B-Berry and I Look Back

by Dornford Yates

  “His son, Derek Curtis Bennett, I never set eyes on. I have seen it stated that he always felt overshadowed by his father’s great reputation. I find that rather difficult to believe. He certainly figured in several sensational cases. What sort of a show he put up, I have no idea.”

  “Did you ever meet the Magistrate?”

  “Once. At least, I was introduced to him. It was past ten o’clock at night, and Muskett and I had been in court at Bow Street all day, appearing for the Crown against militant suffragists. About a hundred arrests had been made the evening before, and every single woman pleaded not guilty and called evidence on her behalf. Such behaviour was intended to hold up the ordinary business of the Court and so, by God, it did. That was why Curtis Bennett was sitting to all hours. He was quite right to do so, for somehow or other the cases had to be heard. I remember that he adjourned for a quarter of an hour at ten o’clock. Muskett and I had, of course, no time to go out for a drink, even if there had been anywhere to go; so the Chief Clerk very kindly invited us to his private room, where someone – an usher, I think – was making tea. (The Chief Clerk at Bow Street was an exceptionally nice man and very able. I’m afraid I can’t remember his name. The senior usher’s name was, I think, Wade.) We were gratefully drinking the tea, when the door opened and Curtis Bennett came in. I don’t think he knew we were there. We all rose and Muskett said ‘Good evening, sir,’ and then introduced me. Curtis Bennett gave me the slightest nod. Then he took his stand, back to the fire. Nobody said anything. After a minute or two, ‘How long,’ said Curtis Bennett, ‘is this business going on?’ He didn’t address himself to anyone in particular, so after a moment or two Muskett replied. ‘I can only suppose, sir, for as long as any cases remain to be heard.’ I don’t think anything else was said, but Muskett and I drank up our tea and then bowed ourselves out. Muskett never said anything, but he was obviously ruffled.”

  “I’m damned if I blame him,” said Berry. “After all, Muskett was a pretty big man and for half the day he’d been on his feet, so it was very bad manners not to tell him to sit down and to say, ‘I’m afraid you must be very tired,’ or something.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Well, there you are. That was Curtis Bennett, then third Magistrate at Bow Street and later Chief Magistrate. He was only Chief Magistrate for a little while, and died suddenly, I think while attending some function at the Mansion House. Curiously, his son, Henry, died suddenly, too, not long after he had been appointed Chairman of the Sessions.”

  “How late did he sit on that particular night?”

  “I think till eleven o’clock. That meant that we had been at it for over eleven hours, for we’d started at ten in the morning and the breaks for food had been short. Mark you, he was right to go on and right to adjourn at eleven, for everyone was dead beat.”

  “Was he good on the bench?”

  “He was quite all right, but always gave me the impression of being unsure of himself. He wasn’t nearly firm enough with the militant suffragists. Each defendant was charged with obstructing the police in the execution of their duty. The witnesses they called almost invariably gave evidence which was entirely irrelevant to that charge. Curtis Bennett should have stopped them instantly. He never did. Several times, to my mind, he should have ordered the court to be cleared. The women’s supporters gave him ample excuse. And then we should have got on much faster. Then again, on another occasion, when Mrs Pankhurst and one of her daughters and, I think, a third woman were in the dock all day and witness after witness for the defence was being called, I looked round once to see the Pankhursts and their companion having tea.”

  “What? Not in the dock?” said Berry.

  “In the dock. Thermoses, packets of bread and butter and sandwiches, mouths full, ‘After you, dear’, and all the rest.”

  “And Bennett did nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Words fail me,” said Berry.

  “As a Justice of the Peace,” said Jonah, “what would you have done?”

  “I should have told the jailer to take the prisoners out of court, take away their victuals and put them in some safe place, and then bring the prisoners back.”

  “That,” said I, “is what he should have done. For his own dignity, I mean. But there you are. Still, on one occasion I did hear him speak very kindly to a poor old man who stood in the dock charged, I think, with begging, who was completely destitute. It was nothing to do with us: Muskett and I were there on some other case. But I was impressed by his very kindly words and the pains he took to arrange that the poor old fellow was cared for.”

  “Charity,” said Berry. “That outweighs many failings.”

  Which is undeniable.

  19

  “When I was a child,” said Berry, “the daily paper was very different to the daily paper of today. It was dignified: it reported matters of moment: its circulation was small. The only illustrated daily paper was The Daily Graphic – I think I remember its birth. The vast majority of Englishmen read the news once a week. That was, I believe, a very good thing. Today we are told far more than is good for us and, to serve some political end, there is much suppressio veri and suggestio falsi – to put it mildly – in the public prints. Of the sensational tripe with which some papers regale their customers, the less said the better. Enough that it degrades the soul. It’s too late to do anything now, but that the Press should wield so much power is a terrible thing: and I firmly believe that if every daily paper was washed out and an official news bulletin was issued and broadcast every day, the world would be a very much happier place.”

  “A dream,” said Jonah. “But you are perfectly right. And please continue to cast back. Your first impressions of London would interest me no end.”

  “Straw down in the street,” said Berry. “Opposite and on either side of a house in which someone lay seriously ill. Or tan. It made an astonishing difference. The passing traffic was silenced. There were then no engines or horns or gears: only iron tyres and the horses’ shoes. But they were noisy.

  “Then hatchments. These were black-boards about four feet square, with coats-of-arms painted on them, and were hung over the front door of a mansion in which someone of consequence had died. They hung there, I think, for a year, and were then hung for ever in the church which the deceased had attended.

  “I remember the pantomime at Drury Lane. I simply loved that. It started at half past seven and went on till midnight or later. The matinées started at half past one and went on till past six. And they had a matinée every day. The pantomime itself was followed by the harlequinade which young people of today have never seen. It was a street scene, with a barrow on which strings of sausages were displayed. There was a real clown, wearing the red and blue doublet and trunks, white hose and rosetted shoes: there was Harlequin, with his sword, wearing half a mask and elegant and lithe in black and silver: there was Columbine, all glorious in her ballet skirt: there was Pantaloon, worthy of his name, to whose seat Clown always applied a red-hot poker: and finally the policeman who arrested Clown for stealing a string of sausages. The clown was always called Joey and always bounded on to the stage, crying ‘Here we are again’. Very childish, of course; but in the tradition: and the immense audience ate it.

  “Then ‘cab runners’. These were rough men who waited outside stations, marked down a four-wheeler with luggage on its roof and ran behind it to its destination. There they desired to be permitted to carry the luggage upstairs. Whether their services were accepted or not, they could usually be sure of a shilling, for people were sorry for them. Now some of those who read what I have just said may declare that it was a monstrous scandal and typical of the era that poor men should be reduced to such an ignominious way of earning their bread. So let me say here and now that among my first impressions of London were the notice-boards invariably nailed to the hoardings where building was being done. These bore two words – HANDS WANTED.

  “Then fogs. When I was
of tender years, the London fogs really were fogs. I’ve never seen fogs like those we used to have before the first war. As a child, I thought they were marvellous; and, as nobody seemed to be in a hurry in those days, I don’t think people minded them so much as they do today. I remember the link-boys, with their torches or flares, guiding carriages home: and hundreds of people walked, because it seemed quicker and safer than going by cab or by bus. I remember hearing an old fellow who lived in Kensington relate that he had walked from Hyde Park Corner to High Street Kensington, holding his stick against the park railings all the way, because he feared that if once he lost them he might not find them again. How he got through Knightsbridge, I can’t remember. All traffic, of course, proceeded at a walk. Years later, I remember crossing Shaftesbury Avenue, only to discover, after several minutes of bewilderment, that I hadn’t crossed it at all, but was on a large island in the middle of the street. By the time I had found that out, I no longer knew in which direction lay the pavement from which I had come. So far as I could make out I had the island to myself; but if there had been anyone to ask, they wouldn’t have known which side of the street was which. So I chanced it – and made the wrong choice… I spent about half an hour in that blasted street.

  “And now to return to my childhood. One of the most exciting sounds was that of a fire-engine’s bell. No matter how heavy the traffic or crowded the thoroughfare, the press of vehicles seemed to shrink. With one accord, carriages, cabs, buses, all got to the side of the street – somehow, anyhow, in any order, leaving a clear run for the fire-engine. And then this came by – a most inspiring sight. The greys – they usually seemed to be greys – at full gallop, and the brass-helmeted firemen clinging to the rails, with one of them ringing the bell like fury, and the driver leaning forward with a rein in either hand. And then at once the river of traffic seemed to re-enter its bed, and everything was as before. I never saw the Tooley Street fire, but I was about eight when it occurred and I remember the sensation it caused. The wharves and warehouses burned for twenty days.

  “Then crossing-sweepers. These certainly plied their trade up to the first great war. Dickens has labelled them for all time: but, as a matter of hard fact, they were a cheerful, prosperous crowd – so far as I saw. They did a most excellent job and I very much doubt if they would have exchanged their work for any other. One got to know them and was always happy to give them a trifle for the clean lane they kept swept from pavement to pavement, across a side-street. They must have earned good money, for very few passengers failed to give them something.”

  “I remember the fellow,” said I, “at Bennet Street. A cheerful bloke, with one leg.”

  “I remember him well,” said Berry. “That was a very good pitch. Taking it at its lowest, I should say that he made between two and three hundred a year.”

  “You amaze me,” said Daphne.

  “I’m sure he must have.” said I. “Not every pitch was so good; and not every crossing-sweeper was so civil and cheerful. I think most people always kept some pence in the ticket-pocket of their overcoat for the crossing-sweepers, but if I’d run out and began to feel in my trousers’ pocket, he’d always stop me. ‘That’s all right, sir, thank you. Next time.’ Well, that made you want to give him half a crown. But taking them by and large, I should say that the crossing-sweeper was more than content with his lot.”

  “Cries of London,” said Jonah.

  Berry raised his eyebrows.

  “I can only remember two – hearing them used, I mean. Milk below – which we must all remember – and Knives, Scissors to grind. I know people say they remember Sweet Lavender and others: but I don’t. Still, there was the muffin-man, always very correct – with his bell and his tray on his head; and, of course, the lamp-lighter, who certainly did walk very fast and so justified the saying. I confess I regret their passing, for both belonged to a contented and comfortable age.

  “The old ‘Underground’ was awful, for locomotives were used. These continually vomited clouds of most filthy smoke of which, unless their windows were kept shut, the compartments of the coaches were necessarily full. And when windows were shut in hot weather, you damned near died. But people endured it, because they could do nothing else. You see, the tunnels were very low and there were many trains. When you were standing on a platform, waiting for a train, smoke was continually billowing out of the tunnels on either side.

  “I can’t honestly say I remember Astley’s Circus in Westminster Bridge Road, but I know that when I was very small I made one of a distinguished audience. On that occasion, as part of the entertainment, Red Riding Hood was presented. If those in charge of me may be believed, my wrath and indignation were deeply provoked by the sinister appearance of the wolf, and, to the delight of the house and the performers, I rose to my small feet and called upon the beast to withdraw. Unhappily, I was not yet able to pronounce the consonant ‘g’, so my roars of ‘Do away’ aroused more sympathetic amusement than anything else.”

  “How sweet,” said Jill.

  Berry shrugged his shoulders.

  “Naturally,” he said. “I was a most charming child. And talking of circuses, Piccadilly Circus was always known as Regent Circus in the old days. I mean, that was – and still is, I believe – its true name. I remember the Lowther Arcade: that was in the Strand: it was a paradise for children, for it was full of toy-shops. The volume of traffic in the streets was always very great; but its sound in the old days was not unpleasant to the ear, for it roared as gently as Bottom’s sucking-dove. Only in Piccadilly or Regent Circus do I remember any setts: and there, between the iron tyres and shoes, and the uneven granite, the uproar was shattering. There were no doubt many streets still paved with setts, particularly in the City, but, when I first visited London, I don’t suppose I used them.

  “I don’t seem to be able to remember anything more which belonged to London alone; but I can speak generally about one thing, and that is the wearing of mourning. There is no doubt that in this respect we have improved a great deal in the last sixty or seventy years.

  “Never, since mediaeval times, have we been as bad as the French: but when I was a child we did carry the display of mourning too far. The funeral was really dreadful, but the aftermath was unnecessarily painful. Six months after his loss, I’ve seen a man with so deep a band on his hat that you could hardly see the silk.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Jill.

  “Well, in those days in London everyone always wore a silk top-hat – I mean, every day. The same headgear was worn to Church in the country on Sundays – always: and in many country towns – every day. Now when the hat was sold to you, it always had a very narrow silk band round it just above the brim: but that didn’t look at all smart, so you always had a cloth or, really, a mourning band put on it, instead. I should say that that was about an inch and a half in depth. And that gave the hat an air. It set it off, as it does a grey top hat. But if you went into mourning, you had a deeper band put on in its place. Two and a half and three-inch bands were quite common: but, as I say, I have often seen a cloth band so deep that only an inch of the silk crown appeared above it. That was the mourning worn by a bereaved husband sixty years ago – with unrelieved black suits for months on end. I’ve worn dress trousers at a funeral myself – and not that of a relative. Which reminds me that I was in France when His Majesty King George the Fifth died. And the French servants were shocked when the next day I wore my ordinary country clothes and confined my mourning to the wearing of a black tie. And that was in 1936. People sometimes remark upon the fact that the country women in France are always dressed in black. The reason for that is that they are virtually never out of mourning. And so it’s no good buying coloured frocks. A parent dies – that means unrelieved black for a year: before the year’s out, an uncle dies – that means unrelieved black for six months: before that time is up, a grandmother dies… And so on. That is why the French peasant is always clad in black.”

  “Weepers,” s
aid Jonah.

  “I was spared them,” said Berry. “I think they must have gone out just before I was born, or very soon after. I never saw them, anyway.”

  “What were weepers?” said Jill.

  “They were broad crape scarves – oh, about five feet long. They were worn only at the funeral. They were wound round the top-hat once and loosely knotted at the back: their ends hung down the man’s back. A shocking sight. If the French affected the top hat, they’d be wearing them to this day. As I’ve said, they’re much worse than us. I remember once, when I was in Paris, seeing The Madeleine hung in black cloth. When you entered the famous church, except for the roof and the pavement, you couldn’t see any stone. It was completely lined with black cloth.

  “To return for a moment to the top-hat – there was much to be said for this headgear. It was becoming and it was a great protection to the head, which is why, of course, it is worn in the hunting-field. Then again you could pray into it.”

  “What ever d’you mean?” said Daphne.

  “Praying into the hat was an admirable fashion, now gone by the board. I have seen it done. I have seen an old gentleman follow his wife into Church: when they had entered their pew, she fell on her knees to pray, but he stood erect by her side, with his top hat up to his face, praying into it.”

  “Is that really true?” said Jill.

  “Certainly,” said Berry. “It was an old Admiral that I remember. I think his name was Burdett. He always did it – and did it very well. It used to fascinate me. About 1889, when I was five years old.”

  Jill looked at me.

  “You put it into The Stolen March,” she said.

  “I did,” said I. “At The Peck of Pepper, Snuffle prays into his hat.”

  “And I never knew that it was really done.”

  “I don’t suppose, my sweet, that one in a thousand readers did. But it was an old English custom: and if you remember, they were very old-fashioned in ‘The Pail’.”