Everyone you meet is a gatekeeper in your life. Some are kindly and welcoming; some, pompous and off-putting. Most can be educational; a few can be lethal. Several of you asked me ‘who were your best gatekeepers?’ Approaching my 94th birthday I have had a few, for sure. As anyone would tell you, the biggest influences were my immediate family. I’m not going to include them in this series of short pieces. They know the profound impact they had and are still having. From parents to spouses to sibling to children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, any achievements I have been fortunate to claim are first and foremost theirs.
But a varied, sometimes bizarre, group of non-immediate-family people have made a big and lasting impact, too. Who they are, what they did and how vividly I remember them is a story of my character’s journey. If it helps you identify good gatekeepers in your life, you may acquire the blessing of a little self-awareness – the foundation of confidence, care and gratitude.
In the beginning was someone I never met, who was already dead when I first heard her name and who has, in a quite remarkable way, persisted in making me think about a wishful background to my formative years. Anne Galloway was the daughter of a naval captain and his wife. At eighteen – when I was only thirteen – a ruptured appendix killed her. She lies in a South facing grave in Eype churchyard, Dorset, England. I never saw a picture of her though people who had known her said she was pretty. The nearest I got was to hear the banging of her pony’s hooves on the cobbled floor of the stable compartment next to where I used to sit.
After Anne’s death her parents decided to sell the house and my father bought it. Her pony was dead, we found its grave in the orchard at Cliff Cottage. But the pony’s stamping continued until, some years later, my father had the stable taken down to build a house for my stepmother’s parents. Anne Galloway was the person who loved me neither for my advantages nor in spite of my failings. Her love was unspoken but it was also unconditional. That’s what made it unassailable, too. Not even my own death can take Anne Galloway away.
My next gatekeeper was Alf Tuck, a roof thatcher of some 45 or 50 years. When we bought Cliff Cottage it needed re-thatching. Mr Tuck was the man to do the job and for the next two or three months he spent his time aloft, where I often joined him. I learnt the rudiments of thatching but more importantly I was taught some of the fundamentals of life. For example, on one occasion when he had finished a small stretch of roofing we paused for a thermos of tea. Looking at his just completed work he seemed dissatisfied.
“I don’t think that’s quite right”, he said pointing to his last line of straw bundles. “Looks OK to me”, I said. “Yes”, he replied, “it does look good but I think it’s not absolutely straight”. “Well,” I continued, “nobody will know, anyway, will they?” “Yes, they will”, he said, “I will”. As he set about restructuring the bit of roof that had displeased him I reflected on a great lesson. We have the choice to satisfy others or to fulfil our own standards.
Everyone you meet is a gatekeeper. Every gatekeeper has a key to some lesson.
Bless all the gatekeepers.
Good morning
John Bittleston
Would love to hear about any of your gatekeepers at [email protected]
24 July 2026
