by Paul Sykes
Yes, well you should have stayed at your post I thought, feeling well pleased. I'll teach you to play heroes. And the dolly-peg policewoman. I'll teach you both a lesson.
Striding between them onto the pavement I turned and began to shout.
'How do you mean give you twenty-five pounds and you'll let me go? How do I know you're policemen? You don't look like policemen to me. You look like these sneaky bogus officials people are always being warned about.'
'Shut up Paul,' the first one pleaded, 'Please, please.'
'Bollocks you cunt. You asked for it,' I told him quietly.
People were watching with interest and one or two were edging closer.
'If you think,' I shouted again, 'you can just stop ordinary people in the street and demand twenty-five pounds you've another thing coming.'
One had a radio out calling for immediate assistance just below Woolworths but it didn't shut me up or lower my voice. A minute later cars screeched to a halt blocking the traffic and causing chaos and plain-clothes coppers came piling out.
Handcuffed behind my back I'm marched into the charge room just in time to hear a fat, old pasty-faced detective giving all the uniformed coppers a roasting about wasting his time.
'You're right officer, that's all they do is drink tea and waste time,' I said cheerfully, pleased with the result. The dolly-peg
policewoman wasn't present, though, which took the edge off it. Five minutes later I was released.
The following week Burky and me are standing side by side in the Magistrates court listening to the evidence being read out. He had one charge, me two, both for peddling without a certificate; the maximum penalty for a first offence is a 50p fine and every subsequent offence a £1. It was Burky's first offence and listening to his impassioned plea anybody would think the death penalty was at stake. He rabbited on about his five kids, being too proud to sign on the dole, a school at the other side of town and finished by threatening to let the state raise his kids if he was found guilty. It was the principle of the thing and the law didn't matter.
It was my turn next and from the cynical stare of the two magistrates I guessed they were expecting something similar.
The rugger-playing barrister image came to life with a tender smile.
'It says on a pedlar's certificate, your worships, that it entitles the holder to go from town to town and door to door peddling his wares. For what I was doing I don't need a pedlars certificate. I wasn't going from town to town or door to door, and I submit there's no case to answer.'
Not guilty the pair of us and all the coppers were pig sick. One threatened to nick me for obstruction next time and I told him quietly to go fuck himself.
The old feller had a pedlar's certificate, in fact he'd had one for 30 years. He renewed it without fail on January 1st every year. To hold one meant you didn't have a police record, a handy thing to prove in a strange town, or anywhere for that matter.
Supposing I took the old feller with me and then if a copper came along he could say he was just showing me the ropes and show his certificate. Tell them I was his son and taking over soon because he was retiring. Any old crap providing he showed his pedlar's. It seemed feasible to me but I didn't know what the old feller would say, especially as it would involve travelling.
He was all for it and made me explain in detail the ricking-in job.
We set off bright and early one morning for Hull, and by 10.30 I had the case open and working to the first crowd of the day by 10.40, normally a half-hour job.
He broke it up before I'd taken a penny by crying, 'There's a traffic warden coming.'
I started again and 10 minutes later he shouted there was a policeman coming. So there was, about half a mile away. It was his first time and he was 65. I had to make allowances.
'Listen Dad,' I explained, 'I'm not bothered about traffic wardens and I'm not bothered about coppers. That's why I've brought you. If one comes you just show him your pedlar's certificate and explain about me learning the ropes like I've told you. All you've got to do now is stand in front of me and when I ask for a pound and nobody is getting one out you get yours out. Now have you got that. Do you understand? '
'I know love.' He was near to tears. 'I can't help worrying about you.'
The next pitch I'd laid down the first item after I'd repeated half a dozen times, 'I don't sell these items in ones or twos: I sell all three together as one lot. All three go together like my solicitors 'Freeman, Hardy and Willis', when he called at the top of his voice 'I'll have that, Here I'll have that,' and waved a pound note like a coronation flag.
'Hang on sir,' I said with a tolerant smile, 'I've not finished yet. Just be patient and you'll be taking away bargains beyond belief for the price you're wanting to pay now.'
'Sorry Paul,' he called, 'I didn't hear you properly.'
The entire crowd burst into guffaws as though we were a musichall turn. They broke up and how I didn't throw him in the river I'll never know. I gave him £2 and told him to find a cafe. I'd work without his help from now on. Towards tea-time he came back just as I'd been pulled by a plain-clothes detective. He sailed to the rescue, all charm and bustle and gave the copper a quick resume on his Army career and showed his certificate. The copper was well pleased and so was the old feller. He was ebullient with confidence coming out of his ears. We worked Hull at the weekends almost until Christmas and then a little snot-nosed copper in uniform who'd barely left school said a pedlar's certificate didn't impress him and we'd better go or face arrest. It really knocked the old feller's plug in. I'd been taking over £600 every Friday and Saturday and people had been saying it was worth a pound just to listen to me.
He wouldn't come again as his certificate wasn't any good and he couldn't get the hang of rick-in. It didn't matter because there were only a few days to Christmas and the job would be finished then.
* * * *
Wendy didn't mention the confrontation as I'd expected. When I told her what Cath had said about her pinching one boyfriend already she laughed, a lovely gurgling sound. It was the first time I'd heard her laugh and it affected me like a Mozart Rondo. I wanted to climb mountains, swim Oceans, run a marathon. It was a sound that filled me with inspiration. She was growing on me like ivy up a wall but I repeated to myself over and over again not to let myself become involved.
She was always outside 'The Malt' when I arrived without fail. She didn't wear her tatty jeans any more, or at least when she was with me, but always a skirt and her bomber jacket. It was a real temptation to take her shopping for some clothes, clothes with colour and class to show off her elegance and grace. The way she carried herself naturally models spend years trying to learn. If I did buy her some clothes how could she explain them to her parents? They watched her like hawks.
She'd told me why she had to be in at 7 0'clock every night. The year before she'd stayed out all night in a young lad's flat in Park Lodge Lane, Eastmoor, and afterwards her parents asked the court to place her on a probation order. One of the conditions was being in early. Until then she'd been able to come and go as she'd liked within reason. I had total sympathy with her parents but I didn't say so. She didn't resent their action but at times she thought they were a bit too strict. She wasn't 14 any more and they should adjust the rules, she said, but they wouldn't.
Her old man had a good job at British Ropes, a specialist splicer who flew out to oil rigs when the mooring-ropes broke and went down coal-mines to mend the haulage. How did he compare to Eddie, Cath's dad, greasing the points and changing sleepers? Her mother worked shifts at George Lee's mill. From what she told me about her she had many things in common with Teresa, Cath's mother. Both were Irish, both were Catholics, about the same age and both worked shifts. It was her dad, though, who ruled the roost as far as Wendy was concerned.
'My dad doesn't swear,' she told me. 'He can't stand swearing. Yes he has a drink and smokes too, but not a lot. His hobbies? Oh he's a fisherman. The house is full of cups and trophies
that he's won. He goes fishing every Sunday. He loves fishing.'
He seemed a decent, sensible feller, a real steady sort, and to buy his daughter clothes would cause murders. I'd like to bet her mother wouldn't say much though. I wasn't taking any chances while she was under the age of consent, not even to the extent of buying her a Christmas present!
She bought me one, she gave me it all wrapped up, a big square box with a wide red ribbon tied in a bow, in the car on Christmas eve.
'What is it?' I asked in astonishment.
'It's a shirt.' She was going pink.
'But how did you know my size Wendy?' I asked in wonder.
'Weeks ago when you were on about not being able to get a pair of cords your size you said then. You said you had the same problem with shirts.'
My first Christmas home since 1962, fourteen Christmases and I felt like crying with happiness because somebody cared, and at the same time incredibly sad because I couldn't buy her anything appropriate or her parents would notice.
'It doesn't matter,' she smiled showing her dazzling teeth, 'You can make up for it on my birthday, when I'm sixteen.'
'Tell me what you want?' I said quickly to make amends. I'd buy her all the world and a couple of planets.
'Some Estee Lauder perfume, I think it's lovely.'
'Right, when's your birthday? I'll make a note in the office diary.'
'February 6th,' she gave me a quizzical look, 'You haven't got an office diary.'
She was beginning to learn not to believe every word I uttered, I was pleased to note.
Cath believed very little of what anybody said now and was always trying to trip me up with awkward questions. If they gave marks for perception at school Cath would be in a class of her own. She was far trickier than any copper I'd met and a match for me any day.
After the confrontation, a week or so, I'd been filling the car in the garage across from the post office on Dewsbury Road when a. bus passed. Looking at me from an upstairs window had been Wendy.
Without thought I'd waved for her to get off. She had at the next stop. It was mid-week when the chances of taking much were slim and the prospect of spending the day with Wendy far more appealing. She was on her way to school and probably thought I'd take her instead but I didn't, I took her home and made a pot of tea. Cath, in the meantime had gone to school, noted Wendy's absence and got on the bus and come straight to the house. She rapped on the back door. I almost collapsed when I saw her glaring at me with eyes like the ends of two shotguns.
'You bastard. You've got her in there, haven't you?' she said before I could think and sounding exactly like she'd done at the bottom of Greaves A venue.
'Hello Cath,' I said, gathering my wits, 'I didn't expect to see you until tonight. '
'Never mind all that shit.' She tried to push past.
'Hang on Cath, hang on.' I could see her battering Wendy and wrecking the front room, 'What's the matter love?'
'You know what's the bleeding matter, you bastard,' she yelled, trying to bull her way in. Mrs Lumb, who lived across the back came out, Mother's bingo mate, to adjust the washing. It .was her excuse for ear-wigging. It was a certainty she'd tell mother at the first opportunity.
'Cath, Cath, cool down. There's nobody here but the old feller and if you carry on like this he'll be out. You know what he's like. You'll cause blue murder.'
'Well let me in then,' she asked quietly, a lull in the storm. If Wendy had any brains she'd have gone into hiding by this time and if she hadn't she deserved a battering.
'OK love, but keep the noise down. The old feller's in the bedroom.'
She glanced round the room, behind the settee and at the back of the chair in the corner. 'She's not at school,' she reasoned 'and she's not at home because I rung their house. Right, I'll see you tonight.'
She walked down the road and just turned the corner when the old feller came back from the paper shop and Wendy emerged from the hall. He came into the front room and saw Wendy sitting on the settee and didn't bat an eyelid.
'Hello love.' He smiled a welcome. 'Do you want a nice pot of tea?'
Wendy stayed all day and was a great hit with the old feller.
It was the nearest I came to being caught red-handed but Cath kept me on my toes all the time. She wasn't always so grown up. Occasionally she acted her age like the time I took her to Inglestone Market. All the way she complained she was hungry and by the time we reached the outskirts she was starving.
Pulling up outside a chip shop that sold everything from garlic sausage to fish cake and curry she was too shy to go in, conscious of her dialect drawing attention.
'Either go in or starve,' I said. She didn't answer so I drove on. She knew, though, we'd be at the hotel shortly and wouldn't be hungry much longer.
She bought me an 'Inca Block Automatic' dress-watch for Christmas from her mother's club, about sixty quid's worth. She'd been paying for it since the week after Rhyl out of her pocket money. When she gave me it I wished I'd never met Wendy and wondered where it would all end. Somebody along the line would end up with a broken heart and I hoped it wouldn't be me. To ease my conscience I bought her some clothes and a Japanese radio that did everything but make the bed. I did love little Cath and spent every minute over Christmas with her.
Christmas eve we toured the night-clubs with Kay and Burky selling a novelty necklace that glowed in the dark and earned £93 in half an hour. It was a real gimmick, better than the hoolahoop or skateboard when it came to public demand and profit. 82p in the pound. Kay had a marvellous sales technique.
'Give me a pound and I'll give you a kiss and a necklace,' she offered. Lads queued to kiss my sister and I didn't blame them in the least. She looked lovely when she was in a dress. Cath almost had a fight in Dolly Grey's when somebody tried to pinch one but cooled down when I came to the rescue and got the necklace back. She was like a tigress guarding her cubs. Burky thought if we could make our own necklaces we'd earn a fortune. I promised once Christmas was over to look into the possibilities, seeing how I'd got them in Rhyl, during the summer. It would give me something to do between fights.
Christmas Day Mother went to the bingo and Dad went to bed. Kay went to Diane's for her Christmas dinner and I went to Cath's. It sickened me, I'd been thinking the Christmas dinner would be smashing after all this time away. All sitting round the table like a proper family having a laugh. I volunteered to help Mother prepare it and said I'd wash up afterwards but all she said was, 'Knickers Paul, if you think I'm doing anything in this house you've got another think coming.'
It was pleasant in Cath's after the Christmas dinner, with her two young sisters arguing and causing all kinds of problems about which presents were whose. We played records by Diana Ross and Freda Pay ne in the other room, with the door shut. Cath said Wendy's old man had gone into the taproom of the 'Malt' and dragged Wendy out with the hair of the head about 10.30 last night. How she knew I couldn't say and it wouldn't be wise to show much interest, but I'd ask Wendy next time I saw her.
Boxing Day was a long drag. I'd have preferred being in some nick taking part in the competitions in the gym. The television, regardless of what films were being shown, held no attraction for me, and the training I had to do was beginning to assert itself. The money I'd saved to see me through, £500 on Christmas Eve, already had a dent and if! didn't get myself fit and have a fight soon I'd be back to square one in no time. Days rather than weeks. I'd managed by the skin of my teeth to stay out of the nick, now Christmas was over it was time to begin the real work in earnest. No more gallivanting for me, just sweat and graft and plenty of fights and if I was as good as I thought then next Christmas I might never have to worry again.
There was only one way to find out.
CHAPTER FIVE
There is more rubbish written about getting fit than any other subject. I should know because I am an expert, a veritable expert and nobody could tell me anything that I hadn't already tried and analysed using myself for the
guinea-pig. The most important aspect of the job is getting fit for a purpose and it's no good a little fat feller saying high-jumping or a tall skinny feller saying weight-lifting. Either could train for ever and all they'd do is make people laugh. There has got to be an end result, a target to aim for, or you're wasting time. Women poncing about in aerobic classes and people jogging through the park are doing no more than pretending, kidding themselves they're fit and disciplined.
The lads on the rugby team up at the Manor had turned ashen after I'd demonstrated what I'd like them to do and shown their reluctance to such a degree I hadn't gone again. The quick, intensive burst of all-out action had satisfied me I could soon attain the level of physical efficiency needed to fight providing I didn't abuse myself. I hadn't, but the task facing me was daunting.
In a few months I'd be 32, and starting out on a career in professional boxing. I had to be barmy, a feller my age, but deep down I knew I could. I could feel it burning deep inside, that providing I trained with the same dedication, the same total concentration that I'd had in the years I'd been away I could still do it. I could still show everybody I was a force to be reckoned with. Injuries or age couldn't and wouldn't stop me.
The weather became wintry the day Christmas was over as if God had deliberately prolonged the mild weather so I could work and save enough to see me through to my first fight. Snow, sleet, freezing cold gales couldn't prevent me from the course of action I had to take and that was to stretch my lungs and build up my glycogen reserves. Cath and Wendy were shoved to the back of my mind and locked away as I prepared myself for the first session, the 4-mile run through Ossett
and Horbury. It was circuits I wanted but I hadn't anywhere to do them. The run would do to break me in.
Turning the corner of Dewsbury Road into the long downhill stretch of Queen's Drive I'd paid off my oxygen debt and was thoroughly warmed up. My legs were heavy and my calves were tight but I expected no less. Along Teal Street and down the steady slope to the pig farm I cruised, building up mentally for the middle hill to Horbury Park. This hill represented the middle rounds when it felt I'd been fighting all night and the end nowhere in sight. Cars had to use second gear to climb it. Increasing the speed by lengthening my stride I gradually turned up the volume until I reached the bus stop when I opened up on all cylinders. At the top I had to jog into the park until I'd recovered, knowing, as I did, the task before me wouldn't take as long as I'd thought.
