Paul’s Contribution (On Chailey) And now a school, closer to home, but still as far away as the moon to an eleven year old. Chailey Heritage was set up with the best of intentions by the kindliest of philanthropic women, Grace (later Dame Grace) Kimmins, for “crippled” children for whom education was then non-existent. It aimed to teach crafts to these boys, to ensure their independence in later life. This was an enormous benefit to the boys who were educated there, but we might wonder, why crafts? Why not law, or medicine? But then there’s that word – crippled – which signifies the attitude of the time – a broken body leading to the assumption of a damaged mind. Using mostly comics, Dad taught himself to read. This was a skill that some, close in age to him back home, never fully mastered – though the well-loved person I’m thinking of was remarkable in his own way. The regime at the school was harsh by the standards of today. Those four times daily walks. Being left where you fell, with the admonition to get up by yourself. “Nobody here will help you, but we won’t steal your wallet while your down there, like they will if you fall down outside and don’t get up sharpish.” The way that Chailey turned boys into men has been described by others writing of their experiences in those days as “military style”. Dad put it another way – “you either did what you were told, or you did the telling.” He was fortunate in many respects that despite his injuries he was strong – many of the other boys had polio, which left them weak or wasted. Dad once said to me “no-one told me what to do” and let me infer the rest. One of his schoolmates was the 80’s musician Ian Dury, himself a polio sufferer, who wrote of his hatred of Chailey, while admitting that “it was where I learned to manipulate people”. He and Dad didn’t get on, and I am fairly certain that there’s an oblique reference to Dad in the song Dury wrote about Chailey called “Hey, hey, take me away”. On the other side of the coin, there was a young lad called Michael, also ravaged by polio, who was dreadfully bullied until Dad took him under his wing and put a stop to it in no uncertain terms. Michael’s parents always seemed to treat Dad as some kind of god – staying in warm and loving contact for years after their Michael had passed away as a young man - and indeed, if his protection had saved their boy from hurt, then maybe it seemed like divine intervention to them. Whatever happened at Chailey, Dad had a great deal of affection for the place. He was a member of their ‘old boys’ association. He’d often go back to look at his old dormitories, next to a windmill which had been his scout hut. Those dormitories are gentrified apartments now, and I remember the mischievous grin on Dad’s face when he came back after one visit and told me of an officious lady who objected to his presence, telling him ‘this is private property, we live here’, and pointing at one of the buildings. He’d smiled at her and said ‘yes, I know, I was just coming back to look at the place. You live in our old toilet block...’. In one of life’s funny coincidences, I now live about ten miles from Chailey.