Number 18 (Chapter Three)

From Art Deco updates to blackouts and bomb-blast repairs, Number 18 endures through four further decades of conflict and change

New to the story? Check out **Chapter One here**

Illustration generated by Google Gemini

By the dawn of this new decade, James had reached the prestigious level of Partner at the bank, a promotion that elevated the family into the ranks of the truly wealthy. Up to this point, holidays had been limited to a seasonal rental of a house facing the sea in Broadstairs on the Kent coast. In 1922, Edith inherited her parents’ summer house in Eastbourne following their untimely deaths, and the house would become their second home, with plans to eventually retire there over the course of the next decade. With Robbie safely at Harrow, number 18 grew much quieter, allowing James and Edith to fully enjoy the freedoms of adult life. While they cherished their many visits to Eastbourne, the decade also saw them venturing further afield: the sun-drenched French Riviera, the classical vistas of Rome, and the crisp, invigorating air of the Swiss Alps, were the highlights of many foreign ventures to the Continent.

The domestic staff that had once kept number 18 running smoothly was no longer easy to secure. Young women, having tasted independence during the war, were unwilling to return to the long hours and rigid hierarchies of traditional service. The Mills turned to technology to fill the gaps. Electric appliances such as the vacuum cleaner and iron, both brought a new comfortable and easier flow to household management. The daily charwoman still visited, but much of the physical labour that had once defined life in a suburban house was now handled by machines.

The house itself evolved with the times. Electric sockets were installed in the skirting boards for the first time, worn Edwardian carpets were replaced with fresh, plush textiles, and scullery and rear rooms fitted with gas heating. The 1920s also brought a “plumbing revolution” that finally ended the Edwardian era of heavy labour: a hot-water cylinder in the new airing cupboard replaced the old on-demand gas heater, allowing hot water to be piped directly to taps, sparing the family, and their daily helper, the drudgery of hauling kettles upstairs for baths. This upgrade coincided with the retirement of the old Edwardian gas cooker, replaced by a sleek new stove. The change was transformative. Cooking became even more efficient and, crucially, also kept the scullery which they now referred to as the kitchen cool during the summer months.

A wireless set now occupied a place of pride in the reception room, its glowing valves and crackling speakers connecting the suburban sanctuary to the wider world of news and music. For James, however, the modern age didn’t excuse the old responsibilities of homeownership. He remained fastidious about routine maintenance; the roof was inspected annually, and the gutters were kept clear of autumn debris. A stroll around the neighbourhood revealed the stark difference his diligence made, as many neighbouring houses began to show the tell-tale signs of neglect such as clogged downpipes, slipped slates, together with peeling paintwork, that number 18, under James’s watchful eye, completely avoided.

Thus 18, while retaining its solidity and tradition, had become a thoroughly modern home. A blend of comfort, efficiency, and the quiet luxury that James and Edith had worked to secure. By the mid-1920s, the house had shed the last vestiges of the Victorian era, fully embracing the Electric Age, humming with the confidence of a family at the height of its influence.

Young Robbie began the decade as a thirteen-year-old boy entering the venerable halls of learning at Harrow. He ended it as a young man, graduating from the equally august courts of Cambridge with a First in History. The degree carried him naturally into the Foreign Office, where he joined as a Third Secretary, working from offices in central London at the probationary end of the diplomatic service.

While the 1929 financial crash would proceed to devastate Britain’s industrial North, London and the Southeast were cushioned by benefiting from both a diversified economy and a suburban housing boom. For the Mills, the Great Depression, as it came to be known, was little more than a headline in the morning paper. James, now a senior Partner with over thirty years at the bank, navigated the subsequent 1931 banking crisis with professional composure, supported by the Bank of England’s stabilisation efforts. The family’s world remained one of steadiness and prosperity, their Partner-level lifestyle largely untouched while much of the country struggled. James had planned to retire on his sixty-fifth birthday in 1935, but the Bank’s Chairman and Board asked him to stay on a little longer. Enjoying his work as he always had, James was more than happy to accommodate their request.

In the 1930s, Edith Mills personified the sophisticated, modern matriarch of the London suburbs. Her life was a graceful balance of domestic oversight and social mobility. As the wife of a senior banking Partner, her calendar was marked by bridge afternoons, charitable committees, and the meticulous planning of their continental holidays. Even as the newspapers grew darker with talk of European unrest, Edith maintained the house as a sanctuary of unshakable middle-class confidence, ensuring that the silver was polished and the wireless was tuned to the BBC, projecting an air of calm elegance against the backdrop of a changing world.

Over the course of the 1930s, the house was steadily updated in line with interwar tastes. In the front parlour, a room which the Mills now referred to as ‘the lounge’ the original fireplace was replaced with a fashionable Art Deco tiled surround, while brass light switches gave way to black Bakelite fittings and additional electrical sockets were installed as reliance on powered appliances grew. Practical improvements followed, including the introduction of hot-water radiators in the main reception rooms and the installation of steel-framed Crittall-style windows to the rear, bringing increased light to the kitchen and back rooms. The kitchen was upgraded with new cupboards and work surfaces to accommodate the modern appliances, and lighter decorative schemes were adopted throughout. External brickwork and painted woodwork were also repaired and refreshed, completing a quiet but decisive continued modernisation of the house.

James ran a hand over the smooth Bakelite switch on the lounge wall. ‘These fittings are far more sensible than that old brass,’ he noted with a satisfying click. ‘And look at that radiator! Never a cold morning for us again.’

Edith stood in the room, admiring the new Art Deco fireplace. The elaborate Victorian surround was gone, replaced by a sleek, tiered design of pale ochre tiles. ‘It feels so much lighter,’ she said. ‘Brighter and fresher.’

Robbie entered, leaning against the doorway with a grin. At twenty-four, he seemed more a product of the house’s new era than its old one. ‘And finally, a kitchen that doesn’t feel like a medieval torture chamber,’ he said. ‘These cupboards and surfaces actually make cooking… almost enjoyable. Mother, you’ll have to forgive me, but I might even help with dinner now.’

Edith ran a hand over the smooth kitchen surfaces. ‘It’s certainly easier to keep clean. But I do wonder if the house misses its old character.’

Robbie shook his head. ‘As we all get older, the house seems to be going the other way, it’s getting younger all the time. And with these extra sockets, I might finally convince you both to let me bring the wireless set into the lounge.’

Retiring eventually in 1938 after over 40 years at the bank, James secured a substantial settlement through a payout representing his share in the business, ongoing dividends, and a modest annuity. This financial stability allowed the Mills to maintain their comfortable lifestyle between London and Eastbourne without compromise.

The War, however, was to change everything.

Aged thirty-two in 1939, Robbie enlisted early and was soon seconded to intelligence work in London. Leveraging his diplomatic background, he served in a strategic desk role rather than in active combat. A single man, he had continued to live in the house he was born and grew up in, his parents dividing their time between London and now increasingly, Eastbourne.

In the London suburbs, the initial terror that had followed the declaration of war in early September 1939 had, by the spring of 1940, given way to a mood of frustrated boredom. Gas masks were carried almost like fashion accessories, and the blackout came to feel less like a life-saving precaution than a nightly irritation. This strange interlude soon acquired its own name. The “phoney war”.

For the Mills, the dilemma was exhausting. Air-raid sirens sounded with weary regularity, yet the skies remained quiet. The war felt close enough to provoke anxiety and trepidation, the newspapers filled daily with alarming headlines that did little to ease the mood, but distant enough to sustain the hope that it might all be over by Christmas, as so many had confidently expected in 1914. But Christmas, and then the New Year, passed. First the first time in living memory, there was little celebration towards a new decade.

Eastbourne, by contrast, James and Edith decided, was the more attractive option and by late February of 1940 they left London. Fresh sea air instead of the regular London smog, and each day ended without the nightly ritual of having to draw blackout curtains. The town admittedly was much busier than usual, its promenades and beaches alive and noisy with evacuee children. For a time any idea of invasion seemed very remote, even faintly absurd. Choosing the coast for them was a pragmatic response to what was then known, a belief that the war would be fought in the air or on the continent, certainly not on the beaches of Sussex. The Mills imagined seaside walks and quiet evenings, unaware that the calm waters before them were about to become the most dangerous frontier in Europe.

They did go back to London and number 18, that May, but only the once and just for a few days. For a couple in their sixties, the journey had become a gruelling test of endurance; the normal ninety-minute commute had dissolved into a four-hour ordeal of stifling, crowded carriages and unexplained halts in the sweltering heat. While they were of course more than happy to see Robbie again, theirs was an immense feeling of relief as they stepped off the platform back in Eastbourne.

The Dunkirk evacuation of over 300,000 Allied soldiers took place at the end of that month. In the weeks that followed, German forces had secured the Normandy coast, occupied the Channel Islands, and even Hitler himself was able to visit Paris. As James and Edith looked out from their summer house, the horizon had changed and had changed remarkably quickly. The “Phoney War” was over. The peaceful seaside routine they had cherished was replaced by a coastline now transformed from a holiday haven into a line of national defence.

The smooth sands that had once echoed with children’s laughter and the clatter of deck chairs were now interrupted by rows of barbed wire, concrete blocks, and wooden scaffolding, all installed to stop tanks and deter landing craft. Anti-tank ditches cut across the promenade at intervals, while pillboxes, small reinforced concrete bunkers, peered toward the Channel, their gun slits trained on the horizon. Local volunteers and the Home Guard patrolled the beach, rifles at the ready, while warning signs kept civilians back from defensive positions. At night, floodlights swept the water and sand, illuminating anything that moved, and the sea wall was lined with sandbags and wire to resist a landing. What had once been a tranquil coastline now felt like the front line of Europe, where every wave and stretch of sand was watched for signs of an enemy crossing.

As for Robbie, back in London, his work increasingly required discretion and flexibility. On occasion he stayed overnight in officially provided accommodation attached to the Foreign Office, as he could be summoned back to his desk at short notice. It was during one of these nights in mid-September that the reality of the war finally punctured the privacy of his own life.

Arriving back at number 18 the following morning, he found the road transformed. A cordon of heavy rope blocked his path, manned by a weary Air Raid Warden whose blue overalls were coated in a fine layer of pulverised brick. Ten houses down from number 18, there had been a direct hit. Four homes were completely destroyed, and many lives had been lost. Number 18 survived, but not unscathed: roof slates had been dislodged, leaving some of the rafters exposed to the soot-stained sky, but the worse damage was to the front. The blast had sucked the ornate front bay window clean out of its frame.

He telegraphed his father that afternoon.

TO: JAMES MILLS, EASTBOURNE. STREET HIT STOP NUMBER 18 SUSTAINED DAMAGE TO ROOF AND FRONT WINDOW STOP ALL WELL HERE STOP AM ARRANGING TEMPORARY RE-GLAZING AND SLATE REPAIR STOP DO NOT RETURN TO LONDON STOP STAY SAFE STOP LOVE ROBBIE.

Temporary repairs were made swiftly. Carpenters fitted rough boarding in place of the broken window panes as glass was not only scarce but now seen as dangerous. The plywood boards were painted black to assist with blackout requirements. Bitumen felt was nailed over the shifted roof slates to keep the elements out and the chimneys were braced to prevent any collapse.

Worse though, so much worse, was yet to come. Just three weeks later, in Eastbourne, the war finally arrived at the Mills’ doorstep. On the afternoon of 2 October 1940, a lone German aircraft, returning from a mission over England, appeared briefly over the town. Carrying unused bombs and eager to shed weight before the long flight back across the Channel, the pilot released his final load and turned for the continent.

For towns like Eastbourne, the sound of sirens had become routine. The town had been designated a safe zone, a reception area that provided refuge for children and the elderly, safely distant from the factories, docks, rail yards, and cities that the Luftwaffe normally targeted. For many of the town’s residents, the sirens were little more than an irritation.

That October afternoon seemed to confirm the illusion. Eastbourne looked exactly as it was supposed to: peaceful, domestic, untouched. James was adjusting a deck chair while Edith was carrying a tray of tea to the garden, as the siren began its familiar rise-and-fall wail, but it barely drew their attention.

Then in an instant, the sound changed.

This was no distant drone of bombers bound for London, Birmingham, or Coventry. It was a single aircraft, and it was flying low, dropping its final load before heading off over the sea. In that terrifying moment, for James and Edith, the war ceased to be something happening elsewhere. It was directly overhead.

There was no warning whistle. No time to react. Just a sudden, violent rupture of the afternoon as the bomb struck the house. The garden and its furniture were swallowed in a searing flash. The salt air was replaced by choking heat and force, the peaceful order obliterated in an instant. Tranquillity and the illusion of safety had dissolved together.

Robbie received the telegram two days later. It was brutally brief: “REGRET TO INFORM YOU HOME STRUCK BY BOMB OCTOBER 2 STOP BOTH PARENTS KILLED INSTANTLY STOP CONTACT EASTBOURNE POLICE STOP.”

At first, he couldn’t comprehend what he was reading. The words hung in the air, absurd and detached from reality. He continued to hold the piece of paper in his trembling hands, staring at it as if the words might change before his eyes.

The shock and intense grief hit like a physical blow. For hours, he could do nothing but sit in stunned silence, the steady noise of wartime London outside a cruel reminder that life moved on, indifferent to his loss. Days passed in a blur of disbelief; he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t bring himself to speak to anyone. A sickening sense of irony gnawed at him. He had spent his days analysing the “big picture” of the war, yet he had failed to see the small, lethal shadow falling over a single house in Eastbourne.

But the war would not wait for grief to pass. Each day, he carried his sorrow like a stone in his pocket, heavy, but manageable. Necessity made him cautious and resourceful, the experience steeling him against the chaos. Like the thousands of others living through those London years, he endured the bombings, the shortages, and the constant uncertainty, finding a way to persist even as the world unravelled around him.

Despite the quick temporary fixes to number 18 as a result of the damage caused in September, getting the house fully restored turned out to be a very slow and drawn-out process. There were severe shortages of glass, tiles, and timber, and skilled builders were in short supply, often tied up with essential war work. After applying to the local war damage authority and having his home assessed, Robbie had to wait for official permits, allocation of scarce materials, and the scheduling of workers. Bureaucratic delays and the prioritisation of more heavily damaged or strategically important properties meant that permanent repairs to residential homes trickled forward only gradually. By the time the windows were replaced, the roof fully secured, and all structural work completed, nearly a year had passed since the initial damage, leaving Robbie reliant on his patched-up boarding and felt roof for many long months, each day a quiet reminder of what he had lost and the grief that lingered alongside the physical damage.

As with all sudden grief, it was gradually worked through and replaced by fond memories of those lost; life moved on. For Robbie, meeting Karen Renshaw, a secretary within his department, became first a source of comfort and friendship, which eventually grew into deep love and affection. She was practical, warm, and unflappable, and she made him laugh, something he realised he hadn’t truly done for so long that he could barely remember when. They were married in 1949, as yet a new decade dawned. One this time tinged with cautious hope, and a sharp contrast to the dark moods, fear, and uncertainty of 1939.

… To Be Continued

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