In 1978, I was still working at Maunkberry’s and we were faced with a new club opening in competition; The Embassy in Bond Street. The night in question was the opening night of this new club and although I had of course been invited, I was desperate to go along to sum up the competition.
As I was finishing off at home before leaving for this grand opening, I had a telephone call from my nephew:
“Uncle Trevor, Uncle Trevor, I can’t wake granny!”
I knew it then. My mother was dead.
I raced across London and after arranging for the doctor to come, the undertaker to call and remove my mother’s body, I hurried back to Bond Street and somehow got through the evening. Nightclub work is notoriously social and being social when your heart is so heavy was no easy task.
By the end of the evening I was back at Maunkberry’s thinking out how to put into action some urgent changes which I knew we would have to make after seeing how successful the Embassy Club was going to be.
There was a phone call. It was Freddie:
“I’ve heard, dear. You’re not to go back to your place. Come here. Come and stay here. At least for tonight. The car’s waiting for you outside.”
It was life-saver, the ultimate gesture of sympathy and affection when I needed it most. I really loved my mother and felt very alone now that she had gone. That night, Freddie put his arm round me and said:
“Don’t worry, dear. I’m your mother now.”
From then on, whenever he called he would say:
“Hello, dear. Mother here.”
From that day, he always had me over to the house on Christmas day and every year arranged a little party to celebrate my birthday with a few close friends. Until he died.
— Trevor Clarke, This Was The Real Life.
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