Lizzy May – Chapter 16

The High Life

‘Across the Chimneypots: Lincoln’s Inn from Chancery Lane’ by Steve Fendt

Late spring 1978

Chancery Lane, Holborn, was quite a change from the open spaces of Hampstead, I can tell you that, Pauly.

I really missed the Heath, the Ponds, and the steady, tranquil family life with Robert, Esther and Charmian. Percy and I were thrown very much on our own resources – and each other’s company. We’d known each other for more than ten years, been lovers for eight, but we’d never shared a home. Now, all of a sudden, we were living and working together.

Our little flat could have been claustrophobic – but we had the City of London on our doorstep, with its two thousand years of history and culture.

There was St Paul’s Cathedral, one of the most beautiful Baroque churches in all the world. There was the National Gallery and the Tate, and tens if not hundreds of museums and galleries. There were classical concerts at the Albert Hall and the ballet at Covent Garden. There were all the theatres of the West End. You could go to a different show every night of the year and still not see everything.

I’d been poor before, when I’d worked in the City, but now we had the money to enjoy life, and we did.

There was nothing quite to compare with Hampstead Heath, it’s true, but the gardens of the Inns of Court are beautiful, tranquil places. I loved to stroll and sit in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the Inner Temple Garden and the Walks at Gray’s Inn, where you could get away from the crowds and the traffic of the capital. It was so peaceful, shady and green, like another part of England entirely.

There were hundreds of cafés, bars, pubs and clubs, and your grandfather seemed to know all the good ones. That wasn’t necessarily an advantage, though, as it turned out. Percy liked to party and he loved to drink.

Your grandfather would often get drunk, he’d behave like an idiot, he’d be sick, and the next day, as the hangover faded, he’d be right as rain. Come the evening, he’d be ready to go out and do it all again.

Now me, I didn’t really get drunk. That wasn’t from moderation, though.

‘She’ll drink herself sober,’ our friends used to say. And I did. After a few drinks I’d start to feel a bit light-headed and silly, then as the evening wore on, I’d find myself sobering up again.

I didn’t really suffer from hangovers, either.

I just knew that I had to keep up with your grandfather, or eventually I would lose him. So I matched him, drink for drink. I never said no to a night out, though sometimes I was desperate just to stay home and read a book, or listen to the radio.

Don’t you be like me, Pauly. Never rely on alcohol for your happiness. It worries me so, when I hear about your drinking. You’re much too young. I understand that you’re lonely, but people who are only friends when you’re drunk, aren’t really friends at all.

Anyway, I won’t lecture you any more.

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We settled into our fifth-floor flat. There was the office with the telephone, the desks and filing cabinet. There was a tiny kitchen and dining room. There was our bedroom with the most astonishing view across Chancery Lane to the Georgian terrace opposite, and beyond to the trees of Lincoln’s Inn Fields and the ornate red brick Tudor of the Great Hall and Library. Five centuries of English architecture framed in one bay window.

There was a sitting room, too. There wasn’t much space to sit there, mind you, as it was soon crammed with old books, furniture, watercolours and fine china.

I began to take an interest in antiques, you see. We had a store room down in the basement, and soon that was full to the ceiling with treasures as well. We dreamed of moving to the country and opening a little antique shop one day, in our retirement.

Though the world had other plans, as it turned out.

Oh, and do you remember Charlie saying I’d never wear a wedding ring, or be Mrs Bullen?

Well, she was wrong on both counts. In a way.

Your grandfather simply bought me a gold wedding ring – this one – and the nameplate for our apartment read ‘P.E. and E.M. Bullen.’

As far as all our neighbours, and Percy’s colleagues and clients were concerned, we were a married couple. I went on the electoral roll as ‘Mrs Elizabeth May Bullen’ – and that was that.

Old friends knew of course, but they could be relied on to keep quiet.

All the same, I was worried that we’d get found out – that we were committing electoral fraud and all kinds of things – but Percy simply swept the irregularities aside.

‘Don’t worry so, old girl! Rules are made for bending and laws for stretching.’

In fact, your grandfather and I lived together for nineteen years before we were married. So don’t let anyone tell you all this ‘living together’ business is a modern thing. We were doing it well before the Second World War.

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I started writing again. For a while I wrote an advice column in one of the London papers. ‘Ask Aunty May’ it was called. It was great fun. People used to write in to me seeking answers to all kinds of questions: moral dilemmas, questions of social etiquette, relationship advice and careers problems. Percy and I would read them, and select the most interesting ones to answer.

If it was a quiet week, sometimes we’d make one up ourselves.

My main work though was to support Percy, as his personal assistant. I’d answer the phone and complete all the correspondence and paperwork and do the filing.

The most interesting part was when we needed to go out and investigate an accident. We’d hire a car and drive out to photograph the scene, interview the parties and witnesses, examine the police reports. There was a lot of detective work involved.

In particular, we’d look at things like tyre marks on the road, measure distances and assess whether the circumstances of the accident were as described by the claimant. It’s surprising what some people think they can get away with, on an insurance claim form.

Percy said he’d had to do similar things occasionally as a solicitor’s clerk. He’d felt a lot of satisfaction when his reports were quoted and his photos exhibited in court as evidence, and that was what had given him the idea of the career change in the first place.

It was ironic. Your grandfather loved to bend the law, and he was a happy-go-lucky sort of chap, who never gave a thought to household insurance or any form of life assurance. Yet he was very good and meticulous at his job, both as a legal clerk and an insurance specialist.

He was like a master builder whose own house is dilapidated and in constant danger of falling down on his family’s head. Which is what happened, in fact, and more than once.

But those are other stories, young man.

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Coming up:

This Friday in Tales from the Wood: Pauly looks back on a busy Easter with Matthias, and Gaz decides on a name change. (Paid subscriptions.)

Next Tuesday in Lizzy May: The stresses of the high life catch up with Lizzy May, as Europe prepares again for war.