by C S Kenny
It must have been around four in the morning when I reached Darlington Railway Station. The main track led through the station but other tracks split off into the sidings so I followed them, dodging in and out of rows of carriages. On the south side of the station I spotted a carriage which had grass and weeds growing around the wheels, weeds had even managed to grow on the roof. It had obviously been there a long while and I figured it was unlikely to be going anywhere soon, so I climbed in and fell sound asleep.
My sleep didn’t last long. Not only was the whole place coming to life, trains starting up, carriages clattering together and the rail workers shouting out loud, but I thought for a brief moment the carriage I was in was moving, it wasn’t. It was my body shivering as though some bugger had wired me up to the mains.
Daylight was well on the way and though my temporary shelter was well out of the way, I took no chances. Crawling on my hands and knees I went from seat to seat tearing off the covers, most of which were half way ripped off anyway so it didn’t take long before I had twenty or thirty pieces of material to bury myself under. I’m not sure if it was the seat covers or simply the effort of collecting them, but before long I was as warm as toast and nodding off again.
Though my sleep was intermittent I must have accumulated at least five or six hours kip throughout the day. By the time darkness had fallen the numbers of passengers on the passing trains were getting fewer and fewer. I judged it to be between five and six in the evening and decided to give it another couple of hours before I set off looking for a road sign pointing me in the direction of Scotch Corner.
The whole idea of writing this was to hopefully, for the benefit of my family and close friends, shed some light into what I was as a child, and why. What happened that evening may for those who know me, explain another area of my life.
By nine o’clock in the evening I had managed to get my bearings and was making good progress, despite jumping over walls and hiding behind trees every time I heard a vehicle approaching. It wasn’t until I came across an all-night roadside café that I realised it had been more than twenty four hours since I had eaten. I think I may have mistaken the knots in my stomach for nerves; the sight of the café soon put me straight.
Standing behind a tree out of view of the road I watched the café for a good five minutes trying to decide whether or not to risk going in. Eventually my head agreed with my stomach, it could be another twenty four hours before I got the chance to eat again so I decided to go for it. I walked across what I guess the proprietor would have laughingly called the car park; it was more of a compacted field covered in what looked like crushed coal and was full of pot holes.
Walking out of the dark and into a brightly lit warm building which smelled of bacon and sausage, coffee and toast all mixed with cigarette smoke, was bloody wonderful. As I closed the door behind me I took off my gloves and snatched my hat off before cramming them into my pockets. Walking over to the counter I noticed two men sat at the same table. Each had a dinner plate pushed to the side and each plate had what looked like a child’s painting on it made up of smudges of egg yolk, cooking oil and tomato sauce, topped off with a knife and fork.
Both men gave me no more than a fleeting glance before burying their faces back into the pint pots of tea they held and taking another drag from the Capstan Full Strength they were smoking. I assumed they were the drivers of the two Lorries parked outside and I paid them no more attention.
“Yes love what can I get you?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. I had been looking around for the best place to sit in order to give me a view of the car park, as well as the quickest way out if the need arose. Where this woman had appeared from I had no idea. Still, she was pleasant enough and was smiling as she watched me pull myself together.
“Could I have a cup of tea please?” I asked.
“No problem love, anything to eat?”
“A bacon and egg sandwich please.”
She poured me my tea and said she would bring my sandwich over when it was ready. After paying her with some of the money I had stolen from the staff member’s property, I picked my spot, sat down and within a few minutes was tucking in to a piping hot bacon and egg butty. The two lorry drivers called the woman by her name as they said goodbye and made their way outside. I began to relax. Then my guts did a flip on me. I saw what I at first thought were the headlights of three cars turn into the car park, I quickly realised they were motorcycle headlights and felt a little more comfortable. That was until the motorcyclists walked in.
The first biker walked in and turned his back on me as he held the door open for the others. Blazoned across the back of his jacket was a Motorcycle Club patch. I was fourteen years old, I had read things about Biker Clubs, heard things about Biker Clubs, and though most of it was complete bollocks I didn’t know it back then. I began to try and eat my sandwich quickly without looking like I was, whilst at the same time trying to avoid any sort of eye contact.
Thankfully, as with the lorry drivers, they barely gave me a second glance and began having a laugh and joke with the lady behind the counter who seemed to know them all by their names and nicknames. I still wanted to get out of there so I took my last gulp of tea and stood up to leave. My legs were not even fully extended before I slumped back down in my seat; a police car was pulling onto the car park.
Two of the bikers were stood between me and the only other exit and if I’m honest I didn’t have the balls to go barging past them. The only thing I could think of was to hide, so, looking like a blow up doll with a slow puncture, I slid off my chair and disappeared under the table. Things were not looking too good at that moment, then for a few seconds they looked as though they were about to get lot worse.
I could see the Bikers from their knees down and five of them were walking toward my table. I heard the café door open and felt a gust of cold air before spotting a pair of shiny boots enter the building. The next thing I know I was being squashed by four pairs of knees as the Bikers sat down at my table. The fifth guy had parked his arse on the edge of the table effectively blocking the open end.
There was a little banter going on between the copper and the lads. The conversation seemed at times almost polite, from both sides, but there was an air about it that made me feel uneasy. I remember thinking, ‘For fucks’ sake please don’t kick off now,’ it didn’t. The copper walked out after what seemed like an age and left the Bikers with a thinly veiled warning about behaving themselves, it was as though he didn’t want to leave without having the last word. I didn’t see the copper leave, I’d had my eyes closed for some reason, but I did feel the draft as the door opened. After about thirty seconds or so I heard the one guy who wasn’t at the table say, “He’s gone.”
“Are you gonna sit there all night?”
The bloke at the end of the table had squatted down and was offering me his hand. Between me half crawling and him half dragging me I was out from under the table in seconds.
Up until that point, what with trying to avoid eye contact, I had not had a good look at them. I now found myself putting faces to the voices I heard whilst under the table. The chap who had dragged me out was, I would estimate, in his mid-twenties, as were three others. One lad, who to be honest didn’t look much older than me, was the one not at the table. He had long greasy dark hair and was obviously doing his level best to grow some facial hair, he was failing miserably. It looked as if he had either been saving up fluff from the back of the settee and randomly sticking it to his face, or he had grown the fluff and his chin had developed alopecia.
Another thing that struck me as odd was though he definitely looked like a biker, he was holding a tray with six cups of tea on it. I know there is nothing strange about that, it was just a tray of cups, but I think I must have been imagining all sorts whilst I was under the table and for that split second he looked out of place. I guess if you imagine a soldier in full battledress holding a feather duster instead of a gun, that’s the sor
t of thing that was going on in my head.
Then there was the big fella. He looked a little like Lemmy from Motorhead but not as handsome. He was also not very talkative, his looks would have scared a police horse and he certainly scared the shit out of me.
As I stood at the bottom of the table I had one Biker stood behind me, four sat in front of me and one to my left leaning over to place the tray of teas on the table. Why oh why was I not tucked up in my cosy little Approved School bed?
Lemmy, who was sat to my far left, looked at the guy immediately to my right and tilted his head the slightest fraction to the right, the guy stood up. Looking me straight in the eye Lemmy then tilted his head to the left and I sat down, bloody sharpish.
“Go on then,” Lemmy said.
I took, ‘Go on then,’ to mean, ‘A copper walks in and you young fella me lad, hide under the table. What have you been up to?’
So I told him.
“I’m on the run from Approved School.”
“Aycliffe?”
“Yes.”
“Nice one. Where ya from?” Lemmy and his mates had a very strong North East accents so my Yorkshire lilt was an obvious give away.
“Bradford.”
“Fuck me; you’re a good way from home. How old are you?”
“Fourteen”
Though I was only fourteen my physique was that of an eighteen year old. I know that because the next care home I went to, which I shall get to in due course, had to send me for a physical examination. Incidentally, the female nurse who examined me had the physique of a thirty year old, a thirty year old man. You’ve heard the phrase, ‘As fit as a Butchers dog?’ Well she was as Butch as a Fitters dog. It was he, sorry, she, who told ‘Uncle Jim,’ that my body was that of an eighteen year old. How chuffed was I?
It’s a shame my face didn’t match. I had not yet started shaving so the whole of my face was as smooth as a baby’s arse. However I had started growing hair under my arms (why I’m telling you this I have no idea).
I was so proud of this under arm growth that on one sunny day I lay on the grass in Lister Park with my shirt off and my hands on top of my head. How many people noticed my armpit rugs? Not one. I’m nothing if not persistent so if you can think of a pose that a body can strike in order to show off underarm hair, I struck it. Still nobody noticed. I couldn’t understand why nobody was as impressed with it as I was. The sun was setting and my skin was getting goose bumps before I gave up and put my shirt back on. (What a knob head)
Lemmy looked around at the others.
“Fancy a ride out to see Knacker?”
There was a chorus of, “Yup,” “yes”, “why not?” “Fuck all else to do.” Then he looked back at me.
“Want a lift to Harrogate?”
With a little too much keenness in my voice I said, “Yes please.” Then a little contrite I said, “Can I ask you something?”
With a hint of annoyance Lemmy asked, “What?”
I felt uncomfortable but I had to ask.
“Knacker?”
“Yeah, he’s a friend of ours, lives near Harrogate.”
“Why is he called Knacker?”
Like a barber’s shop quartet four of them piped up, “He’s only got the one.”
Now that kind of logic I could not argue with, not that I had the slightest intention of arguing with them anyway, so I just said, “Oh right, fair do’s.”
That night I experienced my first motorcycle ride. It was the most exhilarating experience I had enjoyed in my fourteen years. It took me a good few miles to relax and get the hang of going with the bike but when I did I could barely get the stupid grin off my face. The smell, the freedom, the noise, the element of danger, I loved everything about it. Even the biting cold, especially on my knees, could not dampen my excitement.
I had a feeling of slight disappointment when we eventually arrived at Knacker’s house and the ride was over. I guessed the noise from the motorcycle engines had disturbed his sleep as first an upstairs light came on, then the downstairs was illuminated before the front door opened and we were greeted by a very tall, extremely skinny bloke wearing nothing but a pair of Y fronts.
Now I don’t want you thinking ‘like father like son,’ but I must confess to letting my eyes drop to his crotch for a second, just to see if you could tell if he only had the one, I couldn’t see any difference.
How you can spend a comfortable night sleeping on someone’s living room floor surrounded by a group of snoring and farting Bikers seems hard to comprehend, but I did. In the morning after a few cups of tea and a plate full of toast I was dropped off at the bus station. With a slap on the back, some ruffling of my hair, a few, “Good luck to you son’s,” plus the odd kick up the arse, I was on my way back to Bradford.
Chapter 12
Once I arrived back in Bradford I contacted my brother Paul and tried to find Spanner but nobody seemed to know where he had gone. I have never found out what happened to him and haven’t seen him to this day.
Incidentally, and I’m not sure what this says about me, but as I read through my records there are certain parts that have been blacked out, mainly people’s names like Doctors, psychiatrists and other children’s names. Why they found it necessary to black out the fact that my father was gay I have no idea. Anyway, one that they failed to black out was Spanner’s, though they used his real name; I was so pleased to see it there.
It may be difficult for people to put aside the fact that most of what we did was illegal but given the situation we were in Spanner treated me well, he treated me as an equal and he looked after me as best he could.
For the next few days I hung around with friends in different areas of Bradford. I had it in my mind to get a few quid together and sort myself out with another bed-sit but for the time being it was the streets for me or the occasional living room floor, which suited me fine. I think one problem I had was that, although I wouldn’t admit it, I was still a kid. This meant that if I was having fun today, any plans I had yesterday about tomorrow would go right out of the bloody window.
For a few nights I slept in a cubby hole under some concrete stairs. That was until some bastard did something that to this day I still don’t quite understand. In an area known as White Abbey, there was a circular block of flats/maisonettes probably three storeys high, come to think of it the shape was more like a rugby ball than a circle.
The stairways to the higher flats were accessed through open archways that were evenly spaced around the block. As you walked through the arch the stairs were to the left and the space on the right of the stairs led to the ground floor accommodation. Under the stairs was a cubby hole with a wooden door.
I guess nowadays it would be used to house wheelie bins but I doubt you would get more than four bins in there. It was a good place to sleep as it was wind proof, waterproof and with the door shut it was absolutely pitch black. It served as a final resort if by two or three in the morning I had nowhere better to go. That was until one morning when I had been asleep for maybe three or four hours. I woke up thinking I had heard some sort of noise and was listening intently but heard nothing more.
Just out of curiosity, is it just me who in order to hear better opens his eyes even in the dark and moves them from left to right? Anyway, that’s what I did; even though it was so dark in there I was unable to see my fingers in front of my nose.
Hearing nothing and still feeling tired I lay my head back down. Then I had this feeling of foreboding, I’d had it before and I always listened to it, this time was no different. I stood up and tried to open the door but it didn’t move. I pushed it a little harder and there was still no movement. The feeling of foreboding now turned into panic, then anger. I threw my whole body at the door a couple of times before starting to kick at it.
Then a crack of light appeared as it started to give way. With one final kick the door burst open and I fell out into the fresh air. I stood up and dusted myself off then looked at the door. Some bastard h
ad hammered six inch nails all the way around the top third of the door and into the frame. How the hell I had slept through that I have no idea.
I instantly assumed that whoever had done it would have phoned the police, so I ran. I would normally have run as far away from there as I could but to be honest curiosity got the better of me. I ran towards Lumb Lane and out of view of the flats just in case whoever had nailed me in was watching. I then doubled back and hid behind a wall that gave me cover as well as a good view.
Sure enough within five minutes a police car turned up and some twat of a bloke was pointing out to the copper what he had done and was no doubt giving him my description. You may be thinking that he was just being an upstanding citizen doing his bit for the community and you are entitled to think that. I friggin don’t. Though I suppose it could be karma when I consider the things I was getting up to.
The craziest thing is that back then, had I not managed to get out of the cubby hole the fella would have got a pat on the back and I would have received a couple of slaps at the police station. Whereas today, with the way things have gone tits up, I would be convincing everybody that I was having flashbacks, panic attacks and left with a permanent fear of the dark. I neither agree with nor like what he did, but come on.
So, I’m hanging around the White Abbey area. The main way I had of getting money was weighing in scrap metal, mostly lead, but if we could get hold of it, copper. Though copper prices were much better it usually came with a plastic coating which, before we could weigh it in, had to be stripped off. Burning it was the easiest way but you would end up reeking of burnt plastic and the black acrid smoke drew attention, though if there was enough then it would be worth it. At first we started off with lead piping.