The Cutteslowe Chronicles: Bricks, War, and the Battle for Equality
In 1934, a wall divided Cutteslowe, separating council houses from private homes. Through war and peace, the community fought against this symbol of inequality. Their 25-year struggle reflects Britain’s journey towards social progress and the power of unity.
As I stepped out of our modest council house on Wolsey Road that crisp autumn morning in 1934, I couldn’t have imagined the impact a simple brick structure would have on our lives for the next quarter-century. The air was thick with tension as workmen began laying the foundation for what would become known as the Cutteslowe Walls, a physical barrier that would divide our community and spark a battle that would outlast even the impending world war.
I was just eight years old then, and the concept of social segregation was as foreign to me as the looming threat of conflict in Europe. My world revolved around hopscotch on the pavement, the smell of my mother’s Sunday roast, and the camaraderie of the other children on our estate. But as the wall began to take shape, brick by unyielding brick, I sensed a shift in the atmosphere that even my young mind couldn’t ignore.
The adults spoke in hushed tones, their faces etched with a mixture of disbelief and indignation. “It’s not right,” I overheard my father muttering to our neighbour, Mr. Thompson. “We fought in the Great War together, and now they’re treating us like second-class citizens.”
As the wall rose higher, so did the voices of protest. Our side of Wolsey Road buzzed with a newfound solidarity, neighbours who had once merely nodded in passing now gathered in impromptu meetings on front steps and in back gardens. I watched as my mother, usually reserved and focused on her domestic duties, became a vocal participant in these discussions.
The wall, when completed, stood an imposing 7 feet tall, its grey facade a stark contrast to the red-brick houses it bisected. Two barriers were erected, one across Wolsey Road and another across Carlton Road, effectively sealing off our council estate from the adjacent private development. The message was clear: we were not welcome to mingle with our more affluent neighbours.
As the 1930s wore on, the wall became a symbol of the deep-seated class divisions that plagued British society. For us children, it was a source of both fascination and frustration. We would often gather at its base, peering through the gaps between the iron railings that topped it, catching glimpses of a world that seemed both tantalisingly close and impossibly distant.
The outbreak of World War II in 1939 brought a new perspective to our community’s struggle. As air raid sirens wailed and we huddled in makeshift shelters, the absurdity of the wall became even more apparent. Bombs didn’t discriminate between council houses and private residences, and neither did the shared experience of rationing and blackouts.
I remember the night of the first air raid vividly. The sound of distant explosions mixed with the drone of enemy aircraft overhead, and for a moment, the wall seemed inconsequential in the face of such immediate danger. Yet, even as we emerged from our shelters, blinking in the grey dawn light, the wall stood as a reminder that some divisions ran deeper than the common threat we all faced.
As young men from both sides of the wall were called up to serve, including my older brother Tom, a grudging respect began to develop between the communities. Mrs. Hargreaves, whose son had been among the first to enlist, organised a knitting circle that spanned both sides of the divide. Women would pass balls of wool over the top of the wall, a small act of defiance against the enforced separation.
The war years brought their own set of challenges, but they also fostered a sense of unity that transcended the physical barrier. We learned to grow vegetables in every available patch of land, sharing seeds and advice across the wall. The ‘Dig for Victory’ campaign saw both council tenants and private homeowners turning their gardens into productive allotments.
As rationing tightened its grip, an informal bartering system developed. Mr. Simmons, who lived on the private side and kept chickens, would exchange eggs for the surplus vegetables grown by families on our side. These transactions often took place at dusk, with goods passed discreetly through gaps in the wall’s railings.
Despite the shared hardships, the wall remained a contentious issue. In 1943, amidst the backdrop of war, our local council made its first attempt to have the wall removed. The motion was defeated, but it sparked a renewed determination among those who saw the barrier as an affront to the principles of equality for which the nation was ostensibly fighting.
As the war drew to a close in 1945, there was a palpable sense of hope that the post-war era would bring about change. The election of a Labour government seemed to promise a new social order, one in which walls like ours would have no place. Yet, as the years passed and the wall remained standing, that hope began to fade.
The 1950s brought new challenges and opportunities. The Festival of Britain in 1951 celebrated the nation’s recovery and looked towards a brighter future, but for us on Wolsey Road, the wall cast a long shadow over such optimism. Still, life went on. Families grew, children who had known nothing but the wall’s presence came of age, and the community adapted to its imposed boundaries.
I was in my late twenties by then, working at the local factory and courting Mary, a girl from two streets over. We would often walk along the wall, dreaming of a future where such barriers didn’t exist. “One day,” I’d tell her, “we’ll walk straight through where that wall stands, and no one will think twice about it.”
The fight against the wall took on new forms as the decade progressed. Local newspapers began to take an interest, publishing articles that exposed the injustice of the situation to a wider audience. Pressure mounted on both the local council and the Urban District Council to take action.
In 1955, a glimmer of hope appeared when it was discovered that the walls had been built without proper authorisation. This legal technicality reignited the campaign for their removal. Meetings were held, petitions were signed, and letters were written to MPs and government officials.
The breakthrough came in 1958 when the Minister of Housing and Local Government, Henry Brooke, visited Cutteslowe. Standing before the wall, he declared it “monstrous” and pledged to see it removed. His words galvanised the community, and for the first time in decades, there was a real sense that change was imminent.
The final act in the wall’s long and controversial history came in March 1959. As the demolition crews arrived, a crowd gathered to witness the event. There was an air of disbelief mixed with jubilation as the first bricks were removed. I stood there, Mary’s hand in mine, watching as the barrier that had defined our lives for so long crumbled before our eyes.
As the dust settled and the last remnants of the wall were carted away, there was a moment of silence. Then, almost spontaneously, people from both sides began to cross the newly opened street. Handshakes were exchanged, tentative at first, then warm and genuine. Children darted back and forth, revelling in their newfound freedom of movement.
In the days that followed, there were street parties and celebrations. The invisible line where the wall had stood gradually faded, both physically and in our minds. Yet, the memory of those 25 years lingered, a reminder of a divided past and a cautionary tale for the future.
Looking back now, I realise that the Cutteslowe Walls were more than just a physical barrier. They were a testament to the resilience of community spirit, the power of perseverance, and the slow but inexorable march towards social progress. The lessons learned in those years between 1934 and 1959 shaped not only our neighbourhood but contributed to the broader narrative of post-war Britain’s social evolution.
As I walk down Wolsey Road today, the absence of the wall is still palpable. In its place stands a shared history, a story of division overcome and unity hard-won. It serves as a reminder that while barriers may be built in a day, true integration and understanding take time, effort, and the collective will of a community determined to forge a better future for all its members.
Bob Lynn / 01-Oct-2024
