Red Lion Cottages with Henry

Red Lion Cottage and New Beginnings

I arrived at Red Lion Cottage after tendering my resignation at the Bull Hotel. The cottages, just outside Slough in the quaint village of Stoke Green, formed a charming row of eight detached homes, each with long, manicured gardens. Sheila’s father, Henry Kelly, lived at number six — a cottage with a lawn so perfectly level it looked like a bowling green.

Henry worked as a gardener on the nearby Sir Howard Vyse Estate, tending its oak trees, sycamores, and abundant vegetable gardens. Many of the other residents in the row were also estate employees, giving the cottages a strong sense of community.

Inside, the homes were modern and inviting. Each had a kitchen, living room, upstairs bathroom, and two bedrooms, all cosy and well kept. Small back gardens flourished with forsythia in full bloom. I arrived just after midday and was warmly greeted by Sheila, who had prepared a delightful lunch. Henry soon joined us, and over the meal we shared stories and aspirations.

I felt an immediate connection with Henry; his warmth and positivity were deeply uplifting. And so, another chapter of my life began — alongside someone I cherished, with the hope that our affection was mutual.

Work and New Routines

Before long, it was time to seek employment. Using the same agency as before, we both secured positions at London Airport. At that time, the airport consisted of the newly built Queens Building and London Airport North — a temporary complex of simple, round-roofed huts reminiscent of wartime munitions buildings.

Inside were lounges, restaurants, shops, and a cocktail bar. My role in the cocktail lounge allowed me to serve drinks and exchange light conversation with well-dressed, elite travellers. Sheila worked as a waitress in the Queens Building cafeteria, later accepting a position at Pinewood Studios. I remained at London Airport North until its closure in 1959.

Marriage and Faith

As time passed, my feelings for Sheila deepened, and I took the leap of proposing marriage. She accepted, and on 26 November 1959 we exchanged vows in a humble ceremony attended by just twenty guests from each family.

Because Sheila wished for a Catholic ceremony, I converted to Catholicism. Henry’s home in Stoke Green became the place where I undertook six to eight weeks of instruction with a priest, culminating in my baptism and formal entry into the Church.

Having grown up without religion, my father never spoke to me about his Jewish faith, and my brothers rarely mentioned it either. With hindsight, however, I believe there must have been some observance of Jewish tradition with them. Each of my brothers received a signet ring — usually presented on a boy’s thirteenth birthday — and they were circumcised. I had neither.

For many years I puzzled over that difference. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that my birth in 1940, at a time when Hitler was threatening to invade Britain, may have shaped my father’s decision. Perhaps he feared what might happen if the Germans crossed the Channel. Perhaps, in his own quiet way, he was protecting me — ensuring that, if the worst occurred, I would be regarded as a Gentile rather than Jewish. It was not something he ever explained, but with maturity I came to see it as an act not of neglect, but of precaution — even love.

 As I grew older, I dabbled in Sunday School, the Boys’ Brigade, and the Scouts, but none of those experiences left a lasting spiritual mark. It was only later that I felt a genuine sense of connection. The priest’s guidance — delivered in perfect English with a warm Italian accent — stayed with me long after those early encounters, quietly shaping my understanding of faith, belonging, and identity. Perhaps it even sowed the first seeds of my lifelong affection for Italian culture and cuisine. 

My Driving Licence

I thought I would tell the story of my driving test in Slough.

Henry had mentioned that we could use his Morris Minor for our honeymoon, so I decided it was time to finally obtain my driving licence — even though I had been driving my old cars on a provisional licence for several years.

I duly booked the test and turned up on the appointed day. By the end of it, as we were driving back to the examiner’s office, the instructor suddenly turned to me and asked whether I had completed my conscription into the forces yet.

I remember wondering what he was getting at — I had just finished a driving test, after all. I replied that no, I hadn’t, as I had been in the Merchant Navy. When I asked why he was asking, he said:

“Well, if you had been, they might have taught you your left from your right. When I asked you to turn left, you turned right. When I asked you to turn right, you turned left.”

I must have looked stunned.

He then paused and added, “But I can’t judge your driving on that. You handled the car like an experienced driver — so I’m going to pass you.”

It was an outcome I hadn’t expected, and one that still makes me smile.

A Modest Honeymoon

Our honeymoon, modest but filled with promise, took us to Cornwall, with its rugged coastlines and windswept cliffs. Despite the chilly November weather, we were warmed by the simple joy of being together.

Dreams of far-off destinations danced in our minds, but our modest bank balance kept those plans grounded. What mattered most was that we were together, ready to face life as partners.

Onward to Stratford-upon-Avon

While Sheila continued her work at Pinewood Studios, an opportunity arose for live-in positions at The White Swan Hotel in Stratford-upon-Avon for the summer season. It promised a change of scenery and a chance to expand our skills in hospitality.

With Henry’s help loading our belongings onto the trusty Lambretta, we set off on the road to Stratford-upon-Avon — hearts full of anticipation and excitement for the adventures that lay ahead.