Tom Perring (Thomas Henry Hearder Perring). Artist – 28th May 1881 – 13th Nov 1917 . Theatrical Career & WWI Service .  He established a successful career as a professional scenic artist, painting large-scale theatrical backdrops and stage designs during a golden age of regional British theatre. His wife pursued a career alongside him as a local stage actress. Following the outbreak of the Great War, he left The Elizabethan House to serve his country in World War I, tragically becoming part of a lost generation of master craftsmen who never returned home.

Tom’s father was a Clerk to the Courts in Totnes, and he was expected to become a solicitor in the family tradition . However, he fell in love with the Theatre. (Music Hall and Variety was enormously popular at that time) , and so bravely he chose an artistic path. 

As a young man he studied under the extended Opie artistic family workshop which remained active in Plymouth long after the elder masters passed away. It is significant that Edward Andrew Opie 1880 – 1879 worked alongside his Father the West country Master (1810–1894) prior to emigrating to Australia . The family played a major roll in scenic and theatrical design mastery and the theatre boom of the time. 

Tom fell in love, married and had a family of five children with stage actress Henrietta Vida Allen (Hetty) in 1906 .

Tom entered fully into Theatre life doing a bit of everything including acting, because his son Coyte could remember him walking the floor boards at home trying to remember his lines , but creatively his passion was painting and scenic backdrops. 

During this time the Theatre , the acts changed frequently and any scenery was often over painted or destroyed. It was at home with his family and children around him that Tom painted at an easel when they weren’t travelling with other actors, moving around the country working in different theatres. 

It was during the war that the family were living in Plymouth in a shared property, what is now the Museum , The Elizabethan House on the Barbican. It is here my Grandmother tells her story , of her childhood memories , written after we visited the house together one summer . Her article was published in the Plymouth Herald before she passed away in 1999.

This is an old photo of The Palace Theatre Plymouth built in 1898 by the architects Wimperis and Arber as a music hall and theatre, it also formed part of a development which included the Grand Western Hotel. Image Plymouth Live .

Memories of days when Elizabethan House was my home. By Kathleen Courtenay Morris (nee Perring).

The front entrance to the house with the same three stone steps. Some months ago, one summer afternoon I stood in the cobbled street of Plymouth staring up at Elizabethan House, in New Street. 

This was my first visit since 1916 and I wanted to savour the moment before entering, knowing the memories it held for me. A plaque, fixed to an outside beam, informed me that the old house was open to visitors at various times and that it had been restored by public subscription through The Old Plymouth Society. 

The oak door was wide open and I could see that the passage-way ran the length of the house into the garden, where, as I found later and as I remembered, the sturdy fig tree still thrived. Three old stone steps led me into the house and I was standing at the first door on my right which was open. 

I gazed about the room. This was where, as a small child I had watched my gentle father setting up his easel and trying to construct his paintings in spite of his four noisy children playing around him. 

A desk near the mullioned window was spread with small books, mementoes, leaflets, etc, a condensed history of the house, offered for sale. A girl attendant holding pamphlets, came forward and as I took one I said: “I used to live here.” She stared at me indifferently then turned away without answering. I had obviously been dismissed as a senile OAP. 

The Elizabethan House. Photograph thanks to James Mackintosh Architects.

Another memory I have is of being held in my mother’s arms and a bleeding tooth being pointed out to a neighbour. I had fallen and broken it on an enamel dish but my tears were really for having to wear a hated floppy-brimmed panama hat. This particular neighbour had always held a certain fascination for me on account of the little tied lumps dotted around the border of her apron. It was some time before I learnt that those knobbly lumps held coins, her wealth, most likely her entire wealth. Another time I see myself with my brother near the docks. I am walking carefully, carrying a jug of milk. There is a sudden “plop” in the jug… some prankster has aimed a rotten egg in our direction which spelt ruin for the milk and explanations to a doubting mother. 

.