Dartford revisited

The house in Dartford, Kent, where we moved when I was six or seven has seen four generations of our family. My grandfather, William Brise, was a self-made builder, known as “The Guv’nor”, who did well out of suburban ribbon developments. By the 1930s, he had bought Heathside.

It’s a striking house, which must be Edwardian in its origins, but has more of a Los Angeles style: white, with a green-tiled roof, two semi-bays and arrow-slit windows. It had five bedrooms, three reception rooms and a big open hall with a parquet floor. At the back, my grandfather added a huge semicircular balcony, which, when we were older, we would use to climb in and out of the house.

My father, whose family lived in India, came over as a poor student in the late 1930s and met my mum at the local amateur-dramatic society. They sang in Pirates of Pen-zance and, after a triumphant first night, she invited him home. My mum ran her own beauty salon and drove an MG. He was enchanted by the house and her family. When he was cut off, without any money, they paid for him to complete his dentistry studies. In the 1950s, my grandparents emigrated to Canada and we inherited the house. But my grandmother hated being away from the family, so they came back after 18 months and moved in.

It was an idyllic spot for children to grow up, much better than the three-bedroom flat in Swanley where we were living before. The house was on the edge of heathland and had a large garden that backed onto quarry pits. On the heath were lots of places to make camps. There was one particular set of elm trees that we christened the Treetop Highway. You’d climb up, then you could go from one tree to the next, like a squirrel. I still like to climb trees, but have to stop myself; it is not quite so dignified at my age.

Dartford felt very provincial then. We ate out of the garden most of the time: we had fruit trees, a soft-fruit patch and a vegetable patch. My job was mixing up the mash for the chickens. Later, I was given my own piglet. My grandmother had grown up on a small-holding, so I’d often watch her twirl a chicken round and wring its neck. Even though you loved the animals, you knew they’d be going off to market. My pet pig had several litters, then she went off too. It’s just how things were.

There were lots of outbuildings: a billiards room, greenhouses, a garage and workshop. We also had an air-raid shelter built under a mound, which we called the Do Drop In. It was used as an apple store, so it smelt delicious. We were forever forming secret societies. Taught by my brother, Clive, who is five years older, we used to prick a finger and sign our name in blood. If one of the pig sties was empty, we would make it into a club house. We also made up plays, and charged the family a penny to watch.

I ended up sharing a marvellous room with my sister, Julie. It led out through french windows onto the balcony. Growing up one side of the balcony was a wisteria on a sturdy trellis; at the other end was a fig tree as tall as the house. When we were out and about during the day, we rarely used the front door – we’d go up the trellis and down the fig tree, or vice versa.

I saw a picture of myself recently. I must have been about 14. I’m wearing a dark-green Fred Perry shirt and a narrow Black Watch tartan kilt. I’d chopped all my hair off, to my father’s horror, in a gamine razor cut. I was trying terribly hard to be cool and Left Banky. By then, I’d discovered the theatre, mainly because I had a good teacher. My parents were also quite active in the local amateur theatre, so I got roped in. I did The Boy Friend, then Juliet and Viola. My dad was also involved in starting a cinema club, so I saw a lot of French new-wave films early on.

Every so often, my parents attempted to modernise the house – we had jazzy 1950s wallpaper – but they were more interested in going out. One of my mother’s brothers, John Brise, was a racing driver, so we spent a lot of weekends at Brands Hatch, down in the pit with the mechanics. It was incredibly glamorous. He was my favourite uncle: dashing, handsome and good fun.

Clive had a skiffle band and used to have parties at home. I was allowed to stay up and be a dancing partner, and – being light as well as fearless – I used to be chucked over shoulders and pulled through legs. Clive and I were quite similar, we were both keen to spread our wings. I became aware, in my teens, that it was a small world I inhabited. I wanted a bigger playground.

I remember the beginning of pop music. I saw Cliff Richard, Billy Fury and Adam Faith at the local cinema. I also joined the National Youth Theatre, where I met Kenneth Cranham, the actor, who I later married. At that time, he invited some of us to his house to listen to an album by Bob Dylan. I thought he was great.

When I was at Oxford University, my father died and the house was divided in two. My mum kept a granny flat and Julie moved in with her family. There are still big family parties at the house – it’s nice to see that tradition continued.

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