Finding My Way: Leaving Clare House

When I look back now, I realise I was not yet sixteen years old. I stayed with the family for another two years or so, remaining close at hand in case my mother or Phillip needed me. During that time, I completed a couple more seasons with Townsend Ferries.

At the start of my fourth season, I joined a ship sailing out of Newhaven, where I finally received an entry in my discharge book as an Assistant Steward. With that rating, I was now recognised as an adult seaman and could join any ship in that capacity.  But again in Dover in those early years the cross channel ferries ceased to operate in the winter months

Despite this progress, I began to feel increasingly frustrated. I seemed to be getting nowhere — no clear career path, no permanent employment, and little sense of moving forward. Meanwhile, Phillip, Tony, and Carol were growing up and becoming more independent, able to look after themselves.

With that realisation came another difficult truth: it was time for me to cut ties with Clare House. My respect for Eddie, once strong, was steadily diminishing, and each passing day made it clearer that I needed to move on and find my own direction.
Taggs Island
It was at the Casino Hotel on Taggs Island Hampton Court that I found employment as a commis barman. The hotel was said to have once been owned by Al Capone, the New York gangster, back in the 1920s. How true that was, I never knew, but looking at the place you could almost believe it — it certainly had the air of a hood’s enterprise. The hotel stood on a small island surrounded by houseboats, one of which became my accommodation while I worked there. It was November, and winter was beginning to bite. 
From the start, my weeks there felt strange. The hotel was eerily quiet; entire days passed when I barely saw another soul. 
Yet on Sundays, at lunchtime, everything changed. The bar would suddenly fill with locals, and the atmosphere came alive.

Many of these “locals” were well-known faces of the time — performers from the stage and screen. Members of the Crazy Gang, including Flanagan & Allen, would appear, along with Charlie Naughton and Jimmy Gold, and others whose names I recognised from posters and programmes. 
It felt surreal to see such personalities in what was otherwise such a silent, almost empty hotel.

One particular day, the barman who was meant to be training me gave me a job before heading off for his lunch break. I was to clean all the glassware behind the mirrored shelves — washing the glasses and wiping down the bottles as I went. He assured me no one would come into the bar, as the hotel was virtually empty.

I set to work and was just placing the last of the clean glasses back on the shelves when, to my surprise, two customers walked into the cocktail bar. They sat at the bar, discussing at length what they might like to drink. Eventually, they settled on two Brandy Alexanders — if memory serves, a mixture of brandy, crème de cacao, and cream.

Nervous but eager to impress, I put all the ingredients into the cocktail shaker with ice, silently hoping the barman would return and see what a good job I was doing. I picked up the shaker and gave it a confident shake — only to see the customers’ faces turn from horror to uncontrollable laughter. In my nerves, I had forgotten to put the lid on the shaker. The entire contents sprayed straight over my shoulder, covering the freshly cleaned glassware and shelves behind me.

It was not quite the impression I had hoped to make.

The Bull Hotel
I found myself at a crossroads. Hospitality had always appealed to me, so in July I contacted an agency and soon secured a position at the Bull Hotel. From the outset, I was welcomed warmly and began work as a waiter under the maître d’, Alan Baines.

Off duty, Alan’s strong Liverpool accent was unmistakable, but once on the restaurant floor his voice became refined and polished — you would never have guessed his origins. Cheerful and quick-witted, he took me under his wing and taught me the finer points of service: attention to detail, how to put guests at ease, and even the art of cooking at the table. Alan was a natural showman, and the gratuities we received were proof of that.

The Bull itself carried echoes of history. In the public bar, the ceiling still bore the signatures of fighter pilots from the war — a tangible reminder of the hotel’s past. Among the guests was Colonel Whintel, whose monocle and distinguished bearing made a lasting impression on me.

Life at the Bull was lively and full of character. The staff formed a close-knit group of barmen, housekeepers, kitchen staff, and the owners, Mr and Mrs Dixon. Stories circulated constantly, including whispered talk of another Mrs Dixon — the former wife of Mr Dixon — which added to the hotel’s quiet intrigue.

Soon after I arrived, renovations began. The restaurant was extended and a new timber bar was installed. With it came Sheila, a young Irish girl who joined Alan and me in the restaurant. We quickly formed a solid team, and most evenings the restaurant was busy and full of life. The new bar proved popular too, with background music from My Fair Lady, which had just opened in the West End.

Then, one Sunday morning, Alan disappeared — taking all the gratuities with him.

Sheila and I were stunned. In his absence, we naturally grew closer. We shared breaks and days off, taking rides through the countryside on her Lambretta. When the weather turned poor, we stayed indoors, talking for hours or listening to Radio Luxembourg, the best station around at the time.

Not all the lessons I learned at the Bull were pleasant. The cocktail barman, older and more worldly, once asked to try on my Italian-style pale blue suit. Naïve and trusting, I agreed. The next morning, he was gone — and so was my suit, never to be seen again. I was devastated.

Eventually, a new head waiter arrived. Joseph, a confident young Italian, restored order to the restaurant, though by then the fashion for tableside cooking was beginning to fade.

Sheila and I continued to grow closer. On our days off, we visited my mother in Dover or spent quiet time together at the hotel. Then one day, after I had been away for several days, I returned to learn that Joseph had taken advantage of Sheila during a quiet night.

We were both shocked and deeply upset. Together, we made the decision to leave the Bull Hotel.

Sheila’s father welcomed me warmly, offering help with our belongings and a place to stay once I was free of my duties. And so, we said our goodbyes, ready to begin a new chapter together.

My time at the Bull taught me far more than service skills. I learned how quickly people could let you down — Alan disappearing, the barman stealing my suit, Joseph betraying trust — but I also discovered friendship, companionship, and the quiet joy of sharing life with someone like Sheila.

Those months were a mixture of hard lessons and fond memories, a reminder that growing up often means facing disappointment and heartbreak, but also finding the courage to keep moving forward.