Tangling with the Law, and the Tobacco Trade

     Our local Bobby was a jolly, fat Irishman, named Pat. He lived in a Police box, which was set in the wall of St. Silas schoolyard, facing the undertakers. Although he didn’t come over very jolly, the time he came across me, and Roger Wake. Roger and I were best pals. There would be a knock on the half open door. Jane would callout- ‘Who is it?’ and a plaintive little voice would answer-‘Its only I’ (sounds unusual because its grammatically correct) which earned him the soubriquet ‘Only I’ in our household. Roger and I were out, one dark, dank, winter evening, doing nothing, just mooching about, chewing the fat about one thing and another.
     It wasn’t late, but after six, because the pubs were open. Not only were they open, but we knew they would be lit up, and looking warm and inviting, so one of us suggested we saunter along to the Vine, and hole up in the porch, for a warm.

‘The Vine’

     The idea of a pub doorway was very attractive to a couple of 5yr olds, trudging about in the dark and mizzle (yes Missis, 5yr olds could do that safely, in them days) so off we went, and yes, the Vine porch was bright, and very inviting. The pub was quiet; no one in or out, to see us or disturb us, and we could see to talk.

     After a few minutes, a decidedly un-laughing policeman loomed over us, with a caution, to the effect that we shouldn’t be hanging around in pub doorways, so run along, the pair of you, so off we went.

     We went straight to the ‘Little Hodgson’ pub (Stones) in the next block. Nice, warmly lit porch, warm red/brown tiled walls, so you could hutch up against the wall, then sag the body, slightly, against the smooth tiles, and a wall to wall doormat to patter our feet warm again. Again, nobody in or out, so chance to choose a corner and settle in, which we had hardly done, when-

     “Hello, hello! I’ve already telt the pair of yez, stay out of pubs! Now of ye go!”

     So this time, we were sensible. We doubled back along Hodgson Street, up Headford Street, along Milton Lane, and round Newboulds’ corner, to the ‘Crown’ (Smiths) where we should at last get some peace and quiet. We’d scarcely had 5 mins. Warmth, when we got our collars felt.

     “Right! Enough! Let’s have yous!” He didn’t need to ask where we lived. He just frog-marched us round the corner, back into Hodgson Street, to Roger’s house, first, where he was deposited, with a recital of the charges, and a stern recommendation for discipline, then a few doors on, up the passage, and first left, where I was similarly transferred into custody, having been accused, found guilty, and condemned.

     Roger lived in similar circumstances to me, in that he and his mother both lived with her parents. I don’t recall Roger’s father being in evidence. He may have been in the forces, or he may have been dead, too.

     Roger and I, both having pipe-smoking grand dads, and both coming from families of limited means, we once had a brilliant idea. We would give our grand dads a treat, by combing the gutters for cigarette ends, splitting them open to retrieve the tobacco, which we would collect in a matchbox apiece, until full. We would then present them to the old fellers, and wouldn’t they be pleased. Were they buggery! First we got the horrified looks from the near hysterical grandmas, then the patronising talking-to as if we were half wits, from the mothers, then we were obliged to chuck the match boxes and their contents onto the fire. Setting aside the obvious, I think the real problem was that each family knew that the other family knew what the first family’s child had done, and did the other family really really know that their grand-dad didn’t ever smoke gutter sweepings, and their child had never done this before, and certainly hadn’t thought of it first!