Forsythe and I once came across a Milner’s safe inside a metal cage in one goods yard. The cage parted for our bolt cutters. I explained to Forsythe how I’d always found it difficult, if not impossible, to open a Milner without a key; even dropping one from a bridge had no effect. He explained they were not all that difficult. First, scrape the rear of the safe which exposed a seam running all the way round, then insert a chisel into the seam, bang along it with a heavy hammer and the back comes off. It did, too. Inside was a loose inner metal plate and some sawdust. When I pulled these away, all the treasures in the safe were exposed.
We loaded up with as many valuables as we could carry and headed for the wall. There was a wail of sirens as German planes dropped flares. About 200 feet above our heads the flares activated, brightly illuminating us running across the yard. The security guard could observe the whole area from his tower; he would have seen us plain as day if he had been at his post. The experience was unnerving with bombs exploding all around immediately after.
While considerable loyalty existed among local villains, fences were villains without a soul. They’d steal off a thief or dob him in to police if he didn’t accept their price. Maggie Murtagh, mother of Dennis, a jovial joke-cracking Irish woman, and Mary Scott, the abrasive owner of the Bowling Green Hotel, were fences. Locals joked that when they went out together on Saturday night they ‘sparkled with larceny’. Thurrel, the butcher, was another.
Maggie and Mary quoted me £350 for suiting material which I duly stole from Perfit Clothing, heavy work too. But Maggie only offered £250 on delivery. ‘There’s not a lot I can do about this, is there Maggie? Maybe you’d reconsider?’ Take it or leave it.’ I took it, but Kenny and I waited across the road until they went out to collect their buyer and nicked it back. Thurrel bought it. When I next saw Mary she scowled, ‘You dirty thief.’ I was a picture of puzzled innocence.
Players Medium cigarettes were scarce, their black-market value high. We conned a scab fence that specialised in cigarettes into buying a carton where the bulk of the packets was filled with sawdust.
I got home late one night to hear my father’s voice in the kitchen. I steeled myself, entered the room with manly confidence and stood protectively near mum, facing dad in a challenging way. Gone were the days he could assault his family without retribution. There’d not been argument, just an atmosphere. Without a word he slapped several quid on the table and walked out. I was relieved he hadn’t come home to stay but the pained look in mum’s eyes showed she was missing her mate. That visit was a oncer, but a year or so later dad fell into the habit of weekly visits. They never said much but he gave her money. He’d exchange a few words with Sylvia and me, but the cruel past meant it was always a strain. Mum thought the money stemmed from a guilty conscience.
Tony was arrested again for assault. Mum insisted we visit him as a family, perhaps because she just heard John Monaghan, Tony’s father, had died in a stupor in a police lock-up. I’d avoided Tony since he flogged my coat and wasn’t keen. Tony’s face was bruised, his fingers swollen and cut, he faced a prison term—but he seemed in right good spirits, a glint in his eye, a victorious smile on his lips. He announced the sweetest words imaginable: ‘Gave Wagstaff a right tuning up.’
Tony forced himself to the front of a queue in a tripe shop in typical Monaghan fashion, and several men objected. A fight broke out and police were called. Wagstaff and some bobbies arrived. ‘Oh hello, Tony,’ Wagstaff said. To the uniforms, he said ‘Leave Tony to me. I know how to deal with him.’ To Tony, ‘What’s the trouble, lad?’
`The trouble, Mr Wagstaff, is you kicked my half-brother right in the … ‘ and he kicked Wagstaff’s testicles hard, dropping him. The police eventually overpowered him and got him to Bootle Street Police Station, where six bashed him mercilessly, breaking his fingers.
Tony got 18 months. I hope he felt it had been worth while. As for me, well, I was proud of him, he was back in the family again and had shown loyalty beneath that cold hard shell.
To attract women I made sure I presented myself well. I had Spanish good looks: olive complexion, snow-white teeth and jet black hair parted neatly to one side and greased slickly back against the contours of my skull in the Valentino style. I was always scrupulously clean and splashed Pashana cologne on all the important places. I enjoyed getting suited up, and felt particularly dapper in my blue suit. I’d complement this with a white shirt, blue tie and my blue crepe shoes with a stylish white sole. I topped this off with a hat, which I’d bend in the front gangster-style.
I had rarely met a decent straight girl. Then I was introduced to Peggy Ashworth, whose mother was a distant relation of my mother. I was immediately attracted to this 19 year old. She was a good-looking girl with fiery red hair. Her prettiness and down-to-earth homely attitude swept me off my feet. Her mother had trained her to be a really good housewife. She had an angelic quality, nothing flashy about her. She didn’t like anything to do with rapscallions or roughnecks. Instead, Peggy enjoyed sitting down with a cup of tea and chatting away to mum, who she called ‘Aunt Nancy’. I’d hover in the background, giving her the eye and she’d modestly pretend not to notice.
Peggy worked as an usherette at the local cinema. I made a point of going there and sitting down the back near to where she was standing with her torch. When the patrons had stopped coming in, she’d shyly sit next to me and we’d whisper together and cuddle. I eventually realised from her bright attentive manner that she was as struck on me as I was on her.
I might have been described as over-sexed, maybe through having started relationships at a very young age. In contrast, Peggy was every inch a virgin and no doubt planning to stay that way until she wed. Our petting sessions became very frustrating. So, on one particular night, I said to Peggy that I no longer liked the idea of going with other women; she was the one for me. Peggy’s delight clouded when I asked her how, by remaining faithful, was I going to quell my sexual frustration? I gently held Peggy’s hands and looked sincerely into her eyes. I didn’t want to ask her directly for sex because if she refused me, I didn’t know what I’d do. Instead, I asked her to please go home that night and consider ‘the hypothetical situation’ of me asking her to make love.
The following evening I asked Peggy if she had an answer. Her cheeks coloured, then she nervously replied her response would be `Yes.’ My relief was enormous. After Peggy moved away to attend to patrons, I sat in excited anticipation, my eyes unfocused on the screen, my imagination running wild and my body burning with lust. After Peggy finished work, I took her to an old bombed-out building which had lost its roof. I gently laid her down in a dusty old hallway, among crumbled plaster and broken bricks. There, beneath the stars, I embraced her smooth alabaster body, nuzzled her thick red hair, steered myself into her welcome wetness and became as one with this woman of my dreams.
About a month later, in the bleaches of the cinema where Peggy worked the stalls upstairs, I sat next to a young woman. Feeling toey I bumped my knee against hers. She didn’t move. I did it again. No response. Time for serious exploration. I held my breath and moved my fingers to her knee. Her eyes never left the screen, as if she wanted no responsibility for what was likely to happen next. Not a word passed between us. My hand slid up to her knickers and I caressed the little man in the boat. I gave her an orgasm and thought I was on a winner, but she stood and exited—the toilet? She never came back and I left the cinema near crippled with my erection.
And I nipped into brothels for a bit of the other on the cheap. The lady who ran one fancied me and I’d have the odd bunk up with her. She got in the habit of asking me to mind the place while she popped out for a bit, and the periods of time got longer and longer, then, `Ces, do you think you could come in tomorrow and look after the place all day?’ I ended up looking after it for days on end. I got paid, had the pick of the birds and it was educational. I checked the peepholes to make sure the girls were all right. Once I saw a girl tied to a chair—not u
nusual in itself, but her face was turning blue as rope cut into her neck. I burst in, gave the customer a whack, put the squeeze on him for a few quid which I split with the girl, taking a little bit more than her. She never let anyone tie her up again. A Catholic priest used to have girls urinate in his boots, put them on, stand naked in them and masturbate. A girl told me of a lawyer who’d strip, put on a maid’s apron and sweep while she whacked his backside with a feather duster before inserting the handle in his rectum, for which he paid £20. Another lawyer would buy a girl a good dinner which he’d lace with laxative. She’d ring him to collect her later and he’d pick her up, drive her to his place, and they’d undress. He’d lie on the floor. She’d straddle him and mess on his chest. Inhaling brought him to orgasm.
We all have two layers: one we put on for good days, social events and telephone calls, and the other, the real us, that does all the things we really want to do, the things we dreamed of as children behind closed doors, lying in bed with our hands on our genitals. Animal instincts drive us under a civilised veneer. A man in a beautiful suit is driven by primitive instincts and will strive to gratify physical needs despite risks involved. Lawyer, priest, criminal: there’s no major difference in the way they behave, the titles are useless here, and men and women are alike. Mentally undress the most ferocious opponent and you’ll reduce him to a vulnerable comical figure.
I went steady with Peggy for about five weeks and she came to live with me. I wasn’t madly in love with her but certainly was sexually attracted and thought she was a lovely girl. Peggy was clearly infatuated with me. Her parents were dead against our relationship. Can’t blame them, me being what I was.
In early 1945, when I’d just turned 18, I proposed to Peggy. She was delighted. I think it was a bad decision. I was definitely not the right type of mate for her. She didn’t feel comfortable being around Tony, Bill and some of my rough friends. They thought she was a very nice girl and showed her the greatest respect. However, like everyone else, they were rather sceptical about how long our relationship would last.
I couldn’t get permission from Peggy’s parents but I was determined, mainly out of pride and defiance. So I approached my good friend, Agnus McCarthy, prostitute and hustler, to pretend to be Peggy’s mother. She thought it’d be a hoot. Agnus was about 35, had dyed platinum-blonde hair and dressed flashy. A cigarette would permanently dangle from her lips, one hand would be propped on her hip in a knowing way, and the other clasping a drink. Agnus had a lovely nature and a heart of gold. She had the most raucous, uninhibited laughter, and on those rare occasions when I saw her angry she’d roar like a bull.
She did a magnificent job of impersonation when she signed the documents to give Peggy away down at the registrar. Peggy, with her red hair set against a green dress, looked like a serene goddess holding court at the high altar of the angels. When I squeezed her hand I felt her trembling with nervousness. It was a crooked wedding, but I was a crook, so from my point of view it all went well. Mum, Barbie and Sylvia were there, Sylvia clasping her newborn daughter, Laverne.
I was surprised and inwardly delighted dad made an appearance. After the ceremony, he congratulated me, wished me good luck and, said that it was the best thing I’d ever done and might make me see things in a different light, inferring I’d been heading for disaster and it was about time that I accepted responsibilities.
On our wedding night, Peggy stayed home with mum, enjoying a chat and tea. I went to the Bowling Green Hotel. I was feeling randy and the pub was a good pick-up joint for prostitutes. It may seem very unromantic that I could desire a bit of crumpet while my beautiful, available, newly-wed bride remained at home. However, I was basically an unromantic chap. I’d been living with Peggy for four weeks before we were married and some early magic had worn off. I saw nothing wrong in enjoying close encounters with as many women as possible.
Inside the crowded pub I bumped into the immaculately-suited Tony, Betty’s pimp brother. He congratulated me on my marriage and said, ‘You should put her out to grass.’ He commented on Peggy’s lovely red hair and said he could get her so many clients she’d make a fortune. I declined the offer, knowing Peggy would never go for it.
While talking to Tony, my eyes singled out a good-looking 40-year-old prostitute drinking alone, smartly attired in a three-piece blue outfit. She had shoulder-length straight black hair, a face so white it was almost ghostly, and bright red lipstick. I recognised her: Forsythe Williams’s wife. I was attracted to her because I knew that my father had been with this woman some time earlier. I excused myself and went over.
She greeted me warmly. I told her I’d just got married. She wished me all the best. We chatted. As it was almost closing time, I suggested I walk her home. She agreed. She asked if I wanted to come in for a cup of tea. We went into her clean prettily furnished apartment. She put the kettle on and we made small talk. ‘Do you want to do something?’ That was the sort of straight-talking I liked! I replied without hesitation, ‘I most certainly do.:
She led me into her small bedroom, dominated by a large bed with a floral counterpane scattered with frilly cushions. She took off her high-heeled shoes and several pieces of jewellery. Next she unbuttoned, unzipped, and stepped out of her blue skirt, then removed her blouse. There was a petticoat to wriggle out of, and beneath that a stiff corset which took her ages to unlace. Finally she peeled down to the more interesting bits: her suspender belt, stockings, panties and bra—I’d never seen so much gear. It was like hopping into bed with a knight from the Round Table!
When the woman stood naked before me, I felt the wait had been worth while. She was a good performer and could lift her legs very high. We worked up a real sweat. Later as we lay in the dim light, I asked her who was better: me or my father? She thought carefully then replied that my dad was quite good, but I was younger, a very safe answer but it left a satisfied smirk on my lips. She refused payment, said it was pleasure rather than business. I agreed wholeheartedly.
When I returned home, I was surprised to find dad waiting for me. Peggy had gone to bed hours ago. Dad asked me where I’d been and why I’d returned so late. I knew he’d find out so I told him. His face darkened. He asked me why I went out with her and I replied that I wanted a bit of fresh. I knew this would provoke him. I was tampering with fire.
Dad’s black eyes bored into me and his lips clenched tight. He growled, ‘I don’t appreciate you talking to me like that.’ His hypocrisy gave me courage to stand my ground. How dare he be possessive about, this woman while he was still married to my mum! Dad knew he was treading on shaky ground and controlled his temper. We’d reached a stalemate. He left without a further word.
Peggy’s parents were furious when they discovered we’d married against their wishes, so to avoid the heat Peggy and I disappeared to Scotland for a few weeks to stay with Diana. We had very little money and couldn’t afford to rent a place of our own. Diana was living in a caravan park just outside of Edinburgh. Peggy and I slept on the bottom bunk. Dids was back in prison and Diana was sharing the top bunk with his brother, Sylvia’s ex-husband, Johnny! It was difficult sleeping at times because of grunts and groans above us as the caravan jerked around. Peggy patiently put up with it all in her usual sweet way.
Part of me really wanted to make a go at being straight and doing the right thing by Peggy. However, my finances were getting extremely low and there was no available work around Edinburgh. The temptation became irresistible; I went to the local store and screwed it, about £15 and a load of groceries. We moved out of the caravan park a bit sharp and went back to Manchester. Peggy didn’t know what I’d done until we were on our way back. I reckoned she’d find out sooner or later and wanted to be the one to tell her. When she found out she was terrified. She was straight as a new pin.
Back in Manchester, Peggy’s mother and father were carrying on, trying to persuade her to go back home and live with them, annul the marriage. Peggy remained with me for several months, at first
staying at my mother’s house which was just around the corner from where her own parents lived, then Diana sublet us a room in the house she was renting. I think Diana was pleased to have company in this big house, although we rarely mixed socially with her.
I remained very promiscuous. It’s amazing I never got Peggy pregnant. Other girls came to me telling me they were overdue and pregnant with my child. Alice and I did a knee-trembler in a back alley and a month or so later she said to me, ‘You do know I’m pregnant, don’t you?’ ‘Well, I’m not surprised, you get enough of the other.’ ‘No, I mean pregnant to you!’ ‘Come off it, mate, it’s not mine.’ She insisted that it was and started to come out with dates. I didn’t believe her so I shrugged and walked away. I just didn’t want the responsibility. Such was the arrogance of my youth.
And I couldn’t resist a good warehouse either, and there was a top one right behind Diana’s house. So one day my gang stole several rolls of cream winceyette cloth which we carried to our rented room. Peggy silently watched us shove the stolen cloth under our bed. She didn’t approve of my activities but thought it prudent not to interfere.
One night not long after, there was a knock on the door. I assumed it was the police, so I climbed inside a chest of drawers. I’d demolished the interior so it still looked like it had drawers but was a hollow, excellent hiding place.
There was a slit caused by a slightly off-centre drawer facade I could peep through. It was the law, Detectives Perkins and Wagstaff in fact. They questioned Peggy about my whereabouts. Appearing as casual as she could, Peggy said I wasn’t home and then went and sat down on our double bed. She was wearing a pinafore dress and no stockings. She kicked off her shoes and rested one of her legs on the bed. The arm she was leaning on was shaking so much she had to steady it with her other hand. Despite her nerves, Peggy acted like an alluring decoy to the booty stashed beneath her. While Perkins politely interrogated her, he reached forward and to my horror began tickling Peggy’s bare foot! Peggy tried to keep a straight face. It took enormous, self discipline not to kick the panels down, leap out and belt him.
Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me Page 13