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Pam (Mogford), Jake's youngest daughter, has asked me to record
a few of the now legendary tales of her father, the late Jacob
Bennett. Owing to our difference in age, and perhaps fortunately,
for me, I was not personally involved in many of the incidents, and
it is certain that many which would have been well worth recording,
have now long been forgotten.
In setting down these few recollections, I realize it is
necessary to recall something of the character of the man himself.
For many years there was a series running in a well-known magazine
entitled “The Most Unforgettable Man I Ever Met”. For me, as least,
Jake fitted the bill; not always for the best of reasons, but for
his remarkable personality. He was proud and ambitious and always a
showman, but never mean or small-minded. He early realized the
importance of moving in the right circles in a small country town
such as Wycombe, and from the start tackled and fostered the
influential local leaders. He always dressed soberly, invariably
wore a dark suit and tie, with white shirt and starched collar, and
a dark trilby hat. He was tall, thin, and wiry, and his thin lips,
prominent jaw and dark eyebrows, gave him a stern and forbidding
expression. He seldom laughed, but occasionally his mouth would
soften, his eyes crinkle in a most attractive way and he was then
transformed into a most friendly and charming character. At such
times, as has often been said, he “could charm the birds out of the
trees”.
Such transformations were, however, quite a rare and usually
reserved to win over reluctant clients, or perhaps in the presence
of small children, of whom he was always most fond.
As has already been mentioned, from his earliest business days
Jake recognised the importance of meeting, and being seen in the
company of, those who influence others. Clearly in these brief
notes it is not possible to mention all of them, but the names of
some of them must be of interest. Such a list must include Walter
Birch, Jack Castle, Dickie Graafe, Wally Baker, Herbie Messenger,
Harry Anderson, William Keen, Frank Evans, Frank Priest, Ralph and
Maurice Janes, the Gomms, and the Griffiths of Stokenchurch. These
were mainly chair manufacturers, but the importance and influence
of many local shopkeepers and tradesmen must not be overlooked. It
is interesting to recall such names as Fred George - Ironmonger;
Berts Luttman - Pork Butcher; George Stevens - Corn Merchant; Jim
Aldridge - Greengrocer; Rupert Stevens - Butcher; Norman
Johns - Pastry cook; Bill Harding - Hairdresser; Harry Cox -
Tobacconist; Emler - Jeweller; Gardiners - Ironmongers; Albert Keen
- Miller; and Chas and Ted Gibson the Builders.
The list is almost endless and sounds like a commercial
directory of Wycombe in the first half of the 20th Century, but
mention must be made of the various hoteliers, with whom it might
be said that Jake had more than a passing interest. To name
but a few - Horace Browning of the Falcon (later at the Lambert
Arms and then at the Crown at Penn), Fred Edwards at the Globe, Jim
Fountain at the White Hart, Charles Callaway at the Kings Head, and
Charles Coltman at the Black Boy. Then there was Charles Ivins of
Amersham and Chesham, later at the Kings Arms, Stokenchurch and the
Kings Head, Holtspur, not to mention at a later date this beautiful
daughter Marjorie who, with her husband Bill Grubb, succeeded him
at the White Hart and at Holtspur and Stokenchurch. Although not in
the early, days, reference must be made to Bert Lee of the Falcon;
Jack Adams - Flint Cottage; Jack Hards - White Lion; The Pales; The
Staffords; and last, by no means least, Arthur Mogford of the Red
Lion.
I have left until last the name of the man who was undoubtedly
the most influential in the building up of Jake’s little business
empire. I refer to Thomas Lacey Morris of Barmoor farm, Marlow,
without dispute the leading farmer and cattle dealer in the
district. Jake was quick to realize this influence and standing
amongst the other farmers, and deliberately set out to cultivate
his friendship and support. Tom Morris regularly attended all local
cattle markets, and in the early days Jake would cycle to them,
even as far as Basingstoke, to create an impression of keenness and
efficiency. His efforts rapidly bore fruit, and it was not long
before he had secured all Mr Morris’s business. On one occasion
whilst driving round the farm in a pony and trap, Mr. Morris
pointed out the carcass of a sheep which had been killed by a dog.
Jake enquired its value, pulled out his cheque book, and handed Mr
Morris a cheque for the full amount, without reference to the
insurance company. The amount was probably quite small, but this
gesture, and other similar actions, so impressed Mr Morris that he
used his powerful influence to persuade many other important
farmers to transfer their insurances, and to effect life policies
with this “Young Bennett”. This was the start of an important
farming connection, and names which come to mind include the
Fields, Pitchers, Gibsons, Whites, and many others including at
least four generations of the Morris family.
Recalling the farming community reminds of the great activity in
Wycombe on market days, when the sheep and cattle would be penned
and auctioned in the High Street and Paul’s Row at the front and
rear of the Falcon Hotel, which, with all the other public houses
in the town, remained open all day. Jake had a small raised
desk, with his name over the top similar to an auctioneer’s
rostrum, and this on market days would be set up under the
Guildhall.
Fairly early in the morning Jake could be observed at the desk,
filling in forms, and collecting cheques from the arriving farmers,
but from about noon onwards most of the business would be
transacted in the comfort of the hotel bars. At this period Jake
made use of the professional services of a delightful old
character, a retired local doctor with a well-known fondness for
the bottle. I cannot recall his name, but I believe he came from
Marlow, and for a moderate fee was prepared to carry out medical
examinations for prospective life insurance candidates. I recall
that there was sometimes difficulty in locating the Doctor in the
many local hostelries in the vicinity, but once found he would be
hurriedly escorted back to the office and the examination would
then take place in Jake’s private sanctum. I have recollections of
red-faced, overweight farmers emerging with dangling braces, but
history does not record how many failed the “medical”; not too many
I should think.
It is difficult to refer to Jake Bennett without mentioning that
he was, by our standards, a lifetime heavy drinker, and even that
is perhaps an understatement. He invariably drank whisky with
soda, never with water, and during the war years when soda was in
short supply, I recollect him going around with a determined
expression in his eye, and a syphon firmly tucked under his arm. He
was fond of certain personal possessions, but not all, and in this
respect was quite an enigma. When he bought “Bower Hayes” he spared
no expense in furnishing it, and proudly displayed it. He also took
great pride in his garden, which in its heyday was excellently
maintained, albeit in a rather formal manner. By contrast his
office in the High Street was sparsely furnished, poorly equipped,
with inadequate lighting and heating, and remained in this
Dickensian atmosphere until the end. He had a love of cars and was
one of Wycombe’s pioneer motorists. He was a fast driver, and with
one objective, to overtake and pass the car in front. For several
years he drove an American Chrysler Tourer, quite an outstanding
car at the time, and caused as much eye turning as the
three-wheeled air cooled Morgan of his earlier days. He was most
proud of his family, particularly his five “beautiful” daughters,
but the 19th February, 1923 marked the birth of his son, John. His
activities, and the celebrations on that, and the following days,
were talked about for a long time afterwards, but details are now
vague and probably were at the time. One fact however is known;
within a few hours the name over the office in gold letters had
changed from “J Bennett” to “J. Bennett & Son”, and this was
the style of the firm until his death in 1955.
Never much of a reader, Jake was an excellent writer, and
excelled at elementary arithmetic. On occasions he would challenge
drinking companions to cast a long column of figures in the fastest
time, for a modest wager, or more often for “drinks all round”.
After his first win at this little party game others would pit
their skill against the champion, and many convivial evening
would be spend in this manner.
Jake was, of course, first and foremost, a superb insurance
salesman whose success was based almost entirely on his driving
urge to get the form signed and the first premium paid, and almost
everything he did was with this objective in mind. I well remember
an occasion, following a burglary at the Kings Head, Holtspur, then
owned by Charles Ivins, he took Mr Rowland Haines of the “Phoenix”
to settle the claim. Whilst this was being negotiated in the
office, Jake elected to have a drink in the front bar. Upon their
return they found him in conversation with a customer, a chance
caller. It transpired that in that short space of time, Jake had
engaged the customer, a complete stranger, in conversation, had
introduced himself, won his confidence, had worked out a quotation,
had obtained a completed and signed proposal form, and collected a
cheque for the first premium. An astounding feat of
salesmanship by any standards.
I recollect another incident which so clearly demonstrates his
ability as a business getter. He had been recommended to stay at a
hotel at Southborne, Nr. Bournemouth by the Branch Manager of the
Norwich Union whose sister owned and ran the hotel. With Mrs.
Bennett he spent an enjoyable week or so there, but upon their
return to Wycombe it transpired that during the stay he had
cultivated friendship with the sister, had effected a substantial
life policy for her, and had arranged certain policies for all the
grandchildren, all with the Norwich Union. Not only was this much
to the embarrassment of the Branch Manager, but the entire holiday
was more than paid for by the commission earned.
The name of Ralph Janes has already been mentioned. He was, of
course, Mrs. Bennett’s brother, and apart from Arthur Moxham, who
was Jake’s confederate in many early practical jokes and died at a
comparatively early age, a lifelong friend and shooting companion.
The relationship between the two was a most interesting one. Face
to face they were, generally speaking, most friendly, but behind
each other’s back could not find a good word to say (probably due
to family influence), but secretly each regarded the other with the
utmost esteem. The following letter, which was discovered some time
ago in an old file, is not only amusing, but is to some extent
indicative of their odd relationship.
19th February 1943.
R.A. Janes Esq.,
3, London Road,
High Wycombe.
Dear Ralph,
I did not like to argue in the Falcon when you said I borrowed a £1
from you at The Harrow on our last day of shooting, but I know I
had cashed a cheque with Mr. Pales for £5. I remember walking from
the Tea room along the bar and asked Mr Pales how much were the
Teas and he said 2/-. I said it was not enough and he answered that
was the amount his wife had told him, as the money went to her. I
asked for a pen and ink and he cashed the cheque and asked if he
should take the 2/-, from the amount, which he did, and handed to
me the difference. This was at six o’clock so there was no need to
borrow and I am positive I did not do so. There is no doubt you
lent someone £1, but it wasn’t me.
I called on Pales last evening on business, and he well remembered
the occurrence and also deducting the Tea money pointing out he
must not put it in the till as it went to his wife and he confirms
he cashed the cheque at 6 o’clock.
I enclose the cheque to confirm and feel sure you do not mind
my pointing this out to you. Pales also said we all appeared to
have had a most enjoyable evening and it was proved by your driving
your car on his garden making two deep furrows and he and some of
his customers helped pull the car off the garden as the wheels
would not grip in the sod. He was very amused to learn about my
leaving my rabbits in the road all night and taking yours and
thinks the Wycombe people very honest not having interfered with
them.
Cheerio,
Yours faithfully,
J. Bennett.
On one occasion at the Plow at Speen, the landlord, Pat ‘a
Becket, asked Ralph if he would autograph a parchment lampshade,
then all the vogue. Ralph obliged and signed - R.A. Janes, Mayor of
High Wycombe. Jake pretended to be annoyed at not being invited to
sign, but when being pressed to do so duly wrote - J. Bennett,
Brother-in-Law, of the Mayor of High Wycombe.
One of Jake’s favourite amusements, when in his cups, was to
walkover to a fellow customer, probably sitting there quite quietly
enjoying his drink, and without any warning bash the top of his
bowler hat in. One day in the White Hart, Jake bashed in the hat of
Jim Burnham. Not unexpectedly a skirmish ensued, involving Ralph
Janes who was in the company. Later that evening, Burnham reached
the conclusion that honour had not been satisfied and made his way
to London Road intending to confront Ralph. Unfortunately, he
mistook the house, No.3, and banged loudly on the next door, No.5.
This was opened by the occupant, a tall, quiet man, the local
manager of the Pearl Insurance Company who, without warning,
received a most violent blow on the nose. This was an exceptional
case, and took some little time to pass over, but the hat bashing
incidents were usually settled fairly amicably, and Jake would
invariably provide a new hat for the victim within a few days. He
did in fact maintain an account for this very purpose with a local
firm of Gents Outfitters - Snell & Goodson in Church
Square.
Mention of the White Hart reminds me of another amusing
incident. This Hotel, always popular with the farming community,
was the venue for the regular farmers’ lunch on market days.
this was held in the upstairs rooms, usually presided over by
Tom Morris, or some other leading farmer, and an outsider
considered it quite an honour to be invited. Some weeks Jake would
use all his tact and diplomacy to secure such an invitation. It was
customary to “hang” pheasants, partridges and hares under the
archway leading to the yard, also poultry and rabbits. There were,
of course, no refrigerators and this was a cool and shady place to
store such items until required for the table. On one occasion Jake
returned to Wycombe after a rather unsuccessful day’s shooting,
possibly due to have spent more time in the taproom than in the
covers, and with his companions, unhooked the game, took it into
the hotel, displayed it as the day’s bag, and what was not sold to
the landlord was raffled amongst the customers. This sort of
incident, whilst causing some indignation at the time, would soon
blow over, and would result in Jake strolling along a few days
afterwards, cheque book in hand. He would settle most generously
and treat the entire company. The whole affair would then be
regarded as an amusing joke, and would be talked about around the
town for the following week or two, such conversations usually
prefaced by, “did you hear what Jake Bennett got up to last week?”.
All good publicity.
I remember a somewhat similar escapade, but this time the
subject involved was not game but a suckling pig. It was customary
at Christmas time for butchers to display suckling pigs, complete
with orange in mouth, outside their premises. One Christmas
Eve morning after calling at the White Hart, his companion engaged
the attention of Tom Morris’s Shop manager whilst Jake purloined
one of these animals and placed it on the back seat of his car. The
lunch time and the afternoon was spent at the Station Hotel (now
The Firefly) at Bourne End. In the early evening it was decided to
move to the George & Dragon at Marlow, but on returning to the
car Jake realized he still had the suckling pig, which by now he
had entirely forgotten. On arrival at the George & Dragon, Jake
informed the proprietor that he wished to give a dinner party for a
few friends, and would like the pig to form the main course. He
then ‘phoned and invited several local farmers, including Tom
Morris, and a most convivial evening took place. Everyone knew of,
and enjoyed the joke except Tom Morris until the end of the party.
Fortunately he took it all in good part, but there were some
complicated explanations to be made to the Wycombe constabulary
over the Christmas holiday.
In the 1920’s Income Tax was far less onerous than today and was
dealt with by a local tax collector, one Ralph Williams, on a
rather hit or miss basis. There were frequent disputes and appeals,
and these were heard by a tribunal of local business and
professional men. A certain well know furniture manufacturer, one
of Jake’s clients and drinking companion who I will refer to as
Harry X, failed to satisfy the tribunal, was finally summoned for
non payment of tax, and had to appear before the local magistrates.
Jake accompanied Harry to court for what was regarded as a mere
formality, when to their surprise, and almost disbelief, Harry was
given a short prison sentence. As he was being led down to the
cell, Harry asked if he might see his old friend, and get him to
tell his wife that he would not be home to lunch. He had apparently
not even thought it necessary to mention his court appearance to
her. By this time Harry was reduced to tears, and after sitting on
the bunk for some time, and smoking a cigarette or two, Jake
noticed that the cell door had been left open and why didn't they
go and have a drink, after which Harry could go home. This they
proceeded to do, but were picked up later in a local hotel by a red
faced policeman, and Harry was escorted back to complete his
sentence.
Another incident involving the police occurred when after
leaving the office Jake called on his friend, the Branch Manager of
Barclay’s Bank who lived in a flat over the Bank in High Street.
Some hours later a well known local policeman - George C.,
anticipating a pint of beer, rang the bell to remind Mr Bennett
that his car was still parked in the High Street and was without
lights. He was told it would shortly be moved. (There were, of
course, no yellow lines at the time, but at the discretion of the
police a motorist could be summoned for obstruction). Several times
during the evening the policeman rang the bell, only to receive the
same reply, and it was not until the early hours of the next day
that Jake emerged, somewhat the worse for wear. The constable
undoubtedly anticipating some liquid or financial reward for his
evening’s vigil suggested that it might be advisable to accompany
Jake home. This was agreed. They got into the car with Jake at the
wheel, but instead of turning up Crendon Street, Jake sped at a
great pace down Easton Street in the direction of London. A
Loudwater Turning Jake did a U-turn and, as he did so, leant over,
opened the near side door, and gave the unsuspecting constable a
violent push, with the result that he fell out on the road. The
following morning Jake, still in bed with the most terrible
hangover, was woken by the telephone. “This is Chief Constable
Jones - Mr. Bennett, this time you have gone too far. I want to see
you here in my office in half an hour’s time”. It transpired that
the policeman had sustained a broken arm, had to walk back to
Wycombe, and in fact was off duty for many weeks afterwards. It was
some days before Jake was able to visit the Chief Constable, when
in some devious way he managed to put matters to right. I well
remember the final outcome. Several months afterwards, Jake
arranged for a London firm of Jewellers to send down a selection of
solid gold cigarette cases and P.C. George was invited for a drink
and asked to select one. After it had been suitably engraved,
Jake presented it with a most humorous speech, and the case became
the recipient’s most proud and prized possession until his death a
few years ago.
Jake was always inordinately proud of his feet, and was usually
ready to seize any opportunity either at home, or in public, to
display them and extol their virtues. During a session at the Kings
Head, Holtspur, Jake was proudly showing his feet on a stool in the
middle of the bar when one of the company, reputed to be Wally
Pierce, grabbed a rusty old cutlass from the wall and, in fun,
aimed vigorous swinging blow. Unfortunately the blow did not
entirely miss the foot as intended and a nasty cut was inflicted on
one of the toes. In fact what could have been a most serious matter
turned out to be fairly minor, but there was undoubtedly a great
deal of blood and a local doctor was hurriedly summoned. Whatever
else the result, the incident certainly had a most sobering effect
for some time to come.
For many years Jake usually bought his whisky for home
consumption in stone gallon jars, which would then, for convenience
be transferred to bottles. I was present on one occasion when he
retired to the cellar to replenish his supply in the room, and
returned with an armful of bottles, one of which he seriously
presented to each member of the company.
A regular supply of Scotch in the gallon jars mentioned was
supplied by a London firm of wine merchants, who were represented
by a Mr. Spence. Mr. Spence was a charming, well educated
character, but a confirmed alcoholic. He had a most refined accent,
was always immaculately dressed in a dark suit, with bowler had and
umbrella and always sported a fresh rose in his buttonhole. He
would sail into the office about noon, having travelled down from
London by trail, would lean over the counter, swaying slightly, and
in a delightfully blurred accent would enquire for Mr Bennett. The
next development depended entirely on the market position in
Scotch. In times of plenty Mr. Spence would receive a curt message
from the inner sanctuary such as “nothing today thank you”, but on
other occasions, perhaps when black market conditions were
operating, he would be invited into the inner office (incidentally,
in all the years, I never remember Jake keeping any drinks in the
office) and after a secretive conversation the two would emerge and
wend their way in the direction of the Lion or Falcon. It was then
most unlikely that either of them would be seen again that day,
unless one happened to be near the railway station that evening,
when one might catch a glimpse of the immaculate Mr. Spence, now
more than a little disheveled, with bowler hat tilted back, but
still clutching his umbrella and gloved, being assisted by the taxi
driver to the London train. Of one thing, one could be certain,
within the next few days, Carter Patterson’s van would pull up at
the office, and a number of heavy cylindrical objects in wicker
crates deposited on the floor.
One sad day news came through that poor Mr. Spence had died and
Jake asked if I would drive him to the funeral. This request came
as a little surprise to me as he was by no means an habitual
funeral goer, and Ashford was, after all, some distance away.
However, I as pleased to oblige and on arrival at the church I
noticed that Jake seemed far more interested in our fellow mourners
than in the service. Upon emerging he made a bee-line for three
tall, portly, well dressed gentlemen, and addressed himself to
them. After the customary comments ‘such a sad occasion - poor Mr
Spence - such a charming person’, I heard Jake enquire if the
gentlemen might be relatives. The answer was ‘no’ - they were
merely directors of a wine firm for which the late Mr. Spence had
been employed, whereupon Jake most respectively enquired
whether on such a sad occasion they might be feeling in need of a
little refreshment and suggested an hotel just down the road, in
which I then remembered Jake had shown more than a passing interest
when we drove up looking for the church.
After Jake had bought the first round, he thought it appropriate
to pay for another before leaving for Wycombe, and after that one
of the directors thought it only fair that we should join them in a
drink before we left. By now the atmosphere was convivial, and as
time was getting on, suggested that our new friends might care to
join him in a spot of lunch before catching the London train. This
resulted in the best meal in the house being provided, during the
course of which, with the wine flowing freely, Jake casually
remarked that he wondered what he would do now that Mr. Spence was
no longer around to ensure the regular supply of wines and spirits.
Whereupon, with great cordiality, the three guests assured him that
he need have no worries on that score and they would personally see
to it that for such a respected and valued customer, there was no
reason whatsoever why the future supply should not be guaranteed,
and despite the current shortages, might even be increased. The
party finally broke up about tea-time, and as we got in the car I
looked at Jake’s face, and saw just a small twinkle in his eye, and
a softening of the jaw line, and then for the first time realized
“Mission Accomplished”.
Incidentally, and really nothing to do with the story, we drove
home via Beaconsfield and at Holtspur Jake said we wanted to call
the Kings Head as he had to see Marjorie on business. I demurred
slightly, but was told the business would not take very long and we
would then go straight home to Wycombe. As the hotel was not yet
open for the evening, Marjorie invited us upstairs and suggested a
cup of tea. Jake though he would prefer just a small spot of
whisky. I cannot remember how many times I heard that remark,
during the remainder of the evening, or the number of times I tried
to get him home. It was always “yes we must go - just as soon as
I’ve finished this last drink”. In the event we reached
“Bower Hayes” about 9-30 and a I helped Jake up the path, the door
was flung open by Mrs. Bennett from whom I, not Jake, received the
most unbelievable stream of abuse “for bringing him home in this
state after keeping him out all day”.
The last incident I have described is fairly typical of an
outing with Jake, but in my mind I have many memories of the
humorous pranks and situations in which he constantly found
himself. Many of these were of course very minor and unimportant
incidents, such as the time Arthur Barney drove him home from
Stokenchurch, only to realize when they reached Wycombe that Jake
would now have to drive Arthur back. I cannot vouch for the number
of times the return journey was made, but every time I heard the
tale the score had increased. Then there was the night he arrived
home with a nanny goat in the back of his car, and was more than
surprised to come face to face with it when he opened the garage
door the next morning. He had quite forgotten bringing it home, or
where it came from, and he had to secretly keep it in the garage
for several days before a home could be found for it.
I hope that above disjointed jottings will be of interest and
perhaps revive some memories of a man who, whatever is failings and
his virtues was never insignificant. When Jake was around, people
knew he was there.
Leslie Harris 1986 |
