Rothschild's Bank - The Best Club In London

Date: 1910 to 1957
Location: New Court, St. Swithin's Lane, London
Surname/tag: Elton

Herbert Sauzier Elton 's memories of working at New Court between 1910 and 1957

“BEST CLUB IN LONDON”

Thus spake George Tite standing with his back to the roaring fire in the General Office of New Court. How right he was ! Of course there were times when the atmosphere of that hallowed hall was anything but club-like. But, if a club is a place where one meets one’s friends, then the epigram is appropriate.

The accompanying notes and “Potted Personalities” were written in 1964; I thought it best to make no reference to persons at New Court at that time. Since then three very dear friends have gone and so I add my humble tributes to them.

FRANK NEWBERRY

Known at the Royal Mint Refinery as “Le Pere Frankie”.

A bachelor, he was brought up to New Court to strengthen the Bullion Department. A very delightful person and, having been brought up in France, he had all the courtesy and manners of an old French family. A great lover of Nature, music and art, as well as a great reader, he assembled a careful collection of silhouettes including many by the famous Myers. All in all, a man of much charm. Perhaps he was a little hesitant in answering immediately questions put to him by Mr. Anthony, who always liked a quick reply. But this was his nature, not to speak until he had thought out the implications involved.

He retired early owing to failing eyesight and went to live in Midhurst where my wife and I saw much of him. He died in 1942. A very dear person.

JACK MORTON

A very different type, having the temper and drive of his father (then London Manager of the Sheffield Smelting Company with whom the firm did a lot of business in what the bullion trade called “Sweeps”.)

Jack came to New Court on being demobilised after the First World War having acquired a Cambridge Degree. He and I generally lunched together during the week and, as we had a lot of common interests, he became a very dear friend. He had, as many of us have, several peculiarities. He was quite oblivious of what anyone thought of him. For example, he had the temerity on a very hot day to take off his jacket in the restaurant where we lunched and, when asked by the manageress to put it on again, left his uneaten lunch and walked out. Sometimes he and I had grilled herrings for lunch and Jack would collect the soft roes in an envelope to take home for the “puss cat”.

Jack never wasted time and was even known to use the time spent in the tube on the way home to use a rather noisy calculating machine on his knees in order to finish some office work. Then he would dash up the “NO ENTRY” staircase at Highgate so as to get to the lift before the crowd (having, of course, made sure that he was in that part of the train which stopped near to the escape hole). He believed, like his father, in always arriving late for an appointment so as to avoid having to wait himself.

One night my wife and I joined Jack and his wife for dinner and dance. Having bathed and dressed (tails, of course), he said to me “Come, we’ve just time to clean the car.” This we did!

On one occasion when Morton was driving home over Hampstead Heath on a bright moonlit night after dining with friends, he was stopped by a policeman for not having his lights on. Added to which his breath smelt of wine and his usual slight stammer was accentuated by the emergency. This all looked pretty serious for an employee of N.M.R. & Sons and it took all father Morton’s influence with the Magistrate to get the charge dropped.

We had holidays together and when walking through the country both he and his wife were always on the look-out for a nice hotel which they wished to acquire. He had been gassed during the war and the winter fogs of London affected his chest, so that it was no surprise that he retired early and bought “The Elms”, Abberley, the first hotel in the AA Handbook. Many from New Court stayed there in that lovely country house.

After some years he died of pneumonia, a great loss to all who knew him.

HUGH MILLER

Joined New Court in 1917 from Cambridge where he obtained a First in Economics and a half blue in tennis. He was the son of the principal of the Bullion Office at the Bank of England.

A perfectionist in all things he undertook, and there were many.

His chief renown at New Court was as head of the Bills Receivable Department, so aptly described from a junior’s point of view in Palin’s book ““Rothschild Relish”. Outside the office his interests were legion. During the Blitz when he worked on munitions at the refinery, he entertained the workmen when sheltering from the German raids with card tricks and sleight of hand. He exhibited at the salon of the Royal Photographic Society, and he wrote a useful book on “‘Foreign Exchange” which brought reviews of books on Banking for the Institute of Bankers.

Hugh was on the Committee of the Alpine Society, President of the Iris Society which awarded him the Dykes Memorial for his production of the wonderful Iris “Katchengunga”; he designed and built an extensive model gauge 1 railway for his sons, complete with scenery made of papier mache and realistically painted.

He made a unique collection of “‘Ship Letters”’, each mounted on a separate page with an engraving of the period depicting the port of entry and annotated in excellent block lettering (his usual writing was frightful). He collected antique furniture which he was able to re-habilitate, stain and polish, and he combed the local auctions for oil paintings, one of which turned out to be a Turner. Yet, unless one was prepared to share his particular enthusiasm of the moment and go along with him, you could miss a lot of his intrinsic friend¬ship and charm.

After recovering from an operation which relieved him of much pain, caused by an arthritic hip, he died quite suddenly in 1962.

• * * * *

I have to thank New Court for giving me these very dear friends.

PERSONAL MEMORIES OF NEW COURT

“Ow did you get ‘ere?” said the venerable Chief Cashier (Mr. Courbould), as if I were something the cat had brought in.

I evaded the question but the truth may now be revealed. I had always been warned that if I did not do well at school I should be put in a Bank instead of becoming a locomotive engineer. It so happened that my father was unable through threatened illness to contemplate the expense of my being articled to a railway engineer. And so, in September 1910, through the influence of the Duke of Connaught under whom my father had served in the South African War, I was ushered in by Mr. Tarver for an interview with the Partners, then Lord Rothschild, Mr. Leopold and Mr. Alfred. Little did I realize that such qualifications as I had went for nothing. (They were a working knowledge of French and German and a London Matriculation First Class pass.)

Mr. Leopold spoke to me in both languages and then fired this at me: “‘Why don’t you go into the Army like your father?” By the greatest of luck I replied “I would rather come to New Court, Sir”’. Mr. Leopold, obviously pleased, rattled his keys in his pocket and, turning to the other two and smiling, said “Do you hear that ? - he would rather come here than be in the Army.” That did it. I was told to come the next day and ask for “Towsie”.

The porters on the gate said there was no such person. I then played another card. Could I see Mr. Purdie? I had been told by a friend, the Headmaster of the Roan School, Greenwich, that one of his best pupils, Purdie, was a very trusted person at Rothschilds. When Purdie heard that I knew his former Head I was at once persona grata. He was a good friend to me from that moment. Towsie turned out to be W.N. Towse, a fairly new clerk whom Mr. Leopold always called “Towsie” and he became one of my best friends. (Towse was a relation of General Towse, VC, a prominent member of the Fishmongers Company.) Purdie, like most of the other porters at that time, was descended from the Folkestone smugglers who had done yeoman service to the original Nathaniel Meyer Rothschild in the early days. They were a very fine crowd of hefty fellows absolutely devoted to the firm.

And so I was set to sort into numerical order, count and list Brazilian and Chilean Coupons which had been paid by our Paris house. This was my deadly occupation for four years.

To do this efficiently I was dressed - as most of the others at that time - in morning coat, top hat, white spats over patent leather boots, stiff butter¬fly collar and starched shirt. I travelled second class and thought myself well paid at £100 a year. After all, my friend in the Bank of Scotland thought himself lucky to be getting £25 a year. But this was not all, because in the four years before the First World War I was able to save £400. This apparent paradox was due to the large number of "touchings” which followed the many big loans which the firm issued during that period.

On “Touching Day”’ we lined up in alphabetical order outside the ‘“Old Room” (the former partner” s room) and eagerly watched the men who came out for an indication of the magnitude of the “touching”. On entering, one saw Mr. Leo (it was always Mr. Leo) seated at the centre table, a white carnation or orchid in his buttonhole and a large white handkerchief tucked loosely between the lapels of his coat, before him a pile of Bank of England notes. He always asked “‘Have you been very busyee?” to which one replied “‘There has been a lot to do, Sir”’ or something like that. He would then hand me £25 or £30 in those lovely crisp notes.

Then there was holiday money. An example: (one had to ask for this by going in to see Mr. Leo) Mr. Leo asked me where I was going and I replied ‘“Grindelwald, Sir”. “That will be a nice holiday, take this to the Cashiers” - a debit slip for £30. A lot of money in those days.

At Christmas there was a Christmas Box of £25 and, of course, a monster turkey. We were paid once a quarter in arrears. For this, we lined up in alphabetical order and received our pay in Bank of England notes from a Mr. Harvey through a little window at the end of his desk. Many clerks found this once a quarter system left them high and dry by the end of the period. But coupons, coupons, COUPONS - ever more of them.

Montefiore, in charge, together with Bartrum and myself were the chief victims. We became so expert that we could talk and discuss current affairs while counting the wretched things into packets of 100. We could sort into numerical order, count and list at the rate of about four to six thousand a day each of us. To keep up the interest the chap who did the least had to buy a ½ lb box of Fuller’s chocolates for consumption the next afternoon. We had, at times, to work up to 8 p.m. to keep pace with the never-ceasing flow. It was like “Alice through the Looking Glass”, having to run all out just to keep in the same place. On these occasions we would have a dinner “up West” and afterwards go to some place of entertainment like the “Tivoli Music Hall” where such stars as Marie Lloyd, Harry Tate, Harry Lauder and Little Titch might all appear in the same programme. Dinner had cost, perhaps, 4 shillings and the theatre 2/6, but it was worth it!

In those days most of the senior clerks like Gibbs, Littlehales, Metcalf, Wall and Father Howard wore beards similar to King Edward VII and, though very dignified, in appearance, were not above relaxing. Father Howard, for example, could be persuaded at tea-time to give a most realistic representation of the Lord Mayor’s Show, banging on the table till the cups rattled as the drums drew near, interspersed with noises from the crowd. “Programme all ‘ighly coloured.” Then trombones playing, children crying, horses clattering along, etc. - it would have us in fits of laughter.

We all had lunch at the office in those days and what a sumptuous affair it was! The caterers were Ring & Brymer who did the Lord Mayor’s banquets and I can remember such things as plovers on toast (2), baked John Dorey, meringues Chantilly, and wines. Only the First World War saved me from chronic indiges¬t ion.

There was a large German element then - the Nauheims - Joseph and Karl, Muller, Scholtz, Schonfelder and others, some of whom had served in the Franco-Prussian war. At the end of lunch each one of the Germans leaving the table would growl “Mahlzeit” (a shortened form of Gesegnete Mahlzeit or “Blessed Meal”) and we would repeat “Mahlzeit”. A much younger German named Bungener, who used to blow cherry stones out of his mouth on to his plate when eating cherry tart, sometimes missed the mark and the stone would come to rest on the tablecloth. He disappeared just before the outbreak of World War I; he was of military age. Was he a better shot with his rifle? I hope not.

The four most junior clerks had to take turns “on the Post” every night for a week. This involved entering all the names and addresses and stamp values of all letters. These had to be away before 6 p.m. On the one hand was a porter called Black in charge of the Post, urging haste, and on the other the great High Priest Joseph Nauheim would come and examine the writing to see it if was up to his very high standard. Those whose writing was not good enough were made to take lessons in caligraphy. Montefiore was one of these. We then had to add up all the entries and agree them with the stamps issued, a matter of only £2 or £3. The joke was that we ignored the registered packets and it was here that Black did himself exceedingly well until Burrell’s Control Department discovered the fraud and Black was sacked to the great joy of all juniors.

Near the counter in the General Office was a huge letter press over which presided an old South African War veteran named Duncan, late Sergeant in the Black Watch. He had been badly wounded in the leg and his record and braw Scots accent were most impressive. He was also no respector of persons, however exalted. He let no-one else take press copies of the letters, all of which were written in beautiful longhand with some awful stuff called copying ink - thick black ink which dried very slowly and could not be blotted (there were no typewriters in those days). The letters were put between damp tissue paper and the requisite number of copies emerged after Duncan had done his stuff at the big wheel of the press.

Joseph Nauheim, the then Manager and Chief Correspondent, having got the letters signed would stand up on his little platform which raised him above all the other clerks and shout over the partitions (all neatly labelled “Please make as little noise as possible”) “Copee”. Old Duncan took no notice. Again would come the gutteral “Copeeee”, and Duncan would quite audibly reply “You bloody well wait” and get away with it!

The clouds of War were threatening and the firm gave every encouragement to clerks to join the Territorials, including allowing camp time in addition to normal holidays. When war did break out there was a great rush to join up. The department in which I was heard through Towse that the Artists Rifles were to form a new battalion for Home Service. So we all went along at 6 a.m. the next morning and stood in a queue until late in the evening before we signed on, paid £5 for the privilege and were told that unless we were prepared to go overseas we were not wanted. Was there a man dismayed? Yes, my father! I blotted my copy book by being made a Corporal over my boss, Montefiore, in view of my O.T.C. training at school. Some months later five members of New Court dined together in Alexandria; they were Wise, Littlehales, Towse, Scudamore and myself. Towse and I were in the same brigade and we often met and talked of New Court. I last saw him just before we went over the top at High Wood in September 1916 in which attack he was killed, alas.

Before going overseas I went to say “Good-bye” to the partners and Mr. Leo gave me a chit for 50 cigars and told me to ask the head waiter, Barnaby, for a really nice box. I was a non-smoker but proudly took my cigars to the Officers’ Mess and they were handed round at guest night. The C.O. was a Colonel Carlebach (a brother officer of the infamous Colonel. Blumenthal late of New Court). He was a director of the Imperial Tobacco Company and, having tried one of my cigars, said “Mr. Elton, where did you get these cigars?” When I told him he said “Well, they’ve been swindled, you’d better give them to the waiters.” They threw them away. Was Barnaby or Brumfits to blame?

In view of my interest in things mechanical and to see a more exciting side of the war, I managed to get into the Tank Corps and became a Tank Commander. One day my C.O., a regular of the old school, sent for me and told me that because I was good at map reading and spoke French and German I was to be a Reconnaissance Officer. I replied that I wanted to remain a Tank Commander. Knowing my civilian, occupation, he then said angrily “You are in the Army now, not in a little Jewish money-lender’s office and you’ll bloody-well do what you are told.” I felt like murder but had to salute and say “Very good, Sir”, and my thoughts went back to that first day at New Court when I had said “I would rather come to New Court”.

And so on demobilisation I presented myself at New Court with a new Bowler Hat and rather full of myself. When I asked Mr. Burrell if I could have a holiday with my parents he replied “You’ve been on holiday for five years and lots of people here hav’nt had a holiday all that time.” He might have said “You’re in a bank now, not in the Army” and it would have hurt less. I started the next day on COUPONS!

This was too much; so I went up to Mr. Burrell and told him I had been used to taking responsibility and had a good head for figures - could I be allowed to show what I could do? His reply in his marked Welsh intonation was “Well! It all. depends upon you”. Next day I was put on to wrapping up parcels of drawn bonds in brown paper under the able instruction of a Mr. Henfrey. This I did for three months and did it so well that, like the man in H.M.S. “Pinafore” who “polished up the handles so carefully”, I became junior in Mr. Burrell’s pet Control Department. This was my bit of luck, for there I met the great Mr. A.E. Kimpton and became his man from that day on.

Kimpton was a man after my own heart at that time. (I was to be a little disappointed by some of his later exploits.) He was progressive to the verge of being revolutionary and unlike some heads of departments he took pains to teach me a great deal and when he formed the African Gold Realization Depart¬ment I became his assistant. Kimpton liked to have clerks around him to whom he could leave the work and it paid dividends. As a youngster I had been taught to memorise the decimals of a pound of all shillings and pence down to 3/4 of a penny and I had always worked in decimals. So when Kimpton introduced calculating machines I was quids in.

We no longer took any notice of those words above each desk “Please make as little noise as possible” and the noise in the General Office was frightful. And so I came to the Bullion Department for many years. When there one day old Corbould, long since retired, paid a visit to New Court. I told him how good it was to see him looking so well, to which he replied “My! You ‘ave bin gettin’ on; you used to be in the back ‘all”. He had won again.

In 1919 there was only one telephone in the General Office (in a cupboard behind the oak panelling) and it was the duty of the junior in the Bullion Department to answer all calls as most of them were for us. Letters were still being written by hand and copied in the old press. Mr. Scott of the Bill Department would put Bills of Exchange for discounting in his portfolio, don his top hat and hawk them round the money market. The Bullion Van was horse drawn and when taking gold bars to the Refinery had to have a skid fitted under the iron tyres to prevent it running away down the slope through the Great Gate of Kief into Fuller’s shop opposite, as had once happened. It is difficult to imagine in this year 1964 that when we had to ship, say, three quarters of a million pounds worth of gold bars to New York, the railway company would take it in an open lorry to Waterloo Station with a tarpaulin spread over the boxes and a single unarmed policeman would sit nonchalantly at the back. AND NOTHING EVER HAPPENED.

One of my jobs was to look after the shipping arrangements for the weekly shipments of gold to New York. One day when making up the account for Kuhn Loeb I could find no debit slip for the insurance of a big shipment. Then it dawned on me that I had forgotten to notify the insurers. Expecting the tick off of all time, I confessed to my boss, Clement Cooper, and all he said was “Tell the Alliance”. This I did and to my immense relief they said “That’s all right, old chap, send us the usual cover note”. By this time the ship was over halfway to New York. Had I made a mistake of 6d in the account, I should have been soundly ticked off.

Our great joy in those days in the Bullion Department was to go down to the Refinery. The Royal Mint Refinery in its peak days used to refine a large proportion of the production of the South and West African Gold Mines using mostly the chlorine process. It was originally staffed by Frenchmen from Normandy and, between the two wars, still had a large element of French-speaking staff, both clerks and workmen.

Because of the acid about in the silver refining section, the men wore clogs. Wine was imported in barrels from France and was bottled at the Refinery for staff and workmen.

To me, being half French, it was always fascinating to enter this isolated pocket from across the Channel, apart from the interest of seeing gold and silver being refined and cast into bars. Only a few experts could produce those beautiful little 10 ounce bars by playing a flame on the mould as the metal was poured. These were shipped in thousands to Malaya to pay for the purchase of estates for growing rubber and to India where they just disappeared. Then came the decision of the Chinese Government to cash in on their vast stocks of silver Sycee and Maria Theresa Dollars. Sycee were silver ingots of about a pound weight cast into shoe-like form and, like the dollar coins, had to be melted down and cast into bars acceptable in the London Market. Great shiploads of these would arrive at London Docks in wooden boxes and were brought to the Refinery in enormous articulated meat lorries and it was essential that they should be cleared or we had trouble with the police because Royal Mint Street was becoming jammed with lorries waiting to get into the yards. I was sent down to organise gangs of casual dock labour to unload, break open the boxes, rough weigh the contents and wheel them in great tubs to the waiting furnaces. It was most exciting work and had to be done at great speed. I found that I got the best results by working one gang against another and letting them have a 10 minute break for a smoke at 10 minutes to each hour. This did not meet with approval when Mr. Buess, the Manager, saw them during one of the breaks. He said that they were paid by the hour and not by the 50 minutes and it took a lot to convince him that it worked better like that. The Refinery was working three shifts of eight hours a day, seven days a week during that period and some of us slept there on occasions.

It was fine to see the way in which these dock labourers improved in health with the good pay they were getting. This was the time of the Depression. One of the first things they bought was shoes for their families and then for themselves, gradually smartening themselves up.

I became very fond of those chaps and got to hear of their home lives and so, when the shipments began to ease off, I was delighted when I was asked to prepare recommendations for permanent employment at the Refinery. Among the names I submitted I starred two for special consideration. “So much for your judgment” said the Manager. “One of those is an ex Borstal boy and we can’t have him here, the temptations are too great.” I felt very sad about this and still do, for that chap was an outstanding leader of men, strong and healthy and a very hard worker. He had had the decency to tell the Manager his history and asked for a chance. He was given a month’s pay and sacked immediately. The other star turn was doing exceptionally well when I retired.

It was a great blow when dear old Clement Cooper, head of the Bullion Department, died quite suddenly. We had been a very happy family - Cooper in charge (later Newberry), H.E. Davies, Cyril Lamb and myself, and it was not long before we all went in different directions: Lamb to the Stock Department, Davies eventually to great distinction, and I to a very pleasant association with one of the nicest chaps in the world, Algy Wood, in the Bills Payable Department. He really was a delightful person to work with and I don’ t think we ever had a crossword (except the “Times” and the “Telegraph”) during all the time we were together.

That brings my story up to World War II. The rest is not history and lives in the memory of those who are still at New Court. After the War the club atmosphere went out with the fires in the General Office. Everyone was too busy to chat or jest.

Little did I think when Old Corbould said “‘Ow did you get ‘ere?” that one day I should have the post which struck such awe in me. But how thankful I was that I had found such happiness and interest as I had at New Court; for there I met all my best friends and I had learnt to enjoy Banking a la Rothschild.

POTTED PERSONALITIES

1910—1957

GEORGE TITE

A famous character with a biting wit and always ready for a leg-pull. One of his most carefully planned efforts, however, did not come off. It was directed against Clement Cooper, head of the Bullion Department. In that department was a most likeable chap, T.C. Gunner (one of Kimpton’s introductions) and Cooper was inclined to take Gunner under his wing as being a very promising pupil. One day Tite was heard to be having a most awful row with Gunner and said in Cooper’s hearing and with some vehemence “It’s neither right nor fair.” Cooper looked up and asked me what it was all about and I truthfully said that I hadn’t a ghost of an idea. Tite repeated the phrase still more angrily but Cooper never bit the bait which had something to do with the sinister physiology of a negress.

He once complained of suffering from flatulence. When asked why he did not take something for it, he replied “It’s not my flatulence but Sigmund W ‘s sitting next to me.”

One of his chief claims to fame was as founder member of the G.C.A.W. There were in the General Office three monumental red granite fireplaces along the North wall and it was Tite’s habit to spend much of the day waiting for his letters to be signed by the partners and standing with his back to the central fire, regaling the other members with his sparkling conversation.

These gatherings became known as the “Glorious Company of Arse Warmers” . There was a club-like atmosphere about New Court in those days which was to vanish a few years later, especially when Tite was no longer a focal point. His chief claim to fame was his pronouncement that “New Court was the BEST CLUB IN LONDON”.

ZIFFER

Reported to be a Count hailed from Austria. Like Tite, a member of the Correspondence Department but unlike Tite he was always in a fearful hurry. He would check a letter before putting it in the envelope and then, just before sealing it up, would suddenly open the envelope and read the contents all again aloud. Generally one of the last to leave the office, he would dash down the stairs for a wash, his feet clattering down the steps with a noise like a machine gun, rush off to London Bridge station where he could be seen, all passion spent, crawling along the platform trailing a huge black bag in one hand and in the other a patent electric torch operated by a lever which generated the current. He once said (a supreme example of hyperbole or what was known in the R.A.F. as “shooting a line”) “They tell me I have a very pretty wife. I do not know, I never see her by daylight.” One Saturday when he was in charge, the phone rang and Ziffer answered “No! but I am Mr. Stephany’s alternative.” Poor old Ziffer; we liked him.

STEPHANY

Manager of the office after Nauheim died. Very able and hid a kindly disposi¬tion under a business-like exterior. Everyone looked up to him as one who was always just and who knew most of the answers. One of his sayings was “The man who never made a mistake never made anything” . This to one who had just confessed a blunder. Then he would add “But God help the man who misses a mistake when checking an account.”

He told the following stories against himself:-

Travelling on the District Line a corduroy-trousered navvy sitting next to him said “Got a fag, guvner?” to which Stephany replied “No, but have a cigar.” With a look of incredulity the navvy said “Gorblimy guy, I thought you was one of them blinking Jews.”

When he arrived at Euston after a cycling holiday in the Lake District with Clement Cooper, he was wearing an old Norfolk jacket and a cap with ear flaps buttoned over the top. His bicycle was missing. Having got no sense out of the Guard, he demanded to see the Station Master. The latter, top-hatted and frock-coated after the manner of those days, listened to the now irate Stephany and, having surveyed the travel-worn figure, said with a drawl “Are you sure you ever had a bicycle?”

He related the following of his son, then aged about six:- Stephany’s mother-in-law and an aunt were staying at his (Stephany’s) house and the boy, having been disobedient was being sent upstairs to bed. The boy turned round to the assembled party and said (or quoted?) “The trouble about this house is there are too many damned women about the place.” One of the rare occasions on which Steph lost marks.

When he had a stroke and had to retire, a pathetic shadow of his former self, I don’t think there was a person in the office who did not feel a personal loss .

“THE CARROT” (MR. BALLARD)

One of the heads of a department in the Dividend Office went by the name of “the Carrot”. His father had been one of the strawberry and cream coated porters at the Bank of England and wanting a job for his son asked Lord Rothschild as he helped him from his carriage if he could get him a place at New Court. Lord Rothschild told him to send him along and went on holiday without telling anyone. When the son presented himself it was presumed that he was to be taken on as a clerk and so he was duly installed.

I met “the Carrot” as I came off a leave train at Victoria during the First World War and he asked me where I had been. When I answered in the Ypres Salient, he said “Have you seen my son? He has been having an awful time there. He’ s in the very front line with the 16 inch Howitzers.” What a time those “heavies” had .

GALLON

(Nicknamed “Jemima”) He was chief cashier for many years. A sick man during his latter years at New Court, this probably accounted for his highly nervous state. He had a habit of locking up the Cash Box at the end of the day’s work, leaving the department and then rushing back to rattle the lid nervously to make sure everything was properly locked up.

One night he returned to find a whole packet of Bills of Exchange lying near the box. Very surreptitiously he took them away to examine them, only to find that they were only “seconds” and of no value. A little unkind of someone.

ROCHE

For many years the Junior in Gallon’s department. Nicknamed “Pluggy” because he was one of the first clerks to become motorised. His first vehicle was a tricar with a wicker seat in front and he sat on a bicycle seat behind. He said his wife was quite safe in front because the thing never went fast enough to overtake anything. Besides being an exceedingly clever member of the Magic Circle (he did quite a bit of professional work - and a lot of unprofessional work as well), Pluggy was a bit of an amateur electrician. In fact he ran an electricity generating plant for his own house.

He was sacked by Mr. Alfred for taking a “paying in” to the National Provincial Bank without an accompanying porter. Mr. Alfred had seen him go across the courtyard alone and did not know that Pluggy had picked up his escort under the arch. It was no use arguing and Jemima told him not to take any notice but to keep out of Mr. Alfred’s sight. However, soon afterwards, Mr. Alfred wanted some special lights arranged in the conservatory of his house in Hamilton Place and, hearing that Roche was an expert, sent for him. Roche received £20 for his trouble - the sack had apparently been forgotten.

Roche never failed when he had finished adding up the Cash Book to announce to Jemima - “I’ve finished nursie!”

He was responsible for putting a book on Jemima’ s desk entitled on the cover “A Night in Paris”. Jemima glanced at the object once or twice and finally curiosity overcame him and he opened the book. This fired a cracker inside the book and the loud bang told all those in the know that Jemima had opened the book.

THE MERCER FAMILY

Had a long innings at New Court. First there was Old Mercer. Then came “Mercer’s Son”. He, like Saint Andrew, fetched his brother who was named “Mercer’s Son’s Brother”. Finally, Ernest W. Mercer arrived, to be christened “Mercer’s Son’s Brother’s Son”. Mercer’s Son died on a golf course .

Mercer’s Son’s Brother had served in sail before the mast prior to coming to New Court and was best known as the head of the Control Department for many years. He also was a keen golfer and on Monday mornings, while we members of his Department were trying to agree Saturday’s figures, he would give details of what happened at each hole. On one such occasion in 1920 I was busy adding up the figures and, to be polite and to give an idea of dutiful interest, I said “And what happened at the next hole, Sir?” “There wasn’t another hole, you clot! and I don’t want any innuendos about the 19th hole either”. He took a great pride in his Singer car which was always absolutely spotless and therefore never allowed out in the rain. He found an improved mileage per gallon of petrol by using Adcoids. These were little cubes of upper cylinder lubricant which were dropped into the petrol tank. After some months he noticed a strange rattle in the petrol tank. The garage found it full of undissolved Adcoid cubes, the paper wrapping of which had not been removed. No comment!

HOYLAND

Was an extremely able man who worked at a furious pace, humming tunelessly all the time. But he was quite incapable of imparting his knowledge to his subordinates. When he died, quite young, of a tumour of the brain, this made things a bit awkward for the Foreign Commercial Credits Department. He had little classical knowledge and used to refer, for example, to the S/S “Meanlouse”, more usually known as S/S “Menelaus” .

We used to call each other twin brothers, both having arrived in the world on the same day in the same year. It is said of him that he was once in the partners room when Mr. Anthony said “I’m going to have my lunch now - you’d better go and get your dinner, Hoyland.”

PRICE

The very august head of the Private Accounts Department for some years. He had more than the average admiration for the Partners - something akin to reverence. After his death an envelope containing shot was found in his desk with the following words: “FROM PHEASANT SHOT BY MR. LIONEL.”

TREVOR ABBEY-WILLIAMS

One of the very best of raconteurs who generally had his audience laughing long before the end of his stories.

The first member of the staff to be on the mat before his Commanding Officer. He was a member of the Honourable Artillery Company and, when mobilised at the commencement of World War I, he was detailed for guard duty on the night of his twenty-first birthday, with disastrous results. One always imagined that he would get out of any scrape by his ready wit.

But once his usual savoir faire deserted him. Following a rather senior stenographer up the stairs, he had the temerity to pinch her posterior. Worse than this, when she turned round furious, he said “I’m sorry, I thought it was Miss K “ The stenographer of course reported the matter and for some time those stairs were out of bounds to all male clerks.

Abbey-Williams was badly wounded in the jaw during the First World War but fortunately this did not interfere with his story telling.

He had a very generous nature and would give his shirt away, I believe. In fact, just before I got married I had admired a light grey tie he was wearing. He gave it to me the next day. I still have it and wore it at my wedding and at a wedding last week.

RUDDLE

A porter in what used to be called “the Front Hall”, which was the main entrance for persons wishing to see the Partners.

His appearance was reminiscent of Humpty Dumpty, being short, round-faced and completely bald. He had accumulated a considerable fortune, largely by holding on to loan allotments which used to be given to porters, most of whom sold theirs immediately. He lacked a good education but was a kindly simple soul, and being unmarried left £40,000 to his niece when he died.

One of his duties was to take the basket of signed cheques and letters from the Partners or the signatories and distribute them to the Departments concerned. On the day gold used to arrive from South Africa payments of large amounts, perhaps £750,000, were made to the London agents of the South African mines. On one such occasion about 1926, these cheques went for signature and at a quarter of an hour before bank closing time they had not reappeared. There was a mild panic in the Bullion Department, fresh cheques were drawn and all available porters were lined up ready to rush the new cheques to the various agents. Ruddle, on being questioned said “Well, the PRO TEMS ‘as ‘ad ‘em.” After a frantic but fruitless search, it was thought necessary to inform Mr. Burrell who replied with great dignity and finality “Well! you must find them.” When packing up for the night about 6 p.m., Ruddle produced the lost cheques with a whole basketful of signed cheques and letters. He confessed that Mrs. Lionel had arrived just as he was going to distribute the contents of the basket and he popped the lot in a drawer in the Front Hall in order to attend to Mrs. Lionel and forgot all about it. He escaped unscathed!

RONALD WOOTTON

Retired as Chief Cashier in 1964. An Old Pauline but not an admirer of his fellow 0.P., General Montgomery, whom he described as “a bounder”. He had a slow precise way of speaking which added a certain piquancy to everything that he said.

He was the first person to wear what were known as “Oxford Bags” soon after he arrived in 1921, I think. These were reminiscent of a sailor’s trousers and he walked with his feet well apart which accentuated the unusual appear¬ance. He was a most popular and amusing fellow. Two stories come to mind:¬He was in a department called The African Gold Realisation Department under Kimpton and Scudamore, and one of his duties was to go to the Bank of England to get the ship’s manifest for the gold arriving from South Africa for refining. One day his two colleagues were ill, so he confided the fact that he was all alone to the Principal of the Bullion Office (Mr. Henry). The latter leant over the counter and said “You must take great care not to get run over, or it might be very serious. ‘‘

Late one evening when I was in his room the telephone rang. Wootton answered “No, Sir, Mr. Kimpton is not here. No, Sir, Mr. Scudamore is not here either.” Then rather angrily, “No, you can’t have the books.” He then turned to me. “That was Cornish” (a porter). “He wanted to know if he could put the books away. After having called him ‘Sir’ I could not say ‘Yes’, could I?”

c. 1921 - One day Wootton came back from lunch and related with something akin to horror “Do you know, Elton, I saw that new boy Raven out in the lane without a hat; and Scudamore saw him too,” thus confirming the awful truth! Tempora mutantur! Do the money market and the bullion brokers still wear their status symbols when hawking their wares?

His nickname “Wilfred” derived from his supposed resemblance to the penguin in a newspaper strip cartoon entitled “Pip, Squeak and Wilfred”, the others being the other two juniors in the Private Accounts Department.

He was a very loyal, efficient and pleasant second to me in my last days at New Court.

MAGNEVAL (Monsieur le Vicomte de, or was he?)

About the time of the Sydney Street Battle in 1911, a rather cadaverous looking Frenchman was engaged at the office. His features bore a resemblance to Peter the Painter who was one of the wanted men connected with Winston’s “battle .

So of course Magneval was christened “Peter the Painter”.

He was a charming, kindly man who, though he had lived in England for some time and had an English wife, had never mastered the pronunciation of our language. For example, on looking at a Burroughs Adding Machine he said to me “What for zees forntarstic aymount of feegairs?” He came to me with the following request “Vill you make me zees calcul?” and then, when I produced the answer, “No! eet ees false, you must ‘ave made a nonsense.” Very concerned, he asked one day “Zee keepair I know, but what eet ees that eet ees a blottair?” He described having seen when motoring at night “Two leuminoos pwants of light; eet must ‘ave been a howl which ‘as joost got a mice, hein?”

His hand would shake in later years until his pen reached the paper and then it would become absolutely steady to produce the most perfect copperplate or some finely drawn sketch.

ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS

One of my assistants, knowing that I spoke French, brought me a letter in French from a bank in Switzerland and told me there was a foreigner at the counter who would like to speak to me about it... I went round to the fellow and spoke to him in my best French. He answered in the most ghastly French and after we had struggled on for some time to no purpose he suddenly said in quite understandably good English “Is there nobody in this office who can speak English?” He was a Chilean!

MAN SPRICHT DEUTSCH?

Scholtz was one of the pre-First World War clerks and had great difficulty with the English TH and W. A frequent expression of his was “Vot viz zees and zeiss and zose and ze ozers zay are ze perfect beggars.”

THE DISAPPEARING CLIENT

In front of the counter in the General Office at New Court there used to be a rectangle in the floor about five feet by four feet. This was, in fact, the top platform of an hydraulic lift which was used after work had finished for taking the books below for safe storage. One evening, Mr. Oppenheimer, an irate customer at the best of times, was waiting at the counter and in his impatience at being kept waiting banged twice with his umbrella on the floor.

He was standing in the middle of the rectangle and, to my horror, I saw Mr. Oppenheimer disappear below 20 feet down. With his two taps he had given the signal to the operator below to lower the lift. No amount of appeasement was of any avail and we nearly lost a client both physically and administratively.

NEW COURT A BANK?

When I was Chief Cashier I happened to stay a bit late and was alone in the General Office when a very scruffy individual came to the counter with a cable confirmation. Looking round the impressive oak-panelled office, he said “Is this ‘ere a Bank?”

Something came over me and I leant towards him and said confidentially “As a matter of fact it is a fried fish shop, but you wouldn’t think so from the smell, would you?” He looked blankly at me and said “No!” and walked out muttering.

SIDNEY WILLIAMS

The Foreign Exchange wizard, son of a former head of the Strong Room. He was the victim of one of the many practical jokes in the office and he certainly did ask for it. He became completely absorbed in ballroom dancing at one period and kept a pair of dancing shoes in a cupboard in the Foreign Exchange Department in order to practise steps in odd moments when arbitrage permitted. Some scoundrel hid his outdoor shoes during one of these terpsichorean exercises and poor Williams had to go home in dancing shoes on a wet night. He was not amused.

His son, Roland Williams, came to the office from Oundle where he distinguished himself by playing the oboe in the school’s annual production of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. About the time of the Munich Crisis in 1938 he joined, as many others did, a Territorial Unit. When changing into his army kit at Chelsea Barracks by his car the Adjutant passed by. Roland sprang smartly to attention and gave a real parade ground salute. Returning it, the Adjutant said “Very good, Gunner Williams, but take your pipe out next time.” In due course, Roland served with distinction as a Major in the Artillery.

He was later taken into partnership.

From the New Court Postal Museum

“The Swiss Bankverein, ZURICH BASLE BERNE GENEVA SWITZERLAND . “

An allotment letter for a Brazil Loan sent to:- “Discount Atcheson, Ltd.” Should have been:- Viscount Atcheson, K.C.B.