When I first set up on my own, one of my landlords was the irascible Edwin Hornchurch*. At 8.30 sharp the fee-earning staff came into his office and lined up in front of Hornchurch’s desk – the most senior on the left, then the articled clerks and finally other fee-earners in order of age.
He would fling each letter roughly in the direction of the relevant fee-earner, shouting out the surname. The named fee-earner would then leap forward and pick up his letter, scrabbling for any separated attachment.
One day the telephone operator interrupted this sacred ritual and must have said, ‘Your wife is on the phone’. Hornchurch was furious and shouted, ‘She is not my wife to you, she is Mrs Hornchurch, and don’t put her through.’ He immediately left his desk, stormed downstairs and the rest of the building could hear him continue to berate the poor girl. ‘She is always Mrs Hornchurch to you; never “my wife”.’
I think the worst disservice I ever did to anyone was to Susan Taylor when I introduced her to Hornchurch. She was a solicitor and former girlfriend of a friend of mine. She suffered from a kidney complaint and because of her frequent stays in hospital could not find a permanent situation. Suddenly Hornchurch needed a conveyancing assistant and I arranged an interview. She got the job and gave me a book on unicorns as a thank you.
I saw little of her and I was away at the time she needed to go back into hospital for dialysis. Hornchurch had prevailed on her to finish off some completions. I had the rest of the story from Anthony.
The phone rang – an unforgivable sin during the post-opening ceremony. All we could hear was, ‘Don’t interrupt my post-opening… that’s very inconvenient… she had a completion fixed for today…’ He then put the phone down and announced, ‘Miss Taylor is dead,’ resuming the routine.
She was 28. Hornchurch did not attend the funeral. Autres moeurs.
*A pseudonym
James Morton is a writer and former criminal defence solicitor
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