“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.
…
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