Finding My Way - Leaving Clare House

For me, that time arrived towards the end of the 1950s.

Without really noticing, two more years slipped by. After my father's death, I couldn't bring myself to leave while Mum still needed help and Phillip was growing up.

For another two years I remained close to home, helping wherever I could while continuing to work the seasonal cross-Channel ferries.

Each summer I returned to the sea.

With every season I gained a little more confidence, a little more experience, and another entry in my discharge book.

Eventually I was promoted to Assistant Steward.

For the first time I was recognised as a fully qualified seaman and could join almost any merchant vessel in that capacity.

It was an achievement I had worked hard for.

Yet something still wasn't right.

Every autumn the ferries stopped operating, and once again I found myself without permanent work. I had no clear career, no certainty about the future, and no real direction.

Meanwhile, Phillip, Tony and Carol were growing older and becoming increasingly independent.

Gradually I realised something I had been avoiding for a long time.

It was time to leave Clare House.

Leaving wasn't easy.

It was the only real home I had ever known.

But deep down I knew that if I stayed much longer, I would never discover what I was capable of becoming.

My First Hotel

With the ferry seasons coming to an end each autumn, I knew I needed something more permanent.

I had enjoyed life at sea, but seasonal work offered little security, and I wanted to build a career rather than simply wait for the next sailing.

An opportunity soon presented itself at the Casino Hotel on Taggs Island, Hampton Court, where I was offered a position as a commis barman.

It was unlike anywhere I had ever seen.

The hotel stood on a small island surrounded by houseboats, giving it an atmosphere all of its own. I was even provided with accommodation aboard one of the houseboats, which added to the sense that I was beginning a completely different life.

It was November, and winter had settled over southern England. The river was often shrouded in mist, and the whole island seemed strangely quiet.

In fact, during my first few weeks I often wondered whether I had made the right decision.

Entire days would pass when hardly a guest appeared.

Then Sunday lunchtime arrived.

Almost as if someone had flicked a switch, the hotel came to life. The bar filled with laughter and conversation, and suddenly I found myself serving people whose faces I recognised from newspapers, theatres, and the cinema.

Members of the famous Crazy Gang were regular visitors, including Flanagan and Allen. Charlie Naughton and Jimmy Gold also called in from time to time, along with other entertainers whose names escaped me years later.

For a young man from Dover, it all seemed rather surreal.

Someone also told me that the hotel had once belonged to the notorious American gangster Al Capone during the 1920s.

Whether that story was true or simply one of the many legends surrounding the place, I never discovered.

Standing there behind the bar, however, it wasn't difficult to believe.

The old hotel certainly possessed an air of mystery. Whether the stories were true or not hardly mattered. For a young man from Dover, simply working there felt like an adventure.

One afternoon, the senior barman left me with what sounded like a simple task.

"While I'm having my lunch," he said, "clean all the glasses behind the bar and wipe over the bottles. You won't be disturbed—the hotel's empty."

I happily set to work.

Every glass sparkled.

The mirrors gleamed.

Even the bottles looked as though they had just left the factory.

I had just replaced the final glass when, completely unexpectedly, two gentlemen walked into the cocktail bar.

After studying the drinks menu for several minutes, they finally reached a decision.

"We'll have two Brandy Alexanders."

I knew exactly what went into the cocktail.

Feeling quietly pleased with myself, I carefully added the brandy, crème de cacao, cream and ice into the cocktail shaker.

I glanced towards the door, secretly hoping the barman might return in time to see me preparing my very first cocktail.

Confidently, I picked up the shaker.

Then I began to shake it.

The expressions on the customers' faces changed instantly.

From curiosity...

...to horror...

...then to complete helpless laughter.

In my determination to impress everyone, I had forgotten one tiny detail.

I hadn't put the lid on the cocktail shaker.

The entire contents sprayed over my shoulder, covering every bottle, every mirror, and every piece of freshly polished glassware behind the bar.

My beautiful cleaning job had lasted less than a minute.

It certainly wasn't the impression I had hoped to make.

Fortunately, everyone—including me—was laughing by the time the barman returned.

The Bull Hotel

After my time at Taggs Island, I once again found myself standing at a crossroads.

Although I had enjoyed working behind the bar, I knew my future lay in hospitality rather than mixing cocktails.

In July 1958, I contacted a hotel employment agency and was soon offered a position as a waiter at the historic Bull Hotel.

From the moment I walked through its doors, I knew this was somewhere special.

The Bull Hotel dated back to the fourteenth century. Originally a coaching inn on the ancient Pilgrims' Way, it had welcomed travelers for hundreds of years. During the Second World War it had become a favorite meeting place for RAF fighter pilots, many of whom left their signatures across the ceiling of the public bar.

Everywhere you looked, the building seemed to have a story to tell.

I was about to begin one of my own.

The restaurant was under the direction of the head waiter, Alan Baines.

Alan came from Liverpool.

Away from the restaurant his broad Liverpool accent was impossible to miss, but once he stepped onto the restaurant floor something remarkable happened.

His accent disappeared.

His posture changed.

His voice became calm, polished and refined.

He transformed himself into the perfect maître d'.

To a young waiter like me, it was fascinating to watch.

Alan believed that serving a meal was about much more than carrying plates from the kitchen.

He taught me that good service was a performance.

Guests should feel welcome from the moment they entered the dining room.

They should never have to ask for attention.

The smallest details mattered.

A perfectly folded napkin.

A polished wine glass.

A chair quietly pulled out for a lady.

The confidence to prepare and serve dishes at the table.

Watching Alan work was like watching an artist.

He seemed to know exactly when to speak, when to smile, and when to quietly disappear into the background.

Customers loved him.

So did the staff.

At the time, I thought Alan was teaching me to be a waiter. In reality, he was teaching me how to become a professional.

More importantly, he taught me that people returned to a hotel not only because of the food, but because of the way they were made to feel.

Sheila

Life at the Bull Hotel was never dull.

The staff quickly became like a small family. There were waiters, barmen, housekeepers, kitchen staff, and the owners, Mr and Mrs Dixon, each with their own personalities and stories.

Among the regular guests was Colonel Whintel, a distinguished gentleman who was rarely seen without his monocle. To a young waiter, he seemed the very picture of an English gentleman.

Like most hotels, the Bull had its share of gossip.

There was endless speculation about Mr Dixon's former wife—also Mrs Dixon—which added a touch of mystery to life behind the scenes. Whether the stories were true or not hardly mattered. Hotels have always thrived on rumours, and the Bull was no exception.

Not long after I arrived, the hotel underwent major renovations.

The restaurant was enlarged, and a magnificent new timber bar was installed. Everything suddenly felt brighter, busier and far more modern.

Around the same time, a young Irish waitress joined the restaurant staff.

Her name was Sheila.

From the beginning we worked well together.

Alan Baines somehow managed to bring out the best in both of us, and before long we had become an efficient little team. Service ran smoothly, guests were happy, and the restaurant was often full.

The new bar quickly became popular, and each evening the gentle melodies from My Fair Lady, then playing in London's West End, drifted through the hotel.

Even now, whenever I hear music from that show, I am taken straight back to those evenings at the Bull.

There was something rather special about that time.

Without either of us planning it, Sheila and I gradually became friends.

Friendship soon led to companionship.

Whenever we had a day off together, we climbed onto Sheila's Lambretta scooter and disappeared into the Kent countryside, exploring villages, stopping for tea, or simply enjoying the freedom of being young.

When the weather wasn't kind, we stayed indoors, talking for hours or listening to Radio Luxembourg, which in those days seemed to provide the soundtrack to every young person's life.

There was never any great moment when either of us announced we were falling in love.

It simply happened.

Quietly.

Naturally.

There was nothing dramatic about it. We simply enjoyed being together, and before long it felt as though we'd known each other for years.

That lesson remained with me for the rest of my working life.

Lessons Learned

Life at the Bull Hotel was teaching me far more than restaurant service.

It was teaching me about people.

Some would become lifelong friends.

Others would leave behind lessons I would never forget.

One Sunday morning, Alan simply disappeared.

When he failed to arrive for work, it soon became clear that he had left the hotel—and taken all the staff gratuities with him.

Sheila and I were both shocked.

Alan had been more than our head waiter. He had been our teacher, our leader, and someone we admired enormously.

His sudden departure left a great void in the restaurant.

Perhaps because we both felt the loss, Sheila and I grew even closer.

We spent our days off exploring the countryside on her Lambretta, visiting my mother in Dover, or simply enjoying each other's company.

For a while, life felt wonderfully uncomplicated.

Then another lesson arrived.

The hotel's cocktail barman, who was older and far more worldly than I was, admired my pale blue Italian suit.

One day he asked if he could borrow it.

Without a second thought, I agreed.

The following morning both the barman and my suit had disappeared.

I never saw either of them again.

It was an expensive lesson for a trusting young man.

Not long afterwards, the Bull appointed a new head waiter.

His name was Joseph.

Confident, stylish and Italian, he quickly restored order to the restaurant, although by now the fashion for flamboyant table-side cooking was beginning to fade.

At first, everything seemed to be returning to normal.

Then, while I was away for several days, Joseph took advantage of Sheila's trust.

When I returned and discovered what had happened, we were both deeply hurt.

There was little left to say. Together we decided our time at the Bull Hotel had come to an end.

Sheila's father welcomed me with genuine kindness, helping us move our belongings and offering me a place to stay until we decided what to do next.

His generosity was something I never forgot.

As we walked away from the Bull Hotel for the last time, neither of us knew where life would lead.

We only knew that it was time to begin again.

Leaving the Bull Hotel was not simply the end of another job. It marked the end of one stage of my life and the beginning of another. I left carrying far more than a suitcase. I carried new skills, greater confidence, lasting friendships, and the quiet certainty that my future lay in hospitality. Without realising it, life was steadily preparing me for adventures far beyond anything I could then imagine.