all types, was the perfect host, and I ran the bar with Barry Clare, an engaging homosexual, who also doubled up as compere, calling up amateur talent from the customers.
One night a lady asked Barry if she could sing a number. It was a beautiful blues song and she was so good I asked her if she would come along and sing a couple of times a week. She was thrilled and said, ‘I’d be delighted.’
‘How much do you want?’ I asked.
The lady laughed. ‘I don’t want any money for singing.’
But I insisted and she finally gave in to shut me up. I forget how much we agreed; it was probably a fiver.
After her first performance I went up to her and tried to give her the money. She refused, but I forced her to take it: she had been excellent value and had earned it.She immediately went to the bar and put the money on the counter.
‘What are you doing?’ I said.
‘You’ve paid me, Charlie,’ she replied. ‘I can do what I like with my own money. And what I’d like to do is buy everyone a drink.’
And she did. Not just then, but every time she came in. She was a lovely woman who just loved to sing, and her name was Queenie Watts.
For the rich and famous, the West End had always been the place for a night out. But in the middle fifties the other side of the river became fashionable, and wealthy, titled gentlemen and showbusiness stars – including Danny La Rue and Joan Collins’s sister Jackie – started coming to The Double R.
For me, the work was tiring. But it was our own business and the financial rewards were worthwhile. Most of the time, too, I was meeting very nice, genuine people. It certainly beat life on the knocker.
With business booming, Reggie and I decided to expand into gambling. At that time it was illegal: bookmakers were not Turf Accountants with shops in the High Street; they operated on street corners and anyone who wanted to put a couple of bob on a horse risked being nicked. Card games, too, were against the law. Anybody who wanted to play for money had to go to a spieler – a club, normally in a basement, where chemin de fer and poker were played away from the prying eyes of the police.
Reggie and I saw the financial possibilities in spielers and we acquired one across the road from The Double R. Within a couple of months, we opened two more. Money, suddenly, was coming out of our ears.
To make life even sweeter, a member of The Double R tipped me off about an empty flat in Narrow Street,Wapping. It was a two-bedroomed flat on the second floor of a shabby block called Brightlingsea Buildings, built for dockers and their families nearly a hundred years before. A palace it wasn’t. But it was a place Dolly, Gary and I could call ours at last and I snapped it up the same day. I had the money to move to a posher pad away from the manor, but the thought didn’t occur to me. The East End was in my blood, and anyway, that was where we were making a very good living.
Dolly adored the new lifestyle. She had always dreamed of being rich, and now that there was a few bob around, she made the most of it with lots of new clothes and regular hair-dos. We went to West End clubs with upper-crust patrons of The Double R who accepted us as friends, cockney accents and all, or we enjoyed ourselves with old friends in the East End. Wherever we went, Dolly always looked lovely and attracted a lot of attention. I was proud of her.
One bloke at The Double R seemed to be taking more than a passing interest in Dolly but I felt secure in our marriage and didn’t think much of it. She was a stunning looker and it was hardly surprising that other men found her attractive. My life was full to the brim with money and excitement and plans for the future, and I didn’t give George Ince another thought.
In Wandsworth Prison Ronnie was delighted that business was going well on the outside; he knew he would have a share in it when he was released, and because he’d earned full remission through good behaviour
One night a lady asked Barry if she could sing a number. It was a beautiful blues song and she was so good I asked her if she would come along and sing a couple of times a week. She was thrilled and said, ‘I’d be delighted.’
‘How much do you want?’ I asked.
The lady laughed. ‘I don’t want any money for singing.’
But I insisted and she finally gave in to shut me up. I forget how much we agreed; it was probably a fiver.
After her first performance I went up to her and tried to give her the money. She refused, but I forced her to take it: she had been excellent value and had earned it.She immediately went to the bar and put the money on the counter.
‘What are you doing?’ I said.
‘You’ve paid me, Charlie,’ she replied. ‘I can do what I like with my own money. And what I’d like to do is buy everyone a drink.’
And she did. Not just then, but every time she came in. She was a lovely woman who just loved to sing, and her name was Queenie Watts.
For the rich and famous, the West End had always been the place for a night out. But in the middle fifties the other side of the river became fashionable, and wealthy, titled gentlemen and showbusiness stars – including Danny La Rue and Joan Collins’s sister Jackie – started coming to The Double R.
For me, the work was tiring. But it was our own business and the financial rewards were worthwhile. Most of the time, too, I was meeting very nice, genuine people. It certainly beat life on the knocker.
With business booming, Reggie and I decided to expand into gambling. At that time it was illegal: bookmakers were not Turf Accountants with shops in the High Street; they operated on street corners and anyone who wanted to put a couple of bob on a horse risked being nicked. Card games, too, were against the law. Anybody who wanted to play for money had to go to a spieler – a club, normally in a basement, where chemin de fer and poker were played away from the prying eyes of the police.
Reggie and I saw the financial possibilities in spielers and we acquired one across the road from The Double R. Within a couple of months, we opened two more. Money, suddenly, was coming out of our ears.
To make life even sweeter, a member of The Double R tipped me off about an empty flat in Narrow Street,Wapping. It was a two-bedroomed flat on the second floor of a shabby block called Brightlingsea Buildings, built for dockers and their families nearly a hundred years before. A palace it wasn’t. But it was a place Dolly, Gary and I could call ours at last and I snapped it up the same day. I had the money to move to a posher pad away from the manor, but the thought didn’t occur to me. The East End was in my blood, and anyway, that was where we were making a very good living.
Dolly adored the new lifestyle. She had always dreamed of being rich, and now that there was a few bob around, she made the most of it with lots of new clothes and regular hair-dos. We went to West End clubs with upper-crust patrons of The Double R who accepted us as friends, cockney accents and all, or we enjoyed ourselves with old friends in the East End. Wherever we went, Dolly always looked lovely and attracted a lot of attention. I was proud of her.
One bloke at The Double R seemed to be taking more than a passing interest in Dolly but I felt secure in our marriage and didn’t think much of it. She was a stunning looker and it was hardly surprising that other men found her attractive. My life was full to the brim with money and excitement and plans for the future, and I didn’t give George Ince another thought.
In Wandsworth Prison Ronnie was delighted that business was going well on the outside; he knew he would have a share in it when he was released, and because he’d earned full remission through good behaviour
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