It was unsettling being at home with wars raging inside and outside the walls of our house.
So when Stewart, gas-meter robber, told me he was leaving home and would I like to come with him, I was in. I reckoned we should head for Liverpool and sneak on a boat bound for America in darkness. We could, I figured, stay with my grandfather, Cecil Waters, Granny Ada’s ex-husband, though finding his address would be a problem. I commandeered British Traders’ delivery bike and, Stewart in the basket, pedalled off up the East Lancashire Road. After about 30 kilometres, the chain broke. Exhausted, hungry and secretly relieved—private doubts had grown like mushrooms after rain—we hitched back home in a truck.
When I got back, the family was in turmoil. Dad had stormed out. British Traders had called looking for the bike. Mum’s warning—return the bike immediately and lie low until dad cools off—was instantly accepted.
When I ‘officially’ returned, dad was preoccupied by a visit from Jock McAvoy. Mum heaped stew on two large slabs of bread, which I wolfed down. I was starving. I confessed to mum I’d run away and she folded me in her arms and pressed me to her warm bosom. That familiar aroma of soup and gravy enveloped me and I felt safe again. Then she fumbled in her apron pocket and brought out a halfpenny for me to buy a stick of liquorice.
Feeling virtuous, I showed her the margarine box. When she queried where it came from, I lied, said I’d earned it singing in an arcade on May Day. She gave me a sceptical look.
I went back to the Locker’s farm. Mr Locker was alone and grieving. While I was away in Manchester, his wife had to do one of my jobs, running errands to Keele. One day she stepped off a bus and was struck by another bus travelling in the opposite direction. I stayed on their farm for a while and tried to fill in the gap that Mrs Locker had left. I’m sure he appreciated having the extra manpower a 14-year-old strong fit boy offered.
There were still some soldiers billeted there. One day I was talking to a despatch rider dressed in his leathers. We were standing next to an empty pig pen. The soldier rubbed his fingers on the wall of the pen and I was surprised to see them begin to smoulder. Then he put his hand inside his dark coat and his fingers glowed. He told me that the army had been experimenting with phosphorus bombs and the powder had been stored there.
When the soldier wasn’t watching, I leaned over the wall of the pen and rubbed my fingers against its surface to repeat the phosphorescent effect. Suddenly, my shirt began to smoulder. I felt pain and when I pulled my shirt up saw my bare tummy was burning in the same way.
The soldier rushed me to the army encampment’s medical tent. He told me to go in alone and explain. The camp doctor immediately broke some tablets up in water, soaked cotton wool in the liquid and dabbed it all round my stomach. He asked me who told me about the phosphorus. I said that it was a soldier. ‘Which soldier?’ I just shrugged. I didn’t want to dob the bloke in. My reply did not satisfy this official so he ordered all the soldiers out in a line. He asked me if I could identify the culprit. I walked slowly, examining each face. When I reached the despatch rider, he was perspiring with fear. I was a pretty shrewd kid and pretended not to recognise him. When I reached the end, the official ordered me back for another try. Once again, I shook my head. This officer said angrily, ‘Have you no idea what he looked like?’ ‘Yes, he looked like you, sir.’ I did see that soldier again some time afterwards. He ruffled my hair and said thanks, grateful I hadn’t dobbed him in.
Mr Locker, no longer interested in the farm because of his bereavement, decided to sell and move away. This precipitated me making a final move from Keele to Manchester.
12 Dancing on Air
Love is in the air
Everywhere I look around
Love is in the air
In every sight and every sound
Vanda & Young
It is no longer politically correct for workmen to wolfwhistle at females walking past, and rightly so. But strangely, it was my first wolfwhistle as a 14 year old that made my heart sing. The ugly duckling was beginning to blossom. At last.
The possibility of romance stimulated my teenage years. Although Jimmy faded there was another candidate, an older boy who caught the school bus home with me every afternoon for four years. Dressed neatly in his private school uniform and straw boater, he was as shy as I was. Although we were both keenly aware of each other’s presence and gave the occasional interested glance, we never exchanged a word. The climax of our relationship came on his final school day. He was 18 and I was 16. He knew that if he didn’t do something quick, he’d miss out altogether. So when I alighted from the bus, my furtive glance caught him looking directly at me through the open bus window, his cheeks red and his eyes glazed with excitement. I forced myself to hold his gaze, my heart thumping with anticipation. Then he gave me a big warm smile. His smile stayed in my mind, a joyful memory for months.
I never saw him again but that didn’t matter. My confidence had been boosted; I was getting the hang of this romance thing. Through my girlfriend Annie, I met my first real boyfriend, Peter. Spectacled and thin, he had a kind personality and an interesting, intelligent mind. Peter was an extrovert and seemed to know exactly what he wanted in life, even at 17. Speleology, the study of caves, fascinated him and he took me on exciting descents. When we were together, his main interest became hormonal. It took ages for him to walk me home because he’d pause behind every bush, tree or shrub to kiss and cuddle me. If he drove me home he’d park the car and insist on heavy petting. He loved strong black coffee and mint slices, so his kisses had a potent aroma and taste. I really wasn’t ready for all this affection and felt uncomfortable when he spoke of future plans. One day I gave him a playful push which accidentally sent him into a prickly rose bush. In my family, if you got torn to shreds on thorns, you just stood up, adjusted your clothing, smiled, and carried on with your day. But Peter became irate and abused me for being a clot. He was amorous again minutes later but the damage was done. He was on his way out.
Sally, a girlfriend, invited me to a party. I decided to go without Peter. My greatest sense of isolation was at social gatherings—feeling walled in, imprisoned in an invisible bubble while everyone else floated in a sea of glorious togetherness, fun and laughter. So I made a beeline for a familiar face and stuck with the group she was in, pretending to be a part of it, knowing I wasn’t. Two attractive men in their late twenties hovered among the teenage crowd, Sally’s brother, Tony, and his friend, John. They were checking out the talent, tantalised ‘by my friend Annie writhing in a black catsuit to Pink Floyd. Then John saw me in my powder blue fluffy top and checkered skirt. He strolled over to this more vulnerable vision and asked to dance. I declined—how could I tell him I couldn’t dance? He moved off. I felt I’d made a bad impression. But John overheard Sally talking about how ‘that Wentworth girl’ was a good tennis player and located my number in the phone book. Mum answered and committed me: I was free Saturday and would love to have a game.
Whereas I would have felt ill at ease on a formal date, playing tennis with the wind in my hair was the perfect social setting for me to get to know John better. He was the perfect gentleman and it was weeks before the slightest intimacy developed. He came for dinner and later that night we took the dog for a walk down to the saltwater pool. It was a clear spring night, illuminated by the soft glow of a full moon. We followed the wagging tail down the street, hand in sweaty hand, the air thick with the perfume of jasmine and wisteria. When we reached the harbour, the lapping black water sparkled with phosphorescence. My skin tingled with anticipation. We carefully stepped along the narrow stone edge of the pool until we reached the end. For a few moments we just stood there, knowing this was the moment. John moved very close. Electricity. I closed my eyes and we kissed. Suddenly, I developed a clicking jaw. Why did it have to happen now? John didn’t seem to mind. Passion was all-pervading. Every cell in my body resonated with joy. The dog looked embarrassed. On the walk home I was so light on my feet that had John
not been holding my hand, I would have been dancing on air.
13 Trouble with the Law
`Arf a pound of tuppenny rice,
`Arf a pound of treacle.
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop goes the weasel
English nursery rhyme, skipping song
Back in Manchester, as a 14-year-old adolescent, I teamed up with Bing and Bong. We wandered the streets, unsettled and bored. To amuse ourselves, we started thieving small items such as cigarettes, food, cameras and clothing from shops and vehicles. But my first serious brush with the law came from a far more innocent event.
Two of my friends and I were given some biscuits. We were on the street corner munching and throwing them at one another, when Detective Sergeant Wagstaff and his shadow, Perkins, approached. With a warm smile, Wagstaff asked us where we obtained the biscuits. I told him the truth. Unusual. He seemed unconvinced so we all confidently went around to the Tip Top Bakery. To our shock, the once-friendly employee denied the gift. We were taken to Minshell Street Police Station to be charged with theft.
Wagstaff was quite short for a detective, with a gaunt pale face and long sharp nose. He always wore a black bowler hat and on colder days a black overcoat. His smile masked a cold and calculating mind. Perkins wore brown, had a dour face and a grim personality. They had a good routine going: Perkins would put unpleasant pressure on you and then Wagstaff would come along, friendly and warm enough to gain your confidence and, hopefully, a confession. Of course my half-brothers and I saw through this ruse and treated them with the same distrust reserved for all policemen.
At the station, Wagstaff and Perkins took me into a private room and stood over me aggressively. I looked Wagstaff in the eye and told him I was innocent. His response was a fierce uppercut to my solar plexus. Perkins thumped my back. I doubled over in pain but straightened up fast. They asked again and again if I’d stolen the biscuits. Bewildered and frightened, I denied it each time, and each time they struck me. I steeled myself not to show the pain. Eventually they gave up and put me in a cell. There was nothing to sit on except a toilet while I waited for my mother to arrive.
This first arrest and detainment confirmed everything Tony had told me about cruel and unjust police methods. I decided there was no way in the world I was going to oblige these people. I wanted Tony to be proud of me. He was always fighting with the police or warders. Tony was behind bars again. Some weeks earlier he’d gone into a fish-and-chip shop which sold pies and tripe. A fight developed between Tony and one of the Pye brothers, well-known tough violent wrestlers. The place was in an uproar, with chips and pies flying everywhere. Eventually the police arrived and Tony fought with them too. He was overpowered and arrested. The incident was described under the headline:
THE PIE AND TRIPE RAID
For months after my encounter with the police I was smarting with humiliation. Driving a stolen vehicle, I saw Wagstaff, Perkins and another detective and had a sudden urge to drive the car up on the footpath and run Wagstaff over. My pulse went crazy. They weren’t looking in my direction, there were no witnesses, it was the perfect crime. I had to really control myself to continue down the road in an orderly fashion.
About this time my stepsister Diana came to stay with my parents for about two years. She was older than me and a pretty girl, rather like the actress Margaret Lockwood. Diana knew she was attractive and flaunted it. My father never laid a finger on her, despite still giving Sylvia and me a hard time. We found her very bossy and kept out of her way.
I got cheap thrills climbing into the backyards of brothels in Brunswick Street and peering through the windows. After a while, I plucked up the courage to go in and pay my dues, the fee being anything from 10 shillings to £2. I was given a cut rate because of my youth. I had my first full sexual experience with a 13 year old pretending to be 17. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
On one occasion my other bossy half-sister, Mary, came storming into the brothel brandishing a stick. She found me, belted me and the poor girl, then chased me out, trousers in hand. Few people would dare argue with Mary because in her younger years she’d been one of the top women wrestlers in England, competing under the pseudonym Miss England.
I considered the women of the brothels as big sisters and enjoyed listening to their tales of characters they shared intimate moments with. Sure, some of them were thieves and vagabonds in the eyes of normal society, but when it came to the crunch their finer qualities really knocked me off my feet.
They were also an expensive luxury. With no other means of income, I started stealing from railway horse-drawn goods carts in the street. I’d wait till the driver moved away to deliver a parcel and then saunter over to the cart, pick a parcel up and walk away as if I was his mate working on the same job. Then I’d catch a tram home. I’d learned this trick from dad who’d done the same routine years ago. Dad wasn’t a criminal in the normal sense but was prepared to do the occasional lift.
Dad was continuing his affair with the pretty Sylvia Dunham, whose father owned a broker’s shop in Upper Brook Street. Close by was a garage where Geoffrey Butler worked as an apprentice mechanic. I’d met Geoffrey through my association with Stewart, the gas meter thief. Sometimes I’d stop to have a quick chat with him as he fiddled under car bonnets.
Geoffrey had a fidgety, unstable manner. He’d laugh at things which I didn’t find amusing. He had delusions of family wealth and personal grandeur and boasted about unbelievable exploits. His most unnerving habit was looking at me at the start of a conversation and then keeping his eyes fixed in the same direction. If I moved my head away, he’d be left staring into space. I’d find this so distracting the conversation would peter out. On reflection, I wonder why I had anything to do with the villain.
One Saturday Mr Dunham walked by. Geoffrey drew my attention to a large bulge in his jacket, presumably a thick wad of notes tucked in his waistcoat. Geoffrey was two years older than me and more experienced. He impulsively suggested it might be a good idea to lighten Mr Dunham’s load. I was not particularly fond of the Dunhams because Sylvia’s involvement with dad caused mum a lot of sadness, so I didn’t dissuade him from this idea, assuming it’d be carried out in a simple non-violent way.
We decided we would meet at the broker’s shop and go in together. One of us would hold Mr Dunham while the other took his wallet. However, when we arrived, we noticed several clients inside talking to him. We stood outside for a few moments, pretending to admire the artifacts on display as we quickly altered our plan. I whispered to Geoff that I would slowly walk round the block to provide time for the shop to empty. In the meantime, he would go inside and pretend to be another client waiting to be served. Geoffrey nodded, fidgeting, highly excitable.
I took my time walking round the block. When I returned to Upper Brook Street, Geoffrey ran towards me. I thought, ‘OK, there’s been a change of plans.’ To my surprise, he charged past without the slightest acknowledgement, white faced, eyes glazed. Had Mr Dunham cottoned on to our plan? I decided to disown Geoffrey and go home.
The next Monday evening mum read me the news from the Manchester Guardian at the kitchen table, the ‘outstanding success’ of the RAF raid on Cologne, the plight of the British fighting near Tobruk, and Japanese midget submarines in a far-off place called Sydney Harbour. Then she gasped at the name ‘Alfred James Dunham’ in an article headlined
A MANCHESTER MYSTERY
Manchester police were last night investigating the death of Alfred James Dunham (67) whose badly injured body was found in the kitchen of his broker’s shop in Upper Brook. Street, Chorlton-on-Medlock, late on Saturday night. In a statement issued yesterday, the police said Dunham had obviously been violently attacked, and robbery may have been the motive. They asked anyone who could give information of Dunham’s movements or of anybody seen in his company, particularly on Saturday, to communicate with them.
I stayed quiet in a cold sweat. Geoffrey had tools—weapons?—in his overalls. A
struggle? Panic? Who’d seen me? A later news report didn’t offer peace of mind:
Chief Detective Inspector Timpany said that when he examined the body he found a screwdriver had been plunged into the left breast up to the handle. The skull was smashed, the nose broken, and there were grave injuries. On the floor was a lemonade bottle wrapped in a blood-stained newspaper … A large steel poker also lay on one side of the body and on the other the dead man’s identity card and an empty wallet.
When mum read that an unnamed youth was arrested and confessed, I feared it was just a matter of time before Geoffrey implicated me as having prior knowledge of the burglary or accuse me to save his skin. I was sick with fear, sleepless, and prey to horrible imaginings.
I’d underestimated Geoffrey’s character. At the Manchester Assizes, he accepted sole responsibility. Geoffrey was found guilty of murder and only avoided getting the death sentence because he was 16. Instead, he was given ‘His Majesty’s Pleasure’, which meant that the sentence could run for five, 10, 20 years or longer, depending on the King’s wishes. I completely lost contact with Geoffrey after the incident.
I should have been cured of villainous thoughts after this but I was really only dabbling in petty crime. As my father, stepbrothers and neighbours all indulged in and boasted about such activities, I neither thought them harmful nor wrong. Of course I knew the law thought differently, but I had such a low regard for the police that their opinion didn’t interest me. The only problem with petty crime was it returned petty rewards. I had no concept of saving money and spent it at a rapid rate on life’s pleasures.
Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me Page 9
