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.

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