Woman in White's, |
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Eleanor Berry got into the all-male club disguised as a schoolboy, but her jolly japes went a little too far...
In 1973, my cousin, the late Robin Birkenhead, promised to pay me a total of £100 if I could get accepted as a lunch guest in the exclusive all-male White's Club in London.
This meant I would have to be disguised as an unmistakable male. I felt that I would not get away with dressing as a fully grown man, as I wouldn't have the face or the hands for it. I hired a schoolboy's grey flannel uniform from a theatrical shop, coiled my then waist-length hair under a short wig and covered my fingers with ink, to simulate a grubby boy straight from a Latin class.
My embarrassed and reluctant escort, an eccentric, white-haired retired farmer, who had kindly come to London to escort me as his 'grandson', met me outside the Club, of which he was a member, and took me in. I refrain from giving his name, except to say that he is quite a fun loving, somewhat vague person. He reminds me a bit of Pierre Bezukhov in War and Peace. Whenever he attends a pheasant shoot, he gets lovably scatty and stands in the wrong place.
When I first propositioned him to take me to White's, he ran his fingers through his thick white hair and got very agitated. 'If I go into White's accompanied by an angelic-looking 12-year-old boy, the members might think I was- hmm, hmm - a homosexual!' he complained hysterically. Eventually, he agreed to take me in.
I went the whole way when convincing members that I was a 12-year-old-boy, and turned my wager with my cousin into a sport, keeping as high a profile as I could.
I forced my unhappy escort to take me up to the bar, which was occupied by four inquisitive-looking gentlemen. I scrambled onto a bar stool and ordered 7-Up, an unavailable drink. I was given lemonade and introduced myself loudly to the senior citizens in the crowded bar as 'Alexander'.
I lowered my voice by an octave. 'I say, jolly good fun, coming here during half-term,' I said. 'It's given me a smashing break from Latin. I'm really bad at Latin. I still can't manage the elementary stuff. I say, Grandad, will you test me on hic haec hoc?'
'Not here I won't,' said the retired farmer. 'These gentlemen certainly don't want to hear it.'
'Later maybe?'
'Yes, once we leave White's.'
'Crikey, Grandad, that's jolly spiffing of you!'
'Grandad' hurriedly drained the whiskey and soda given to him and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
'I can't tell you about the last school rugger match, Wordsworth versus Shelley,' I shouted, thinking of the names and speaking them as I went along. The old men near me looked at my inky hands with disgust.
'I had a right mouldy lot of trouble getting out of that scrum. Then squitty little Jones minor pulled a fast one!'
The retired farmer tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear, 'All the slang words you are using are 20 years out of date. I wish you'd speak more quietly. I'm getting one filthy look after another. Let's go into the dining room.'
The terms of the wager were that I would get £100 if I avoided being thrown out, were my gender to be discovered. I played the part well and made flirtatious remarks to the waitresses, many of whom looked over 60 and some of whom said they hoped that not all 12-year-old boys were as badly behaved as that in public.
However, I was thrown out, and my 'Grandad' was expelled - not for bringing a woman into a men-only club, but for allowing his 'grandson' to flick pellets of bread at other diners with a catapult.
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