Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me

by Margaret Wentworth

  My precarious finances made it essential I earned more consistent income than that derived from the occasional theft. For a while I minded an office. One of the Jewish owners sometimes bought stolen property off me. When he offered £10 for a ring, I dropped my head and looked up from under my eyebrows, `£16’. He shrugged, gave me the money, and the parting comment: ‘You know, you’re only a kid, but I don’t like the way you look at me sometimes.’ I asked what he meant. ‘You say a lot with your eyes. I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of you when you grow up.’ I replied with a half smile, `Thanks for the roses.’

  Inwardly I was delighted and worked hard to perfect a stare that would burn into people and make them feel uncomfortable. In my environment, this would be far more useful than a smile.

  I was far too impatient to wait until the legal age of 17 to qualify for a provisional driver’s licence. Some of my older friends taught me to drive in a forward direction, and my father and his mate, Regie Ward, gave me a few tips. I didn’t know much else but as there was no formal government driving test required to obtain a licence, this aspect was of little concern.

  I obtained my red provisional driving licence on the spot, which permitted me to drive any vehicle up to two tons.

  With this valuable piece of paper, I started looking for work. I needed employment cards. How could I con the authorities into believing I was a 19 year old without cards? I didn’t have an old-looking face, so I went into the labour exchange wearing a cap and a pair of good-headed boots, told them I came from a Gypsy family and never stayed in one place long enough to have an employment book. My family had now settled in Manchester and I needed work. I said I was born in 1922 instead of 1926. They blandly accepted this. My scheme paid off and I was handed a set of employment cards. A real achievement.

  My first job was driving a tip-truck. When I applied, the mechanic took me for a drive and fortunately omitted to test my reversing abilities, which were non-existent. First day on the job I was shown how to use the tipping mechanism. Then I was told to reverse into a cul de sac. After an embarrassing lull in activity, I had to confess. The other worker thought this a great joke, and discreetly showed me how to do it. The second day I went round a bend too quickly and swiped the side of a car, smashing its wing mirror. This really dented my ego.

  I was also employed as a truck driver for Roses Wines and Whisky, where my half-brother John worked. Each day I’d earn about 5 shillings on the side selling a couple of gallons of petrol siphoned from the truck’s tank. Another scam John and I worked out was that during deliveries, we’d stop the truck, climb into the back, decant whisky bottles and smash them inside the truck, spilling a bit of whisky to stink out the interior. We could then claim these bottles had been damaged in transit. The whisky was sold to illegal drinking and gambling clubs.

  It was during the following months driving trucks that I developed a close relationship with John. He was introverted and quiet, a refreshing change from Tony and Bill. John’s body from the neck down was badly scarred from when he pulled a pan of boiling stew over himself. Despite this, John was very handsome, somewhat like John Wayne with a moustache. Despite his gentle nature, there was a time when John wrestled under the name of Gypsy Monaghan; he was a very good fighter. He later married a blonde named Betty and had several children, two dying when they were very young from pneumonia and pleurisy. Fortunately another son, John, survived and became an amateur boxer.

  About this time Granny Gilbert’s husband died and left her a fortune. She decided that most of her wealth should be distributed among the family. Apart from other generous gifts, she bought a linoleum and carpet shop for John and a cobbler’s shop for Tony. She was hoping that a decent profession might keep these older grandchildren out of prison. My other stepbrother, Bill, missed out because he was in borstal at the time. Mum and her second family received nothing. After 15 years, the silent war was still raging between these two intensely proud women.

  I continued the driving job for a while and then arranged another one working for a haulage contractor. I felt good, being paid £2 17 shillings a week, good for someone of my age. I’d pocket the 17 shillings and give my mother the £2.

  One of the highlights of driving a truck was returning to Keele — in a Carter Patterson Thornycroft truck. I drove round to the school gates, stepped out and stood there with my cap on within full view of teachers and students. I felt really grand. Only a few months previously I’d been another schoolboy. All my school mates were incredulous.

  After waving goodbye, I drove the truck back along the narrow Keele Road which led out of the village and into the lovely Staffordshire countryside. Along one side of this road was an old sandstone wall which I’d often passed on my way to and from school. Overcome by memories of all the good times I’d experienced there, I stopped and prised a little chip out of the wall as a souvenir. I held it tightly in the palm of my hand and closed my eyes. I felt the warm sunshine on my face and the breeze gently ruffling my hair. An overwhelming feeling of peace and joy. Then suddenly there were cars and trucks swishing by and the magic moment passed.

  Dishonesty just doesn’t pay. I lied about my age when applying for my driver’s licence, and, being ‘19’ I got call-up papers. I enlisted. It was time I disappeared from Manchester: the police were taking a mounting interest in me. I never told the army I was 15 or that I used to wear callipers, and I still don’t know why they accepted me because I had flat feet.

  In May 1942 I was sent to Markeaton Park Barracks, Derby, where the Royal Ordinance Corps kitted me out. My boots were too big, jacket too long, steel helmet wobbled and the rifle weighed a ton. Pay was 17s 6d a week, 10 shillings for mum. The first morning they woke us it seemed like the middle of the night, still dark and bitterly cold. We were made to run all over the barracks, then paraded. Everything was disinfected, geometric, neat. And everybody seemed to want to undermine me.

  On Day 3 the recruits, wearing gas masks, were taken to the DM gas chamber for a training exercise Sergeant ‘Mad’ Miller ran. He burnt some tablets in a pan, filling the chamber with gas. Then he opened the door and told us to take off our gas masks. He wanted us to taste a little whiff of gas. I lingered taking mine off and bolted for the door holding my breath. Outside, and even in the doorway, recruits were vomiting violently though their exposure was a matter of seconds. I thought I was pretty smart but Miller pulled me back in and I ended up convulsing with cramps and vomiting.

  Mad Miller was a short, thickset bulldog. His brutal red face was topped by a prickly patch of severely short-cropped hair. He was always shouting. It was Mad Miller’s duty to knock us into shape. Officers considered some of his techniques a bit unorthodox, but tolerated him because he was an excellent instructor who instilled both fear and respect into the troops. Mad Miller had eccentric habits, like banging his head on a wall for emphasis.

  I never had any intention of conforming to army discipline. Once, while we trainees stood to attention in ranks, Mad Miller gave us the orders: ‘Stand at … ease’, ‘About … turn’, and ‘Present … arms’. When he shouted, ‘Stand at … ‘ I interrupted with ‘street corners!’ He looked down the ranks, his complexion colouring as his blood pressure rose. Some sniggering around me was quickly suppressed. When he shouted, ‘About … I yelled ‘five o’clock!’ Miller’s face turned purple with rage. ‘OK smartie, when I get my hands on you … ‘ Many started giggling again. ‘Present … ‘ and I piped up with `your ID card!’ The ranks broke up.

  The next day Mad Miller sauntered up and said he had a funny feeling I was the smartie. I replied it was easy to think this, harder to prove it. He warned me that if he found I was the culprit, he’d give me jankers. Jankers meant fatigues, cleaning out toilets and all manner of rotten stinking jobs. I turned to him with an innocent face, `Look here, I wouldn’t do a thing like that, I’ve got the greatest respect for you people.’ Mad Miller replied sarcastically, ‘I know how much respect you’ve got, mate.’ He never found
out.

  Sergeant Towie was another authoritarian figure who didn’t like my attitude. He was a tough and aggressive disciplinarian who struck fear into the hearts of many. He was massive and his cauliflower ear suggested a violent past. He once said to me, ‘You might have broke your mother’s heart but you won’t break mine. We tame lions here and the odd tiger or two. You’ll do as I tell you—you’ll get up when I tell you, you’ll jump when I tell you, you’ll do everything when I tell you. During the week don’t even dare think of enjoying yourselves! And you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to make a good soldier out of you. And you know what that means? You will survive despite!’

  Towie would take us into the barrack room where he’d have all our Lee Enfield rifles jumbled up on the floor. ‘You will all be able to pick your own rifles in the dark, and until you can select your rifle under these conditions you are not what I want you to be!’ I thought the man was crackers, absolutely crackers! After a while we could do anything with our Enfield rifles, not just find them in the dark but strip them and put them back together in the dark. If our rifle jammed, before the enemy could shoot us, we would have to be able to unjam it fast in all sorts of conditions. ‘What we are teaching you to do is to survive! I have never lost a soldier yet and I’m not going to start losing one now.’ Not surprisingly, he had the best squads at Markeaton Park.

  I had by now developed an intense hatred for the officers who pushed me around, shouted at me and made me do things I didn’t want to do. I disliked the physical hard work of training and marching with big hob-nailed boots on. I really felt that these people were mad, and wanted to leave as soon as possible.

  We did assault courses. I experienced a lot of discomfort with my weak legs and flat feet although I managed to keep up. Sergeant Towie and Mad Miller made sure recruits had no time to feel sorry for themselves. If anyone dared to complain of pain or exhaustion, Sergeant Towie would bellow, ‘How dare you say you’re in pain! Don’t come to me with your troubles!’ So I’d just grit my teeth, block out the pain and plow on.

  One day a recruit told me that if I wanted to get out of fatigues I should join the boxing team. Splendid idea, but the man in charge of the boxing team turned out to be Sergeant Towie. As a boxing instructor he was brutal. You’d spar a round with him and if you hit him in the mouth, drawing blood, he’d exclaim, ‘That’s the idea lad, now again! Now again!’ You’d throw another and he’d duck it and clobber you instead.

  When I started I was a non-entity. I’d listened to discussions about boxing between dad and Jock McAvoy but knew little. Sergeant Towie showed me all the rudiments like a good left and follow-through right. I was very strong and would keep my head down and go in banging away. My weak point was defence.

  I still had to do some training and running, but if I was ordered to do some labouring, such as moving a wheelbarrow, Towie would protectively step in and tell the other officer to leave his boxer alone. That was great. My body became fitter and I felt better than ever before in my life.

  The championships were held in a large gymnasium. All the Naffi girls were there, cheering me on. These girls, who were employed in the canteen, called me ‘Fitch’ because I was small. My second, a sergeant, told me that I was doing well every time I came back to the corner. I felt I was getting murdered. He kept up his supportive whisper in my ear, and after every round I’d think, ‘God, I wish this would end.’ When it was over I’d won. I felt on top of the world. Over the course of the championships I had four fights which I won, making me the lightweight and welterweight champion of the B Company. They had some funny weights in the army.

  The climax came when Mad Miller and Towie put their gloves on to give us a boxing exhibition. It was a tremendous thrill to watch. They knocked the tripe out of each other, each ended up a bloodied mess, but they’d certainly gained my respect.

  Despite my success, I knew there was considerable room for improvement and that I’d fought like an idiot without really being smart or fit. I picked up a book on boxing, knowing it held something I needed to learn. I couldn’t read, but diagrams and photographs demonstrated boxing techniques.

  I began getting homesick. So I went to the Commanding Officer and asked if I could return home for 14 days. He said that I couldn’t as I wasn’t yet entitled to my leave. I said, ‘OK, sir,’ went right back to my billet, packed my gear, made myself look very soldier-like, walked out of the camp and thumbed a lift back to Manchester.

  Back home in my uniform I was treated like a war hero. My mum was proud, ‘This is my lad, fighting for King and Country!’ Fighting? Good God! Only in the ring.

  William or `Dids’ Marshall was a thickset Scottish thief who introduced himself to me after local prostitute Agnes McArthy told him I was a good driver. He resembled Fagin in Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, because he organised young boys to steal for him. Dids was ready for a fight at the drop of a pin, and fancied himself as a tough man. Despite his self-opinionated aggressive manner, he was capable of great charm which he used to full advantage if he needed something. Dids required a wheelman for his gang of three thieves, which included his tall slim brother Johnny.

  I invited Dids to my place that night and introduced him to Diana who was staying with us at the time. Then we all went out to have dinner at Mrs V’s Café. She had a huge dumpling displayed in the window, with a sign next to it reading: ‘As much dumpling as you can eat for twopence.’ This officially only entitled me to a spoonful of dumpling and a dob of jam. I’d always go back for more dumpling and Mrs V was obliged to grant my requests because of the way she had worded her sign. It annoyed her greatly. ‘Eh lad, you can eat some dumpling!’ I knew I was cheating on the deal but I just couldn’t help but cheat and took pride in doing it better than the next man.

  I was home for two full days. On the third morning, lying in bed and feeling all nice and relaxed, there was a loud bang on our door. I heard mumbled voices downstairs and next thing I knew, two redcaps came into my room. Military police. ‘Right,’ said one of them, ‘have you got your AB 64, Parts one and two?’ A book with all my details in it. I showed it to him. He told me I was breaking the law because I didn’t have a special leave pass. They handcuffed me.

  I was sent to a large military jail in Ardwick Green and put in a large cell with a group of other soldiers. Then, to my horror, I noticed that one of the guards was one of my old school inspectors, The Ghost who’d haunted me and my truant mates on the Manchester streets and once humiliated me in front of my parents. My heart sank. He recognised me straight away. ‘I always told you at school that you’d never come to any good. Look at you now!’

  Two days later I was escorted back to Markeaton Park Camp. On board the steam train, my sergeant escort became suggestive and showed me a tin of vaseline. ‘Oh, I don’t do anything like that!’ He insisted but when I looked daggers at him, he realised I meant business.

  My punishment was seven days confined to barracks. These restrictions were suffocating; I was restless, in constant search of excitement. Things weren’t happening quickly enough. There were more thrills in escaping and being chased.

  I had to mop out the hallway, sweep the floors and sometimes clean four empty cells, emptying my bucket in the yard outside. I assessed the possibilities of escape.

  The best time was when the corporal supervising me unlocked my handcuffs and told me to exercise in the yard. He’d watch me for a time before marching up the passage. I knew I had one minute before he came back again. I leaped on the toilet, heaved myself onto the roof, round the barbed wire, dropped to the ground and then started running hard. Only seconds to spare.

  I fled across a paddock and down a bank. Then I heard the hullabaloo. ‘He’s gone!’ Guards ran from the guard house. I ran doubled up along the side of a hedge shielding me from the road and motor bikes roaring back and forth in their search for me. I reached a farm and buried myself in a large pile of rat-infested hay in a shed, waiting until dark.

  When it w
as quiet, I thumbed a lift which took me as far as Maccelsfield, a small town outside of Manchester. I was walking down the street, dressed in army gear, when a copper stopped me and asked if I was going home on leave. I said yes. ‘Well, you could probably do with a cup of tea then.’ He was very persuasive. Instead of taking me to a cafe, he took me to the police station, picked the phone up and said, ‘Is that Markeaton Park? We’ve got that absentee here.’

  These disappearances-without-leave culminated in the army finding out my true age, probably through police records. I was promptly discharged. Strangely enough, I didn’t want to get out of the army as I was beginning to enjoy the challenge of it, especially the boxing.

  I was given a job at Bradshaw’s motor auction, driving and cleaning cars. I often saw dad’s friend Jock McAvoy on auction day. Jock’s boxing career was winding down. At 34, he’d recently fought an up-and-coming boxer, Freddie Mills, but had to retire early with an injured back. Within a few years, Freddie became the cruiserweight champion of the world. My job only lasted four weeks. I was cranking a crankhandle when it kicked back and broke my arm. After that, the only time I returned to Bradshaw’s was to check out any good bargains at the auctions.

  When my arm healed, I drove trucks. I was soon pulled up and booked for a traffic infringement. The Bootle Street police knew me very well and were delighted to send me to the juvenile court for driving under-age. The formal court order which disqualified me from holding or obtaining a license until I was 17 made little impression. I continued to steal cars on a regular basis. There was a lot of black market activity going on, it was easy disposing of illegal goods. I’d search out travelling salesmen’s cars full of gear. One frustrating moment was when I stole a van packed with shoes, and discovered they were all samples—one of each type.

  I met many colourful characters on the streets. Whispering Tony was Italian with an olive complexion, wavy jet-black hair, a long Roman nose, thick lips and broad shoulders, every inch a villain. He never did a day’s work in his life and lived off his wits selling stolen goods. Tony wandered the streets on the lookout for hot property. He’d sidle up to me and whisper loudly, ‘Got any gear?’ My mates and I thought this was hilarious because passersby clearly heard him and stared suspiciously in his direction.