Brief Tales From The Bench

by Henry Cecil

  ‘Well, I’m telling you now.’

  ‘Can I have it in writing, your honour?’

  ‘You can not.’

  ‘But they may ask me when I get home.’

  ‘I can’t help that.’

  ‘Would you come back with me and explain, your honour?’

  ‘Mr Benton,’ I said, ‘how long does this go on for?’

  ‘You should ask me that, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘How can he tell?’

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I do ask you, Mr Kiddington, how long will it go on for?’

  ‘Isn’t that a matter for you, your honour?’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘You’re in charge of the case, not me.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it,’ I said. ‘As I’m in charge of it, I must ask you to go on questioning Mr Jones.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been waiting to do, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘Now, Mr Jones, why are you suing me? Tell me why.’

  ‘Because I want my money, of course.’

  ‘Why haven’t I paid you?’ asked Mr Kiddington.

  ‘You should know that,’ said Mr Jones.

  ‘You don’t think I’d get out of my just liabilities, do you?’ asked Mr Kiddington.

  ‘You’d be capable of getting out of anything.’

  ‘That’s a very unfriendly thing to say,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘do you really mean it?’

  ‘You’d feel unfriendly if someone didn’t pay his debts to you,’ said Mr Jones.

  ‘I wouldn’t if he had a good reason.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t a good reason.’

  ‘But I say I have.’

  ‘But I say you haven’t.’

  ‘Have.’

  ‘Haven’t.’

  ‘Have.’

  ‘Haven’t.’

  ‘Stop,’ I said, ‘both of you.’

  ‘I never said anything, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘You said “have”.’

  ‘No, your honour, he said “haven’t”.’

  ‘But before that you said “have”,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, before that. Before that I said a lot of things, your honour. So did you, your honour. So did Mr Benton. So did Mr Jones. So did the clerk, and so did I. But all that was before that, your honour.’

  ‘Have you anything further which you want to ask Mr Jones?’ I asked patiently.

  ‘Not if he’s rude to me,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘Very well then,’ I said. ‘Mr Benton, is that the case for the plaintiff?’

  ‘It is, your honour,’ said Mr Benton.

  ‘Now, Mr Kiddington,’ I said, ‘would you like to go into the witness box and be sworn and to tell me your story on oath?’

  ‘I haven’t any story, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘I can tell you the truth if you’d like to know that.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘come into the witness box, Mr Kiddington, and tell me the truth.’

  The usher thereupon said to Mr Kiddington: ‘Take the book in your right hand and repeat the words on the card.’

  ‘I have the book in my right hand,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘and here it says: “Swear not at all. Let your communication be Yea, Yea, Nay, Nay; for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.” Do you know the passage, your honour?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ I said. ‘And if I were you Mr Kiddington, I’d read on a bit. “And if any man will sue thee at the law and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloke also.” What d’you say to that, Mr Kiddington?’

  ‘A hit, a hit, a very palpable hit, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘But what about psalm eighty-nine, your honour: “Justice and judgment are the habitation of thy throne”?’

  ‘If it is against your conscience to swear,’ I said, ‘you may affirm, Mr Kiddington.’

  ‘I tell you what I’ll do, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘I’ll promise to do my best to tell the truth.’

  ‘Mr Kiddington,’ I asked, ‘is that an affirmation binding on your conscience?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Mr Benton, will you be satisfied with that?’ I asked.

  ‘Most certainly, your honour.’

  ‘Right, Mr Kiddington,’ I said. ‘Now tell me what you want to about this.’

  ‘What would you like me to say?’ asked Mr Kiddington.

  ‘Tell me your side of the case,’ I said.

  ‘How would you like me to put it?’ asked Mr Kiddington. ‘After all, you’re the judge. If I put it the wrong way, you’ll decide against me.’

  ‘Tell me why you won’t pay the plaintiff’s bill.’

  ‘But I’ve done that already.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Once will do.’

  ‘I won’t pay his bill because I didn’t get what I ordered.’

  ‘What is wrong with the suit?’

  ‘It isn’t to my satisfaction.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In every way. He said he’d make it to my satisfaction, and he hasn’t done so. If he’d made it to my satisfaction, I should have paid him. As he hasn’t made it to my satisfaction, I won’t pay him. Or in other words, I should have paid him if he’d made it to my satisfaction, but I won’t pay him as he hasn’t made it to my satisfaction. Am I doing all right, your honour?’

  ‘Tell me one thing with which you are not satisfied,’ I said.

  ‘One thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not satisfied with the suit,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘But what doesn’t satisfy you about it? I gather he’s carried out your instructions about the buttons and the pockets, and the hole in the back of the waistcoat.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘he didn’t make the hole, but I could have made that myself. That’s not important. I’d have taken the suit without the hole. After all, I could have cut it out with a pair of scissors, and then I’d have had the bit of cloth as well. Oh no, don’t trouble about the hole, your honour. That needn’t trouble you at all. After all, if it doesn’t trouble me, it needn’t trouble you. I wouldn’t make a fuss about a little thing like a hole. After all, there are holes and holes. Some holes are terribly important. A well, for example. It’s no good having a bad hole if you’re digging for a well. It’s got to be dug properly. A hole in a wall. That’s got to be done properly too, or the wall might collapse. But the hole in the back of a waistcoat, that’s a horse of a very different colour. If I may call a hole a horse, your honour. Does anybody mind my calling a hole a horse? Or a horse a hole?’

  ‘Then what is it you complain about?’ I asked.

  ‘The whole thing, your honour, it’s just not me. If you’re a married man, your honour, you’ll understand what I mean. You’ll take your wife out to buy a dress, and you’ll show her something, and she’ll say, “That’s not me.” Well, this suit’s not me.’

  ‘But didn’t Mr Jones make it as you’d ordered it?’

  ‘Good gracious no, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘I’d have taken it if he’d done that.’

  ‘You’d better carry on, Mr Benton,’ I said.

  ‘Mr Kiddington,’ said Mr Benton, ‘you say you would have paid for the suit if it had been made as you’d ordered it?’

  ‘I said it several times,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘but I’ll say it again to please you, Mr Benton.’

  ‘Well, in what way was it not as you’d ordered?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Well, wasn’t that your fault?’ said Mr Benton. ‘You told Mr Jones what your requirements were, and if you didn’t like the result, that was your responsibility, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t make the suit,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘No, but it was made according to your instructions. I suggest to you, Mr Kiddington, that you simply changed your mind about it.’

  ‘I never change my mind,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘once I’ve made it up.’

  �
�Perhaps you hadn’t made up your mind when you gave the order.’

  ‘If I hadn’t made up my mind, I wouldn’t have given the order.’

  ‘Ladies sometimes buy dresses and then don’t like them when they’ve got them,’ said Mr Benton.

  ‘It wasn’t a dress,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘it was a suit. And I’m not a lady. Mr Jones guaranteed that I should be satisfied with the suit when he’d made it. I am not satisfied. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve changed your mind about having a suit at all, Mr Kiddington?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘I want a suit. Will your client make me one now?’

  Mr Jones could not resist from interrupting from the back of the court: ‘I wouldn’t make you a suit if I hadn’t got any orders at all,’ he shouted.

  ‘Silence,’ said the usher.

  ‘You see,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘he can’t do it. I never said it was easy to make me a suit. In point of fact it’s very difficult to make me a suit. That is to make a suit that satisfies me. You probably don’t believe it, but I’m a very difficult person to satisfy. Actually, I may be a very difficult person altogether. I don’t know what you think. I try to behave as well as I can in court, but I’ve been told that sometimes I’m rather a difficult proposition. Would you call me a difficult proposition, Mr Benton?’

  ‘I’m afraid you mustn’t ask me questions, Mr Kiddington,’ said Mr Benton.

  ‘That’s enough to make anyone difficult,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘you can ask me questions, but I can’t ask you any. It’s much too one-sided. That isn’t fair play. But I’ll tell you something, Mr Benton. If I were a tailor, I wouldn’t accept an order from me. Not if I knew it was me. Because I’d know how difficult a customer I’d taken on. I don’t dispute that I’m a difficult customer. If you could satisfy me, you could satisfy anyone.’

  ‘Mr Kiddington,’ said Mr Benton, ‘I suppose you could pay for the suit if you wanted to?’

  ‘I shall have to think,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘Is that why you’re defending the case, Mr Kiddington?’ I asked. ‘Because it would be rather awkward for you at the moment to find twenty-five guineas?’

  ‘I’m still thinking,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘If you’ve got the money,’ I said, ‘it shouldn’t take you all that time to answer, Mr Kiddington. Would it be awkward for you to find twenty-five guineas at the moment?’

  ‘I’m working it out,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘It should be simple enough,’ I said.

  ‘Not the way I’m working it out,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘Oh, come along, Mr Kiddington,’ I said, ‘you must know the answer by now.’

  ‘This is a court of law,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘and I want to be sure that my answer is correct. You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you, your honour?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

  ‘Then I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to wait a moment or two, and I shall need a pencil and paper.’

  ‘If you’ve got to have a pencil and paper to work it out,’ I said, ‘it must surely be difficult for you at any rate to find twenty-five guineas. Or at least inconvenient for you to do so. If there were no doubt about it, you could say “yes” straight away.’

  ‘But I don’t want to answer in that way, your honour. I’ve nearly done it now, just wait a moment, please.’

  After about half a minute I said: ‘Well, Mr Kiddington, I’ve waited several moments.’

  ‘Your honour shall be rewarded,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘I could pay this bill five thousand and four times over. That’s why I took a little time, your honour. I didn’t want to exaggerate.’

  ‘You’ve money in the bank, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘I don’t hold with banks.’

  ‘Then you’ve stocks or shares?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Then what have you got?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, I’ve got a mansion in the country with about a hundred acres, a swimming pool, a tennis court, and I don’t know what else.’

  ‘You own this place, Mr Kiddington?’ asked Mr Benton.

  ‘Yes, Mr Benton, I own this place. Anything wrong in that?’

  ‘Is it subject to any mortgage?’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘I don’t hold with mortgages. Perhaps you’d both like to come and see it.’

  There was a slight pause, and then Mr Benton said, perhaps a little meaningfully: ‘Tell me, Mr Kiddington, do you employ a lot of people in this mansion of yours?’

  ‘Of course I do. I couldn’t run it without.’

  ‘Do any of your employees, by any chance, wear,’ Mr Benton paused for a moment, and then added, ‘uniforms?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘I think,’ said Mr Benton, ‘I think perhaps, your honour, it might be a good thing, if your honour could spare the time, to see Mr Kiddington’s mansion.’

  ‘I should be delighted,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘Mr Benton too, with pleasure. I could put you both up if you liked, for a weekend perhaps? Or a week there might do you both good.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Mr Benton,’ I said, ‘and that we should accept Mr Kiddington’s offer to see his place. If what he says is correct, and he’s a wealthy man and could easily pay this bill, it seems to me that the claim should fail. The plaintiff agreed to make a suit to the defendant’s satisfaction. That may have been a difficult, or even an impossible thing to do, but the plaintiff agreed to do it. If I’m satisfied that the defendant is honestly not satisfied with the suit, it seems to me he’ll succeed in the action. Before I come to that conclusion, however, I ought to know whether it really is the case that Mr Kiddington is the man of means which he says he is.’

  ‘That would be entirely satisfactory from my point of view, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘I don’t doubt it, Mr Kiddington,’ I said. ‘But, if I do decide in your favour for the reasons that I have mentioned, it seems very hard on Mr Jones, who, I suspect, is far from being a wealthy man, that he should have spent his time and labour and money in making a suit, and then should not be paid for it. If what you say is right, Mr Kiddington, you could pay for five thousand such suits. Poor Mr Jones can ill afford to lose the price of one.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have taken the order then, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘I’m not talking about the law at the moment, Mr Kiddington. There are other things in life,’ I said, ‘besides law. Kindness and consideration, for example, play a great part in life. Certainly in a happy life.’

  ‘They should play a great part in everyone’s life, your honour,’ said Mr Kiddington. ‘In your life and in Mr Benton’s life. In the usher’s life. In the clerk’s life. In the postman’s life. In the soldier’s life. In the First Lord of the Treasury’s life. Who’s he by the way, your honour?’

  ‘I’m glad you agree with me, Mr Kiddington,’ I said, ignoring the question. ‘I suggest, then, that we adjourn this case, say, for a week, and during that week Mr Benton and I and Mr Kiddington will inspect the mansion in the country.’

  Mr Kiddington then asked if he could question Mr Jones some more before the inspection. I agreed to this, and Mr Jones came back into the witness box.

  ‘Now, Mr Jones,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘I’ve been asked about my means, what about yours? I suggest you’re the person short of money, and that’s why you’re bringing this case.’

  ‘I’m bringing this case,’ said Mr Jones, ‘because you owe me the money.’

  ‘But suppose I do owe you the money,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘is it a good thing for a tailor to sue his customers?’

  ‘It’s a good thing for this tailor to sue this customer,’ said Mr Jones.

  ‘Is it going to do you any good?’ asked Mr Kiddington. ‘Let’s suppose I do owe you the money. If other people hear about this case, aren’t they going to say to t
hemselves “we’re not going to a tailor who sues his customers for money”?’

  ‘Look, Mr Kiddington,’ said Mr Jones, ‘I’m just an ordinary tailor, and, if I do my work properly, I expect to be paid. And I can’t afford not to be. If I make a mistake about a suit, I put it right, or take it back. And, if I’m at fault, I stand the loss. But, if I carry out my side of the bargain, I expect the customer to carry out his. Whether the customer owns a mansion in the country, keeps a betting shop, or sweeps the streets. I have to live. And I have to work to live. And I work very hard, I can assure you. I don’t like suing people, of course. I don’t suppose anybody does, but I did what you asked me to do, and you’ve got to pay for it. And, if the judge says you haven’t, it’s not justice, and that’s all there is to it. And I don’t care who hears me say so.’

  ‘Mr Kiddington,’ I said, ‘don’t you think there’s a good deal in what Mr Jones says?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘he took long enough over saying it.’

  ‘But don’t you think it had some merit?’ I asked.

  ‘Everyone’s entitled to his own opinions,’ said Mr Kiddington.

  ‘If you were the tailor,’ I asked, ‘and Mr Jones were the customer, wouldn’t you agree with what he now says?’

  ‘If I were Mr Jones,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘my name wouldn’t be Kiddington.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘but it is Kiddington. Can’t you put yourself in Mr Jones’ position?’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ said Mr Kiddington, ‘I’m very happy as I am. If I weren’t, I shouldn’t like to be a tailor.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I think we’ll adjourn now.’

  And so we went down to inspect Mr Kiddington’s mansion in the country. And neither Mr Benton nor I were at all surprised to find that, although it did contain everything that Mr Kiddington had said, it was in fact a mental home. I must say that it was beautifully laid out, and it had all the amenities to which Mr Kiddington had referred, and indeed more than those. Eventually we came away. But not before Mr Kiddington had agreed purely as a matter of kindness to pay the whole of Mr Jones’ claim, and all his costs, and to let him keep the suit as well.

  A day or two later I saw the registrar in my room.

  ‘Charles,’ I said, ‘I think you might have told me what I was in for.’