immersion. To rectify my neglect, I made another pilgrimage, this time to gaze at 34 Croom’s Hill. I wanted to see the first and last home where, for a regrettably short period, Denton lived a truly independent life. Fifteen minutes bus ride from Goldsmiths, Greenwich was handy for his student and social life. It was also within cycling distance of family. A Voice Through A Cloud begins:
“One Whitsun holiday, when I was an art student in London, I got on my bicycle and left my room on Croom’s Hill for my uncle’s vicarage in Surrey.”
I was particularly keen to see if Croom’s Hill had changed beyond recognition since the 1930’s (Denton lived there between 1933 and 1935). The houses that Denton knew in Tonbridge have barely changed since he lived there, so it seemed too much to hope that the same could be said of his other residences. Certainly, the house near Manchester Square where Denton initially lodged with Bill to attend Goldsmiths was demolished long ago.
My pilgrimage took place on a hot September Sunday, the day before new rules forbidding gatherings of more than six people came into force in England. I jumped onto a busy-ish DLR at Bank, noticing uneasily how many fellow passengers were talking about getting off at the Cutty Sark. It was my destination too, and with every stop more families squeezed prams into the vestibules. Sure enough, when I emerged from the DLR station, it was like Oxford Street the Saturday before Christmas, the Christmas before COVID. It was months since I’d seen so many people together in one place.
I headed south, navigating as best I could along Greenwich Church Street, noting grumpily that the tourist zombies populating London before COVID remained alive and well. Indeed, they seemed to delight in the renewed opportunity to shuffle slowly along the width of the pavement in trios and quartets, determinedly oblivious to pedestrians who prefer to move slightly faster than snail’s pace. But I digress.
Turning left into Stockwell Street, I escaped the zombies and headed towards Croom’s Hill. The first building on Croom’s Hill is Ye Olde Rose and Crown pub, rebuilt in 1888. It’s presented to look and feel as though it hasn’t changed for generations. I reasoned that Denton would certainly recognise the building, if not the carefully curated contemporary impression of being frozen in the Victorian era. A little research showed that Ye Olde Rose and Crown has a long history of serving the gay community, and a petition was mounted in 2016 to remove a new manager who was decidedly not an ally. I wondered if it has served the gay community since the 1930’s, but I don’t remember Denton mentioning it in his writing.
Walking up Croom’s Hill, I became more and more confident, more and more excited that little has changed since Denton lived here. Greenwich Park runs along the left hand side of the road, and on the right is a succession of lovely old houses, their front doors opening almost directly onto the street. I marvelled at Denton describing Croom’s Hill houses as “charming rather squalid old houses” – I’d happily live in any of them!
34 Croom’s Hill is a beautiful house. A quick peep revealed that the back garden can be seen from the front window, but I respected the owner’s privacy and refrained from pressing my face to the railings for a proper stare! I recognised the house immediately from Denton’s description of his bedroom window:
“The only window, which looked out on to the park, was charming. It was really a triptych – the largest light with semi-circular head in the middle flanked on each side by little slits only three panes high and one across. Miss Middlesborough, who owned the house, said that the little slits had been blocked up when she bought the house; they had only been discovered when her architect brother went round methodically, knocking all the walls with his stick. He heard the hollow sound, tore away the wallpaper and the canvas on which it was stretched, and there were the little openings stuffed with old rubbish and newspaper but still complete with their thick wooden sash frames and old glass. Outside the house the stucco covering had to be taken away; then the old curved glass let through the light again, after perhaps a hundred years.”
I enjoyed the goosebumps of seeing Denton’s home exactly as he would have seen it, then headed into Greenwich Park to find my way home. I wondered how I could amend the title of “The Youth Rang The Bell” to reflect how I had walked in Denton’s footsteps. I particularly struggled with a replacement for “youth”. I’m no longer a youth, and there are few positive words to describe non-youth. Having consulted Google for synonyms, I settled on “The Doyenne Took The Pictures And Peeped Furtively Through The Window”. Mic drop.
Until next time, my friends.