by David Leslie
This appalling set-up meant sex-hungry men were regularly loitering furtively around Main Street and the surrounding roads in search of the scoundrel who controlled the operation. On occasion, a prostitute might be hanging about, looking for the pimp to collect money or to be given instructions as to where a client had asked to meet her. Additionally, a man, having been unsuccessful in trying to pick up a sexual partner at the Barrowland or in the streets and bars around the dance hall, probably feeling angry and frustrated, might well have headed to Main Street to learn what was on offer at Dennistoun. It was a situation fraught with danger and yet, despite the raids on other houses of ill repute, the Dennistoun knocking shop would, throughout the Bible John terror era, be allowed to remain open and running. This gathering of whores and their seedy clients meant that whenever Hannah stayed over with her aunt, en route she would have to mingle with them – hardly a satisfactory or safe situation for a young girl blossoming into a woman. It would eventually cause the authorities severe embarrassment.
FIVE
BETRAYED
Having survived the attempt on her life, Hannah had convinced herself there was no reason to alter her routine. If she was inspired to change at all, it was to become wary of men who invited her to step out with them.
She had continued her excursions to the Barrowland, still on occasions heading to Landressy Street but always making sure she had company she knew, if not for the entire length of the walk then at least until she was in sight of the familiar tenement where her aunt and cousins lived. Her prudence did not stop her dancing with strangers, but hard as some tried to persuade her to join them on a late-night stroll around Glasgow Green, using every ounce of guile they possessed, none succeeded.
She remained true to what her friends might have thought an old-fashioned, even outmoded, resolution to remain chaste until her wedding night. When she lost her virginity, she determined it would be to a man she had pledged to stay with for life, and he with her. Weeks after the attack by the stranger, Hannah became involved with a man she decided would be the one for her. We will refer to him as Joseph.
Her first employment after leaving school had been working for the world-renowned knitwear company Lyle and Scott in Glasgow. It was not a job into which she settled and within months she had moved to the then giant Hoover factory at Cambuslang. There were three principal advantages to the move: the plant was nearer the home she shared with her father; it was close to her adored grandparents, Richard and Hannah Martin; and it paid better. Despite what would happen in the not-too-distant future, Hannah remained there for 22 years until she became a victim of a series of lay-offs that would ultimately signal the end of production in Glasgow, the company deciding to manufacture instead in China.
Before becoming involved with Joseph, Hannah had had occasional boyfriends. These were casual flings that never lasted, perhaps due to her age but more likely because of the attitude of Jessie, a matriarchal figure once the front door was closed. She seemed to view her younger daughter’s purpose in life as solely to bring about the betterment of the family as a whole. She would use the youngster as a key to unlock a treasure chest.
‘The relationships would spring up and then fade after only a few weeks because Jessie could not see that Hannah was desperate to bring feeling, love, into her own existence,’ a friend said. ‘She’d announce some local young man or other had asked her out and Jessie would ask, “What’s he do?” Hannah might say, “He’s a butcher,” and her mother would reply, “Oh, a butcher, is he? Stay with him, bring him in for a bite of tea and he might bring us a parcel with some meat in it.”
‘If the young man did so, Jessie would say, “Hannah, you’re not to give him up, not as long as the meat lasts anyway.” When the parcels petered out, she’d tell her, “Can’t you find yourself an electrician? We need these lights fixed,” or even, “Never mind what they look like, if they have a trade or can get their hands on things for the house, bring them along and make them welcome. Prince Charmings are for fairy stories, they don’t put food on the table or mend a burst pipe.”
‘She met Joseph after her mother died. Jessie would have been over the moon because at first he was an assistant at a fishmonger’s, but he later went to work at the Hoover factory in the next workshop to Hannah. It meant they would see each other every day. She fell head over heels for him and understood, for the first time, what it was like to be really fond of someone. She’d kept all his cards, those he sent for her 19th birthday on 14 December 1968, at Christmas and for Valentine’s Day the following February, even taking them out sometimes so she could show them to us. Hannah was so proud. There had been other boyfriends, but this was the real thing as far as she was concerned. He was the love of her life. Some weekends, Hannah would stay at his mum’s and his mother got on really well with her. As far as Hannah was concerned, she and Joseph were engaged and would marry.
‘Sex was something you just did not talk about, certainly not the act of sex anyway. If you went home with a guy, your pals would be asking you afterwards in whispers “Did he kiss you?” or “Did he cuddle you?” That was as far as it was expected to go. Was Hannah aware of what sex was about, what it involved and what could be the outcome? Did she know how babies were made, because attitudes in the ’60s were far less liberated than they are 40 years on? Had she discussed the subject of sex even with close friends? In each case, the answer was probably no. The thing, then, was that you knew a little bit, you knew the word “sex” and you knew what was supposed to happen once your husband and you took off your clothes and climbed into bed, but it wasn’t meant to happen until you were married. You were supposed to be a “nice” girl and keeping yourself pure until you were married was sometimes the first and last line of defence when a man tried it on.’
Hannah Martin had saved herself for Joseph, but she was about to discover her investment in maidenly virtue would pay a bitter return. Casually strolling along the street one midweek afternoon, Hannah chanced upon an old friend. Joseph had said he would be unable to take her out that weekend as he had another engagement, which she assumed was probably work, so she asked the friend if she fancied a trip to the Barrowland on the Friday night.
‘Sorry, can’t,’ came the reply.
‘You going out somewhere?’
The friend was clearly disconcerted. ‘I just can’t, Hannah, sorry.’
‘Well, come on, you got a boyfriend hidden away?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Well, what is it? You can tell me, I keep secrets.’
‘Hannah, I’m going to the show of presents.’
‘Show of presents? What show of presents? Somebody getting married?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Well, who is it? Anybody I know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, who?’
‘Look, Hannah, I have to go.’
‘When’s the wedding?’
‘Saturday, the day after the show of presents.’
‘So, who’s getting married?’
‘Don’t you know, Hannah?’
‘Haven’t a clue. Come on, tell me.’
‘I’m really sorry, Hannah.’
‘What? Who is it?’
‘It’s Joseph.’
‘Joseph? . . . My Joseph? It can’t be. We’re engaged.’
‘He’s got a girl pregnant and they’re having to get married. Didn’t you know?’
‘No, he’s said nothing.’
‘Hannah, I’m so sorry.’
‘Not your fault. Thanks for telling me.’
It was the bitterest pill. What distressed Hannah, and would do so from that day on, was that her fiancé hadn’t had the courage to tell her the truth that behind her back he had met someone else. While she was keeping herself for him, he had been sowing his oats with another.
‘We were engaged and I have to hear from somebody else that he’s marrying another woman because she’s pregnant,’ she would later blurt out to a work
colleague. Never did she confront her now former fiancé. ‘If he couldn’t tell me, then I won’t belittle myself by asking,’ she said. ‘It would sound too much as if I was pleading.’ And each day she would pass Joseph by, her head in the air, letting him off so lightly.
The betrayal had a calamitous effect on her. For a while, she found it impossible to contemplate a serious relationship. She continued visiting the Barrowland, the tragedy of Patricia Docker by now more than a year distant, occasionally agreeing to a casual date but never going beyond a peck on the cheek at the end of a meal. She began drinking, now and then heavily and sometimes to excess, something she had never done prior to the break-up. It was drink that would both destroy her and probably save her life.
One night in April 1969, she took the short walk from her home to the stop from which she would take a bus to Glasgow and the Barras. Those who knew her would assume she was heading for the Barrowland, but this was a night when Hannah would break with tradition. All bets were off. She was setting out with the intention of having a good time, getting drunk, casting care to the wind. She headed into the city centre and found herself in the Locarno in Sauchiehall Street. What happened in the next few hours would always remain hazy, but she found herself drinking, knocking back glass after glass, as though expecting to hear at any second the ten o’clock closing bells. She drifted from pub to dance hall.
At the Barrowland, she joined the regular dancers milling about, chatting, arguing, hearing an occasional oath or threat from someone who had already over-imbibed, and not necessarily a male. There was much to talk about. Glasgow, being on the west coast, has a special affinity with Northern Ireland, where the political situation was becoming serious. Discussions at the highest level were ongoing about the possible need for troops to be sent to the province, a particularly worrying development for a deprived city such as Glasgow, where many young men had found joining the army the only solution to avoiding the dole queues. Now they faced the prospect of being called upon to fire shots and, even worse, to be fired at. The atmosphere had not been helped by the election of firebrand Bernadette Devlin who, at 21, became the youngest-ever female Member of Parliament, winning the Mid Ulster seat after standing as an independent Unity candidate.
Others at the dance hall were boasting of their links to the ganglands in Newcastle upon Tyne and London. The underworld had always held a special fascination for Hannah, possibly handed down from her mother, who had ties with families in Glasgow linked to petty crime. Not that that said much because most families in the city at that time had some connection or other with the criminal element.
Newcastle was still reeling from the convictions two years earlier of Dennis Stafford and Michael Luvaglio, who were given life sentences for the murder of fruit-machine cash collector Angus Sibbet. No one in the city doubted the innocence of Luvaglio in particular, and he and Stafford launched appeals against the jury’s verdicts. In the meantime, film-makers were showing a marked interest in what had happened and would ultimately use the murder to inspire the making of Get Carter, starring Michael Caine. It would become one of the all-time great gangster films.
There were some who queried how it was that in these cities detectives managed to crack murders that appeared complicated to solve, while in Glasgow the brutal killer of an innocent nurse remained free; however, even though Hannah had slightly more than a passing interest in these matters, her thirst that night was for alcohol rather than questions of law and order.
As she saw it, she had already had more than a taste of injustice, having been bashed over the head by a probable killer and then jilted in the cruellest and most cowardly fashion. As she poured down drinks, she became ever more revolted by her treatment: to have kept herself immaculate while others benefited from their promiscuity was unfair, to put it mildly. As the night wore on, she lost track of her bearings to the extent that she would never know for certain where she ended up.
What she soon realised was that the floor was beginning to spin. She felt giddy, a strange devil-may-care sensation taking over, and suddenly a tall, slim man was holding her, almost carrying her around the floor, nuzzling her neck, his embrace ever more intimate, whispering words that she found difficult to interpret through the haze of levity and offering to give her a ride home in his car.
Hannah was in a dangerous state, near helpless and yet willing in the grip of a stranger at a venue in which another woman had been seduced and later killed. But drink drowned out the danger signals and before she knew it she was in a moving vehicle. When it stopped, she soon found to her horror her clothes awry. It was a sobering and terrifying experience. She realised she had taken part in a sexual act and that her lover was now making it plain he wanted to continue, to the extent of beginning forceful advances. Something told her she should not be there. She would admit to friends that she asked herself in the years that followed many questions: was the man familiar? Were there faint resemblances in his speech, his form, to the stranger who had attacked her near Landressy Street? Did she hear a voice warning her that eternal damnation faced those who transgressed, that in ancient times adulterous women were stoned to death? Hannah would never have the chance to answer these questions.
She knew only that, as they struggled, having had sex once, she was on the verge of being raped. His efforts to pull off her remaining clothing persisted. She clawed at him and they fought. And then she threw up, spewing over the man, his clothing and his car. She heard shouts of disgust, vile curses and oaths, and found herself on the pavement. She thought she could recall the man offering to give her a lift home, clearly as a pretence to induce her to climb into his vehicle. But there would be no ride home now. By the time she dressed and climbed to her feet, the streets were empty. There was no sign of the car or the man who had taken her. Tidying her crumpled clothing, she gulped in the spring air.
Being sick had further sobered her, but she would say she remembered little of her first lover. She told her closest friend that they had had sex once and that he then forced himself on her, insisting on a second helping. But Hannah’s reluctance to talk about the experience made her confidante suspect her introduction to sex had been wholly against her will. Had he given a name, she would be asked? She replied that if he had, she could not remember it. She would also say she thought she heard him telling her he worked in the shipyards. John Brown’s famous yard was certainly in the news at this time. It had launched Queen Elizabeth 2 amidst a flurry of publicity in September 1967 but, after a series of catastrophic teething troubles, the liner had only just been accepted by its owners, Cunard. Was it possible a young man would try to impress a girl by boasting he worked in a trade that had brought shame on Scotland? She would say, too, he had told her he was aged 20.
To many, there would be something odd about the details she remembered and those she did not. Wouldn’t the one detail any woman would take from her first lover be his name? In territory where one woman had already died – two more would tragically follow – at the hands of a man who had offered to see her home and then ripped off her clothing, she had been the victim of a brutal sex attack while hopelessly drunk. The fact was a desirous lover would give a name; a rapist would not. Maybe the truth was simply that all she could be certain of was that by vomiting she had saved herself.
‘She left the dance hall with the guy but didn’t know him, although if she saw him again she might have recognised him,’ said Hannah’s old friend. ‘Could he have been Bible John? He could have been. But if he gave his name, any name, she didn’t remember it. For sure, being ill over him saved Hannah and she always knew that.’
By the summer of 1969, Hannah was aware that something was wrong. She had missed periods but was convinced whatever was amiss was not serious because, though difficult to understand or accept now, she was certain that it was impossible for a woman to become pregnant as a result of her very first act of lovemaking. As has been shown, being ignorant of sexual matters was not uncommon then. Many bizarre fallacies pe
rsisted and Hannah was not alone in believing such a fantasy. During girlie talks, she had been told in hushed tones that ‘doing it’ for the first time would be painful but after that it would be the source of considerable pleasure. She could recall neither sensation.
With almost childlike naivety, Hannah tried to regard the incident as if it had all been a dream, thinking that if she managed to put it from her mind altogether then the consequences would disappear. She would revert to being the innocent and pure woman who had set out from home that April night. She wanted to neither think nor imagine, and certainly not talk, of her deflowering; in fact, it would be many years before Hannah spoke of her ordeal at the hands of a man who may well have become a mass killer.
‘Sex meant nothing to her then,’ said a close friend. ‘She went into self-denial about the near certainty she was pregnant, seeking to convince herself she could not possibly be having a baby. For a long time, there was no outward sign and when her body did start to swell she started wearing loose clothing to hide the fact. Malcolm was a big, dour individual, a kindly man but very strict, and she was terrified as to what would happen if he found out. It was almost as if she thought that by denying she was pregnant it would all suddenly disappear without him ever learning anything had ever been amiss. It is so easy to scoff and laugh now at what must seem an incredible attitude to something so basic, but that was her genuine belief.’
Perhaps Hannah could be forgiven for being so naive and imagining there was anything that could distract her father from her condition once he had learned about it.
There was certainly enough tragedy and murder to pack the newspapers Malcolm liked to read. James Griffiths and his friend Paddy Meehan were suspected of being responsible for the murder in Ayr of elderly Rachel Ross during a robbery at the home she shared with her husband, Abraham. Meehan was arrested and convicted of the murder, but was later given a Royal Pardon and financially compensated. However, when five detectives went to bring Griffiths in, he went berserk with an armoury of guns, eventually taking refuge in his flat in Hillhead, firing at all and sundry and screeching insults at police, who urged him to abandon his folly. Despite being surrounded, he escaped, eventually bursting into an empty tenement flat in Springburn from where he kept up the fire before being fatally hit when a policeman fired through the letterbox. Griffiths had killed news vendor William Hughes, aged sixty-five, and injured another twelve people, including an eight year old.