Canada Bound

A Memory of Enfield.

While working in the Lake District as an hotel assistant manager I reached such a point of frustration that I up and quit my job and applied to emigrate to Canada. Five minutes later, after hearing of my decision, the head accountant gave his notice (we were good golf buddies). He had a wife who ran a sub post office/ newsagents/sweetshop in Edmonton, north London so we both, along with the gorgeous ex-model wife (who we both adored) of our sister hotel's manager, all took off south. When we arrived in London a whole lot of nasty realities hit home when I realized that this scoundrel was bringing his lover home to his wife! I had not thought through the question of why was he working in the north of England and she in London. The subsequent tension was awful and he quickly realised that I was out of my depth in so many ways and I was summarily shipped off to a rented bedsitter.

So there I was...no money, no job and 6 months to wait until my ship sailed for Canada! It had not occurred to me that ocean-going vessels could not navigate the St Lawrence River in winter, due to the ice. Luckily I soon found a job at Henekey's Wine Bar in Enfield, Middlesex. It was a great job for a Culinary Arts student! I am pretty sure that it was located (it's no longer there) on this intersection shown in this photograph.

I ran the off-licence where we sold all sorts of great sherries and ports, both by the bottle and 'off the wood' (a fake barrel, actually), in the bar out behind the shop. Christmas was coming and I recalled how festive the grey streets of a wet suburban London could be, so I made a great effort to decorate the shop window, acquiring posters of Spain and Portugal, wine glasses and straw and did quite a nice job of it. We'd sell cases of wine and fortified wines to brighten up our regulars' Christmas parties.

Unfortunately one of the Irish barmaids, Clare, took quite a shine to me and made my life confusing by attempting to get me in trouble by using all the feminine guile she had. She was almost successful but the thought that my giving in to these temptations (not to mention her marital status) would result in my not leaving, as planned, for North America kept me from accepting her advances, much as they were appreciated what with me being a relatively handsome young 23-year-old and she quite a few years my senior.

One of the tasks I had to complete in order to get my acceptance for Canadian Immigration was a birth certificate. So, one day off, I took off down to The Strand, to Somerset House where I attempted to find my birth entry under my name (then) Wright. After some unsuccessful attempts I requested assistance from one of the clerks there. He took down my details and off he trotted, returning, also unsuccessful, a few minutes later.

"What was your mother's maiden name ?" he enquired of me and, armed with 'Rivis', off he went again returning  to me with "Would you mind stepping into the office a moment, sir?". Assuming that I was about to get my birth certificate and that this was the normal process of events, I followed. He closed the office door and said, quite casually, "These things often happen in wartime..." and he proceded to show me that my birth certificate had a line drawn through the 'father' column. Now this was a pretty shocking, major development to me, as I am sure you can appreciate! However, when the initial surprise wore off as I walked, in somewhat of a fog, back down the Strand with my now incomplete life in a brown envelope, the past 12 years of physical and psychological abuse I had endured under the control of my two step-parents (my mother had died when I was 4 after marrying my stepfather and he had subsequently remarried) suddenly made sense. I was not their child! Strangely enough this realisation came as quite a relief to me and, given that I was soon to flee the country for a new life, the timing was quite exquisite.

Upon returning to Henekey's and seeing my manager working in the office (I'd told him of the purpose for the half day off) I recall leaing on the door jamb and saying to him "Guess what?" ... to which, much to my astonishment, he said, "You're a bastard!". How he guessed that I'll never know. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he was fooling around. Whatever...we both had a drink on it!