Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me

by Margaret Wentworth

  I rushed off to tell Harry. He listened in awe. He was sworn to secrecy which I believe he faithfully maintained. Miss H soon began to keep me behind after school to do various tasks a couple of times each week. I think it was on the third occasion that I had a wet orgasm. It was a pleasant experience for me though I was still nervous. Harry revered me as a leader of men to have achieved what could only be a fantasy to him. He would listen to every detail with a mixture of envy and admiration.

  I never understood why this teacher was more severe in class with me than any other pupil. She wouldn’t let me put a foot wrong. Sometimes she didn’t speak to me and she’d say to the class, ‘All right, go on, see you all tomorrow,’ and she’d shut the door on us all. On another afternoon she might say, ‘Cecil, I want you to stay behind and help me with some books.’ I would willingly agree and we’d start performing again. I’d grope her under the chami knickers. Oh dear!

  On one occasion Miss H knelt on the floor and actually tried to insert me. I must have gone in only a fraction before she pulled away and stopped. I don’t know whether she had a guilt complex but I was pretty worked up and it was a terrible anticlimax.

  Other school lessons never left a trace on Ces. ‘Bored to extinction’ he played truant more and more, his time on the street spent avoiding the uniformed truant officer ‘The Ghost’, playing detective looking for ‘evidence’ in the form of sweets hidden in the underclothing of giggling girl shoplifters, fairground voyeurism and adolescent grope-and-runs, giving misleading information to police about where Poole the illegal bookmaker would be operating—curiously, information paid for by both bookmaker and police—and becoming involved in petty street crime. Indeed, despite his mother’s strenuous attempts to keep him at school, he ran out of state schools—by expulsion. She sent him to St Joseph’s Catholic College.

  I was soon turfed out of there too. I was provoked by a teacher who I particularly disliked, as he was always picking on me. One day he asked me in a very aggressive tone of voice to go downstairs and bring up a full milk crate. I was enraged. I went downstairs and must have taken a long time because the teacher came down after me and ordered me to pick the container up. I went ahead of him up the stairs, and then turned around and threw the crate at him. The confident mature look on his face changed to horror as he fended off the crate which tipped upside down, the milk bottles smashing down all around him. I was scared and hurried past him and down the stairs. Then I ran home. The school never asked me to return.

  Only war and evacuation got Ces Waters inside a classroom again for any length of time. It wasn’t Ces’s fault, of course, but his schooling left him unable to read or write. What else was there to do but play up? His rebellious behaviour, combined with his general dislike of teachers, continually resulted in conflict and animosity. Ces was slow to learn the lesson that an unrestrained temper caused him strife. Despite this, his knowledge of himself did grow. He was able to recognise other problematic ‘instincts’ that also seemed to be upsetting people, like his ‘honesty problem’.

  One instinct mum would have loved to kill in me was my blunt honesty. An attractive blonde always brought a bottle of beer to share with mum. She wore a thick coating of makeup which overemphasised her eyebrows, eyes and lips. On one occasion she came in wearing an outrageous spotted fur coat, tight-fitting at the top and voluminous at the bottom. I stared at her, intrigued that anyone could wear such a weird bell-shaped outfit. The lady stood in the middle of the floor and swirled around on her high heels like she was on some exclusive cat-walk in Paris. She asked mum what she thought about the coat. Mum told her that it looked really nice. The lady was pleased and asked my opinion. I told her that it looked absolutely terrible! She said, ‘You what?’ Mum, embarrassed, tried to make light of it. The woman was so offended she left without having her beer.

  My honesty stymied me when I met an ex-schoolfriend a couple of years later. She was going to the cinema to see a Humphrey Bogart movie and I went too. After, we went for a walk and I took her to a bombed-out building. I suspected she was a virgin and knew I had to play it cool. I got her receptive and my trousers open to reveal a splendid erection. I was ready to go. Then I made a mistake. I said, `It’ll only take me a minute to break you in … ‘ and watched her brain divide the minute into 60 painful seconds. She bolted, leaving me with my pants around my ankles, cursing my honesty.

  Besides being ‘too honest’, Ces also claimed a single act of charity and generosity; he gave the cold shivering Billy Spooner, a schoolmate his only good jumper despite his household’s dire poverty. He claimed his mother, initially livid, approved the gift after she realised he’d given out of ‘sheer kindness’, a quality she didn’t want to discourage by punishing him.

  Bing, Bong and Ces often played truant. They enjoyed the antics of Woodbine Annie, named after the cigarette of the day, the Woodbine.

  Woodbine Annie was thin and frail through lack of nourishment, yet her eyes and taut mouth reflected a toughness that came from years of surviving in the gutters.

  Lighting was by gas mantles supported by pipes. Woodbine Annie and her friends would remove the gas mantle and attach a cup to the exposed pipe. The cup contained a potent mixture of brass polish and methylated spirits. They would bubble the gas into the pipe and then drink the concoction! Annie swigged cheap Red Binnie wine laced with methylated spirits. In a drunken stupor she’d sleep anywhere, along with her alcoholic male friends.

  Annie would do anything for a Woodbine such as having sex or dancing naked in the street, even threaten to eat vomit. Passersby would taunt her for amusement. Woodbine Annie would play up to the attention and sometimes a cigarette or coin would be flicked in her direction by a sympathetic onlooker.

  Another day Ernie and I went into an empty piano shop and saw a body slumped in the corner. It was Woodbine Annie, her face white as a sheet. She was unusually serene; her taut mouth relaxed into a very slight smile. Death must have been a welcome release for this poor old soul. The police carted her emaciated body away to be buried in some unmarked grave.

  The truant of the daytime became increasingly the wanderer of the night. Things at home got no better and when Ces was ‘about 12’, his father threw him out. Not just for the night, but until his father’s mood might change. This was an escalation of alienation sadly noted by the spurned boy as a man.

  I don’t know why he did this, possibly because he was in one of his dark moods. To protect her own skin, on this occasion my mother didn’t openly go against him. But she did whisper to me I could sneak back in to get some food when dad wasn’t home.

  Wandering the streets I met Flannigan, a rogue and truant who never seemed to belong anywhere. We looked for a place to bed down and chose a cart with a tarpaulin and lumpy bags of sacking inside. The aroma of Flannigan’s smoking cigarette butt and the mould was nauseating but I was grateful for his company. It was cold and Flannigan lit an old bag for warmth. The flames spread and the cart caught. We fled, just as the tarpaulin went up with a whoosh. It was a cold doorway after that.

  I stayed out of the house for three days and nights, sneaking home or to Janie’s for food. At nights I sat outside the garage of a friend of dad’s, who telephoned a neighbour who got dad, embarrassing him into bringing me back.

  Despite his father’s loveless attitude to his son, the boy claimed to be proud of the man and, indeed, to have yearned for reciprocal love. His account of moving from Mansfield Street School (and Miss H) to St Pauls on Cottenham Road, the street where he lived, is predictably not related to anything academic.

  The new school had a playground on the roof. It was great; I could look through the railings and watch the comings and goings at my house. Sometimes I’d see my father walking down the street and would point him out to my new mates. At first they asked, ‘Hey, is your dad black? Is he an Indian, or what?’ I wasn’t offended by the colour of his skin and watched dad with a look of pride that simply said, ‘That’s my dad.’

  Ther
e were good qualities I recognised in dad. When he stepped into the ring he was a very brave and courageous fighter. When he was successful in his boxing fights on a Sunday morning in the railway stables, I’d excitedly boast about him to my friends at school. Some of them would already know what had happened. We’d discuss the fights in detail and I’d swell with pride when they’d exclaim, `Your dad, he’s a great little fighter!’ or ‘He really belted that Freddie, didn’t he?’

  I knew deep down that I always wanted to love my father, yet I was held back from my inner feelings because the only emotions he’d ever expressed to me were that of a violent and unkind drunkard. I had this hunger within me to reach out and embrace this man; but he’d always be moving away.

  Perhaps it was from another fighter that Ces saw boxing as a way to respectability, riches and an escape from the spiral of crime and prison which was so soon to envelope him. He met a man to whom the ring had opened a new better world, who toured the US on the basis of his prowess.

  Dad’s business partner in his garage was Jock McAvoy. Like dad, Jock had a very quick temper and a reputation for violent outbursts. Furthermore, he was one of the greatest middleweight boxers England had ever produced and one of the best body punchers in ring history. Jock fought Jack Hart, Len Harvey, Freddie Mills and Len Johnson; he’d really put some cracking men away.

  Dad often drove Jock to and from his championship matches. On one victorious occasion, Jock received a magnificent, gold Lonsdale belt as a trophy. The following day, Jock came round to our place in a terrible state. ‘Oh Darkie, where’s my belt? I don’t know whether I left it in the car or it’s been pinched! Did you find it?’ Dad looked up, concerned, ‘Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve lost your beautiful belt?’ Jock’s face crumpled. Dad reached down and pulled the heavy, gleaming prize from behind a cushion on the couch. Jock nearly cried with excitement. In Jock’s distinguished fighting career, he won three Lonsdale belts, an exceptional achievement considering he had to defend his British title three times to get each one.

  I’d listen spellbound to Jock describing the various boxing matches that had shaped his distinguished career. Like the fight he had with the ferocious Marcel Thil, who he fought for the Frenchman’s European light heavyweight crown. With a thundering punch, Marcel broke Jock’s nose and pushed the nasal bone inside his face. Every time Jock breathed his face ballooned up and his eyes closed. Jock saw Marcel as a blurred shadow moving around in front of him, and most times he threw a punch, the shadow would disappear as Marcel ducked. Occasionally his fist would strike something solid, causing the blurred shape to stagger back, only to return moments later. Jock bravely fought to the end but lost on a narrow points verdict.

  I felt privileged knowing that Jock was so close to the family. I was also proud to hear that I was actually related to a famous boxer. Granny Ada’s aunt Kathryn MacDonald came from Dublin. She emigrated, to America, met and married another Irishman, Patrick Corbett. They had 10 children, one of whom was called James. He was known as Gentleman Jim Corbett, and became heavyweight champion of the world.

  `Heavyweight champion of the world’: Ces would remember Jim Corbett long after that gentleman—his manners and sportsmanship, generosity of spirit in victory or defeat—was forgotten by all but a handful of history-interested fight fans.

  Ces detailed one other non-criminal direction his life took in those pubescent years: entertainment.

  A mate and I were walking past the Coliseum Cinema. He read out a sign: ‘Variety Night Tuesdays and Fridays—Go as you please competitions.’ I fancied myself as a bit of a George Formby impersonator, so told my parents. All my father did was ridicule me: ‘You’ll get thrown off the stage.’ Fortunately my mother gave me the encouragement I needed. ‘You’ll be all right, son, you’ll do OK.’ She helped me get the paperwork together and on the night took me down to The Coliseum on the tram.

  The local crowd was there and all my mates, including ragamuffins like Bing and Bong. They sneaked in through the toilet windows. My half-sister Nancy also came. You were judged on hand claps so I needed the support of my friends to give me that extra cheer. I certainly didn’t look like George Formby who I was about to imitate. I wore a bandage on my knee and a gaping hole in my jersey. The bandage was genuine but the hole in my jumper wasn’t; someone told me to put on my worst clothes because I might as well get a lot of sympathy.

  I felt a mixture of intense fear and excitement when I stepped on the stage. I couldn’t play a ukulele so the compere, Dennis O’Conner, lent me one and turned the bridge of it down so that it would be soundless. The pianist played the tunes. I stood trembling with nerves and heard people mumbling, ‘Oh, poor kid.’ A few of the lads shouted, `Come on, Ces!’ I sang three songs: ‘Sit Them on the Ice in the Ice Rink’, ‘Leave out Monkey Mike’, and ‘If You don’t want the Goods don’t Maul Them’—my favourites. I ended up with third prize and felt grand. I handed the £1 note proudly to my mum. She affectionately ruffled my hair and pressed 2 shillings in my hand.

  Even poor children love chocolate, and Ces’s 2 shillings was spent on sweets for Bing, Bong and friends. Cinema chocolates were the prize in Ces’s first shop theft.

  They were very hard to come by, but that didn’t stop Bing, Bong and I window shopping and drooling at goodies we could never afford. We’d often stop outside the newly built Apollo Cinema and peer through its glass front doors. Its posh interior had a large brightly painted kiosk with a beautiful array of chocolates. This little oasis surrounded by plush carpet was like a magnet.

  One of us had a brainwave: pinch some. The opportunity arose at 8 pm after all the patrons had left the foyer to watch the last performance. The girl in charge closed the kiosk, put a barrier across the floor, went into the manager’s office and closed the door. The place was deserted. With breathless excitement we swung open the glass doors and made a dash for the kiosk counter, ducking under the barrier with ease. We grabbed about half a dozen boxes of Milk Tray and Black Magic on display and fled the foyer at top speed. We didn’t stop running till we’d found a secluded back alley some distance away.

  It took a while before we gathered our breath. Our hearts beat wildly, our systems flushed with adrenalin. We felt fantastically high and couldn’t stop giggling. We drooled in anticipation of a marvellous feast. With the grace of gorillas, we ripped open the boxes and tore off the silver and coloured shining paper around the chocolates. Imagine our shock and disappointment when we only found smoothly-shaped pieces of wood inside! Display only!

  I had more success with Ernie Richardson, who was a very boastful boy. He’d tell me whenever he’d been around to Jump’s Cake Shop and nicked a couple of cream puffs or dosser’s wedges, which were expensive square cakes with raisins and nuts. One day Ernie asked me if I’d like to go too. When we arrived at Mr Jump’s shop, I noticed a sign on the front door which Ernie read out: ‘In God we trust: everyone else pays cash.’ I wondered for a few moments if Mr Jump had very high connections, then Ernie grabbed me by the sleeve and we entered the premises.

  Mr Jump’s shop had a weight on the door which made a bang … bang … bang noise. This would let the shopkeeper know someone had entered, as he’d often be out the back. Ernie showed me how to creep under the counter so Mr Jump wouldn’t know that Ernie had company. Ernie then purchased something and left… bang … bang … bang from the door. When Mr Jump had returned to the back section, out of sight, I sprung up and nicked some delicious morsels from the display. Then I quietly opened the door and fled the scene. Mr Jump would hear the bang … bang … bang as the door closed and go to attend to his next customer—who wouldn’t be there. Ernie and I did this on several occasions with great success. Every time I was flushed with the excitement of crime which left me high for hours afterwards.

  Some nights I’d stand staring up at the star-studded black sky, wondering what was going to become of me. I seemed to be such a complete failure at school. I was 12 and couldn’t read or write a single word. Th
ere was little chance that I’d be able to get a desk job and end up pushing a pen. Not that I had any aspirations in that direction, thankfully. I wanted instead to entertain people: perhaps as an actor, a comedian or a great boxer. I had my ambitions, but realising them seemed as far away as the twinkling stars.

  I was inspired by my success in the Variety night competition, went into a few more and won the occasional prize. I’d practise for these competitions by going with Sylvia down to Lewis’s Arcade in the centre of Manchester. We’d do a little dance or singing routine, then hold the tin out and get a few, coppers [pennies]. This was a particularly profitable activity on May Day, a public holiday. It was good experience because it kept me in with the tastes of the public and accustomed me to crowds so I wouldn’t get stage fright.

  Eventually I went for an audition with a man named Sandy Powell, who was a great Lancashire comedian. I did an impersonation of George Formby and told a few jokes. Then I had another audition with Carol Levice of ‘BBC Discoveries’. He was a talent scout for radio programs, and I impressed him so much as a child comedian that he offered me work. But it was 1939 and the Second World War had just started. My parents didn’t take my radio ambitions very seriously and, despite my frantic protests, arranged that I should go away on evacuation to Staffordshire.

  11 Ces’s War

  What’s the use of worrying?

  It never was worth while

  So, pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag

  And smile, smile, smile.

  George Asaf, Pack Up Your Troubles

  The best months of my early years were on evacuation at the start of the war.

  In September 1939 mum took me to London Road Station. I joined a group of children wearing kit bags and singing ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag’. It was my first train journey and I felt sick with excitement. There were no toilets and I had to wee out the window of the steam train.