…
It was a tradition at my school that, on the last day the leavers were invited onto the stage where they sat through the morning assembly, until the Headmaster, eventually acknowledged them as ‘young men and women taking the next step of their lives’. Following his usual speech, he would invite them all back to join the School Youth Club. I sat gazing into space, as usual, until I heard him call my name. Stunned, I responded to his beckoning, left my seat, and went forward.
“You may of course end up as master Griffiths has,” he stood me in front of him facing the sea of fresh faces gripping my shoulders tightly. I went ‘beetroot’ every eye in the place fixed me, he continued, “unable to read, unable to write, a truant, a criminal, a thoroughly bad lot, and a person who will not be allowed back over the threshold of this school ever again.” He looked around finding the face of Mr Wilson the History teacher. “Mr Wilson, take this boy away,” he ordered, “and escort him off the premises immediately.”
I couldn’t say a thing, I was so shocked. Within seconds I was marched from the Hall and deposited outside the school gate. Moments later, I stood alone, leaving certificate in hand and watched as Mr Wilson made his way along the drive and back to the Hall.
That was the first time I realised the error of my ways, the second came two weeks later when I went for a job interview as an apprentice welder with a local sheet metal works.
I arrived at the works on time, feeling very confident and met up with several other young hopefuls. We were taken to a classroom and sat at individual desks each with a set of papers turned face down. Moments later the personnel manager arrived and told us to turn the papers over. I did, my eyes met a sheet of ‘mumbo jumbo’. Once he announced that the ‘test’ had to be completed in twenty minutes, I’d lost it. In that second, all the confidence I came in with left me. I looked around as everyone else dipped their heads and became engrossed in the task, I watched as pencils quivered into action. I sat, for what seemed like an age, I looked at the paper and nothing happened, how could it? In desperation I stood up and ran for the door leaving the welding job behind.
For the next eighteen months I moved from Job to Job, a building site labourer one week, a warehouse worker the next, in that short period of time I left, or was sacked, from no fewer than fifteen jobs.
One Friday night I sat caressing a pint of Double Diamond bitter in the Spring Cottage pub and looked around, the gang sat with me, all of them were working, one, ‘Rolls’, had even managed to get the welding job. The conversation turned to travel everyone saying they’d travel the world, ‘let’s go to Africa’ one would say, ‘let’s go to Australia’ said another, in the end I got pissed off and said, “lets have a bet. I bet that I’ll travel further in the next three years than any one else here.” The bet was on.
“And how are your going to do that?” Asked Jed.
“Simple I said, I’m joining the Army.”
Bright and early Monday morning I presented myself at the Army careers office. A small, fit, looking sergeant sat at the reception desk and took some details from me before pointing to a steel bar fixed across a doorway leading to an office.
“How many times do you think you can pull yourself up on that bar over there?”
“Dunno.” I answered.
“Well, you have to be able to do at least ten, if you can’t, then we don’t go any further,” he pointed to the bar again, “off you go.” He said.
Ten was no problem. At twenty-five he stopped me. We carried on with the ‘selection’. He asked the questions, I answered, and he ticked or crossed little boxes. When it came to the question of which part of the Army I wanted to join I hadn’t got a clue and stumbled for an answer.
“Was your Dad in the Army?”
“Yes” I said “he was a driver.”
“That’s it then, The Royal Corps of Transport, same as me he said.”
“Did you know my Dad?” Stupid question I realised.
He looked up from his notes, his face said it all, he shook his head and carried on.
“Ok, the way it works is this, you take a short test.” He noted the change, “What’s the matter?” I didn’t answer, “Problem with the test is it,” he continued, “well it isn’t a test as you know them, there’s no pass or fail, you answer the questions and this gives me a score, the higher the score the more opportunities.”
I wasn’t convinced. Once again, I sat at a desk looking at a piece of paper, and once again, I didn’t have a clue.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes to answer as many questions as possible.” The sergeant clicked his stopwatch. “Off you go.”
I put my finger under the first word of the first page and read it slowly to my self, then I moved to the second and third. Click, I heard the stopwatch.
“Can you read?”
“Yeah, but not too good.”
“ I shouldn’t do this, but I will, I’ll read you the question to save a bit of time and you give me the answer.”
Fifteen minutes later the clock stopped for a second time. The sergeant measured my score.
“Well, your score indicates either a light infantry role or, if you want a Corps, it’d have to be the Pioneer Corps.” He sat back in his seat, interlaced his fingers behind his head, and pondered for a moment. “I’ll stick my neck out,” he said as he moved forward, “I’ll put you down for the RCT and let the recruit selection sort it ou
Monday, 26 April 2010
Sunday, 11 April 2010
WAIT OUT Part 6 (Boy Soldiers)
Steen looked around making sure no one was watching, satisfied, he held the sheep firmly on the killing cradle, he took one more look around, reached for his boning knife and plunged it deep into the side of its neck, the sheep struggled, its eyes rolling as its life blood ran away.
“Did ya, stun that ewe before ya killed her?”
Jock was surprised by the Forman’s appearance. Looking him straight in the eye, he answered. “Yeah”.
“Ya lyin’ little bastard, you’ve no stunned it at all.” The foreman’s, thin tight face filled with sympathy as he looked down at the cradle. “I’ve been a butcher for many a year lad, and I canna say ‘ave seen anyone as cruel as you. It’s the last time I’ll warn ya, if you’re caught again, you’ll be off.” Walking away, he looked back. “For pities sake, have some thought for the wee beasts.”
Jock turned to his work, rolled the sheep over, and began the task of butchering the animal ready for the table.
The 15 August 1969, had been a long day, although tired, he read his newspaper as he began the long bus ride home. In the past year, he’d seen an increase in the activities across the water. Patrick O’Brien had said that the recently held civil rights marches had opened up old Catholic wounds and that armed conflict was merely a matter of time. Now, as he read the paper, it seemed as though the time had come:
DURING THE NIGHT, HUNDRED’S OF PROTESTANT YOUTHS RAMPAGED THROUGH THE STREETS OF BELFAST SETTING FIRE TO CATHOLIC PROPERTIES AND BEATING UP INNOCENT CATHOLICS AS THEY MADE THEIR WAY HOME. IN RETALIATION, CATHOLIC YOUTHS FOUGHT RUNNING BATTLES WITH THE PROTESTANT RUN RESERVE POLICE FORCE, KNOWN AS THE B SPECIALS. PETROL BOMBS WERE THROWN AS MOBS ROAMED THE STREETS. IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING HOMES WERE STILL BURNING, AS POLICE USED AUTOMATIC WEAPONS TO RESTORE ORDER. IRISH POLITICIANS ARE CALLING FOR THE DEPLOYMENT OF TROOPS….
Within minutes of arriving home there was a knock at the door. Patrick O’Brien’s grim face met Steen’s.
“Have you heard the news.?”
“I’ve read the papers.”
“So you’ve not heard then, troops have been sent in, it’s on the television news as we speak.” O’Brien led the way into the lounge. His mood changing as he realised Mrs Steen was there. “And how’s my Agnes?” he said, as she stood from her chair and turned to face him.
“Och I’m very well indeed. I wasn’t expecting you ‘til the week-end.”
“I was just passing and thought I’d call in to see Jock.”
“Are you still taking me to the pictures at the week-end?”
“Of course I am, I’d not let a fine lady down, now would I.”
“Jock’s meal is in the oven, I can make it spread if ya feel like stayin’ a while.”
“ No Agnes, thanks for the offer though.” He turned to Jock, “ There’s an open night and shooting competition at the local Territorial Army barracks tomorrow night, I thought you might like to come along and have a go.”
“Aye, I’d like that. Do I have to tak’ ma own gun?”
“No, they’re using .22 rifles.”
“Right enough, I’ll look forward ta that.”
The following morning at 7 a.m. Jock tied his apron, put on his gumboots and made his way to the slaughterhouse for another ‘sheep day’. All around him, the conversations were the same, Protestants and Catholics debating the issues facing Ulster. Minutes before lunch a small ewe struggled free from Jock’s grip, he wrestled it for a moment before slipping, ‘spread eagled’ across the floor. A roar of laughter, from his fellow work-mates, added to his humiliation, he smiled embarrassingly as a colleague handed him the ewe. Placing it on the cradle he looked around, his smile broadening the other slaughter men were still laughing, turning back to the ewe, Steen took hold of one of its front legs and with a swift movement broke it, the ewe screamed, the slaughterhouse fell silent. Steen looked up, “It wont fuckin’ run away now, will it.”
Horrified, several of the men went for him. He pulled his knife and waved it in the air challenging anyone who dared to approach. The ‘stand off’ was broken when the foreman told him to collect his things and leave. As he walked away, a man stepped forward and quickly killed the suffering animal.
By 6.30 p.m., there was no sign of remorse. In the Army barracks, Jock was handling the .22 rifle as though he’d been born with it. A Territorial Army Sergeant explained the working mechanism, inviting him to ‘dress forward' to the firing line. The indoor range was nothing more than a long stone corridor with a pulley system which sent ten-inch cardboard targets to a wall of sandbags some fifty yards away, a dim light hovered overhead. At the Sergeant’s instruction Jock lay down and took aim. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, a loud crack echoed off the walls, the target twitched as the round hit.
“Well you’ve hit the target at least.” The sergeant said.
“To far to the left.” Jock replied. He adjusted his aim, cocked the weapon, and fired again. “That’s better.” He followed the sequence again, accurately sending his third and final shot.
“OK, lay the weapon down keeping the mussel pointed down the range and step back.” Jock moved away, as the sergeant retrieved the target. “Well done lad,” he said “you’ve got two bulls and one just left of centre, great shooting. Have you shot before?”
“I’ve got an air rifle.”
“Is this the first time you’ve shot full bore then?.
“Yeah.”
“Well you should think about joining up lad, that’s a hell of a shot you’ve got.” Jock shrugged his shoulders as he moved away. The sergeant turned to the line of boys anyone want to try and beat that?”
“I can’t see anyone beating that score.” O’Brien said as he viewed the target. “Come on Jock, we’ll have a look at the displays and wait to see if you win.” The two walked away and crossed the barracks towards the display area. Steen was quieter than normal. “Something bothering you Jock?” O’Brien asked.
“I lost my job today.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“The foreman’s a cruel bastard, I caught him breaking the leg of a sheep, and tried to stop him, so he sacked me.” Steen lied.
“Did you report him?”
“No point, he’s the man in charge, besides, all his mates work there.”
“Have you told your Mum?”
“No, not yet.”
“Any idea what you’ll do now.”
“I’ll start looking for a new job tomorrow.”
“ What about the Army, you’ve proved your a good shot, that’ll go a long way in there.”
“ No, I’ve said before I won’t join the British Army and fight my own people.”
“ You won’t have to, you could be in there and be helping the struggle.”
“What a ya saying” Jock’s interest was aroused.
“ Remember the Baden Powell book, he spent a lot of his time gathering information which was used by the British Intelligence Service.”
“Spying ya mean?”
“In a word, yes. The more you know about the enemy the better the chances of defeating them.” O’Brien kept an eye open for anyone who might overhear the conversation.
“Are you sayin’ I could join the British Army and spy for the IRA.” Steen’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Well, not only that. You see Jock, most of the IRA are older men who haven’t seen a weapon for years, in fact most of them have forgotten where they hid their old weapons. Young recruits are enthusiastic but have no skills. But a British trained soldier could lick them into shape in no time.”
Jock was deep in thought when the TA sergeant arrived with a winners certificate. “There you are son, well done.” He handed the certificate over shaking Jock’s hand as he did.
“Is there a place in the Army for a lad like this then?” O’Brien enquired.
“With a shot like that he’s got the makings of a fine sniper.” The sergeant said as he walked away.
“See what I mean Jock, just think what a trained sniper could offer the IRA.”
“But what about ma Mum and ma brothers and sister?”
“It’d be a great honour for me to look after them, whilst you’re away helping the boys over the water, and as you know, I’ve been seeing a lot of your mother lately, a bit more wouldn’t go amiss.”
“If I did decide to do it how would I get in touch with the IRA?”
“That, my boy, is something with which I can assist.” O’Brien searched Steen’s face. “Seriously,” he continued, “if you want to go down this line then it has to be a very well kept secret, you mustn’t mention it to anyone,” O’Brien’s voice changed emphasising the importance of the conversation, “No one!” He said forcefully.
“Did ya, stun that ewe before ya killed her?”
Jock was surprised by the Forman’s appearance. Looking him straight in the eye, he answered. “Yeah”.
“Ya lyin’ little bastard, you’ve no stunned it at all.” The foreman’s, thin tight face filled with sympathy as he looked down at the cradle. “I’ve been a butcher for many a year lad, and I canna say ‘ave seen anyone as cruel as you. It’s the last time I’ll warn ya, if you’re caught again, you’ll be off.” Walking away, he looked back. “For pities sake, have some thought for the wee beasts.”
Jock turned to his work, rolled the sheep over, and began the task of butchering the animal ready for the table.
The 15 August 1969, had been a long day, although tired, he read his newspaper as he began the long bus ride home. In the past year, he’d seen an increase in the activities across the water. Patrick O’Brien had said that the recently held civil rights marches had opened up old Catholic wounds and that armed conflict was merely a matter of time. Now, as he read the paper, it seemed as though the time had come:
DURING THE NIGHT, HUNDRED’S OF PROTESTANT YOUTHS RAMPAGED THROUGH THE STREETS OF BELFAST SETTING FIRE TO CATHOLIC PROPERTIES AND BEATING UP INNOCENT CATHOLICS AS THEY MADE THEIR WAY HOME. IN RETALIATION, CATHOLIC YOUTHS FOUGHT RUNNING BATTLES WITH THE PROTESTANT RUN RESERVE POLICE FORCE, KNOWN AS THE B SPECIALS. PETROL BOMBS WERE THROWN AS MOBS ROAMED THE STREETS. IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING HOMES WERE STILL BURNING, AS POLICE USED AUTOMATIC WEAPONS TO RESTORE ORDER. IRISH POLITICIANS ARE CALLING FOR THE DEPLOYMENT OF TROOPS….
Within minutes of arriving home there was a knock at the door. Patrick O’Brien’s grim face met Steen’s.
“Have you heard the news.?”
“I’ve read the papers.”
“So you’ve not heard then, troops have been sent in, it’s on the television news as we speak.” O’Brien led the way into the lounge. His mood changing as he realised Mrs Steen was there. “And how’s my Agnes?” he said, as she stood from her chair and turned to face him.
“Och I’m very well indeed. I wasn’t expecting you ‘til the week-end.”
“I was just passing and thought I’d call in to see Jock.”
“Are you still taking me to the pictures at the week-end?”
“Of course I am, I’d not let a fine lady down, now would I.”
“Jock’s meal is in the oven, I can make it spread if ya feel like stayin’ a while.”
“ No Agnes, thanks for the offer though.” He turned to Jock, “ There’s an open night and shooting competition at the local Territorial Army barracks tomorrow night, I thought you might like to come along and have a go.”
“Aye, I’d like that. Do I have to tak’ ma own gun?”
“No, they’re using .22 rifles.”
“Right enough, I’ll look forward ta that.”
The following morning at 7 a.m. Jock tied his apron, put on his gumboots and made his way to the slaughterhouse for another ‘sheep day’. All around him, the conversations were the same, Protestants and Catholics debating the issues facing Ulster. Minutes before lunch a small ewe struggled free from Jock’s grip, he wrestled it for a moment before slipping, ‘spread eagled’ across the floor. A roar of laughter, from his fellow work-mates, added to his humiliation, he smiled embarrassingly as a colleague handed him the ewe. Placing it on the cradle he looked around, his smile broadening the other slaughter men were still laughing, turning back to the ewe, Steen took hold of one of its front legs and with a swift movement broke it, the ewe screamed, the slaughterhouse fell silent. Steen looked up, “It wont fuckin’ run away now, will it.”
Horrified, several of the men went for him. He pulled his knife and waved it in the air challenging anyone who dared to approach. The ‘stand off’ was broken when the foreman told him to collect his things and leave. As he walked away, a man stepped forward and quickly killed the suffering animal.
By 6.30 p.m., there was no sign of remorse. In the Army barracks, Jock was handling the .22 rifle as though he’d been born with it. A Territorial Army Sergeant explained the working mechanism, inviting him to ‘dress forward' to the firing line. The indoor range was nothing more than a long stone corridor with a pulley system which sent ten-inch cardboard targets to a wall of sandbags some fifty yards away, a dim light hovered overhead. At the Sergeant’s instruction Jock lay down and took aim. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, a loud crack echoed off the walls, the target twitched as the round hit.
“Well you’ve hit the target at least.” The sergeant said.
“To far to the left.” Jock replied. He adjusted his aim, cocked the weapon, and fired again. “That’s better.” He followed the sequence again, accurately sending his third and final shot.
“OK, lay the weapon down keeping the mussel pointed down the range and step back.” Jock moved away, as the sergeant retrieved the target. “Well done lad,” he said “you’ve got two bulls and one just left of centre, great shooting. Have you shot before?”
“I’ve got an air rifle.”
“Is this the first time you’ve shot full bore then?.
“Yeah.”
“Well you should think about joining up lad, that’s a hell of a shot you’ve got.” Jock shrugged his shoulders as he moved away. The sergeant turned to the line of boys anyone want to try and beat that?”
“I can’t see anyone beating that score.” O’Brien said as he viewed the target. “Come on Jock, we’ll have a look at the displays and wait to see if you win.” The two walked away and crossed the barracks towards the display area. Steen was quieter than normal. “Something bothering you Jock?” O’Brien asked.
“I lost my job today.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“The foreman’s a cruel bastard, I caught him breaking the leg of a sheep, and tried to stop him, so he sacked me.” Steen lied.
“Did you report him?”
“No point, he’s the man in charge, besides, all his mates work there.”
“Have you told your Mum?”
“No, not yet.”
“Any idea what you’ll do now.”
“I’ll start looking for a new job tomorrow.”
“ What about the Army, you’ve proved your a good shot, that’ll go a long way in there.”
“ No, I’ve said before I won’t join the British Army and fight my own people.”
“ You won’t have to, you could be in there and be helping the struggle.”
“What a ya saying” Jock’s interest was aroused.
“ Remember the Baden Powell book, he spent a lot of his time gathering information which was used by the British Intelligence Service.”
“Spying ya mean?”
“In a word, yes. The more you know about the enemy the better the chances of defeating them.” O’Brien kept an eye open for anyone who might overhear the conversation.
“Are you sayin’ I could join the British Army and spy for the IRA.” Steen’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Well, not only that. You see Jock, most of the IRA are older men who haven’t seen a weapon for years, in fact most of them have forgotten where they hid their old weapons. Young recruits are enthusiastic but have no skills. But a British trained soldier could lick them into shape in no time.”
Jock was deep in thought when the TA sergeant arrived with a winners certificate. “There you are son, well done.” He handed the certificate over shaking Jock’s hand as he did.
“Is there a place in the Army for a lad like this then?” O’Brien enquired.
“With a shot like that he’s got the makings of a fine sniper.” The sergeant said as he walked away.
“See what I mean Jock, just think what a trained sniper could offer the IRA.”
“But what about ma Mum and ma brothers and sister?”
“It’d be a great honour for me to look after them, whilst you’re away helping the boys over the water, and as you know, I’ve been seeing a lot of your mother lately, a bit more wouldn’t go amiss.”
“If I did decide to do it how would I get in touch with the IRA?”
“That, my boy, is something with which I can assist.” O’Brien searched Steen’s face. “Seriously,” he continued, “if you want to go down this line then it has to be a very well kept secret, you mustn’t mention it to anyone,” O’Brien’s voice changed emphasising the importance of the conversation, “No one!” He said forcefully.
Monday, 5 April 2010
WAIT OUT part 4
“Stand here whilst I speak to Mr Powell.”
Mrs Birch walked into the Headmaster’s study. She had the most wonderful figure accentuated by a short skirt, black high heels, and dark stockings. I could hear the conversation quite clearly.
“ He’s a bright boy, but he’s missed so much school that he can’t keep up. Is there nothing we can do?” She searched the Head’s face for an answer, but there was none. “He can’t even read.” She continued.
“My hands are tied.” Mr Powell’s deep authoritative tones rang out, “He leaves next year. Bob Stoddard found him wondering around Bentilee, saw his parents and threatened them with Court if they didn’t ensure his attendance. Since then, his father’s delivered him here every day. The parents are coming up with their part of the deal, it’s up to us to do our part. You’re his form teacher, is there any subject he’s good at?”
“Not that I know, he’s just so far behind.”
The conversation paired away as Mr Vernon Goodwin, the science teacher, clicked his way towards me, the metal tips of his highly polished, brown brogue’s heels filling the empty corridor
“Ah, Master Kenneth John Griffiths, long time no see. In trouble again eh?” He asked.
“No!” I said defensively, “They don’t know where to put me.”
“Really.” He said as he turned into the study. As Deputy Head he didn’t bother announcing his arrival. His huge body filled the doorway, looking up I could see his big, purple, face, light up as he acknowledged his colleagues.
“Young Griffiths,” he said cutting straight across any further conversation,
“ I could do with some help in the science lab’s greenhouse, I’ll have him there.”
“ The problem is we can’t just put him there without at least trying to do something about his education.” Mr Powell tapped his desk in thought.
“ Having said this I don’t see any alternative.”
“Good,” Goodwin turned, grabbing me by the arm as he went. “ I’ll have a word with Mrs Bache, she might be able to give him some extra English.” He said over his shoulder as we walked away.
On the few occasions I did attend school, (before being caught by Stoddard), Mr Goodwin and Mrs Bache, were the only teachers who had taken a genuine interest in me. They always encouraged me to attend and would spend time talking about my life on the estate. For the next week, I worked in the Greenhouse, taking cuttings from Fire Nettles and African Violets and then planting them in scores of tiny black pots. True to his word, Goodwin had spoken to Mrs Bache. In one of her breaks, she came to the greenhouse to see me. I saw her approaching, and for the first time realised that, she was quite lovely. She was in her late forty’s about five foot four with shoulder length light brown hair. She had a big hooked nose, but it suited her face and didn’t detract from her sparkling dark eyes and genuine smile.
“Morning Kenneth,” she said as she slid the door open, “my, it’s hot in here, shall we go out side?”
I shrugged my shoulders, sort of hard like as if the heat didn’t bother me,
“Yeah, if you like.” I said
“I want to try and sort out some English lessons for you.” she said as I followed her out. “Don’t look so gloomy, it’s important for you. You really do need to be able to read and write, besides, I’ll make it interesting for you, ok?”
I shrugged my shoulders and made a kind of murmur sound as I nodded.
“Good, come to the library at lunch time.” She ordered, as she walked away.
Sure enough seconds after the lunch bell sounded I walked into the school library, a room I’d visited once in four years and that was during the introduction to the school when I arrived from the Juniors. Mrs Bache had just finished a lesson and was talking to one of her pupils as I arrived. She caught my eye straight away and smiled warmly. I stood awkwardly, trying to find something to look at. She finished her conversation, her pupil left and she called me to her.
“What’s this?” she said as she pointed to a newspaper spread out in front of her.
“A paper.” I said.
“Yes, but what news paper?”
“Dunno,” I said, feeling a little awkward.
“ Well, this is the Daily Mail,” she turned to a wooden stand and pulled off several other newspapers. “This is the Telegraph, The Mirror, The Times, and this is the Evening Sentinel, our local paper, have you seen this before?”
“Yeah, ‘cause I have, we have that at home.”
“Can you tell me what this is about?” She pointed at the Headlines.
I struggled, “err, no, no!”
“Well this is about the Pottery Industry, it’s saying that people will be losing their jobs if the strikes continue. What about this?” She pointed to the headlines in the Daily Mirror.
“Dunno”.
“Well this is telling us that trouble is escalating in Northern Ireland and troops may have to be sent in.”
“So?” I was starting to loose the plot.
“So, this is news. You don’t have to read books if you don’t want to, but you have to know what’s happening around you, being able to read lets you know what’s happening.” She pointed to a seat next to her, “sit here.”
I obeyed.
Week after week I sat at that table whilst Mrs Bache read to me from newspapers and comics like the Dandy, Beano and Hotspur. I struggled terribly to try to grasp the idea of reading, I’d see a simple word like ‘cried’, she’d tell me what it was and I’d be able to read it time after time, until the script changed, then I was lost. In fact, I wasn’t reading at all I was merely memorising shapes.
Working in the greenhouse and meeting Mrs Bache at lunch times suited me. I was doing fine, but it all stopped in October 1968…
The gang were well respected on the estate, and my nights were filled with petty crime and exciting adventures which honed my delinquent skills. At fifteen I could hide anywhere, break into shops and cars without leaving any trace, and fight with the best of them. At the time, my best mate was Peter Humphries, ‘Pump’. He was one of the regular gang and a good looking guy, medium build, dark brown long hair, deep blue eyes and a cocky smile that curled the left side of his lips more than the right. No matter what the problem, Pump had a joke to tell, totally the opposite of his brother Barry. Barry was much older, a hard man, and a very violent criminal . He was thin, sharp featured and always wore dark blue Levi denims. When he wasn’t in prison, or on the take, he would hang around with us.
One dark night, the gang, at Barry’s suggestion, made their way across the fields to the back of the privately owned houses, bordering Hanley High School. Through the iron school railings we could see one particular house which had a workshop at the bottom of the garden and a store of building and plumbing materials, next to a large pile of scrap metal. Within seconds of our arrival I had scaled the school fence and was passing lengths of lead pipe through to the lads. Barry had gone onto the house with two others. Ten minutes later, Earnie Williams, a well built long haired gang member and a close friend shouted a warning to me letting me know that a man and his dog had arrived on the scene. In the darkness, I could see their shadow. It was a big dog! The gang turned and began their escape. I scaled the fence in one, landing awkwardly next to a large, adult, male, figure hiding in the shadows. He made a grab for me and I hit him as hard as I could full in the face. He reeled back landing in a clump of gorse and blackberry bushes, which had been planted, by the school to stop intruders. Earnie, who had waited for me, realising the danger, hit the figure again, as he untangled himself from the prickly bush. Despite this blow, the man made a second grab for me. Once again Earnie leapt to my defence, took a hold of the man and fell with him wrestling to the floor, Earnie soon struggled free and flung the body back into the prickly bushes. We both ran, following the distant fading shadows of our gang. Other larger figures, in pursuit of them, lay between us. I made my way to a small bridge over the stream, between the school and the rough ground leading to the estate. I lay, half in the cold water, covered by the deep shadows of the tall waterside plants, my panting, being masked by the sound of running water. Earnie lay quietly next to me. The adult’s search was intense, the dark figures emerging as uniformed police. We lay still and undetected for a very long time, eventually leaving the fields and joining up with the gang outside the Beverley pub, deep in the estate. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, each telling his story of the ‘great escape’. Not all the gang were present. No one knew who had been caught, and who had slipped away. In the debate, our defences were down. Un-noticed, several police cars swooped in spewing out uniformed officers in every direction. They grabbed anyone they could. I got caught, my arm was forced up my back and I was marched towards a waiting police ‘panda’ car. I struggled, placing my free hand on the roof in an effort to resist the arrest. The officer was not amused and tried to force me into the back seat. A second officer came to assist. He grabbed my hair, pulled it back hard, and with a sudden push, forced my forehead onto the doorframe. The pain made me released my grip and I fell into the rear of the car, piling into the handcuffed figure of Barry. The door shut and the two officers climbed in the front, the driver, flicked the switches for the blue light and siren as we sped away from the melee. As the journey progressed, I protested my innocence. At the junction of Twigg Street and Dividy Road, the car came to a halt. The interior light came on and I saw the bleeding and swollen face of PC Johnson. The scratches from the gorse and blackberry bushes covered the whole of his face and hands. He looked at me intensely for some time before announcing that he couldn’t recognise me. Barry butted in convincingly, stating that I wasn’t one of the gang. Without anymore debate, the door opened and I was dumped on the roadside. I watched in amazement as the car pulled away. I walked back through the estate lowering my head as a fleet of police cars passed by, ferrying the gang to Hanley police station. I made my way home, slipping into my bedroom un-noticed by my parents who were watching one of their favourite TV programmes. Two hours later the clock struck midnight. I sat on the edge of my bed still fully clothed looking out to the street below expecting the arrival of the police at any moment. Another hour passed, before I saw a black police Thames Trader van, known as a ‘Black Mariah’ pull up outside my house. Two heavily built, uniformed officers, walked from the vehicle. My heart was in my mouth as they hammered on the door. The landing light went on. I could hear my father heading from his bedroom down stairs to the front door. There was a muffled exchange, followed by the opening of my bedroom door. My dad’s powerfully built frame filled the opening. I went downstairs with him and walked into a barrage of questions from the two officers.
“One of the others told us you were there” a plump, sweaty, sergeant said.
‘So much for mates.’ I thought.
My mother, dressed in a heavy, pink, candlewick, dressing gown joined the scene, at the point where I was cautioned and arrested. She broke down in tears, her distress lighting my father’s short fuse.
“Look what you’ve done to your mother,” he bawled.
Before the police could stop him he crossed the room and hit me, full in the face with his massive fist. The blow sent me over the settee. Hurt and humiliated I came up fighting, only to be hit again. The sergeant and my mother grabbed Dad, the other officer restrained me, but not before I managed to kick my father hard on the knee.
On the way to the Mariah, my father scanned the neighbour’s houses for signs of life. “Thank God none of the neighbours are up,” he said and went on to comment about what his work mates would say if they ever found out.
As the words left his mouth the Mariah’s door opened and he came face to face with Dave Atkins’ father, one of his workmates. I found this very amusing but kept it to myself, as I sat next to Dave. In the vehicle there were four other gang members accompanied by their fathers. We knew better than to discuss anything and sat in total silence until we arrived at the police station.
Once there, we were put into the custody area adjacent to the cells. Other members of the gang were already going through the process of questioning, having the charges put to them and then having their fingerprints and photographs taken. I sat quietly at the side of my Dad. He in turn sat next to Diane Day. A year younger than me, she had cracking tits, striking good looks and was wearing a red micro-mini skirt, white thigh length boots and a very low cut pink and chocolate brown hoop tank top. She was there with her father and brother Michael, a trusted gang member. When they moved my father asked me if the ‘tart’ he’d been sitting next too had been on the job with us.
“No” I said defensively. I was going to say more but decided not to. Something told me that this was not the time to tell him she was my girlfriend.
Eventually, I was charged with theft and assault, although they didn’t really have the evidence for the assault. Luckily, I wasn’t identified as the first person that, assaulted PC Johnson. Unfortunately, Earnie was and eventually served a year at Werrington Detention Centre. True to the unsaid gang lore, he never told anyone about my true involvement. Following the charges, I, along with others, spent time in custody awaiting the full court hearing. The case was first heard at the local Magistrate’s Court and adjourned on two occasions. At the second appearance my solicitor applied for my release on bail. This was agreed as the case was to be heard at Stoke on Trent Crown Court and that there would be a long delay before getting to trial. The reason for the delay, was down to Barry, who, having left us in the garden, had burgled the house and seriously assaulted the owner and a police officer. Despite the evidence, he pleaded not guilty, forcing us all to a trail at the Crown Court. Months later, we were given a date and duly attended for the trial. On arrival at the court, I was met by a police officer and put back into custody to await my turn before the Judge. Eventually, the charges were put to me and I pleaded guilty to the theft and not guilty to the assault along with everyone else, other than Barry of course. Pleas entered, we all stood side by side in a large, oak, defendant’s box, flanked by prison and police officers. I looked around, the Court, held in the Old Town Hall, was huge and overbearing. The whole room was a mass of creaking carved oak, and red leather covered benches. Stone steps led from the defendant’s box to the cells below. The judge sat facing us in wig and gown with a broad red sash draped from his left shoulder to his right waist. He was completely dwarfed by his enormous chair, which stood high in the centre of the bench. Below him sat his clerk, dressed in a black court robe. Facing the two of them sat a row of black robed, barristers, each sporting a white horse-hair wig. Behind them sat a row of dark suited solicitors. The prosecution sat on the left, the defence on the right. The whole thing, reminded me of a scene from one of the Dickens’ novels I’d seen televised on Sunday afternoons. That thought soon changed, as I glanced behind and above me and caught sight of our families and spectators. In the middle of them, only four or five feet away, sat my Dad, although at the time, it felt as though he was a thousand miles away.
Following our pleas, those of us who had pleaded guilty, were led down the stone stairs to the cold cells below. As I turned to leave the Court, I saw my Dad. He was close to tears. He managed a friendly wink of his eye, which made me feel a lot better. The cells, were as Dickensian as the Court room scene. Each cell was simply, a concrete floor surrounded by heavy, black, steel bars. A single toilet stood obviously in the centre of the far wall. High above it, was a small barred window. To the left, a long wooden, well-worn, beech wood bed stood, with an oblong wooden box at one end, which had been shaped to form the pillow. I stayed there for two days as the case was heard in the court above. Three times a day, food was dished out on white, enamelled trays. The same menu appeared for each meal, a sort of corned beef pie, with cold potatoes. A large brown enamelled mug of stewed tea accompanied each meal. By mid-afternoon on the second day, we were hauled up for sentencing. The Judge, addressed us one by one. Barry Johnson was found guilty, and sentenced to five years. His brother Pete, to eighteen months, and Earnie to twelve months, as the rest of us had already served some time behind bars on remand, we were allowed home. I was further sentenced to two years conditional discharge and fined thirty pounds, with twenty pounds costs. A total of fifty pounds, a fortune for a family such as mine. I can remember my Mum and Dad cursing more than once, when they sent the five-pound postal orders to the court offices week after week.
At the end of the case, the Judge looked straight at me and suggested that I would be better advised to use my ‘escape and evasion’ skills in the Forces. He also commented on my poor school history and the negative report given by the Headmaster, Mr Powell.
It was 1969 I was fifteen and due to leave school and enter the world of the employed in a couple of weeks.
…
Mrs Birch walked into the Headmaster’s study. She had the most wonderful figure accentuated by a short skirt, black high heels, and dark stockings. I could hear the conversation quite clearly.
“ He’s a bright boy, but he’s missed so much school that he can’t keep up. Is there nothing we can do?” She searched the Head’s face for an answer, but there was none. “He can’t even read.” She continued.
“My hands are tied.” Mr Powell’s deep authoritative tones rang out, “He leaves next year. Bob Stoddard found him wondering around Bentilee, saw his parents and threatened them with Court if they didn’t ensure his attendance. Since then, his father’s delivered him here every day. The parents are coming up with their part of the deal, it’s up to us to do our part. You’re his form teacher, is there any subject he’s good at?”
“Not that I know, he’s just so far behind.”
The conversation paired away as Mr Vernon Goodwin, the science teacher, clicked his way towards me, the metal tips of his highly polished, brown brogue’s heels filling the empty corridor
“Ah, Master Kenneth John Griffiths, long time no see. In trouble again eh?” He asked.
“No!” I said defensively, “They don’t know where to put me.”
“Really.” He said as he turned into the study. As Deputy Head he didn’t bother announcing his arrival. His huge body filled the doorway, looking up I could see his big, purple, face, light up as he acknowledged his colleagues.
“Young Griffiths,” he said cutting straight across any further conversation,
“ I could do with some help in the science lab’s greenhouse, I’ll have him there.”
“ The problem is we can’t just put him there without at least trying to do something about his education.” Mr Powell tapped his desk in thought.
“ Having said this I don’t see any alternative.”
“Good,” Goodwin turned, grabbing me by the arm as he went. “ I’ll have a word with Mrs Bache, she might be able to give him some extra English.” He said over his shoulder as we walked away.
On the few occasions I did attend school, (before being caught by Stoddard), Mr Goodwin and Mrs Bache, were the only teachers who had taken a genuine interest in me. They always encouraged me to attend and would spend time talking about my life on the estate. For the next week, I worked in the Greenhouse, taking cuttings from Fire Nettles and African Violets and then planting them in scores of tiny black pots. True to his word, Goodwin had spoken to Mrs Bache. In one of her breaks, she came to the greenhouse to see me. I saw her approaching, and for the first time realised that, she was quite lovely. She was in her late forty’s about five foot four with shoulder length light brown hair. She had a big hooked nose, but it suited her face and didn’t detract from her sparkling dark eyes and genuine smile.
“Morning Kenneth,” she said as she slid the door open, “my, it’s hot in here, shall we go out side?”
I shrugged my shoulders, sort of hard like as if the heat didn’t bother me,
“Yeah, if you like.” I said
“I want to try and sort out some English lessons for you.” she said as I followed her out. “Don’t look so gloomy, it’s important for you. You really do need to be able to read and write, besides, I’ll make it interesting for you, ok?”
I shrugged my shoulders and made a kind of murmur sound as I nodded.
“Good, come to the library at lunch time.” She ordered, as she walked away.
Sure enough seconds after the lunch bell sounded I walked into the school library, a room I’d visited once in four years and that was during the introduction to the school when I arrived from the Juniors. Mrs Bache had just finished a lesson and was talking to one of her pupils as I arrived. She caught my eye straight away and smiled warmly. I stood awkwardly, trying to find something to look at. She finished her conversation, her pupil left and she called me to her.
“What’s this?” she said as she pointed to a newspaper spread out in front of her.
“A paper.” I said.
“Yes, but what news paper?”
“Dunno,” I said, feeling a little awkward.
“ Well, this is the Daily Mail,” she turned to a wooden stand and pulled off several other newspapers. “This is the Telegraph, The Mirror, The Times, and this is the Evening Sentinel, our local paper, have you seen this before?”
“Yeah, ‘cause I have, we have that at home.”
“Can you tell me what this is about?” She pointed at the Headlines.
I struggled, “err, no, no!”
“Well this is about the Pottery Industry, it’s saying that people will be losing their jobs if the strikes continue. What about this?” She pointed to the headlines in the Daily Mirror.
“Dunno”.
“Well this is telling us that trouble is escalating in Northern Ireland and troops may have to be sent in.”
“So?” I was starting to loose the plot.
“So, this is news. You don’t have to read books if you don’t want to, but you have to know what’s happening around you, being able to read lets you know what’s happening.” She pointed to a seat next to her, “sit here.”
I obeyed.
Week after week I sat at that table whilst Mrs Bache read to me from newspapers and comics like the Dandy, Beano and Hotspur. I struggled terribly to try to grasp the idea of reading, I’d see a simple word like ‘cried’, she’d tell me what it was and I’d be able to read it time after time, until the script changed, then I was lost. In fact, I wasn’t reading at all I was merely memorising shapes.
Working in the greenhouse and meeting Mrs Bache at lunch times suited me. I was doing fine, but it all stopped in October 1968…
The gang were well respected on the estate, and my nights were filled with petty crime and exciting adventures which honed my delinquent skills. At fifteen I could hide anywhere, break into shops and cars without leaving any trace, and fight with the best of them. At the time, my best mate was Peter Humphries, ‘Pump’. He was one of the regular gang and a good looking guy, medium build, dark brown long hair, deep blue eyes and a cocky smile that curled the left side of his lips more than the right. No matter what the problem, Pump had a joke to tell, totally the opposite of his brother Barry. Barry was much older, a hard man, and a very violent criminal . He was thin, sharp featured and always wore dark blue Levi denims. When he wasn’t in prison, or on the take, he would hang around with us.
One dark night, the gang, at Barry’s suggestion, made their way across the fields to the back of the privately owned houses, bordering Hanley High School. Through the iron school railings we could see one particular house which had a workshop at the bottom of the garden and a store of building and plumbing materials, next to a large pile of scrap metal. Within seconds of our arrival I had scaled the school fence and was passing lengths of lead pipe through to the lads. Barry had gone onto the house with two others. Ten minutes later, Earnie Williams, a well built long haired gang member and a close friend shouted a warning to me letting me know that a man and his dog had arrived on the scene. In the darkness, I could see their shadow. It was a big dog! The gang turned and began their escape. I scaled the fence in one, landing awkwardly next to a large, adult, male, figure hiding in the shadows. He made a grab for me and I hit him as hard as I could full in the face. He reeled back landing in a clump of gorse and blackberry bushes, which had been planted, by the school to stop intruders. Earnie, who had waited for me, realising the danger, hit the figure again, as he untangled himself from the prickly bush. Despite this blow, the man made a second grab for me. Once again Earnie leapt to my defence, took a hold of the man and fell with him wrestling to the floor, Earnie soon struggled free and flung the body back into the prickly bushes. We both ran, following the distant fading shadows of our gang. Other larger figures, in pursuit of them, lay between us. I made my way to a small bridge over the stream, between the school and the rough ground leading to the estate. I lay, half in the cold water, covered by the deep shadows of the tall waterside plants, my panting, being masked by the sound of running water. Earnie lay quietly next to me. The adult’s search was intense, the dark figures emerging as uniformed police. We lay still and undetected for a very long time, eventually leaving the fields and joining up with the gang outside the Beverley pub, deep in the estate. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, each telling his story of the ‘great escape’. Not all the gang were present. No one knew who had been caught, and who had slipped away. In the debate, our defences were down. Un-noticed, several police cars swooped in spewing out uniformed officers in every direction. They grabbed anyone they could. I got caught, my arm was forced up my back and I was marched towards a waiting police ‘panda’ car. I struggled, placing my free hand on the roof in an effort to resist the arrest. The officer was not amused and tried to force me into the back seat. A second officer came to assist. He grabbed my hair, pulled it back hard, and with a sudden push, forced my forehead onto the doorframe. The pain made me released my grip and I fell into the rear of the car, piling into the handcuffed figure of Barry. The door shut and the two officers climbed in the front, the driver, flicked the switches for the blue light and siren as we sped away from the melee. As the journey progressed, I protested my innocence. At the junction of Twigg Street and Dividy Road, the car came to a halt. The interior light came on and I saw the bleeding and swollen face of PC Johnson. The scratches from the gorse and blackberry bushes covered the whole of his face and hands. He looked at me intensely for some time before announcing that he couldn’t recognise me. Barry butted in convincingly, stating that I wasn’t one of the gang. Without anymore debate, the door opened and I was dumped on the roadside. I watched in amazement as the car pulled away. I walked back through the estate lowering my head as a fleet of police cars passed by, ferrying the gang to Hanley police station. I made my way home, slipping into my bedroom un-noticed by my parents who were watching one of their favourite TV programmes. Two hours later the clock struck midnight. I sat on the edge of my bed still fully clothed looking out to the street below expecting the arrival of the police at any moment. Another hour passed, before I saw a black police Thames Trader van, known as a ‘Black Mariah’ pull up outside my house. Two heavily built, uniformed officers, walked from the vehicle. My heart was in my mouth as they hammered on the door. The landing light went on. I could hear my father heading from his bedroom down stairs to the front door. There was a muffled exchange, followed by the opening of my bedroom door. My dad’s powerfully built frame filled the opening. I went downstairs with him and walked into a barrage of questions from the two officers.
“One of the others told us you were there” a plump, sweaty, sergeant said.
‘So much for mates.’ I thought.
My mother, dressed in a heavy, pink, candlewick, dressing gown joined the scene, at the point where I was cautioned and arrested. She broke down in tears, her distress lighting my father’s short fuse.
“Look what you’ve done to your mother,” he bawled.
Before the police could stop him he crossed the room and hit me, full in the face with his massive fist. The blow sent me over the settee. Hurt and humiliated I came up fighting, only to be hit again. The sergeant and my mother grabbed Dad, the other officer restrained me, but not before I managed to kick my father hard on the knee.
On the way to the Mariah, my father scanned the neighbour’s houses for signs of life. “Thank God none of the neighbours are up,” he said and went on to comment about what his work mates would say if they ever found out.
As the words left his mouth the Mariah’s door opened and he came face to face with Dave Atkins’ father, one of his workmates. I found this very amusing but kept it to myself, as I sat next to Dave. In the vehicle there were four other gang members accompanied by their fathers. We knew better than to discuss anything and sat in total silence until we arrived at the police station.
Once there, we were put into the custody area adjacent to the cells. Other members of the gang were already going through the process of questioning, having the charges put to them and then having their fingerprints and photographs taken. I sat quietly at the side of my Dad. He in turn sat next to Diane Day. A year younger than me, she had cracking tits, striking good looks and was wearing a red micro-mini skirt, white thigh length boots and a very low cut pink and chocolate brown hoop tank top. She was there with her father and brother Michael, a trusted gang member. When they moved my father asked me if the ‘tart’ he’d been sitting next too had been on the job with us.
“No” I said defensively. I was going to say more but decided not to. Something told me that this was not the time to tell him she was my girlfriend.
Eventually, I was charged with theft and assault, although they didn’t really have the evidence for the assault. Luckily, I wasn’t identified as the first person that, assaulted PC Johnson. Unfortunately, Earnie was and eventually served a year at Werrington Detention Centre. True to the unsaid gang lore, he never told anyone about my true involvement. Following the charges, I, along with others, spent time in custody awaiting the full court hearing. The case was first heard at the local Magistrate’s Court and adjourned on two occasions. At the second appearance my solicitor applied for my release on bail. This was agreed as the case was to be heard at Stoke on Trent Crown Court and that there would be a long delay before getting to trial. The reason for the delay, was down to Barry, who, having left us in the garden, had burgled the house and seriously assaulted the owner and a police officer. Despite the evidence, he pleaded not guilty, forcing us all to a trail at the Crown Court. Months later, we were given a date and duly attended for the trial. On arrival at the court, I was met by a police officer and put back into custody to await my turn before the Judge. Eventually, the charges were put to me and I pleaded guilty to the theft and not guilty to the assault along with everyone else, other than Barry of course. Pleas entered, we all stood side by side in a large, oak, defendant’s box, flanked by prison and police officers. I looked around, the Court, held in the Old Town Hall, was huge and overbearing. The whole room was a mass of creaking carved oak, and red leather covered benches. Stone steps led from the defendant’s box to the cells below. The judge sat facing us in wig and gown with a broad red sash draped from his left shoulder to his right waist. He was completely dwarfed by his enormous chair, which stood high in the centre of the bench. Below him sat his clerk, dressed in a black court robe. Facing the two of them sat a row of black robed, barristers, each sporting a white horse-hair wig. Behind them sat a row of dark suited solicitors. The prosecution sat on the left, the defence on the right. The whole thing, reminded me of a scene from one of the Dickens’ novels I’d seen televised on Sunday afternoons. That thought soon changed, as I glanced behind and above me and caught sight of our families and spectators. In the middle of them, only four or five feet away, sat my Dad, although at the time, it felt as though he was a thousand miles away.
Following our pleas, those of us who had pleaded guilty, were led down the stone stairs to the cold cells below. As I turned to leave the Court, I saw my Dad. He was close to tears. He managed a friendly wink of his eye, which made me feel a lot better. The cells, were as Dickensian as the Court room scene. Each cell was simply, a concrete floor surrounded by heavy, black, steel bars. A single toilet stood obviously in the centre of the far wall. High above it, was a small barred window. To the left, a long wooden, well-worn, beech wood bed stood, with an oblong wooden box at one end, which had been shaped to form the pillow. I stayed there for two days as the case was heard in the court above. Three times a day, food was dished out on white, enamelled trays. The same menu appeared for each meal, a sort of corned beef pie, with cold potatoes. A large brown enamelled mug of stewed tea accompanied each meal. By mid-afternoon on the second day, we were hauled up for sentencing. The Judge, addressed us one by one. Barry Johnson was found guilty, and sentenced to five years. His brother Pete, to eighteen months, and Earnie to twelve months, as the rest of us had already served some time behind bars on remand, we were allowed home. I was further sentenced to two years conditional discharge and fined thirty pounds, with twenty pounds costs. A total of fifty pounds, a fortune for a family such as mine. I can remember my Mum and Dad cursing more than once, when they sent the five-pound postal orders to the court offices week after week.
At the end of the case, the Judge looked straight at me and suggested that I would be better advised to use my ‘escape and evasion’ skills in the Forces. He also commented on my poor school history and the negative report given by the Headmaster, Mr Powell.
It was 1969 I was fifteen and due to leave school and enter the world of the employed in a couple of weeks.
…
Monday, 29 March 2010
Wait Out Part 3 (terrorists target school leavers)
Dr Patrick O’Brien could see no bad in young Jock Steen. “He’s a fine boy,” he’d say in response to his colleague’s protestations. Even when Jock brought his BSA 22 air rifle into school and expertly despatched the school cat’s kittens O’Brien defended him,
“Well the cat’s a dammed nuisance, any more would be too many. And the lad’s a good eye with the rifle”.
As School Head, the staff were in no position to argue with his logic.
O’Brien’s passion for his beloved Armagh, and the Irish struggle, was barely tempered by his need to present his History lessons in unbiased sessions. Jock and his cousins relished the stories of the 1921 uprising and the defeat of British rule. Quotes from rebel songs were answered by the cousin’s tuneful renditions. Jock felt proud, and soon followed their lead.
During the summer of 1968, Jock stood with his Mother and Headmaster, and watched as his cousins departed for ‘a better life in America’. Three weeks earlier they had returned to Belfast, where, unknown to Jock, they had joined the swelling ranks of the IRA’s splinter group, the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army. Dr Patrick O’Brien, realising the potential, had been the instigator of the enlistment and now waved goodbye, having secretly briefed them to ‘further the cause’ by acquiring finance and weapons from the sympathetic American Catholics. That done, he turned his attention to Jock…
“ Ah well, tis good luck to them boys, I’ll wish.” O’Brien said as the train pulled away.”
“It’s very kind of you to come down to the station to see the boys off Mr O’Brien”
“It’s a pleasure indeed Mrs Steen. I’ve known these boys for a long time, and had many a good lesson with them, not to mention by them. And, I have to say it’s a pleasure meeting such a lovely lady as yer self”
Agnes Steen’s tiny drawn face cracked, she dipped her head letting her dark brown hair hide her embarrassment,
“Well, you’ve got the gift of the blarney I’ll say that furr ya” she giggled.
O’Brien cast a cheeky glance. Agnes caught the glint in his eye. For the first time she took notice, at forty-five, he stood tall and slim, raven black hair shadowed his craggy features. She looked at her son, he was similar, she thought, but she knew, there’d never been such a glint in his cold eyes.
“I’ve not managed to get to school on open days, I’ve had to work”, she said apologetically, “how’s he doing? ” She asked.
“He’s doing just fine. In a couple of months time he’ll leave with a lot of knowledge under his belt. He’s a fit lad, he’d do well in the forces”. His attention turned to Jock, “ Any ideas about the future?”.
“I’ve a mind to go with them”. He gestured towards the fading train. “I’ll no join the British forces though!”
“Just a thought,” O’Brien said as he wrestled with his jacket’s inside pocket, eventually producing a tatty brown paperback book, which he handed to Jock, he continued, “Have you ever heard of Baden Powell?”
Jock replied without hesitation, “Och aye, he’s the Englishman who started scouting.”
“Indeed he did, but he did a whole lot more besides. Read the book, young man I’d like to have a word with ya about it in the future.”
He took the book without question, knowing full well that if it was recommended by his teacher and mentor, it must be worth reading He looked at the faded cover and read the title to himself, ‘MY ADVENTURES AS A SPY by LORD BADEN-POWELL,’ puzzled he looked back at his mentor.
A smile moved across the Doctors face, “Read it.” He said as he winked his eye.
…
“Well the cat’s a dammed nuisance, any more would be too many. And the lad’s a good eye with the rifle”.
As School Head, the staff were in no position to argue with his logic.
O’Brien’s passion for his beloved Armagh, and the Irish struggle, was barely tempered by his need to present his History lessons in unbiased sessions. Jock and his cousins relished the stories of the 1921 uprising and the defeat of British rule. Quotes from rebel songs were answered by the cousin’s tuneful renditions. Jock felt proud, and soon followed their lead.
During the summer of 1968, Jock stood with his Mother and Headmaster, and watched as his cousins departed for ‘a better life in America’. Three weeks earlier they had returned to Belfast, where, unknown to Jock, they had joined the swelling ranks of the IRA’s splinter group, the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army. Dr Patrick O’Brien, realising the potential, had been the instigator of the enlistment and now waved goodbye, having secretly briefed them to ‘further the cause’ by acquiring finance and weapons from the sympathetic American Catholics. That done, he turned his attention to Jock…
“ Ah well, tis good luck to them boys, I’ll wish.” O’Brien said as the train pulled away.”
“It’s very kind of you to come down to the station to see the boys off Mr O’Brien”
“It’s a pleasure indeed Mrs Steen. I’ve known these boys for a long time, and had many a good lesson with them, not to mention by them. And, I have to say it’s a pleasure meeting such a lovely lady as yer self”
Agnes Steen’s tiny drawn face cracked, she dipped her head letting her dark brown hair hide her embarrassment,
“Well, you’ve got the gift of the blarney I’ll say that furr ya” she giggled.
O’Brien cast a cheeky glance. Agnes caught the glint in his eye. For the first time she took notice, at forty-five, he stood tall and slim, raven black hair shadowed his craggy features. She looked at her son, he was similar, she thought, but she knew, there’d never been such a glint in his cold eyes.
“I’ve not managed to get to school on open days, I’ve had to work”, she said apologetically, “how’s he doing? ” She asked.
“He’s doing just fine. In a couple of months time he’ll leave with a lot of knowledge under his belt. He’s a fit lad, he’d do well in the forces”. His attention turned to Jock, “ Any ideas about the future?”.
“I’ve a mind to go with them”. He gestured towards the fading train. “I’ll no join the British forces though!”
“Just a thought,” O’Brien said as he wrestled with his jacket’s inside pocket, eventually producing a tatty brown paperback book, which he handed to Jock, he continued, “Have you ever heard of Baden Powell?”
Jock replied without hesitation, “Och aye, he’s the Englishman who started scouting.”
“Indeed he did, but he did a whole lot more besides. Read the book, young man I’d like to have a word with ya about it in the future.”
He took the book without question, knowing full well that if it was recommended by his teacher and mentor, it must be worth reading He looked at the faded cover and read the title to himself, ‘MY ADVENTURES AS A SPY by LORD BADEN-POWELL,’ puzzled he looked back at his mentor.
A smile moved across the Doctors face, “Read it.” He said as he winked his eye.
…
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Wait Out part 3 (is it true?)
I, on the other hand, feared one person, my Dad. He was a big man, not just in stature; his presence filled any room. Despite his size, he was as quick as lightening, and struck just as effectively. As John Brown found out, one Saturday afternoon…
I was twelve at the time and had just had my first proper sexual encounter with John’s twenty three-year-old girlfriend, Christine. I say ‘proper’ as from an early age sex was very much a part of our gang culture. That and nicknames that is. Having said this I never had a nickname although most of the gang did, Jeff Amor was Jed, Tony Rowley, Rolls and Peter Humphries, Pump. Many other lads joined our gang but we were the core. To become a ‘bona fide’ member, the initiate had to stand perfectly still whilst an existing member thumped him in the face. At such a young age, the damage was minimal. Once a member we were inseparable. Even in our sex life, we were inseparable.
As early as eight, Jed and I used to trample down a path through the summer fields of Rosebay Willow Herb and four foot long grasses which encircled the grounds of Hanley High, Boys School, situated on the edge of Bentilee, Europe’s largest council estate. At the end of the path, out of sight of any prying eyes, we pushed down the vegetation to form a sort of crop circle. In this area, we placed the girls Susan, Janet, Sandra and Gail. Others would come along from time to time, but these were the favourites. At twelve, their bodies were just about ripening. Some would have better breasts than others, so when we were fondling we would ‘mix and match’, feeling the tits of one and fingering and poking another. When we’d had enough, Jed and I would sit at the entrance and await the arrival of the boys. They’d all want a look and a feel so we charged them three pence for the privilege of visiting our girls. All the girls living on the estate were fair game, even the very young ones weren’t allowed past our houses without first pulling their knickers down to give us a look.
John Brown’s Christine was special though; I’d known her for years. She lived with her parents at the back of our house until she was twenty, then she left home and rented a Council flat in the next street. Although very close, it was a street I had little to do with, until I changed from Junior to Senior school. The trip to Berryhill Junior High took me straight past her door. As I’d already decided that school was not for me, I took the opportunity to take off as much unofficial time as possible. Unfortunately, I was the only gang member to go to Berryhill. The rest went to a school in the opposite direction. This was due to my being expelled from their school, in the first week, for an assault on the art teacher who I hit when he stood between me and John Goodwin, just as I had Goodwin in a great position to ‘nut’ him square on the nose. So as not to give the truancy game away, I used to leave home walking in the direction of my school and then double back to meet up with the gang. We did this virtually everyday, meeting at a lamppost across from Christine’s flat. She worked as a croupier in a local casino and would often be looking through her window as we met up. Over the weeks, she nodded, we waved, she smiled, we giggled, she spoke to us, we responded, shyly at first. She was tall, very slim, and attractive with long, wavy brown hair. As we took more time off school, she would let us stay in her flat, out of sight of Bob Stoddard, the local ‘school board man’. As time went by her conversation turned to our sex life. She would ask us in turn how many girls we’d been with and what we’d done. Over the weeks, the ‘truant’, gang dwindled away, frightened that they would be caught. Being caught was the furthest thing from my mind, and so, I spent a lot of time, talking with Christine. She wanted to know all the details of my sexual encounters; and how I would love telling her. Likewise, she could hardly contain herself as she described her sexual fantasies. When I first visited with the gang, she wore everyday clothes, now, on my own, she would often wear a cheap nylon nightdress, or tight sixties ‘tank tops’ with mini skirts. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if she had worn a trench coat and boots. As far as I was concerned, I was in love. I would fantasise about her at every opportunity. Up until this point though, there was nothing more to it than boyhood dreams.
This all changed one rainy October morning, when I walked to the meeting point. None of the lads were there. I stood in the pouring rain getting absolutely soaked. I looked up at Christine’s window. It was empty. Dejected, I turned to walk away, there was a knock, I looked up to the window, Christine was there, with a broad, welcoming smile, she beckoned me in. The flat was warm and cosy, a red glow flooded from the wall mounted, three bar, electric fire. Christine left the room and re-appeared in her shortest nightdress, clutching a large, white, bath towel. She carefully dried my hair, loosened my clothes, removing them layer by layer, until I stood naked. She patted the towel gently around my rock hard boyhood. I never before, or since, felt anything so erotic. All of my deepest fantasies were being fulfilled. We moved to the bedroom and climbed under the covers. She slowly removed her clothing, helping herself to me as she licked her fingers before stroking herself, moaning, as she approached her climax. She reached out, her hand encircling my hardness, my inexperience showed as I ejaculated with the first couple of strokes. Undeterred, she fondled me back to life, abusing me, time after time.
The rest of the gang were green with envy when I told them.
Many other similar occasions occurred. However, nothing compared with the first encounter. Later the whole thing went horribly wrong when someone told Christine’s boyfriend, John Brown. At twenty-four, John was one of the estate’s hard men. His younger brother, Tony, was my number one enemy. Whenever we met, we fought. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the better of him, although he always came out the worst for his injuries. Nevertheless, lose or not I was determined, I wouldn’t give in, and so our warring relationship continued for many years. Not surprisingly, Tony took advantage of the situation and told his brother where he could find me. Even at twelve, I had a bit of a reputation. John was no fool and planned his attack, just in case. He was a cunning bastard and set me up by arranging for one of my mates to call for me, and to give me a lift on his motorcycle to our favourite, local pub. It was the kind of pub that would serve anyone. My drinks were paid for.
In a drunken haze I was transported from the pub back to the gang’s gathering point outside a series of small shops on the estate. As we arrived, my head was swimming. I swung my leg awkwardly over the seat, steadying myself, as I planted my foot on the swaying ground. I turned to the gang, and met John’s face. He said nothing, smiled, and took a hold of my ‘hipster’s’ belt, as if to admire it. Naturally, I looked down. Seconds later I was on the floor. John, taking the advantage, had drawn back his fist and with all his strength landed it smack on the side of my jaw. I had no time to react, lying on the floor; I looked up as he kicked me full force in the face. The whole thing burst open, blood pouring from mouth, nose and cheeks. Moments later, I was rescued by my Dad’s mates, who were drinking at a nearby pub. They pulled John off me and telephoned for an ambulance. Shortly after reaching the hospital, my Mum and Dad arrived. Dad questioned me, but I couldn’t answer. In the attack my teeth had been forced through my tongue, it was held together by a sliver of flesh and a series of tiny clips put their by a bitch of a nurse. I spent the night in hospital arriving home Friday afternoon. By this time, my Dad had met with his mates and, although he didn’t know the reason, he'd been told that John Brown was responsible. My Mum pleaded with him not to take the matter any further. As always, Dad took no notice. On Saturday afternoon, John Brown walked past our house, Dad leapt to his feet, ran outside, and challenged him, I watched from my bedroom window as John let fly, hitting my Dad Square on the nose. That’s all it needed, Dad retaliated with a hail of blows which absolutely floored John, he hadn’t a hope in hell of a second chance. My Mum pulled my Dad away. John lay on the ground helpless. Dad was white with rage; he pulled away from my Mother, leapt in the air, and stamped on John’s face.
Ironically, many years later, John became a friend of the family, and like so many of the estate’s characters, he spent many years in prison and died alone of heart and lung disease. My Mum and Dad, were two of the seven people who attended his funeral.
Neither of my parents asked about the reason for the attack and I never told them. Likewise, I didn’t tell them three years later, when I went to the local Community Hall where sixties groups like the ‘Swinging Blue Jeans’, and ‘The Searchers’ often played. John was there with his mates. The venue was notorious for gang violence. On this particular Friday night, I was dancing away when I became aware of a commotion by the entrance. I went across, and looking outside, saw a rival gang assembling. I turned to the youth next to me and told him to take a bottle with him as protection. Later, I went outside. The Bentilee gangs had assembled, and were standing around, waiting. The rival gang had come over from another estate at Coalville. Everyone was standing around, no one would start the fight. Out of the crowd a rival gang member came forward and pointed at me.
“This bastard’s packing a bottle,” he said.
I quickly realised that he was the youth I’d spoken to in the Hall. Within seconds, his gang surrounded me.
“Let Titch in” he continued.
The wall parted and in stepped a little fart carrying a black, studded leather jacket. It was like something from a Roman Empire movie. ‘Bollocks’ to this I thought, and threw my bottle towards the wall at face height. A gap appeared and I was through it. Titch swung his jacket, catching me at the back of the head; the pain was awful, seconds later, I could feel the trickle of blood running down the back of my neck. As I ran past the crowds, I glanced towards my gang. The Bentilee contingent were well out of it, none were coming to my aid. In the sea of people, John Brown’s face shone through. The rival gang gave chase; I knew the streets well and dodged into the backs of the houses. The gardens were dark and safe. I dived under a hedge, and looked back. I could clearly make out the figures, of my pursuers, the streetlights illuminating them as they searched. They had no chance. I’d spent most of my life in these gardens, hiding from the local police. Realising they were out of luck, the rival gang turned their attention back to the Bentilee boys. A great battle broke out, I watched in safety. Then, as if Heaven sent, I could see John Brown coming towards me, escaping from the fight and unaware of my presence. ‘Bingo’ I thought, the twat’s here. In the darkness I probed the undergrowth and found half a house brick. I picked it up, waited as he approached, and with absolute timing, I hit him full in the face, he went down like a lead balloon, he never made a sound. The rustle of the hedges was the only indication of my presence. Everything went quiet again and I moved away without a sound.
Two days later I saw John, he had a series of stitches across his forehead, leading over his right eye and stopping at his cheekbone. With his black eyes and swollen nose he reminded me of Chi Chi, the Panda I’d seen on Johnny Morris’ Animal Magic.
….
I was twelve at the time and had just had my first proper sexual encounter with John’s twenty three-year-old girlfriend, Christine. I say ‘proper’ as from an early age sex was very much a part of our gang culture. That and nicknames that is. Having said this I never had a nickname although most of the gang did, Jeff Amor was Jed, Tony Rowley, Rolls and Peter Humphries, Pump. Many other lads joined our gang but we were the core. To become a ‘bona fide’ member, the initiate had to stand perfectly still whilst an existing member thumped him in the face. At such a young age, the damage was minimal. Once a member we were inseparable. Even in our sex life, we were inseparable.
As early as eight, Jed and I used to trample down a path through the summer fields of Rosebay Willow Herb and four foot long grasses which encircled the grounds of Hanley High, Boys School, situated on the edge of Bentilee, Europe’s largest council estate. At the end of the path, out of sight of any prying eyes, we pushed down the vegetation to form a sort of crop circle. In this area, we placed the girls Susan, Janet, Sandra and Gail. Others would come along from time to time, but these were the favourites. At twelve, their bodies were just about ripening. Some would have better breasts than others, so when we were fondling we would ‘mix and match’, feeling the tits of one and fingering and poking another. When we’d had enough, Jed and I would sit at the entrance and await the arrival of the boys. They’d all want a look and a feel so we charged them three pence for the privilege of visiting our girls. All the girls living on the estate were fair game, even the very young ones weren’t allowed past our houses without first pulling their knickers down to give us a look.
John Brown’s Christine was special though; I’d known her for years. She lived with her parents at the back of our house until she was twenty, then she left home and rented a Council flat in the next street. Although very close, it was a street I had little to do with, until I changed from Junior to Senior school. The trip to Berryhill Junior High took me straight past her door. As I’d already decided that school was not for me, I took the opportunity to take off as much unofficial time as possible. Unfortunately, I was the only gang member to go to Berryhill. The rest went to a school in the opposite direction. This was due to my being expelled from their school, in the first week, for an assault on the art teacher who I hit when he stood between me and John Goodwin, just as I had Goodwin in a great position to ‘nut’ him square on the nose. So as not to give the truancy game away, I used to leave home walking in the direction of my school and then double back to meet up with the gang. We did this virtually everyday, meeting at a lamppost across from Christine’s flat. She worked as a croupier in a local casino and would often be looking through her window as we met up. Over the weeks, she nodded, we waved, she smiled, we giggled, she spoke to us, we responded, shyly at first. She was tall, very slim, and attractive with long, wavy brown hair. As we took more time off school, she would let us stay in her flat, out of sight of Bob Stoddard, the local ‘school board man’. As time went by her conversation turned to our sex life. She would ask us in turn how many girls we’d been with and what we’d done. Over the weeks, the ‘truant’, gang dwindled away, frightened that they would be caught. Being caught was the furthest thing from my mind, and so, I spent a lot of time, talking with Christine. She wanted to know all the details of my sexual encounters; and how I would love telling her. Likewise, she could hardly contain herself as she described her sexual fantasies. When I first visited with the gang, she wore everyday clothes, now, on my own, she would often wear a cheap nylon nightdress, or tight sixties ‘tank tops’ with mini skirts. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if she had worn a trench coat and boots. As far as I was concerned, I was in love. I would fantasise about her at every opportunity. Up until this point though, there was nothing more to it than boyhood dreams.
This all changed one rainy October morning, when I walked to the meeting point. None of the lads were there. I stood in the pouring rain getting absolutely soaked. I looked up at Christine’s window. It was empty. Dejected, I turned to walk away, there was a knock, I looked up to the window, Christine was there, with a broad, welcoming smile, she beckoned me in. The flat was warm and cosy, a red glow flooded from the wall mounted, three bar, electric fire. Christine left the room and re-appeared in her shortest nightdress, clutching a large, white, bath towel. She carefully dried my hair, loosened my clothes, removing them layer by layer, until I stood naked. She patted the towel gently around my rock hard boyhood. I never before, or since, felt anything so erotic. All of my deepest fantasies were being fulfilled. We moved to the bedroom and climbed under the covers. She slowly removed her clothing, helping herself to me as she licked her fingers before stroking herself, moaning, as she approached her climax. She reached out, her hand encircling my hardness, my inexperience showed as I ejaculated with the first couple of strokes. Undeterred, she fondled me back to life, abusing me, time after time.
The rest of the gang were green with envy when I told them.
Many other similar occasions occurred. However, nothing compared with the first encounter. Later the whole thing went horribly wrong when someone told Christine’s boyfriend, John Brown. At twenty-four, John was one of the estate’s hard men. His younger brother, Tony, was my number one enemy. Whenever we met, we fought. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the better of him, although he always came out the worst for his injuries. Nevertheless, lose or not I was determined, I wouldn’t give in, and so our warring relationship continued for many years. Not surprisingly, Tony took advantage of the situation and told his brother where he could find me. Even at twelve, I had a bit of a reputation. John was no fool and planned his attack, just in case. He was a cunning bastard and set me up by arranging for one of my mates to call for me, and to give me a lift on his motorcycle to our favourite, local pub. It was the kind of pub that would serve anyone. My drinks were paid for.
In a drunken haze I was transported from the pub back to the gang’s gathering point outside a series of small shops on the estate. As we arrived, my head was swimming. I swung my leg awkwardly over the seat, steadying myself, as I planted my foot on the swaying ground. I turned to the gang, and met John’s face. He said nothing, smiled, and took a hold of my ‘hipster’s’ belt, as if to admire it. Naturally, I looked down. Seconds later I was on the floor. John, taking the advantage, had drawn back his fist and with all his strength landed it smack on the side of my jaw. I had no time to react, lying on the floor; I looked up as he kicked me full force in the face. The whole thing burst open, blood pouring from mouth, nose and cheeks. Moments later, I was rescued by my Dad’s mates, who were drinking at a nearby pub. They pulled John off me and telephoned for an ambulance. Shortly after reaching the hospital, my Mum and Dad arrived. Dad questioned me, but I couldn’t answer. In the attack my teeth had been forced through my tongue, it was held together by a sliver of flesh and a series of tiny clips put their by a bitch of a nurse. I spent the night in hospital arriving home Friday afternoon. By this time, my Dad had met with his mates and, although he didn’t know the reason, he'd been told that John Brown was responsible. My Mum pleaded with him not to take the matter any further. As always, Dad took no notice. On Saturday afternoon, John Brown walked past our house, Dad leapt to his feet, ran outside, and challenged him, I watched from my bedroom window as John let fly, hitting my Dad Square on the nose. That’s all it needed, Dad retaliated with a hail of blows which absolutely floored John, he hadn’t a hope in hell of a second chance. My Mum pulled my Dad away. John lay on the ground helpless. Dad was white with rage; he pulled away from my Mother, leapt in the air, and stamped on John’s face.
Ironically, many years later, John became a friend of the family, and like so many of the estate’s characters, he spent many years in prison and died alone of heart and lung disease. My Mum and Dad, were two of the seven people who attended his funeral.
Neither of my parents asked about the reason for the attack and I never told them. Likewise, I didn’t tell them three years later, when I went to the local Community Hall where sixties groups like the ‘Swinging Blue Jeans’, and ‘The Searchers’ often played. John was there with his mates. The venue was notorious for gang violence. On this particular Friday night, I was dancing away when I became aware of a commotion by the entrance. I went across, and looking outside, saw a rival gang assembling. I turned to the youth next to me and told him to take a bottle with him as protection. Later, I went outside. The Bentilee gangs had assembled, and were standing around, waiting. The rival gang had come over from another estate at Coalville. Everyone was standing around, no one would start the fight. Out of the crowd a rival gang member came forward and pointed at me.
“This bastard’s packing a bottle,” he said.
I quickly realised that he was the youth I’d spoken to in the Hall. Within seconds, his gang surrounded me.
“Let Titch in” he continued.
The wall parted and in stepped a little fart carrying a black, studded leather jacket. It was like something from a Roman Empire movie. ‘Bollocks’ to this I thought, and threw my bottle towards the wall at face height. A gap appeared and I was through it. Titch swung his jacket, catching me at the back of the head; the pain was awful, seconds later, I could feel the trickle of blood running down the back of my neck. As I ran past the crowds, I glanced towards my gang. The Bentilee contingent were well out of it, none were coming to my aid. In the sea of people, John Brown’s face shone through. The rival gang gave chase; I knew the streets well and dodged into the backs of the houses. The gardens were dark and safe. I dived under a hedge, and looked back. I could clearly make out the figures, of my pursuers, the streetlights illuminating them as they searched. They had no chance. I’d spent most of my life in these gardens, hiding from the local police. Realising they were out of luck, the rival gang turned their attention back to the Bentilee boys. A great battle broke out, I watched in safety. Then, as if Heaven sent, I could see John Brown coming towards me, escaping from the fight and unaware of my presence. ‘Bingo’ I thought, the twat’s here. In the darkness I probed the undergrowth and found half a house brick. I picked it up, waited as he approached, and with absolute timing, I hit him full in the face, he went down like a lead balloon, he never made a sound. The rustle of the hedges was the only indication of my presence. Everything went quiet again and I moved away without a sound.
Two days later I saw John, he had a series of stitches across his forehead, leading over his right eye and stopping at his cheekbone. With his black eyes and swollen nose he reminded me of Chi Chi, the Panda I’d seen on Johnny Morris’ Animal Magic.
….
Sunday, 14 March 2010
WAIT OUT Part 1 Cont'
JOCK STEEN
…Almost a year earlier when I was no more than a glint in my father’s eye, the people of the United Kingdom were mourning the sudden death of the King. Despite this, politicians were promising the nation that better times were on the way. It had been eight years since the end of the war, rationing was also coming to an end, employment prospects were better, and massive Council house building projects gave young families the hope of independence, or so they were told!
In a small poorly lit bedroom in the Gorbals area of Glasgow a thin, pale, malnourished, twenty three year old woman lay, shouting profanities through tight lips, as she gritted her teeth against the pain of the birth of her son. Her first child’s view of life was the unconcerned big, red, round, face, of nurse Cummings, the local, over worked, midwife. Agnes Steen and the rest of Glasgow’s Catholics could have been forgiven for not recognising how lucky they were. Down stairs, eleven members of her family sat huddled together ready to congratulate, or commiserate the father.
John Steen sat motionless, pushed back in the wooden fireside chair, his bony knuckles pushing through white skin, as he clenched his fists in recognition of his wife’s efforts. Despite the cry of the baby s it felt the first hard slap of life, the down stairs room went quiet. So many Catholic children had died in the minutes following their birth, into the deprivation of Glasgow’s back streets.
All eyes found the figure of Nurse Cummings as she entered the room wiping her hands on her apron. Without any sign of emotion she looked up.
“He’s fine,” she said.
Ten years later, young Jock Steen stood with his mother, twin brothers, and baby sister waiting in the hard rain for the town bus. At seven, the twins were already proving to be a handful. It was Jock’s job to keep them under control. As the streets darkened, an occasional car passed by throwing a spray of water onto the long line of grey figures. Despite the soaking no one stirred, a symptom of a life, which reeked defiantly of hardship and grinding poverty.
The journey home had taken forever, as usual; there were no seats on the bus.
Packed in like sardines, the damp air had been filled with cigarette smoke and the unmistakable smell of wet woollen clothing. Jock’s mother virtually collapsed as she opened the door of the tenement, desperate to put her baby down and relieve the pain in her arms, she placed the heavy bundle in the small sink. The past ten years had done her no favours and it showed. Jock had seen most of his family out of work having to rely on state handouts dished out by Protestant local officials, he’d cried as he saw his Dad leave to find work in Belfast, but shed no tears as he watched him cough himself to death from the effects of the Tuberculosis he’d found on the Irish streets. He deeply resented the authorities who had visited his pregnant mother the day after the death and questioned her about the family finances before agreeing to allow her a loan, so that she could give her husband a decent Catholic burial. All in all, Jock had learned the lessons well and was known in the area as ‘streetwise’.
The Irish trip hadn’t been all bad. Shortly after his Dad’s return two of his Irish cousins arrived with their parents and set up home in the next street.
Having settled his mother down, changed the baby, and put his younger brothers in the bath Jock joined his cousins and the rest of his mates under the dark covered alleyways joining the tenement blocks. Minutes later, a group of overall clad men, on their way home from the docks came into view, each smoking a well deserved cigarette, the noise from their heavy steel tipped boots bounced around the bare walls and drowned the boys conversation. As they passed, the boys took up position behind them and followed like a pack of jackals stalking their prey, each anticipating the pleasure to come. The men, knowing the score, threw their half-smoked tabs on the floor, accept one that is, who half turned and shouted to the boys,
“ Ye can fuck off Ye no havin’ mine”.
It didn’t matter, there was plenty to go around. Nevertheless, Jock responded, his voice hardly audible above the harsh sound of steel on granite,
“And you can fuck off you fat bastard”.
The men turned sending the boys in the opposite direction at great speed. Emerging from the tunnel they were laughing and shouting having enjoyed the short encounter. Jock Steen feared no one and it showed.
….
…Almost a year earlier when I was no more than a glint in my father’s eye, the people of the United Kingdom were mourning the sudden death of the King. Despite this, politicians were promising the nation that better times were on the way. It had been eight years since the end of the war, rationing was also coming to an end, employment prospects were better, and massive Council house building projects gave young families the hope of independence, or so they were told!
In a small poorly lit bedroom in the Gorbals area of Glasgow a thin, pale, malnourished, twenty three year old woman lay, shouting profanities through tight lips, as she gritted her teeth against the pain of the birth of her son. Her first child’s view of life was the unconcerned big, red, round, face, of nurse Cummings, the local, over worked, midwife. Agnes Steen and the rest of Glasgow’s Catholics could have been forgiven for not recognising how lucky they were. Down stairs, eleven members of her family sat huddled together ready to congratulate, or commiserate the father.
John Steen sat motionless, pushed back in the wooden fireside chair, his bony knuckles pushing through white skin, as he clenched his fists in recognition of his wife’s efforts. Despite the cry of the baby s it felt the first hard slap of life, the down stairs room went quiet. So many Catholic children had died in the minutes following their birth, into the deprivation of Glasgow’s back streets.
All eyes found the figure of Nurse Cummings as she entered the room wiping her hands on her apron. Without any sign of emotion she looked up.
“He’s fine,” she said.
Ten years later, young Jock Steen stood with his mother, twin brothers, and baby sister waiting in the hard rain for the town bus. At seven, the twins were already proving to be a handful. It was Jock’s job to keep them under control. As the streets darkened, an occasional car passed by throwing a spray of water onto the long line of grey figures. Despite the soaking no one stirred, a symptom of a life, which reeked defiantly of hardship and grinding poverty.
The journey home had taken forever, as usual; there were no seats on the bus.
Packed in like sardines, the damp air had been filled with cigarette smoke and the unmistakable smell of wet woollen clothing. Jock’s mother virtually collapsed as she opened the door of the tenement, desperate to put her baby down and relieve the pain in her arms, she placed the heavy bundle in the small sink. The past ten years had done her no favours and it showed. Jock had seen most of his family out of work having to rely on state handouts dished out by Protestant local officials, he’d cried as he saw his Dad leave to find work in Belfast, but shed no tears as he watched him cough himself to death from the effects of the Tuberculosis he’d found on the Irish streets. He deeply resented the authorities who had visited his pregnant mother the day after the death and questioned her about the family finances before agreeing to allow her a loan, so that she could give her husband a decent Catholic burial. All in all, Jock had learned the lessons well and was known in the area as ‘streetwise’.
The Irish trip hadn’t been all bad. Shortly after his Dad’s return two of his Irish cousins arrived with their parents and set up home in the next street.
Having settled his mother down, changed the baby, and put his younger brothers in the bath Jock joined his cousins and the rest of his mates under the dark covered alleyways joining the tenement blocks. Minutes later, a group of overall clad men, on their way home from the docks came into view, each smoking a well deserved cigarette, the noise from their heavy steel tipped boots bounced around the bare walls and drowned the boys conversation. As they passed, the boys took up position behind them and followed like a pack of jackals stalking their prey, each anticipating the pleasure to come. The men, knowing the score, threw their half-smoked tabs on the floor, accept one that is, who half turned and shouted to the boys,
“ Ye can fuck off Ye no havin’ mine”.
It didn’t matter, there was plenty to go around. Nevertheless, Jock responded, his voice hardly audible above the harsh sound of steel on granite,
“And you can fuck off you fat bastard”.
The men turned sending the boys in the opposite direction at great speed. Emerging from the tunnel they were laughing and shouting having enjoyed the short encounter. Jock Steen feared no one and it showed.
….
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Surviving a New Identity
CHANGE OF IDENTITY
HOW TO SURVIVE IT
No one changes their identity without good cause. In the UK today it is estimated that there are thousands of people who are living the lie of a new identity.
As a former undercover investigator I have ‘played’ the identity game. Mine was for short periods. However, the problems are the same and being caught out was no less dangerous.
Firstly then, it follows that if you have had to change your identity you have to become a very accomplished liar. Imagine one day you are who you are, the next you have taken on a life that you have never lived. You have a story that you have to make credible but you’ve never had the true experiences of that life story.
From the moment you are given the new identity you have to live it, become the new person. You can not bring attention to yourself, as bringing attention also brings with it curiosity and questioning. By the same token, you can not be too ‘grey’; too much in the shadows, as this will bring even more curiosity. So your survival depends on your ability to continue with your life as though nothing had changed. You have a new name, new persona, and you have to carry this off day in day out, night in night out there’s no let up. You can’t go into areas where you are known, (unless you’ve been given a new face that is) you can’t contact people you love or care for as contacting them compromises them and you.
My experience is that as time goes on you do move into the new you. The problem is that you have to keep your position. In time your real life merges with the false life and your memories start to be unclear, parts of your true life can be revealed especially when you are relaxed. People who know you well in the ‘new life’ can quickly pick up on anomalies in your history. Once doubt starts to come into the new life story it’s time to move on. Staying where you are allows those around you who have a suspicion to test out their concerns about you.
Moving on is no easy option. Usually, those who are subject to long term change of identity are known to the authorities. They are allocated a handler, a person who knows them and is trusted. The handler will help with the interface between the day to day lie and the authorities. They are also there to guide and assist. They can be called upon at any time and are expected to respond without delay.
Anyone subjected to long term changes of identity are likely to experience times of emotional and psychological distress. In the background to new identities there are professionals who can be called on to help as and when needed.
HOW TO SURVIVE IT
No one changes their identity without good cause. In the UK today it is estimated that there are thousands of people who are living the lie of a new identity.
As a former undercover investigator I have ‘played’ the identity game. Mine was for short periods. However, the problems are the same and being caught out was no less dangerous.
Firstly then, it follows that if you have had to change your identity you have to become a very accomplished liar. Imagine one day you are who you are, the next you have taken on a life that you have never lived. You have a story that you have to make credible but you’ve never had the true experiences of that life story.
From the moment you are given the new identity you have to live it, become the new person. You can not bring attention to yourself, as bringing attention also brings with it curiosity and questioning. By the same token, you can not be too ‘grey’; too much in the shadows, as this will bring even more curiosity. So your survival depends on your ability to continue with your life as though nothing had changed. You have a new name, new persona, and you have to carry this off day in day out, night in night out there’s no let up. You can’t go into areas where you are known, (unless you’ve been given a new face that is) you can’t contact people you love or care for as contacting them compromises them and you.
My experience is that as time goes on you do move into the new you. The problem is that you have to keep your position. In time your real life merges with the false life and your memories start to be unclear, parts of your true life can be revealed especially when you are relaxed. People who know you well in the ‘new life’ can quickly pick up on anomalies in your history. Once doubt starts to come into the new life story it’s time to move on. Staying where you are allows those around you who have a suspicion to test out their concerns about you.
Moving on is no easy option. Usually, those who are subject to long term change of identity are known to the authorities. They are allocated a handler, a person who knows them and is trusted. The handler will help with the interface between the day to day lie and the authorities. They are also there to guide and assist. They can be called upon at any time and are expected to respond without delay.
Anyone subjected to long term changes of identity are likely to experience times of emotional and psychological distress. In the background to new identities there are professionals who can be called on to help as and when needed.
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