Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me

by Margaret Wentworth

  James Camb, deck steward on the Durban Castle who’d allegedly raped and killed a passenger, the actress Gay Gibson, was in for life. I’ve read the Manchester Guardian 18 November 1947 where he claimed consensual intimacy, how some sort of seizure gripped her and how he lifted her body through the porthole on the high seas. ‘I am fairly certain that at the time she was dead, but I was terribly frightened’ it quotes him as saying. Ces liked him. Ces tells of paying for homosexual favours, of pathetic gifts of food on his birthday that moved him, punishment beatings, the times he was sent to chokey to suffer bread and water alone and games prisoners play with screws.

  In the mid-1950s, after two years in Dartmoor, the governor told Ces he was to be transferred to Strangeways, because he had to attend to finalise his divorce from Peggy. Despite a professed ‘tinge of sadness’ at leaving his friends, Ces felt a surge of elation as the bus drove through the prison gates.

  In 1997 Detective Inspector Dennis O’Toole of the New South Wales Police Service told me Ces Waters was never in Dartmoor.

  17 Trust Me

  Trust me not at all or all in all

  Tennyson

  Often I’d drive into the city to visit the State Library of New South Wales to check information Ces had given me. Having a research background, it was a heavenly place. I could access the Manchester Guardian and the Times dating back to the 1920s and sift through until I could verify claims. Ces’s remarkable memory for names, dates and places meant I could often go straight to my mark. Some of the incidents I uncovered in these newspapers included Gracie Burnside’s untimely death, Mr Dunham’s violent murder, mention of Jock McAvoy the boxer, the jewellery heist that resulted in Ces going to Dartmoor, and the exploits of Ces’s inmates Roy Webb, James Camb and ‘Doctor’ Stott. It was exciting coming across familiar names. I spent hours searching for the report on young Bobby’s accident to no avail. Much later a family member sent Ces a letter dictated by Bobby in hospital. Flicking through newspaper after newspaper or scrolling through the microfiche, I became so absorbed in Manchester’s daily life I could have been there in person. Ces’s descriptions were confirmed by the writers of the day, reporting on social events, politics, crime and other dramatic incidents. Sitting in that large atmospheric library unearthing the past was magic. Only time constraints irked me.

  Ces and I got on well because we had a complementary relationship: the extrovert performing to his audience of one, and the introvert who enjoyed his wit and vivacious energy. He boasted often of his honesty when I found events hard to believe—his life seemed so bizarre. He used the words ‘Trust me’ like punctuation.

  But library research eventually gave me confidence in his accuracy, and he was extraordinarily consistent on detail. Months or even a couple of years later I would ask him to recall an incident he had mentioned earlier, and was constantly on the lookout for a different version.

  Ces’s outspokenness on vicious crimes and his casual attitude to violence disturbed me. I accepted Ces as having been capable of terrible extremes and tried not to judge him, always aware of his difficult home life and environment. I was conscious my distaste for some of his past deeds was coloured by my straight and protected upbringing. I admired his bravery in talking so openly about crimes; however, it was difficult to tell if Ces’s enjoyment when recounting those dark elements was due to his love of storytelling or a pride in his past exploits. I put it down to a mix of both. Thank goodness he had come to his senses and left all those negative ‘thrills’ behind him in England.

  The most crucial factor was that Ces was now reformed and living a clean and honest family life. I really believed in Ces’s reformation and that he had raised his children to have positive moral values. John did too. Our documentary Rebels With a Cause reflected it. We were true believers and had moved from accepting a myth to spreading his gospel.

  18 The Downward Spiral

  I know not whether Laws be right,

  Or whether Laws be wrong;

  All that we know who lie in jail

  Is that the wall is strong;

  And that each day is like a year,

  A year whose days are long.

  Ballad of Reading Jail, Oscar Wilde

  Only those who’ve done bird for a long time can ever know the unreality of the everyday. Add to that all the charms of beautiful Devon’s Dartmoor.

  The first leg of my journey to Strangeways Prison in Manchester was Princetown to London. Rattling along in the train seemed unreal after being couped up in a dim smelly tiny cell for so long. I drank in rich green countryside dotted with grazing animals. The scenery changed to suburban backyards, sooty old buildings and roads choked with pedestrians and cars: London. As my two escorts and I emerged from Waterloo Station, a flock of pigeons took to the air in a flurry of flapping wings. I watched them in awe until they were grey specks against a cloudy sky. The colours, sounds and smells of the city reawakened my senses and filled me to overflowing with joy. Pedestrians carried on with their dull monotonous lives, oblivious to the wonder around them.

  We stopped overnight in Pentonville Prison. Next morning I was again handcuffed and put on the train. It was early afternoon when it arrived in Manchester. Home. On the bus to the city I savoured familiar sights. Tears flooded my eyes. My city; I was 23 years old and had been away for two long years.

  After Dartmoor, Strangeways was a luxury hotel. Electric lights. Brightly painted green and yellow brick walls. Rooftops of Manchester visible above the prison walls. Hooters signaling the free that it was time to go to work. Mates like Joe Armstrong to greet me. It was fantastic.

  Life at Strangeways went along reasonably smoothly. A major distraction and pleasure was my newfound ability to read. It took ages to plow through a book but time I had plenty of. I borrowed books on boxing and studied them, hungry to learn new techniques and augment my skills. This was something I actually did well at.

  Family and friends visited me. Mum and Doreen were regulars and kept me in touch with the outside. My half-sister Janie, in her early thirties, was seriously ill with a tumour on her brain. Her husband, Dick Lusty, had been living up to his name, forcing himself on her sexually during her illness. Dear Janie died within several months. I was unable to attend her funeral.

  Barbie and Sylvia came to see me. Barbie had never visited me in jail before. We’d never been close. I always felt sorry for Barbie, she seemed to lead an unexciting and unromantic life. She’d only had about three boyfriends and she ended up marrying the third, a West Indian called Morris. The union only lasted a couple of months, during which Morris was rarely home. Sylvia, who had also married a West Indian, had four small children clinging to her skirt. After five years of married life she didn’t seem happy. There was no way I could bring sunshine into her life, and that pained me.

  When my father also appeared one time at the visiting booth I was completely overwhelmed. I hadn’t seen him for years. He asked me how I was and what I was planning to do when I got out. I told him that I was thinking of starting up a car business. He seemed pleased I might be following in his footsteps, and promised he’d give me his tools when he retired. I was absolutely thrilled. I’d watched him make some of those tools and they were beautifully crafted. When dad left, I felt a warm glow inside, a delicious feeling. Over the following months I thought a lot about him giving me his precious tools of trade. I knew I’d treat them with respect and over the years make and repair things with them, thus carrying on a bitter-sweet memory of dad long after he’d gone.

  I had another glimpse of the real world when I was taken to court to finalise my divorce. Outside No 2 Court gentle sweet Peggy sat in a green dress. Her eye caught mine and I felt they conveyed a message: ‘I don’t want to do this, Ces. How about you?’ Our eyes also met when she said in evidence, ‘There weren’t many happy moments, but the ones we did have were really enjoyable.’ Her wretched mother, sitting in the gallery like a vulture, had orchestrated the whole thing. Once the divorce was accepted we
walked to different ends of the corridor. At the last moment we both turned for a last look. She was walking to freedom, I to a prison van. That was the only regret I had that day. I never saw her again but heard she married a wealthy fairground showman much older than her. Years later, a woman told she met Peggy in Salford, and Peggy said she still carried the torch for me. It was tragic we married when we did; another five years and I might have been mature enough to settle down.

  I craved human contact. Public visits were only once a month but the Salvation Army Brigadier Merry visited more often. He told me he’d pay me visits twice a week if I joined his faith. I promptly became a Salvationist and never regretted it. It was a delight to listen to this big generous kind man who’d travelled the world helping others.

  I met the deep, serious Tim Yeo stitching mailbags. He’d fought in Burma and was doing 10 years for attempted murder. I knew his girlfriend from the Sunshine Club. When Tim was in prison once before, she moved in with another chap, and the news leaked to Tim. When he was released he walked into the club and embedded an axe in her skull while she was dancing with her new man, leaving her a spastic. Tim deeply regretted this and later killed himself.

  Roy Rubberbones Webb turned up, a temporary inmate. As Dartmoor was isolated, there was a rule whereby prisoners who’d accumulated unused visiting time were sent to accessible prisons so friends and relatives could visit. Before he left Dartmoor he’d taken all the hinges off his prison door. How he did this will always remain a mystery to me. The hinges were on the outside. When the warders opened the door to put a replacement in, it crashed down on them. Soon after Roy returned to Dartmoor, in November 1951, he escaped through the prison viaducts, found his way to London and was recaptured several days later in a yard where an Italian greengrocer called Bill Tucker put his barrows. An extraordinary coincidence was to hang on this.

  An inmate with a warped sense of humour, Maltese Tony, was strikingly good-looking with burning dark eyes, sensuous lips under a thick black moustache, long sideburns and luxurious wavy jet-black hair. Tony did a lot of weight training and had built an impressive physique. However, his claim to fame was found off the end of his magnificent torso. Sometimes, when my mates and I were eating, Maltese Tony would stop to chat. Then in a casual way, without interrupting the flow of conversation, Tony would flop his exceptionally large, thick penis on the table, a huge brown sausage among the plates and playing cards. I think Tony did it to humiliate blokes who were smaller than him, which would have included every dick in the nick.

  Wiley Williams had been a successful criminal and was wealthy from running a bent car business. Vehicles were stolen in England and driven to his motor showrooms in Glasgow. Wiley was released before me and we agreed to join up when I was.

  Doreen was waiting the day I stepped outside in early 1952. Coming out of prison was very strange, like walking on a cloud. I couldn’t really focus on anything. Doreen had sent in a lovely suit for me. I felt dressed to the hilt as I stepped out into the daylight. It was exhilarating after 18 months. Doreen was waiting, her face glowing with excitement. She’d hired a taxi and we were driven to a room Doreen was renting in Upper Brook Street. Our relationship had never been stronger and we began to talk about getting married. Things were looking up; my thing especially! Doreen was exceptionally good in bed and very uninhibited. I asked how she’d been getting on in my absence. ‘You must have had a few boyfriends?’ ‘Some, yes, a variety.’ I asked her for details. She told me that she sometimes went down to a big American air-base in Warrington to select a couple of black yanks to go to bed with. She enjoyed describing to me what went on. I found myself getting turned on. It sounded very tasty.

  I had a Jamaican friend, Pedro, black as the ace of spades, with sensuous thick lips. I asked him how he’d like to do a double with me in the kip. ‘I’m not a poof!’ ‘I’m talking about a bird!’ His eyes lit up. ‘Oh, that’s different.’ The first time we all went to bed together, I lay back with one of my arms around Doreen’s neck and watched him do all the graft. Under the sheets. I pulled the linen back for a better view. He started performing. I thought this is good. Pedro was at it and I’d never felt so randy in my life.

  But sexual abandon aside, I resented my long prison years. Society owed me. I wanted to hit back. Restless, angry and young, it was not surprising Doreen and I had arguments. After flare-ups it was common for Doreen or I to go away for a few weeks to calm down. After one altercation, I visited Wiley in Scotland.

  Wiley looked every inch the successful entrepreneur; well groomed and a real gentleman, few would have guessed he was a villain just released. We quickly resumed doing what we were both good at. Thieving. We used my set of MRN keys to steal cars, especially those of salesmen loaded up with merchandise. We packed the stolen goods and posted them back to England to be collected later. The goods were then sold to one of my friends at the markets as bankrupt or salvaged stock. Quite profitable.

  I stayed with Wiley in his large house, called Mount Pleasant, on the island of Kerrera, 3 kilometres by ferry from the harbour of Oban. The impressive house faced the Atlantic, and Wiley’s two boats were moored alongside. We spent several happy weeks here, boating, relaxing, reading, talking, and going for long walks along the rough road that encircled the 8-kilometre long island. The hillsides were undulating with craggy outcrops protruding through a mantle of bracken and ground cover. At the southern end Gylen Castle perched on the rocky headland, like in a fairytale. On grey days, with the freezing wind whistling off the Atlantic, the crumbling castle set against dark storm clouds looked menacing.

  We thoroughly enjoyed the good life after years behind bars. Freedom, independence, lack of responsibilities and the flush of money from recent thefts made me feel good. But the quiet life was not for me. I got twitchy, missing the action and excitement of urban life. So we split up and I returned to Doreen, who’d recovered from our quarrel and was pleased to see me. We rented a two-roomed section in a larger house, owned by some Indians.

  One thing I’d planned to do on release was to seek practical experience in boxing. Above a pub, Len Johnson ran a gym for learners. Len defeated numerous British champions and could well have achieved world recognition had it been permissible for negroes to fight for British championships. I joined his boxers. He was an excellent trainer and stressed the importance of a strong defence. His wisdom impressed me and yielded many practical benefits.

  I read excerpts from Peter Jenkin’s book, From Harrow to Dartmoor. When Peter was released, the Kray brothers kindly put him up in one of their flats to give him a start. Peter was crushed when he found his society friends disowned him. He didn’t want to socialise with the criminals he’d befriended, so virtually became a recluse. He became a penniless alcoholic, and died from kidney failure alone in a dishevelled London flat.

  I decided to go down to London for a couple of weeks to visit some friends I’d met in prison. While I explored London, by chance I met up again with Kenny Lane, a pilot I’d spoken to on the train ride to Manchester after being discharged from borstal back in 1944. Kenny asked if I’d like to go flying with him. So we drove out to the West Essex Club and he took me for a spin in his six-seater. Kenny then offered to give me some flying lessons.

  When Kenny felt sufficiently confident I was trustworthy, he confessed he was a smuggler. He knew I had form and was hoping for a partner. To demonstrate his enterprise Kenny flew me to France, then the Channel Islands and back to England, his plane loaded with lucrative imports like cigarettes, whisky, watches and cigarette lighters.

  Kenny also flew illegal immigrants, mainly Pakistanis, out of Belgium or France. He could fit four at a time and charged them £200 each. Kenny would fly them to South End in England or, if this was unsuitable, give them a rougher landing in a Kentish field. Sometimes when he was feeling tired, I’d take the controls so he could rest. I learned a lot about flying during this two-week period. Being Kenny’s partner was tempting, but I had Doreen and my family in
Manchester and I wanted to be with them, enjoying my freedom. The offer was left open.

  Back in Manchester, I heard on the grapevine that Maltese Tony and an inmate called Heaton were planning an escape. Through a mutual contact, they sent a message requesting I turn up with a getaway car outside prison at a certain time and place. That cold rainy night, my old car wouldn’t start. I was delayed getting there and when I finally did, no-one was waiting beneath the wall. I drove round to Jack’s Coffee Stall, about 5 kilometres away, because it was still the popular meeting place for villains. Huddled under shelter nearby were two wet cold miserable escapees, Heaton limping badly from an ankle broken during his jump to freedom.

  My place was too dangerous so I drove them round to my mum’s new house. Sylvia was the only one home. Her husband had gone off hustling, so she was staying there for a few weeks. When Sylvia was introduced to Tony, there was instant attraction. His soulful dark eyes projected an over-abundance of lust, respect and adoration for women. Sylvia went weak at the knees. Hooked. But mum’s house was too dangerous too, so Sylvia suggested a friend’s place.