Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me

by Margaret Wentworth

  My contact with my family was very slim in those London years. Mum visited me only once, the onus being on me to go to Manchester, which I did on several occasions. I also sent her the occasional letter. Tony paid me the odd visit. His news always revolved around who was in and who was out. I no longer revelled in such information and found his visits depressing. Bill never visited me in London. After his disgusting boozing in The Vault when I took Joan to Manchester, I was quite content with never seeing him again. Hughie Buller, Sylvia’s husband, came to London to do some hustling. He asked if he could stay with me for a few days because he couldn’t afford hotel accommodation. I reluctantly agreed. Buller constantly complained about Sylvia and how her jealous nature meant he couldn’t look at another woman without raising her suspicions. It was driving him mad. Sylvia rang me several months later with the news that Buller had gone to the West Indies to visit a dying relative and never returned. Sylvia said she was going to stay in Manchester to raise her nine children. I reminded her of the similar plight of Granny Ada. Funny how history repeats itself.

  As my connections with the family were virtually severed, I was amazed one day to look up from working on a car to find my father standing there. Dad smiled and slapped me on the back. He was delivering cars in the area. I introduced him to Gloria, who was now pregnant again, and the three children. Then I invited him inside for tea and biscuits.

  Dad was never very comfortable chatting to me about idle matters, but he did pay me a compliment. ‘You have fine children.’ I wanted to talk to him about my own childhood and find out how much of the violence and abuse was his fault or due to his excessive drinking. I desperately wanted to liberate all those painful questions I’d dwelt on during those long, lonely hours in prison. I wanted to tell dad I was willing to forgive him for everything. My insides crunched into a tight ball and the words stuck in my throat. Maybe the time was not right, or maybe my fear of him lived on.

  After a few moments of awkward silence, we struck common ground in discussing mechanical matters. I needed some spare parts and as dad was still a motor mechanic, he said he’d obtain them for a trade price and send them to me. Before he left, he paused, then said, ‘It’s a pity we didn’t get to know each other a bit better.’ I gently replied, ‘Never mind, Dad.’ I tried to stop my voice from trembling with emotion. As he was leaving, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘There’s one thing I’ll always remember about you, I can never recall you telling me a lie.’ I felt he’d given me something special in those few words.

  Growing children made me think more and more about the future. Odd incidents took on new meaning. I watched a porn movie in which a young innocent-looking girl and two men entered a bare room. It looked like there was going to be sex but, curiously, the girl didn’t look like she’d be in it. Then one man grabbed her hair and slit her throat. Blood and gore followed. I remarked that it looked almost real, and was told it was. It was made 20 years ago, at the end of the war. I walked in a daze for weeks. Who was the girl? How did she get to that room? Could that happen to Tracey? Civilised society?

  I witnessed an ugly incident on Seven Sisters Road outside the Greek Cypriot cafe. I’d just taken a photograph of the nearby archway of the Dick Wittington Cat and had no more film. When I came down the road, I stopped to watch an argument in progress between two Cypriots which was attracting a crowd. One had just had his car spray-painted and the other leaned against it. The owner of the car asked him to get off. He spat at the owner, who ran around the corner, returning with a revolver, and shot the paint-job wrecker twice in the stomach. The wounded man collapsed on the street, blood pumping out of his stomach and a red stain spreading over the front of his shirt. His face turned white and his eyes rolled back in his head. By the time the ambulance arrived he was gone. Although I felt sorry for the man’s death, my main emotion at the time was annoyance because I had no more film. I could have taken the most unbelievable shot for a newspaper. The car owner got five years for manslaughter.

  In mid 1966 a couple of associates, Peter and Robert, turned up at my office. They asked if I would help them rob a high-security factory in Hatton Garden, London’s jewel market area. The robbery was inspired by a film they’d seen, where the robbers dressed as police in order to gain access. Their plan had almost been worked out, but they were still concerned that if they couldn’t ‘persuade’ an employee to hand over the keys to the safe, they wouldn’t be able to get the gems. I remembered discussions with various safe breakers in Dartmoor and told the thieves all .I knew about Nobles Plastic 808 explosives, which were relatively easy to use. A good back-up if all else failed.

  They wanted me to be their wheelman. It was exciting discussing tactics again. A bit of the old self had ignited. I was torn between joining them or doing the right thing by my family. Certainly the money could come in handy…

  I decided that maybe it was time I dabbled in a bit of crime for old time’s sake. So I suggested that they should contact a car thief and get a souped-up Mini with false plates. I didn’t want to get nicked stealing a car. Harry Roberts was one of the top car thieves in London, and he agreed to supply us with the type of car. we requested. In the meantime, we ceased contact with each other and went about our normal lives.

  A short time later, a front-page story told of the fatal shooting of three police after they had stopped a car in west London. A huge manhunt ensued, two assailants were soon found, and a third man was suspected, Harry Roberts. Harry went into hiding and was not found for a few months. This whole ugly episode unnerved Peter, Robert and me. There was no more talk of the robbery. A close shave or a reprieve?

  One slack day I was sitting in the office looking at the phone that didn’t ring, my feet on the desk, hair and clothing dishevelled and eating a cream bun, when a 16-year-old schoolgirl short in stature and dressed in a very dark uniform with a green fleck, walked through the door and into my life. Her shiny reddy-brown hair was tied back in a long plait.

  `What can I do for you, Miss?’ I wiped cream from my lips.

  `My name is Christine Anne Hicks and my father asked me to find a driving school. I saw your sign “Three free lessons if you don’t pass first time” on the poster and car, so I thought I’d inquire.’

  `Have you got your L-plate?’

  `I get one when I turn 17, in three months, and then I’ll come back.’ A girl with the body of a much older woman, she interested me, but she walked out and I felt I’d never see her again.

  She did return, had her provisional licence and wanted to book lessons. I arranged to pick her up from her mother’s house for the first lesson. She lived in St Paul’s Road in posh Cannonbury, next door to the grand-daughter of the Lord Chief Justice. The two girls went to school together and were close friends. Christine’s great love was horses and she would muck out stables to get money for riding lessons.

  I picked Christine up after school on a regular basis. She’d hurry towards my car in her green-and-black school uniform. As she came closer, her sweet self-conscious smile made me tingle all over. Once inside, she’d throw her hat on the back seat, then run her hands down her shiny long hair, taming wayward strands. She looked—sexy. I started flirting with her, becoming more adventurous when she did not warn or ward me off. I’d stop the car and while I was explaining the highway code, I’d put my hand up her clout and we’d have a bit of a giggle.

  The day came when I got so steamed up, all I could think of was releasing the pressure. Using some pretext or other I drove to the office and persuaded Christine to come in with me. I showed her the backroom with the bed. I pulled her on to it, put one arm around her and my other hand up her skirt. She squirmed and resisted, but she didn’t shout or scream at first, which helped. I got my hand under her knickers, inserted two fingers and broke her in. That’s when she started to roar. ‘No, wait till I’m 21!’ I pulled her knickers off. ‘I can’t wait that long!’ She was against it and seemed terrified. I mounted her and away I went.

&nbs
p; My memory had flashed back to Villach, Austria, where two young men took something precious from me, against my wishes, left me with an enduring distrust of men’s sexuality, especially when women become objects of selfish lust. Nature can be cruel. Instinct for men can be degradation for women.

  `What’s wrong? Why have you turned the tape off?’

  `Ces, you’ve just told me how you raped a woman.’

  ‘No - just defreezed her at the crucial moment.’

  `Christine didn’t want to have sex with you. You forced yourself on her.’

  `Look, she did want to, deep down. Afterwards, she was completely relaxed. We fondled and petted. We had sex every time we met. Every week her wealthy father paid for two driving lessons and she’d get a third one for physical rather than monetary payment. So, you see, no harm done.’

  Ces looked me in the eyes, openly and frankly, clearly wanting me to accept it wasn’t a violation, that when Christine said No, she meant Yes. That moment would have been perfect to walk away from a man who shamelessly used women. For social positioning, sexual gratification, whatever use they could be, without love, commitment, respect, without a skerrick of weight to their needs.

  But Christine had become his lover. And no harm had been done. My past was interfering with the non-judgemental objectivity of the biographer. I turned on the tape…

  Christine was an only child and very introverted. Her lack of’ self confidence made her very insecure and negative .about her driving abilities. It seemed not many other people had faith in her either. She told me that all her schoolmates, and her own father, were convinced she would not get her licence the first time. I was the only one who really encouraged her and showed absolute confidence that she’d succeed. When she passed first time, it was our victory.

  I insisted that Christine drive my Singer Gazelle car to school the following morning. Just before we arrived, I stepped out and said it would be more impressive if she drove the rest of the way by herself. She said nervously, ‘I can’t.’ I was firm: of course she could. After all, she was qualified. She told me afterwards, with a beaming face, that when she parked the car outside the school she noticed her friends enviously watching her through the railings. Going to school that day was the happiest and proudest moment of her life.

  I knew exactly how she felt. Many times I’d fallen down and forced myself to get up. I knew how sweet a hard-won victory could be. When I saw her smiling face, I felt happy for her. I was no longer her teacher, I was her best friend.

  Christine’s parents were very upset about us becoming physically and emotionally involved. Her father visited me a couple of times to try to dampen my enthusiasm. He said Christine had a vicious temper and had once attacked her mother. I told him he was talking a load of cobblers. Perhaps he wasn’t. I once asked her mother if this was true and she sadly nodded. Christine and her mother had never had a good relationship; it was a subject Christine refused to discuss with me for her own private reasons.

  Women, especially young and attractive ones, were a distraction for me in my occupation. I was still oriented to the pleasures that come from family life as well. Sometimes I had a two-hour gap between appointments in the middle of the day. I would grab every precious moment to take the children down the road to Finsbury Park. With wild excitement they would run, leap and roll on the lush grass. In autumn bathe themselves in the crunchy golden leaves that lay heaped on the ground. All four children were under six; they were innocent, wide-eyed and free. Our youngest, Troy, was still a toddler. He would gaze up in wonderment at the natural splendour around him. I revelled in their boundless energy and love of life.

  I wanted the best for my children and that they should never experience those moments of bitter disappointment that I had. Finsbury Park had once been the address of the rich and affluent in London; then it was a slum. My children were living poorly in a high crime-rate area. It seemed inevitable they would be exposed to the sort of influences that had corrupted me as a, child. I started toying with the thought of leaving London and raising my children in a country that could provide them with more opportunity. I was looking for a place with wide open spaces, fresh air and an optimistic attitude. From what I’d heard, Australia seemed the place.

  I spoke to Gloria about my plans and she seemed interested. The children were particularly thrilled, Aboriginal caves, the Australian bush and Skippy the Kangaroo… Their enthusiasm was contagious. So I made some initial arrangements.

  I was 41 then, fit and full of vitality. Intensely proud of my achievements, I was supporting a fine family and running a successful business. At last people were treating me with respect. Although I indulged in sexual fact and fantasy on the side, I still recognised that my priority lay in preserving the family. It was on my pillow at home that I would sleep every night—my pillow, next to my wife, near my children, in my house. Gone were the days of cold prison cells where I was caged like an animal and treated no better.

  I almost felt smug. Smugness is a dangerous feeling but I was blissfully unaware that anything could go wrong. If some sage had told me that within weeks my whole world would be in chaos, I would have laughed in his face.

  23 Where’s Mummy?

  Mothering Sunday n. Brit., the fourth Sunday in Lent, when mothers traditionally receive presents from their children.

  Also called: Mother’s Day.

  Collins Concise Dictionary

  Gloria would often go to the laundrette, then on to her mother’s place. I found out, much later, she’d leave her clothes with an employee of the laundrette, meet her lover and they’d go to a club. Her secret affair went on for months. Gloria knew I was having hot sex with Christine. She showed no emotion about it. There was a lot of that sort of thing going on in London at the time.

  One night I had finished a lesson with Christine and invited her home for a cup of tea. Gloria was putting the children to bed and when done, asked if she could borrow the car. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but don’t be too long.’ I had to drive Christine home. About an hour and a half later I went to check the street and found a bulky envelope dropped through the letter slot, with car keys and a message ‘I have gone. Don’t try to follow me.’ I wandered in a daze, trying to contemplate the finality of it. I checked the bedroom wardrobe—empty, confirming my worst fears. Christine came in, asked what I’d do. For a few moments I was too upset to answer. Hatred, sadness, betrayal and confusion took over. My life had been turned upside down.

  She left the car, so I visited all Gloria’s relatives but they didn’t know where she was, or said they didn’t. It wouldn’t have been hard for Gloria to ‘disappear’. I figured she’d hide out under a false name, false background, put on airs and graces, but be full of shame at deserting four small children. Tracey was five, Troy 22 months—how could they be expected to understand? Troy constantly cried for his mum. Gloria had stolen a ring and half sovereign which both once belonged to my mum, and khaki dress knives with coloured beads on the scabbards—probably for the boyfriend she was knocking. I was overwhelmed by sadness and impotence at first, but my heart turned to anger and revenge in time.

  I scattered some clothes she left and her driver’s licence on Hampstead Heath one night. The newspapers wouldn’t be interested if I told them my wife had run away, but a disappearance with a whiff of foul play? That’s different. Two weeks later the police phoned: `Did you know a Gloria Pearl Waters?’ Yep! ‘Why would she leave her clothing on Hampstead Heath?’ How would I know? She disappeared two weeks ago. Hook, line and sinker—they thought she’d been croaked. The homicide squad turned my place inside out within a few hours. A detective, looking at a photo of Gloria, wrinkled his brow, positive he’d seen her face twice before. Then the penny dropped: not so long ago, in the club she and her lover frequented on launderette nights, and way back, in a Finsbury Park hotel that had the reputation of being a knock shop, 15, and in bed with a married man. The police took a special interest in my big marble fireplace. The week before I’d mended i
t because the heavy mantle was unstable and could’ve fallen on the children. I had used bits of cloth and blanket to help bind the plaster, but the police wondered if I had entombed Gloria’s body in it, and Scotland Yard promised to return to demolish the chimney. Perfect. The News of the World got wind of this, I made sure of that, and sent a reporter and a photographer round. The front page Sunday, 19 February 1967, carried a photograph of me pointing up the chimney:

  HUSBAND’S AMAZING STORY:

  THEY SAY I’VE WALLED UP MY WIFE IN THIS CHIMNEY

  When Gloria—Joy Murphy she again called herself—read it she went to the News of the World with her boyfriend, dressed in a fur coat that had to be new, and looking smart.

  I hid my anger and disappointment in front of the children, maintained her image as a special lady, though I don’t know why I bothered. The cold hard woman never asked for custody, sent no birthday or Christmas card, showed not a skerrick of interest. A reporter said he asked her what she thought of little Troy crying and asking ‘Where’s my mummy?’ all the time. He got her usual deadpan look. ‘So what?’

  The publicity hurt business. I’d become an unknown quantity, perhaps a grisly killer, pupils cancelled appointments, and income dried up. The domestic load and school and preschool timetables meant I wasn’t in the office to take calls in any case. Most pupils let Troy ride in the back until he went to preschool and I employed a fellow to take pupils after school late afternoons, but the tuition fees didn’t pay enough to cover wages and rent. It took a long time to recover, but when the scandal faded, business slowly picked up again.