From a Truman’s pub to a Courage’s.

From East London to South London.

From a child to an adult.

We moved into The Claremont, on Dunton Road, a stone’s throw from the famous Old Kent Road, when I was about 13-14. It seemed I had just gotten used to living in The Hop Pole and was enjoying my new school when it was time to move on. However, I did stay at the same school, just had to travel further.

I don’t remember my parents ever discussing these moves with us or even giving us time to adjust to the thought of moving. It seemed one day we were here, and the next day the packing cases appeared and off we went. I suppose, as children, it didn’t really concern us, and I don’t remember ever being upset or disturbed by these moves. We were happy, and it was all rather exciting. What clever parents we had to create that sense of security and trust.

Talking to them in later life, I know they were very concerned about all the disruption and the effects it would have on us. But they must have reassured us and said the right things as we just accepted it. As much as they could, they spent time with us and made sure we were looked after when they couldn’t be with us. We were fortunate to have our grandparents living with us, so we always had someone to turn to.

So, here we were in The Claremont. A much larger pub than The Hop Pole. It was a different brewery, too: Courage’s.

The pub was struck by a bomb during the Second World War, along with the houses beside it. The pub was severely damaged down one side, leaving it half its original size. The damaged houses alongside it were cleared away, and a dozen or so temporary tin prefabricated (pre-fabs) went up. This all took place well before our time. The pre-fabs fascinated me. I made friends with a young girl who lived in one, so I got to see inside. I loved it, it was so bright and cheerful, all mod cons, fitted carpets, fitted kitchen and modern bathroom. They all had a small back garden too, turfed and equipped with a garden shed. My friend’s Mum was a widow and worked in London, the family had been bombed out, and this was meant to be a temporary home. But they lived there for many years. 

In Chelmsford, where I live now, a couple of streets still have Second World War pre-fabs. They come up for sale occasionally. All are kept well and mostly painted in pastel colours. The front gardens are well established, and each property has a unique personality. It’s such a cheery street to drive down.

The Claremont’s living accommodation was very generous. A huge downstairs kitchen with room for a half-size billiard table that doubled as our dining table. A small scullery led to a yard and an outside toilet. This toilet backed onto the men’s outside stalls. Outside loos for men were quite common in those days. My Dad took great pride in keeping his lavatories clean, and there was always an overwhelming smell of disinfectant when we opened the yard door. If one of us used the loo in the yard, you could hear the men peeing and telling dirty jokes! Stephen and I would sometimes sneak out there to have a listen, but we had to keep quiet. We were found out and banned from outside toileting during the evenings. The yard wasn’t very big and housed the empty beer crates. There was also a sitting room just off the door to the bars. You had to walk through the sitting room to get to the kitchen. This sitting room had huge windows, but so high you couldn’t see much out of them. Same in the kitchen. This sitting room hosted many after-hours parties.

Our bathroom was upstairs on the first landing. It had a separate toilet, which doubled as ‘the Ladies’ on the weekends, causing quite a problem for us. There always seemed to be a queue going down the stairs when you wanted to use it. I know my brothers and Grandad ‘managed’ in the bathroom, but Nana and I had to go downstairs to the outside loo if we were desperate. Mind you, I did like to see all the ladies in their Saturday party dresses and hear some of the gossip as they waited for their turn in the toilet.  

While on this landing, I will tell you about the flat roof.

In the bathroom, a door led onto the flat roof over the kitchen. I guess it was a fire door. Locals told us that before the war, this flat roof didn’t exist, it was more bedrooms. Maybe they did b&b then. Or the staff ‘lived in‘ and these were their rooms. Anyway, a pub in London rarely had a garden or outside space, so we used this flat roof. It had a low brick wall all around it; for privacy, Dad fixed plywood panels on top of the bricks, shielding us from curious eyes. He put down planks of wood for our deckchairs as it was a soft tarmac roof. Nana worked her magic and grew flowers in window boxes, and my Grandad, who was quite a good artist, painted rambling roses and trellises on the wooden walls. Summer breaks would see us all out on the roof, sunning ourselves. The sweet comforting baking smell from Peak Freans Biscuit Factory would waft over. And it was so good to sit outside in the hot weather. 

Occasionally, one of us would use the bathroom while we were out there. We didn’t lock the door, so it was an unwritten law that you let everyone know you were in there: if you wanted to go out or come in from the roof, you had to knock on the door, leave it a minute and shout ‘coming through!’ You also had to avert your eyes as you went onto the landing. Sounds mad, doesn’t it? But it worked. Even my friends got used to my crazy family. My Grandad calling out ‘afternoon dearie’ from the bath.

Along the long hallway past these facilities was a really big cupboard, which became known as ‘Harry’s Cupboard’. Even after Harry no longer inhabited it. Harry followed us over the river and worked most weekends for us. This cupboard was large enough for a single bed. Dad put up a couple of shelves and fixed hooks on the door, along with an under-bed storage box. So, that’s where Harry slept. Harry only stayed with us for a year or so. I don’t know what it’s like now, but back then, there was the north-south divide. Northern Londoners didn’t mix too well with Southern Londoners, and he just couldn’t settle. So, sadly, we lost him back to Hoxton. I don’t know what happened to him, I was only a child, so I wasn't told much. We missed him, though. He had been an adopted Uncle to us and was so kind, he worked hard for Mum and Dad, and it left quite a hole in our family when he went. Maybe he fell out with the customers or being from north of the river, they didn’t take to him. I don’t know.

Further along this landing were two large rooms for my Nana and Grandad. They had a small landing outside these rooms, and Dad fitted up a mini-kitchen in it for them. I loved their sitting room. It was very light, having large windows on two of the walls. 

Up another flight of stairs, there was my room and that of my parents. My room was quite big but faced the back and didn’t get much sun, it was always chilly in there. I had an open fire that I lit in the winter. Mum and Dad had a huge room over Nana and Grandad’s sitting room and had the same large oblong sash windows.

The outside of The Claremont looked very different to the watercolour picture I have painted. When we moved in around 1959-60, it had stone pillars and orangey-brown shiny tiles under the windows. I include a photo of my parents standing outside for you to get the idea.

Like many London pubs, it was on a corner and occupied two streets. Although Dunton Road was the address, most of the pub was on Setchell Road.

The pub had two main bars. The Public Bar that faced Dunton Road and the Saloon bar on Setchell Road. There was also a tiny bar, called The Private Bar, in between, the two on Setchell Road. It was very small, with just a table and two chairs in it. This bar was mostly used for off-sales. A couple of older ladies would use the bar to drink Guinness sometimes. I think they were widows and didn’t think it proper for a woman on her own to use a pub, so this little bar was ideal for them.

The bars had similar furniture and fittings to The Hop Pole. Typical of the time. Brown chairs and iron tables with shiny wooden tops. Dark patterned carpets in the Saloon bar and stripped waxed wooden flooring in the other bars. Dad decorated the bars as soon as we moved in. I can still remember the wallpaper in the Saloon bar. It had hunting scenes on it. Red-coated horsemen riding to hounds. Mum made green velvet curtains to match the paper. I don’t remember much about the colours in the Public bar, but it was just plain emulsion on the walls, with a dado rail halfway up the wall and a thick embossed paper under it. Men used this bar during the week, and then most of them would take their wives into the saloon bar at the weekends. It was sparsely furnished, as the men liked to stand at the bar rather than sit down, and it always felt a bit chilly. It didn’t have a fireplace like the saloon bar, so we lit oil fires in the winter. Electric fires were far too expensive to use.

At one time, Dad tried attracting new younger customers. In the public bar, he installed a jukebox and put up pictures of the current pop groups and singers. My Grandad painted a huge picture of The Beatles in oils. He copied one of the iconic photos from the LP sleeve ‘With the Beatles’. I wish I knew what happened to it. Dad painted the chairs and tables in bright colours and fixed blinds at the windows instead of curtains. It looked pretty good. Not much like a pub and more like a coffee bar. It became known for a while as The Beatles Bar and did attract the younger generation. But they didn’t have much money to spend and would come in to buy one drink and play the jukebox for a while and then go off to Central London or the Elephant and Castle, where ‘it’ was all happening and far more ‘groovy’ than their Grandad’s local. So, after about a year, the bar was restored to how it was. 

I’ve no idea what the regulars thought of this Beatles Bar, but it didn’t stop them from coming in during the week to drink in it.

So many people smoked when I was young. Saturday nights in a pub reminded me of being in a fog! 

My parents smoked, as did a lot of my family. People smoked in the street, in the office, in restaurants, on buses, on trains, in the cinema and theatres, just everywhere, anytime, anywhere. Even in the doctor’s surgery, usually, the doctor would have a cigarette alight in his ashtray when asking you how you were.

As children, we hated it. Walking through the bar to go to school in the morning was awful. The smell of stale beer and the sweet smell of cigarettes made us gag.

Even opening the windows, using the extractor fans and washing the curtains did not remove the stale aroma that seemed to cling to everything.

It clung to you too. After a weekend evening session, I would have to change all of my clothes and bathe and wash my hair. We all did.

Mum and Dad chain-smoked, but I don’t think they ever finished a cigarette; they would light up, then have to serve so the cigarette would burn away in an ashtray.

Dad decorated the bars every two years, completely stripping the wallpaper and replacing it. New curtains. Carpets cleaned. Ceilings washed and repainted. I can see him washing the ceilings, orange with nicotine. The water was soon the colour of honey and as thick as treacle. You could almost peel it off.

Customers were not very careful with their stubs either and the carpets and furniture would become covered with burns. Fortunately, the carpets and furniture would be dark in colour and multi-patterned so as not to show the stains and burns too much. But the linoleum and wooden floors in the public bars would all have tell-tale round orange smudges.

While in The Claremont, Dad had heard that having a canopy around the servery would make the smoke less likely to go behind the bar. Instead, the smoke would rise and would not go under this canopy. That was the theory, anyway. Yes, it did make a difference and would have been super if Mum, Dad and the bar staff hadn’t lit up under it. Their smoke had nowhere to escape. 

When I worked behind the bar, I always got in trouble for leaving the extractors on too long. They were powerful, noisy and used lots of electricity. They also caused quite a chill in the bars because they not only sucked out the smoke but the warmth, too. Short bursts were the order of the day. I don’t think the customers really minded about the smoke, it was just us non-smokers it affected. My eyes would stream, and I’d cough. Air conditioning was in the future. But I doubt many publicans would have had the money to install it anyway.

Cigarettes were quite a lucrative off-sale. We would stock most brands and loose tobacco. Cigars at Christmas. While I’m on the subject of off-sales, Dad always had boxes of chocolates and a few tins of Hamlet cigars for sale. Handy last-minute presents or a sweetener if you had stayed late and were a bit worse for wear.

The smoke from the bars would also permeate upstairs. My grandparents gave up smoking after Grandad had to have an operation. Stephen and I never smoked, and Tony, my elder brother, rarely lit up. Ironically, Mum hated the smell of smoke too and would throw open the upstairs windows most mornings, freezing us all. Mum tried several times to give up but never managed more than a week. Dad would have a bet every New Year’s Eve with the customers. He would pin up a board in the bar, and customers would write down their guesses on how long he would last. Sometimes he would manage six weeks or more. The winner won a bottle of whiskey. I think you had to pay to enter. The money went to charity, which went with a charity penny column that would start every year on the bar. Often, there would be a couple of pence in the change from a drink, so customers would dip the pennies in their beer and build this tower of money. When it had reached a good height, a celebrity would be asked to knock it down. I don’t think we ever had anyone well-known, but some of the big pubs would have people like Henry Cooper, the Beverley Sisters or a local comedian. Then their pub would make the local paper. It would be quite an evening.

As an adult, I rarely went into a pub because of the smoke. I was so glad when the smoking ban came in prohibiting smoking in enclosed spaces in 2007.

Opposite the pub on Dunton Road were blocks of flats. I think they have been replaced by new apartments. ‘Apartments’ is the posh word for flats, I always think.

Along Setchell Road, immediately opposite the pub, was a cleared bomb site, commonly known as ‘The Blasted Heath’ by the locals. No grass, just a mess of cement and flattened rubble, with the odd weed poking out from the bricks. Three-storey old regency-type houses with cellars ran along beside the heath, occupied by whole two or three generations. Overcrowded, but once again, as in Hoxton, they were happy homes. These homes had outside toilets and no bathrooms. Eventually, the families were rehoused. I think these houses were pulled down. They were in a dreadful state of disrepair. It was a pity they not restored.

After we had lived there for a couple of years, to help with the housing shortage, the Heath took delivery of several little cabin-like homes painted white. When put together, they formed small modern two-bedroomed dwellings, modern and equipped rather like the mobile holiday homes you see on caravan sites. But they looked like the building site cabins we see now. They were only there a few years; I don’t know when they were removed as we were gone by then. A huge crane placed them on the prepared cement slabs. Their quick construction, due existing infrastructure, meant that just a few days later families could move in. The families came mostly from the old tenement buildings pulled down in favour of the awful 1960s high-rise flats.

So, I’m assuming these tenants moved to these flats after their time in these temporary dwellings.

The Claremont, like the other pubs we lived in, had a loyal following. Families once again. This one, though, had had a landlord and landlady that had lived there for many years and were very popular before we moved in. John and Joyce Leahy. I think it was a couple of years before Mum and Dad stopped hearing the customers say, ‘Johnny did it like this’ or ‘Johnny did it like that’. However, it wasn’t long before Mum and Dad were established and accepted. This was the pub where I really appreciated just how hard my parents worked. Their long hours and 24/7 commitment. It was here that I learned bar work, the eccentricity of our customers, always being ‘on show’, learning diplomacy, patience and keeping your own counsel. Always being cheerful, helpful and accepting that the customer was always right. Behind the bar, you would hear people’s life stories, their hopes and fears. You became their councillor, confidant and shoulder to cry on. I learned early on never to gossip, repeat what I had been told, or give an opinion. I just smiled and agreed and served them their drinks. 

We were a lively family, and I think we entertained our regulars quite well. My Dad looked the part, as they say. He was a very smart man and took great pride in his appearance. He always had had a moustache, and as he got older, he let it grow and join up with his sideburns. It was bushy, and it almost had ‘handlebars’. He had his special scissors to trim it and wax to keep it in control. It made him look very jolly in a Victorian, Dickensian way. He had big round brown eyes and developed the publican’s paunch. He was funny, kind, strong and clever at keeping the peace. A bit of a ladies’ man. My Mum, also attractive and personable, wore such lovely dresses she mostly made herself.  So, an attractive couple. They bounced off one another behind the bar, and the customers loved them. 

Sadly, as happened to many landlords and landladies, they split up. I was 16. Mum left the pub and went to live with her parents for a while. Both of my parents met other partners and remarried. I think it must be very difficult to work and live with someone in such close proximity. Rarely any free time off together to relax and recoup, no space or time to be alone or pursue anything other than the pub. No privacy. It does put a huge strain on a relationship. To have to always be happy and charming when working. It was such hard work, more like a vocation to run a pub in those days. Not at all the glamorous, exciting life that the general public thinks. Not that lucrative either.

My parents were married for 26 years, and both went on to marry again for another 25 years or so. I think they still loved each other, but their lives had been so changed by the long separation of the Second World War. They were 21 and 18 when the war began, so very young. The war turned them into independent adults, I guess, and different people. It happened to lots of couples so I can’t blame the pub life entirely for their separation. Happily Mum was married again, to Jim, until her passing in 1993.

In each pub we had, Dad put up a mirror just outside the bars, so staff and family could check their appearance before they went behind the bar. He painted a sign on these mirrors that said, ‘Smile, you are about to greet your public’. This also applied to us kids. We couldn’t show a moody face when we were anywhere near our customers. ‘Those people are your bread and butter, so smile and be grateful,’ Dad would say.

My Dad had lots of sayings, as I’m sure most publicans did. At closing time, he would say, ‘Mind the doors as you rush away!’ Or on Sunday lunchtimes, it would be, ‘Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy!’

The Claremont was known for its live music, piano on Saturday and Sunday nights. Dad played as he had done in the other pubs. Everyone had ‘their song’ and would sing it roughly at the same time every weekend. So, there was a sort of order. Bill sang before Albert and Rose before Lil, and so on. It fascinated me, this weekly repetition. You could almost tell the time by them. It was at The Claremont that Dad had the jazz sessions on Tuesday nights.

The Claremont always had ‘afters’, now known as lock-ins, on Saturday and most Sunday evenings. A few regulars would stay on after last orders, and they would be ushered out into our sitting room. The furniture was pushed back, rugs rolled up, records put on the radiogram, drinks flowed. It was party time. When I was older, it would be me that did the serving, I’d have to use one of the big trays and take the orders, negotiate two heavy doors and get the drinks from the bar. I also handled the payment for these. Probably because I was the only sober one. Remembering the orders wasn’t difficult as I knew what most of our customers drank. Gin and tonic, whiskey and American ginger, Dubonnet and lemonade, pints of bitter and the odd bottle of light ale, maybe a brandy and Babycham. 

These parties often went on well into the early hours.

During these late night parties there would occasionally be a knock on the residence door, and Dad would send me into the bar for a bottle of whiskey, and the local Bobby would go happily on his way. 

As a teenager, I went out with my friends in London most Saturday nights if I wasn’t working behind the bar and wouldn’t be home til late. I did have a time to be home by, but these parties kept my parents so busy that I could sneak in unnoticed. I often had one of my school friends stopping for the weekend, so I guess there was safety in numbers. As we grew older, we would join the parties and enjoy the dancing and singing. I rarely visited the other pubs in the area. I still didn’t like all the smoke.

Sunday evenings were a more sedate affair. The pub was only open for three hours, but Dad played the piano, and the Sunday customers sang to all the old tunes. We had a customer that worked in the fish market. Steve. He would bring in the leftovers that he hadn’t sold. Cockles, whelks, shrimps, prawns and even sometimes live eels in a bucket. It wasn’t unknown to see a couple of black lobsters walking around in the fireplace. He would bring this seafood on most Sunday evenings, and Mum would dish it up for the customers in little scallop shells. 

I have no idea if or how they were paid. But I don’t suppose they were free. Mum cooked the eels the next day, and that would be our tea. I wasn’t a fan of jellied eels when I was young or the stewed eels that Mum dished up, but I love them now. I did, however, like the little brown shrimp and lobster. Steve’s song, by the way, was ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles!’ He was a West Ham fan, like me. West Ham? Yes, I know! It was a trip out with my brother when I was about seven to see my first football match. One of Dad’s friends had a pub in West or East Ham, not sure which, I think called The Prince of Wales, and he took us to watch his team. He told us that we had to follow them from then on, so I have. 

Back to Steve, he would throw his brill creamed head back and sing with such gusto, very badly, but always got a cheer and round of applause.

Our first Christmas in The Claremont was very memorable, as was the New Year. It wasn’t until Dad had his country pub that he stopped opening on Christmas Day. It was Sunday hours in London pubs on the day itself. Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve, Dad would apply to the magistrate’s court for an extension to closing times. Half past midnight instead of eleven. Both of those evenings were very busy. In the mornings, it would be mostly off-sales, but the evening sessions were mad. The customers really let their hair down. Christmas Eve would be mostly the men to start with, I think they came to get out of the way of all the preparations at home. They were in the door from opening time. The women would join them quite late in the evening, and we didn’t have ‘afters’ on these nights. Everyone was fine about going home to fill their children’s stockings or go to midnight mass at one of the many churches in our area. If there wasn’t a pub on a corner, it would be a church. There would be mince pies and mulled wine on the counters, and the smell of cigars filled the bars. The customers had all saved for the past year in the Christmas clubs and were determined every year to make it the best Christmas ever. I loved the atmosphere.

As this was our first Christmas in The Claremont and we had heard all these tales of what John and Joyce put on for customers, my parents became determined not to be outdone. Dad had been to the cash and carry and bought some gorgeous decorations. Instead of the usual paper concertinas and paper chains, he had boxes of tinsel bells, tinsel snowmen, Christmas trees, garlands and fairy lights. They were expensive, but my parents thought, with a bit of care, they would last for a few years.

As was the custom in pubs at Christmas, the landlord would give out small gifts such as diaries or pens, small notebooks or wallets and purses with the pub’s name on them. Dad had ordered these well in advance and stashed them behind the bar, ready to give out to our regulars. We all helped decorate the bars, and they looked splendid. Mum had baked mince pies and planned on putting out sausage rolls and roast potatoes. Dad made a huge bucket of mulled wine that we ladled into bowls on the counter. Smashing.

Christmas Eve went off without a hitch. Happy customers. We all helped with the cleaning and bottling up ready for the morning. No cleaner on Christmas Day, of course, and very often no bar staff. So, my brothers and I would work alongside Mum and Dad with Nana and Grandad collecting empties and cleaning ashtrays. A real family affair. 

I will deviate here a little to tell you about glasses. Unlike today when a fresh glass is used for every new drink, in those days, the first drink would go in a clean glass, as would any refills; only a different drink would go into another glass. Even the Paris Goblets used for spirits would be refilled. The occasional customer didn’t bring his glass back when reordering, but many used the same receptacle.

We went through hundreds of ashtrays, a good job we didn’t have to buy them. Reps would bring them in from the brewery for advertising. The mostly glass ashtrays came in different styles and were very colourful. Consequently, they often found their way into the pockets and handbags of the clientele. The brewery supplied beer mats for many years, along with drip trays and bar towels.

The introduction of a new beer would come with a ‘launch’ featuring TV advertising, billboards, newspaper adverts and so on. We would receive banners and pictures to put up, and deliveries of the new beer or spirit would come complete with boxes of glasses with the drink’s logo or name on it and beer mats, ashtrays and even key rings to give away. When Babycham became popular, we had lots of little plastic ‘Bambies’ on our shelves, and the champagne-like glasses really did appeal to the ladies. They disappeared very quickly, as you can imagine.

Back to Christmas. Christmas Day, always quiet, mostly off-sales, with a few men popping in for a pre-lunch hair of the dog from the night before. 

We would open in the evening but mostly off-sales with maybe a pint or two. As a family, we would have our Christmas Dinner during the break between the morning session and the evening one. Presents under the tree. Then feet up, ‘The Sound of Music‘ or ‘The Wizard of Oz’ on the TV. Dad would open up at seven and we would all go into the saloon bar for games, charades and so on. The coal fires still banked up in the bars, so it was actually warmer there than in the flat. Just us family. The pub was almost empty on Christmas night. Grandad would play some carols on the piano, Nana sang her old cockney songs, and then, after much coaxing, she would recite a wonderful Victorian poem called ‘Papa’s Letter’, leaving us all in tears. Every year we heard this poem, and every year we cried!

We closed the pub at ten, and we just all went to bed. Exhausted.

Boxing mornings were always busy. Snacks put out on the bars. The evening, not so busy. 

The pub had a bit of a lull between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. We didn’t know what to expect on our first New Year in The Claremont. But everyone came out again in force, the pub was packed, our regulars singing and laughing and having a good time. As midnight approached, everyone quieted down and got ready, we thought for Auld Lang Syne. They all stood up and raised their hands in the air, and as Big Ben struck the first chime, down came all of our beautiful decorations to cheers and shouts of ‘Happy New Year’! They were like madmen possessed. Every chime of Big Ben saw more decorations pulled down until the whole lot covered the floor, torn to pieces and danced on. Draped around the customers’ shoulders were the lights and a few bits of tinsel.

We were struck dumb, never seen anything like it. 

Apparently, it was the custom in this pub to do that. No wonder our customers had remarked on the decorations, saying things like, ‘I bet they cost a pretty penny’ and ‘Johnny would never buy such expensive decorations’. We thought we had managed to, at last, outdo our previous landlords! No one had warned us about the ‘custom’.

After that, we went back to the cheap paper chains and balloons.

One New Year’s Eve, there had been heavy snow, and my Mum was carried ceremonially out of the bar just before midnight and brought back in as the New Year came in, sitting on top of a huge snowball some of the men had spent all day making for this very purpose.

It was dockers and railwaymen that mostly used The Claremont, them and their families. Hard-working, hard-drinking men. Family-orientated. 

My parents had to take separate nights off, so quite often I’d go out with my Dad, who would go into local pubs to see what was going on in them. But mostly we would go up the West End to his favourite Turkish restaurant, or one of the nightclubs that had a jazz band playing, or the theatre. I loved being with my father, he was well-known in these places, and we had the best of times. He danced well and would waltz me around to the sound of Duke Ellington or Count Basie.

My mother rarely went out on her night off. She would have a long soak in the bath, do her nails and hair and have an early night. However, her night off would begin after the lunchtime session, so she and Nana often went shopping together with no rush to get home. Or go to the hairdressers or visit family. If I was on school holiday, I’d join them. Girls’ day out.

My wedding day was unusual in that it took place on a Sunday. We had to get special permission from the church to get married after the Sunday service. Most church weddings occurred on Saturdays. Since the morning sessions on Sundays finished at two and we didn’t reopen until seven in the evening, it was the longest gap in the day to organise a wedding. It was a military operation. Everyone had a part to play. Our bar staff were great. They ran the bar in the morning and closed and cleaned up for us while we were at the church for a three o’clock service. We were back at the pub by four. Dad had friends in the catering business who worked for a London Hotel. I don’t know the details, but they delivered lots of boxes containing all sorts of buffet food. I have a feeling it was left over from a ‘do’ the previous night at the hotel. But it was splendid: smoked salmon, canapés, dainty little sandwiches, tiny sausage rolls, beautiful cakes and, oh, just everything. This fabulous feast was set out on the bar counters on our return to the pub. Our families sat in the saloon bar, we had drinks, of course, and the usual speeches, and before we knew it, it was time to open up the pub. What a rush it all was. The children were marshalled out to our sitting room, where they created havoc. We all cleared away and left the remainder of the food for our customers. It was an exceptionally busy evening as word had gone around and the world and his neighbour turned up. It must have cost my dad a fortune as everyone’s first drink was on the house. I didn’t have a big wedding, just close family and friends, no bridesmaids or long white dresses. As a modern 60’s girl, my Coco Channel white brocade mini skirt dress and jacket suited me fine. High white satin stilettos and a flower in my hair. Brilliant. No fuss. 

I didn’t work in the pub on a regular basis after my wedding, we lived too far away. However, I did help out when we went to stop over on weekend visits.

Not long after this, Dad, who had met another lady after he and Mum split, decided to move to the country. He and his partner looked for a venue in Kent and found The Ten Bells in the village of Leeds, near the famous castle. Another Courage’s pub. He stayed there for over 25 years until he retired.

Sadly, my lovely Dad only had a couple of years in retirement. He died, aged 70, in 1987.