No. 10 DOWNING STREET

Manawatu Standard, Volume LVI, Issue 165, 13 June 1936, Page 13

No. 10 DOWNING STREET

DOORSTEP DRABIAS. “In the great city of London there is a stage faced by no footlights, flanked by no plush drop-curtains, and absolutely minus anything in the shape of orchestra-pit and auditorium, yet on this stage a hundred dramas and comedies have been enacted —it is the door-step of No. 10, Downing Street, home of the English Prime Ministers,” says Ex-Detective Inspector Briist in his book “1 1 Guarded Kings.” 'Such a tiny stage, a yard or so long, a foot or two wide, a few inches deep—yet somewhere in the platform precincts, unseen, invisible, lurks that mischievous impressario Fate, fashioning his farces and tragedies extempore from such human material as comes to hand. The politically great and famous, pausing, posing, ponder- j ing, and passing on their lawful occasions; the pursuivants of the world’s embassies and chancelleries,! burdened with pacts and promises;! the petitioners of This, That, and The Other, the camp-followers and j racketeers of diplomacy, the enthusi-' asts, fanatics, ecstatics, and lunatics to whom the homes of the highest are as powerfiil magnets attracting the steel of their purpose—these, and a! few guarding detectives like myself, i are his characters. |

“Blany a time and oft, my duties led me to that door-step, and so I came to know the one character who was persistently present, the lovable Frank Berry, office-keeper at “Number Ten,” who has since retired.

Berry has literally “walked with kings nor lost the common touch.” He was responsible for furnishing, cleaning and supervising the smooth running of the office section of the Premier’s residence. Early in the morning he could be found keeping a watchful eye on a cleaner of whose methods he may not have approved; ,two hours later this prince of (diplomats would be ushering the highest Blinisters of State to their seats in the Cabinet Room.

He was a walking encyclopaedia on matters ceremonial and political, and his services were constantly requisitioned by harassed statesmen. Seldom at a loss, ever courteous and helpful, and a toastmaster of no mean ability, Frank Berry must have been difficult to replace. Every new Cabinet welcomed the benefit of his vast experience, and it was not beneath the dignity of a Premier to draw him on one side and say ‘“Well, Mr Berry, and what do we do now?” Berry was a godsend to' the Labour Cabinet during their term of office! Sometimes virtue had its reward. Once, when I was on duty in the hall of “Number Ten,” with the Cabinet assembling for an important meeting, 1 saw Lord Derby walking across the pavement. On tho doorstep he signalled Berry—“ Frank, come here.” —and after a murmured word —“You can put your shirt on that!” It was a sure tip lor the Derby! How “human” the big men really are! A doorstep drama in which I played a small part was an incident of the English Suffragette Campaign, when “Votes for Women” was the slogan and the air of London was all a-whistling with bad eggs, rotten fruit and dead cats 1 A Cabinet meeting was in progress within. It was on duty without. And up came the militant exponent of feminine franchise, Emily Davidson —whom I saw subsequently hurl herself to death in a foolish attempt to prevent the King’s racehorse winning the Derby at Epsom—and chained herself to the iron railings alongside the doorstep 1 She had slipped her chains round the bars and snapped the locks tight before 1 even realised what she was up to. It was imperative that this fanatical agitator should be removed before the Cabinet Blinisters emerged from the Premier’s residence. But the locks were new and strong, and there were no keys to open them. What a problem 1 I sought tho redoubtable Berry’s aid. “I’ll get a file!” said Berry.

Ho returned, minutes later, with the only thing he could find—the housekeeper’s nail-file 1 Wo all laughed. But it was necessary to send for a locksmith before tho' struggling Suffragette could be removed to Cannon Row' Police Station.

Speaking of Suffragettes, in my opinion the greatest comedy ever enacted oft tho Downing Street doorstep might be titled “The Sergeant’s Dilemma;” or “Do clothes Blake The Policeman?” It so happened that a woman presented hereself on the doorstep of “Number Ten” with a petition. She was recognised as a Suffragette wanted by the police under the “Cat and Blouse” Act. Sho was at once seized by tho late Sergeant Gough, one of our specialists in detecting disguise. (She was disguised.) In a flash, the unfortunate sergeant was surrounded by a score of women who sprang into Downing Street from all sorts of odd corners and doorways where they had been hidden.

Those of us who were on duty were hopelessly out-numbered, and then the women began to strip tho clothes off poor Gough 1 It was an astounding sight to see him, the centre of a plunging, struggling, shrieking mob of excited females, being divested of hat, coat, and vest.

In shirt-sleeves, his face one crimson blush, the sergeant howled protest as they began to unfasten his trouser-braces! It was too much. Gough released his prisoner and disaster was averted by two bracebuttons.

Inspector Randall, the sergeant’s superior, must have told Mr Lloyd George, to whom ho was acting as confidential protector, for the story ran round the Cabinet like wild-fire and Blr Bonar Law laughingly suggested that in future police officers engaged in grappling with the “Wild, Wild Women” should be provided with suits of steel armour.