by Albert Jack
The trouble set in with Catherine’s difficulty in producing a male heir. She fell pregnant six times but none of her children lived longer than fifty-two days. In 1516 she finally gave birth to a healthy girl, Mary. Henry, however, still considered a male heir essential. The Tudor dynasty was new (he was only the second king) and its legitimacy might still be tested. A long civil war (1135–54) had been fought the last time a woman (Henry I’s daughter, Mathilda) had inherited the throne.
But Catherine was no longer able to undergo further pregnancies, and Henry began to believe that his marriage was cursed. Finding confirmation of this in the Bible, which stated that if a man marries his brother’s wife, the couple will be childless, he started looking around for someone else who might give him the son he needed. Unfortunately for Catherine, his eye fell on Anne Boleyn, a very ambitious maid of honour, who held out for marriage before the king could test out her son-bearing capabilities.
Catherine indignantly refused when it was suggested that she retire to a convent, and Henry’s various appeals to the Pope to have their twenty-year marriage annulled were rejected. Henry blamed Catherine for this and punished her. In 1531 she was banished from court and her old rooms were given to Anne Boleyn. When Catherine’s death was announced in 1536, Henry dressed in yellow to celebrate the news.
Many were shocked and angered by the king’s harsh treatment of their much loved queen and this was only heightened by Henry’s rejection of the Catholic Church to divorce her. To all staunch Catholics, Catherine la Fidèle remained England’s true queen and it is argued that the choice of the name Cat and Fiddle for a pub was a coded message on behalf of the landlord for support for her and her religion, and hence a dangerous rejection of the king. (See also THE BULL.)
The fourth and most convincing theory – despite at least one Cat and Fiddle insisting that it was named after yet another Catherine, its former owner (no doubt a violin player too) – comes from one of our most popular nursery rhymes:
Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
The little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
Often regarded as one of the best-known nonsense poems of all time, there have been some interesting attempts to explain what inspired the rhyme. It turns out to be just as dangerous and subversive a story as that of Catherine la Fidèle.
‘Hey Diddle Diddle’, it is suggested, offers a cryptic commentary on Richard III’s crooked path to the English throne. In April 1483, following the death of his brother Edward IV, Richard took over as regent on behalf of his thirteen-year-old nephew, Edward V. He then placed the young king and his even younger brother in the Tower of London, supposedly for their own safety. However, within weeks both boys had been declared illegitimate by an Act of Parliament, after which the ‘Princes in the Tower’ mysteriously disappeared. Richard was then declared King of England on 6 July 1483.
People were inevitably suspicious, but it was far too dangerous to openly question the actions of the new king. Instead, the rhyme allowed their suspicions to be voiced but in a way that didn’t directly point a finger at the culprits – using nonsense verse. Sir William Catesby (1450–85), a supporter of Richard who had helped him gain the throne, and who quickly rose to power as a result, was known publicly as the ‘Catte’. It was whispered that the Cat had thought up the ‘Fiddle’ that had made Richard king: namely, the murder of his two nephews.
The Chequers
A CHEQUERED HISTORY?
The chequerboard as a pub sign goes back many years; indeed, it has been found by archaeologists on houses uncovered in Pompeii, suggesting that it was probably advertising a game like draughts or, as the Americans call it, checkers. It is not unusual to see customers having a quiet game of draughts or chess in a modern pub, of course, but the chequerboard hanging outside has a slightly different origin.
The Chequers Inn in Oxford, located on the site of an ancient monastery, is one of the oldest pubs in the city. Records indicate that during the fifteenth century the pub courtyard was shared with the house of a money-lender. At the time the symbol of a moneylender was a chequerboard, believed to have its origins in the easily portable checked cloth used by Romans to make their calculations. This set-up would have been mirrored in inns across the land – indeed the landlord of a pub might himself have been the moneylender – and appears to be the reason why so many establishments called the Chequers used the sign of a chequerboard: to show drinkers that the pub also provided banking services.
It is certainly true that in the Middle Ages innkeepers were known for practising other trades in addition to serving drinks: a bread-making publican might work from the Baker’s Arms, for instance, and a brick-laying one from the Bricklayer’s Inn – which accounts for the number of pubs and hotels with a trade-based name. Landlords were also well respected and trusted for their financial dealings, some even being depended upon by parish authorities to distribute doles for the poor and starving, and an ‘exchequer board’ would usually be displayed at these inns.
The word ‘exchequer’, referring to a treasury or financial institution, goes back to the Middle Ages too. The Dialogue Concerning the Exchequer or Dialogus de Scaccario, written by Richard Fitzneal (c.1130–98), treasurer to Henry II, was a thesis on the overall practice of the English Exchequer, indicating the term was well established by that date. The word itself evolved from Old French, eschequier, which in turn comes from the medieval Latin word scaccarium, meaning ‘chessboard’ or ‘chequerboard’ and harking back again to the Romans and their portable calculators, not to mention those prototype pubs buried under volcanic ash in Pompeii.
Incidentally, Chequers, the house used by British prime ministers as a country retreat, probably acquired its name from its original owner, Elias Ostiarius – ‘Ostiarius’ or ‘de Scaccario’ (another version of the name), meaning an usher at the court of the Exchequer – whose coat of arms incorporated a chequerboard. According to another theory, however, the house is in fact called after the chequer trees growing in its grounds (see THE BUSH for a different interpretation of Chequers as a pub name). Arthur Lee, the last private owner of the place, recognized after the First World War that, whereas previously only the landed gentry had held positions in government, a new type of politician was emerging, one without his own grand country residence in which to relax or entertain foreign dignitaries. Lee resolved this by handing over Chequers to the nation in 1921 to serve as a retreat for serving prime ministers. While we ordinary people have our Chequers in which to relax and entertain our acquaintances. I know which one of the two I’d rather spend an evening in.
The Childe Of Hale
(Hale, Cheshire)
A VERY TALL TALE?
The small village of Hale, on the River Mersey north of Liverpool, became one of the most celebrated villages in England in 1620, thanks to one of their local sons, John Middleton (1578–1623). As a child, Middleton became known simply as the Childe of Hale as he was such a tall boy and was recognized everywhere he went.
Local legend tells us that, aged twenty, Middleton drew the shape of a giant in the sand and lay down to sleep, wishing he could be the same size. And when he woke he found he was – at least that is what they say around those parts. What is recorded is that by the time John was twenty years old he had grown to nine foot three inches, which would have made him the tallest man most people would ever see, by some considerable margin: in the sixteenth century the average height of a man was only five foot six inches. Imagine the trouble he would have had with doorways, let alone ceilings. His cottage in Hale has two distinctive windows, side by side in the gable end, that locals claim their giant had to put his feet through each night in order to lie down and sleep. Local legend also mentions his great strength, which led the Sheriff of Lancaster, Gilbert Ireland, to employ him as a bodyguard. Hearing of this, James I, who had a fascination for both giants and dwarfs, invit
ed both men to court.
In 1620 the king arranged a fight between his best wrestler and the Childe of Hale, which Middleton easily won, along with several other bouts, earning himself fame and respect at court. The king awarded Middleton £20, a princely sum in those days, and provided a splendid gown of gold, red and purple that a later portrait depicts Middleton wearing. Returning to Hale a hero, though sadly a penniless one as legend has it that his companions stole his money on the way home, Middleton settled down to live quietly in the village and was buried in the churchyard when he died in 1623. His epitaph reads: ‘Here lyeth the bodie of John Middleton, the Childe of Hale. Nine feet three.’ He is remembered today by that noblest of English honours – having a pub in his village named after him.
The Clog And Billycock
(Pleasington, near Blackburn, Lancashire)
THE LOCAL FOR THE SARTORIALLY CHALLENGED YOKEL
Originally this pub was called the Bay Horse, a common name for an inn. Bay is also the most common coloration for a horse, consisting as it does of a reddish-brown coat with a black mane and tail. But for thirty years the Bay Horse at Pleasington was known informally to locals as the Clog and Billycock after the eccentric yokel’s outfit worn by Alfred Pomfret, its landlord: Pomfret always wore clogs, specially designed by his brother, and a billycock hat.
Clogs, a type of shoe traditionally made out of wood, have their origins in northern Europe, in Holland, Sweden, Denmark and Belgium. (Traditionally, Dutch children leave out a clog rather than a stocking at Christmas.) In England, when the Industrial Revolution was in full swing during the mid nineteenth century, factory and mill workers had need of footwear that was cheap, strong and easily available, and so the clog became popular, particularly in Lancashire, the shoe being worn from around 1835 until the end of the First World War. English clog dancing dates from this period, too, as workers would tap their wooden footwear on the floorboards in time to the shuttles flying across the looms in the cotton mills. Clog fighting was not uncommon, becoming the traditional way to settle disputes – two opponents would kick each other until one submitted, while their fellow workers placed bets on the outcome. Today clogs are still worn for protective reasons in some regions by workers in mines, farms or factories; otherwise they have virtually disappeared, apart from brief periods, such as the 1970s, when they come back into fashion and then clomp out again.
The billycock hat, resembling a bowler in shape, was one of the most common forms of titfer in Britain during the mid 1800s. It apparently takes its name from the nephew of the 1st Earl of Leicester, William (Billy) Coke, for whom it was originally made in 1850, although it is also claimed that it may have been Edward Coke, younger brother of the 2nd Earl of Leicester, who placed the first order for the hat. But if so, then why is it not known as a teddycock? Another theory is that the name may relate to the cocked shape a hat might take after its owner had been beaten by someone (a bully, by definition), and hence it is a corruption of ‘bullycock’. (And no, I don’t believe that story either.)
In 1849 the London hat-makers Thomas and William Bowler took an order from the firm of hatters Locke & Co. to produce a tight-fitting, low-crowned, strong hat to protect gamekeepers from being hit on the head by branches or angry poachers. When Mr Coke, probably William, arrived to collect the hats, he is said to have placed one on the floor and jumped on it to test its strength. Confident that it could hold his weight, he paid the bill and the billycock hat went into production. Somewhat modified, it later became known as the bowler hat after the two men who originally designed it.
The Coach and Horses
CAN DRINKING AND DRIVING LEAVE YOU HEADLESS?
The Coach and Horses is one of the best-known British pub names. For many centuries, prior to the invention of the railway, the only form of transport around towns and cities, and indeed between them, was by horse. Or, for the well-off, by horse and carriage. In many cities, especially in London, hackney carriages (consisting of a horse and carriage and licensed for hire since 1662) became an essential part of life, whisking city folk about their business day and night, before they were supplanted by the Hansom Cab. Between the cities larger stagecoaches, pulled by four or more horses, carried travellers across the land. These journeys took days and pubs prospered along the most popular routes, providing food and lodging to the weary travellers passing through (see also THE BULL). The innkeeper would advertise this with a sign depicting both a coach and a horse, indicating that not only did the place have everything the passengers could wish for, it also had stables so that the sweating mounts could be fed and rested, although probably out of sight and round in the back yard. In London, where there are still over fifty Coach and Horses pubs, these establishments were obviously popular with the many hackney carriage drivers, who could only take their breaks at a tavern catering for both man and horse, and accounting for why the name is so widespread across the capital. Indeed it is easy to imagine a carriage driver arriving in an unfamiliar district and asking another driver for the nearest Coach and Horses.
Not content with this rather prosaic explanation of the name, landlords of Coach and Horses pubs across Britain have been known to regale their customers with a rather different story, however. It goes something like this:
One dark and lonely night, as the wind swept relentlessly across the moors, I was driving home after working the late shift. Looking forward to a warm bed, snuggled up to my wife, I’d been driving for about half an hour and hadn’t seen another car. But as I slowed down to round the last bend before the moorland became forest, I saw something so terrifying I don’t think I can ever drive along that stretch of road again. For there, right in front of me and charging at full speed, was a coach, straight out of the eighteenth century, pulled along by four galloping horses. There was a ghostly blue haze around the whole image but it seemed real enough and, as the coach came closer, I jammed on the brakes, stalling the engine. With the horses now bearing down upon me, I frantically tried to restart the car, but at the last minute the coach swerved to one side and thundered past. As it swept by, I caught sight of the driver, lashing furiously with his whip – he appeared to have no head at all. The passengers were staring through the windows as the coach raced by. I can still see their skull-like faces. The crashing of the hooves soon disappeared behind me as the coach and horses galloped away across the moors. I finally managed to start the car and drove home as fast as I could.
This story is told in various forms all over Britain. Sometimes the coach is pulling into the driveway of an old manor house and at other times it is stationary, parked outside an inn that was later renamed the Coach and Horses.
The most famous Coach and Horses, and one of my favourite pubs even though there is no ghost story attached, is in Greek Street, Soho. Chiefly famous for being the haunt of Jeffrey Bernard, it was used as the setting for Keith Waterhouse’s play Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell. Bernard, who died in 1997, was a well-known journalist and columnist, notable for his hilarious ‘Low Life’ contribution for the Spectator magazine. He was also a notorious drinker and could be found in his usual seat at the end of the bar in the Coach and Horses arguing with its landlord, Norman Balon. Both are featured in the play that takes its title from the notice frequently posted by Spectator editors to explain why the writer’s column was missing that particular week, ‘unwell’ being an easily seen through euphemism for ‘incapacitated due to drink’. But Bernard was usually forgiven, such was the popularity of his work during what was a golden period of British journalism.
Bernard fondly described Balon as ‘London’s rudest landlord’, and his witticisms and anecdotal stories were regularly documented by the writer, which, in turn, led to a degree of fame for the publican and an autobiography, published in 1991 and entitled You’re Barred, You Bastards. Londoners and tourists alike would beat a path to the Coach and Horses just to experience Balon’s version of hospitality, or in the hope that Bernard himself might be at the bar. (for other Soho pubs see also THE F
RENCH HOUSE and THE JOHN SNOW.)
The Cock
LANDLORD, THERE’S A CHICKEN IN MY BEER!
The name of this pub, found in varying forms across Britain – the Cock Inn, Cock Tavern, Cock and Bottle, Cock and Trumpet and Cock and Pie – largely derives from that less than delightful old English pastime: cockfighting. Until it was banned in 1835 in England and Wales and all British territories overseas (the Scots took another sixty years to follow suit), men would train their cockerels to fight and take them to pubs to compete with other birds. Although cockerels naturally fight each other over food and mating rights – the source of the expression ‘the pecking order’ – such skirmishes are usually over in seconds. In the ‘cockpit’, however, roosters were encouraged to fight for up to half an hour at a time while money was won and lost on the outcome. Usually at least one of the birds would be killed and even the eventual winner could be torn to shreds in the process, dying soon afterwards.
A number of expressions from cockfighting still pepper the English language. ‘Battle royal’ is good example, applied these days to a zealously fought contest, sporting or otherwise, one that might be waged on the football pitch, in the boardroom or between warring factions of any kind and on any battlefield, literal or metaphorical. The expression entered the English language during the 1670s via the obsession at that time with cockfighting. It was such a popular pastime that people of every class, even the aristocracy and members of the royal family, would send their prized birds into the fray. The royal cockerels were usually the most magnificent of all and consequently often the best fighting birds. Cockfighting would take place in stages. In the first instance, sixteen birds would be dropped into a pit and allowed to fight each other randomly – usually they would scrap with the nearest bird – until eight of them had been pecked to pieces and were unable to continue. The surviving eight would then be sent into battle again for round two, until only four remained, and so on until the two most resilient cockerels fought in the final. By that time, even the champion cockerels were beginning to wilt but, spurred on by their owners and the shouts of the crowd, they would fight to the death. It was the royal cockerels that engaged in the fiercest, and subsequently most talked-about, fights. They truly were battle royals.
