Herbert Edward Dunhill

work in progress wip =)

Born in 1882, brother of Alfred Dunhill. Herbert Edward Dunhill (known as "Uncle Bertie") joined his brother in the business in 1912.

Herbert, Father’s next brother and his junior by twelve years, who was later to play an all-important part in the tobacco business. Both later attended superior schools and colleges, my father contending that Grandfather Henry spent all his spare money on the education of his younger sons. Dunhill, Mary, Our Family Business (The Bodley Head - Great Britain, 1979).

After Alfred, tired of family life, (supposedly) ran off with a fisherman's daughter, his brother, Herbert Edward Dunhill, better known to his family as Uncle Bertie, led the empire.

One of the visitors who occasionally came to Woodlands was Uncle Herbert or Bertie, as we called him, Father’s youngest brother and his junior by twelve years, who was soon to take an important part in the business. He had been a territorial member of the Artists Rifles but, on account of the tubercular condition that was to afflict him for most of his life, he had been declared unfit for active service.

Uncle Bertie, then about thirty years old, was tall, outstandingly handsome and clean-shaven though he was later to grow a full Imperial beard, reddish in color. He was so much more extrovert and forthcoming than Father that their blood relationship would have surprised you. On leaving King’s School, Canterbury, Uncle Bertie had lodged with my parents and, on account of the somewhat foppish ways he affected in his youth, from his wide-brimmed hats to his vegetarian diet, and partly because of the sackfuls of postage stamps he kept under his bed, Mother regarded him as a crank. But Uncle Bertie, as he was soon to show, was astonishingly astute, especially in financial matters. Some members of the business were soon to be daunted by the stern glance his pale eyes could give you from behind their gilt-framed spectacles, though I always felt affection for Uncle Bertie. I also looked forward to his visits because they usually meant that I could spend some time with Lilian, his daughter and my cousin, a pretty fair-haired girl, just about as lively as I was. We were almost exactly the same age and the greatest friends.

Before I was born Uncle Bertie had tried his hand with some sort of a shop in New York, returning with Aunt Violet, the fussy little woman he had married, in time to join Father in his early days at Duke Street an arrangement that the problems with creditors had brought to a rapid close. Uncle Bertie had then opened his own tobacconist’s shop in Harrow where he was now living in a semidetached house in Butlers Avenue and where Aunt Violet ran a hat shop.

The visit I refer to took place on a shimmering day in summer, about the middle of the war, just after Alfred Henry had returned to his regiment for the battle of the Somme. I remember the joy of taking Lilian off to see the sticklebacks in the pond and then of lying on our backs, hidden by long grass, chattering away like magpies through the drowsy afternoon.

We were all in the dining-room that evening when Father looked up from his plate and said with characteristic suddenness, ‘By the way, I’ve just bought another house in London. It’s in Notting Hill Gate. I really can’t go on with these unreliable trains. And the house, incidentally, is complete with a staff.’

‘A staff?’ exclaimed Mother. Though she obviously knew about the plan, this point seemed to take her by surprise, never having had more than a local woman to give occasional help. ‘And you had better come and have a look at the new factory, Bertie,’ Father said. ‘Why not sell that shop of yours and join me again? We badly need some office administration.’ ‘Are we leaving here?’ I asked in sudden anguish. ‘Oh no. We’ll keep this place on,’ Father assured us. We’ll need it at weekends and when the boys come home.’

As soon as we were allowed to leave the table Lilian and I ran back into the garden. We had plenty to talk about. It was dusk when Mother called us in. Father and Uncle Bertie were still in the dining-room, bent over papers and plans. Dunhill, Mary, Our Family Business (The Bodley Head - Great Britain, 1979).