Tag: True Tales of Woe

Part 13: A Nottingham Lad’s True Tales of Woe

Yes you’ve guessed it; dear mummy did yet another bunk.

Work GroveImmediately after she absconded, the usual callers seeking her whereabouts were received: Loan sharks, bookies, neighbours, solicitors, the police and various others. We even had a Nun call? Never did get to the bottom of that one. Why the policeman would arrive looking for Mother with a dog I’m not sure; maybe the dog was new and he wanted to tests its bravery if she was there? The usual note was found left on the table. They usually went something like: ‘Gone to Matilda’s to look after her for a few days ‘cause she’s poorly’. Why she did not just tell the truth ‘Coppers after me, must go on the run’ I just don’t know? Perhaps, her being an excellent con artist, she thought if she showed herself in a good light in the note she left, it might soften the resolve of the authorities and people she owed money to pursue the debts?

However, the resulting events this time were of a more interesting nature.

The night after she left, dad and me were sitting by the fire, when the door was knocked upon, Dad (a rarity when I was available) answered the door himself to find two bullish men who were representing ‘Brental’s Hire Purchase Furniture Shop’, on Carrington Street, asking to talk to a James Timothy Gerald Archibald Percival Chambers (eight year old me?) about a hire-purchase agreement on a three piece suite that has not been paid. (We have never had a new three piece suite; one would not have fitted into the house anyway!)

Dad tried to explain to them that J T G A P Chambers was eight years old, and started to open the door so they could see me, when one of the bullish types made the mistake of trying to push past daddy to get into the house.

When the ambulances left the scene, the local bobby said: “Not to worry Harry, those two had it coming to ‘um, any further trouble give me a call, any time mate.”

The only time I recall my Dad knocking hell of anyone but me.

The Part-Time Jobs wot Dad got fer me…

Dad soon started to organise me unwilling search for employment.

Nearby where we lived (did I say lived?) was a hardware store on Kirk Wight Street, Heason’s was the name.

Daddy very kindly got me a Saturday job with them, to help supplement my double paper round jobs funds.

I think I got paid 2/3d for a full nine hour day (11p). But it didn’t last too long. Among my duties, was burning the weeks rubbish in the back yard, and delivering small items bought in the shop to customers on an ‘errand boy’s bike’.

On about the fourth weekend, I set fire to the shed, then the bike ended up under a trolleybus on Arkwright Street, when I came off on the icy road, and the table lamp that was in the basket got broke… well crushed under the trolleybus wheels actually!

I was not injured in either incident, not that anyone asked.

Mr Heason was very good about it, and let me work for another two Saturdays and kept my wages in payment for the lamp, and damage repairs to the bike before sacking me.

Daddy was not pleased, and sent me immediately to the Grove cinema, to apply for the job advertised as a gas-lamp lighter, and snuffer in the evenings and weekend.

Amazingly they took me on straight away, and paid well too, about 7/6d a week. And! – I got to see the pictures, even the X-rated for free! It things a bit hectic cause on the lighting shift, I had to dash back home and wait for Dad to return whenever, and light the fire and get his nosh for him. The Snuffing-out shift was okay, and I got to search through the rows of seats for anything that had been dropped or left behind by the clientele.

Amongst my ‘odder’ finds were; A Parade magazine, contraceptives, a walking stick, umbrella, a hobbing iron, shoes, cigarettes, a prosthetic leg, coins, and one day; A ten shilling Note! These were amongst many other items.

Of course I still had to fit in school, chopping wood for the fire, clearing and cleaning out the fire grate, laying it in readiness for Dad’s return from work (remembering not to light it until he actually arrived home, Dad thought lighting it for one was a little financially  extravagant).

The housework, the shopping, (when I could extract any money from Dad), cooking etc.

Of course mother returned later, Dad paid off her debts again – and we started hiding out valuables again. Tsk!

A Nottingham Lad’s True Tale of Woe – Part 12 – Billy Smart’s Escaped Effalent!

Inchcocks, True Tales of Woe. Of utter failure, depression, frustration, and abject poverty. This episode relates a rather more frightening episode of his early experiences than the usual. He tells me he can still smell the aroma the emitted from the elephant when he opened his bedroom window, stuck out his head to find out what all noise and kerfuffle was, and found his head about five foot away from the elephants! This is no bull, records at the Evening Post will prove this, and Georges Stables were also used for the storing animals in advance of the Billy Smarts Circus coming to Nottingham

Now Inchcock will now take over, and tell his tale…

George’s horse stables were underneath the railway viaduct that supported Arkwright St Station, were at the end of our terrace of houses.

Under the arches, was where the big cats were quartered, and the actual stables were used to my knowledge over the years to pen, elephants, rhinos, horses, snakes, ponies and zebras.

As I lay in bed that fateful night, I was aroused by an indescribable noise, as I struggled to find the matches to light the candle, Dad came rushing into the room, and dragged me out, nearly knocking me out as he bashed my head against doorframe, rushed downstairs, stuffed me under the sink and shouted “Stay under there until I tell yer to move!”

He disappeared, and I knew something was amiss (I’ve always been sensitive to these things you know).

But curiosity got the better of me, and I sneaked back upstairs, and stuck my head out of the window in an effort to find out what all the commotion was… and found my head about 5ft away from an elephants head that was coming towards me!

Within about 15 seconds I was back under the sink! I can still remember the smell of that elephant!

Anyway, it transpires that the elephant was a young one that was missing his mater, so he bashed down the stable doors, walked up and down our terrace, then up Brookfield place, on the way head butting in Mrs Wing’s front door, then overturning a blokes Morgan sports car on Derwent Street, then bending a lamppost, then walked up to the Willoughby Street bridge and lifted a man up and put him on the bridge (severely injuring him in the process), turned back into Derwent Street, and charged into mothers illegal bookies house front window, wedging himself firmly in that position! Whaling noises, and crumbling bricks indicated he was not happy being stuck where he was. Boy did he kick up a verbal commotion!

The Cricketers Rest – Where the night-watchman was well sozzled!

Billy Smart’s watchman who was supposed to be looking after the animals in the stables, was apparently in the Cricketers Rest, well sozzled!

The police fetched Mr Widdowson a man who lived on Kirkewhite Street to the scene. Mr Widdowson had worked with elephants during the war in India. Apparently he had been used before to help the police with escaped elephants, but I can only recall this one such event personally.

At this time, I had sneaked out from under the sink to have a proper look, and saw Mr Widdowson with the armed police officers.

Mr Widdowson took a quick look at it, and he said loudly over the nose of the beast; “Shoot it, it’s African” So he went with the marksmen, down the alley to the back of the house, and they broke in and he told them where to shoot it for optimum results.

Then the occupants of the house appeared from upstairs, totally oblivious of what had happened until the gun shots awoke them! (Talk about heavy sleepers?)

It seems that a neighbour saw me at the window earlier, so I got a further taste of the belt buckle and leather for disobeying daddy again by leaving the relative safety of under the sink!

Ah well…!

A Nottingham Lad’s True Tales of Woe – Part 11

Locked up in the Police Station Cells for the day

Dad thought it was a treat to take me on marathon walks occasionally. We’d take no food, just a bottle of tap water. We’d walk for miles and miles, always eventually stopping near an orchard in, Bingham, Plumtree, Ruddington, or Bunny, that sort of village-like place. Then him picking an apple or pear, then getting out his penknife and slowly, very slowly cutting off the skin, (which I got to eat) he’d slice up the apple, and I’d get my one slice… enough for a little un he’d say. Then on the way back, he’d call in the pub, bring me out a bag of crisps (with a little sachet of salt, always Smiths), open the bottle of tap water for me, then disappear back inside the pub for about three days… well it seemed like that to me. But at least he never forgot I was with him like Mother used to do. And; he always took me home – well someone had to do the housework! This trip out I went with me mate Jack – but it didn’t turn out how we’d planned it!

On one of the rare occasions that I was able to sneak out and have some fun (as I thought at the time), I joined a mate, and we walked out to Ruddington, to an orchard I’d spotted while out on one of Dad’s marathon walks earlier in the month – with the mischievous intention of scrumping some apples for ourselves.

I was up a tree, dropping the illicit apples down to Jack… when the owner appeared from nowhere…

Jack legged it through a small gate, but that escape route was then barred to me by the owners body by the time I’d got out and down from the tree – so I ran and jumped over a low wall of about 2ft in height, little thinking that the other side might be a drop of about 12ft into the deep mud of a field!

By the time the owner, and newly arrived police officer got down to me, the pain was slowly easing, and the bruising coming out on my face head, and shoulder.

I was unceremoniously handed up to the policeman – who told me I was to walk at the side of his push-bike back to Nottingham’s Queens Drive Police Station!

Telling me this he managed to skilfully and adeptly clip me around the head and ear-holes several times with his leather gloves, whilst pushing the bike with his other hand.

We arrived at the police station, and I was recorded by the desk sergeant, and unceremoniously placed in a bare wall station cell, with bars and door in the shape of a dome, with only concrete/brick slabs to sit on.

It reminded me of the Sheriff’s office cells in the Wells Fargo, Roy Rogers, and John Wayne cowboy films I’d seen at the flea-pit (The Grove Cinema).

But it still scared the hell out of me.

Eventually, some six hours or so later, a constable came in and removed me from the cell, telling me I was to go with Constable Merriman (and merry he certainly was not), to be taken home to Dad!

It seems somehow they knew when Dad would be arriving home.

Out of the station, then along Kirkwright Street. Again at the side of a constable and his push-bike. (A different constable this time) Who had the same excellently honed capability and skills of catching ones ankle with his pedals, clipping your ear-hole, and giving your chin a hefty accidental regular belt with the torch that hung on his tunic belt, painful, but I had to admire his skills even then as he drew blood.

As we got nearer to home, the crowds gathered as the officer took the route there via the middle of the road, down the cobbles into Brookfield Place, by then we had a group of about 12 spectators following us, then of course he (the officer) had to shine his torch in all the house windows as he passed them, and even tried out his whistle – thus the neighbours added to this spectator sport of ‘ogling the downfall of young Inchcock! ‘

He then proceeded to knock hell out of the front door, (this commotion ensured neighbours from over the end wall would not miss any of the total embarrassment of young Inchcock and also join in the ever increasing number of spectators), the door was opened by an already irate Father, because his young un had not been there to get his meal ready and light the fire when he got home, changing his face colour from normal colour, to red, blue, and back to red, as the Constable loudly explained to him: ” I’ve bought ‘this’ home ‘arry, (twisting my ear-lobe as he pushed me toward my irate looking father), caught it scrumping at William’s orchard – will you deal with it Harry?”

Dear father had got his belt off and in his hand before he’d finished replying to the Constable: “Oh eye, yer can rest assured on that one Bert!”

Three days later, I could just about manage sit down again without too much pain from my rumps losing battle with Dads infamous belt and buckle battering!

That was my first and last attempt at scrumping.

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