I WILL NEVER FORGET THURSDAY the twenty-fifth day of August. From the moment I awoke to the sound of Uncle Jim taking the chamber pot down the stairs at seven o’clock in the morning, to almost ten at night, when Sweep crawled back into the house after his regular evening walk, the sun’s fiery red glow dominated the East Yorkshire skyline. Like most boys of my age, I didn’t really appreciate the awe and wonder of the universe and such things. But even so, on this particular day, I couldn’t help being overcome by the golden orb’s perfection and sheer beauty – and the endless stream of twenty-four-degree heat it emitted from so far away.
There were less than forty-eight hours left before my mum would make the journey from Leicestershire, and return me from whence I had come – the distant East Midlands. Whereas there had been quite a lot to look forward to during the last few days, today was very different. As soon as she had climbed out of bed, Auntie Kathleen’s day was already defined by the need to do the weekly washing and ironing. Indeed, as she followed Uncle Jim down the stairs (and the chamber pot’s contents audibly sloshed from side to side), I could hear her declaring it was “perfect washing weather”. For me, such a statement was the worst possible news. Staying at home all day doing domestic chores may have been all well and good for adults, but it certainly wouldn’t do for me. Playing with my Airfix soldiers had lost its appeal almost as soon as I arrived in Cottingham, and I couldn’t countenance the thought of dragging Sweep out for yet another laborious walk. As it had done so spectacularly on my first day, the threat of boredom started to take a firm hold, and the more I tried to banish thoughts of liberation and inquisitiveness, the more my mind went into overdrive. In the end, I had no alternative but to give in to my urge to seek adventure.
After breakfast had come and gone, and uncles Jim and Fred had long departed on their trusty bikes to complete their waged labours, I asked Auntie Kathleen if I could go out for a walk. She turned from the mangle that was consuming all her energy, adjusted her glasses as she focused those probing pale blue eyes on me, and replied: “Tony, I am happy for you to go on a return trip to the moon today, just as long as you really promise to stay out of trouble and get back here at a reasonable time. As you can see, my day is not my own. I have got your uncles’ washing to do, and a bit of my own and yours to boot. So, I know what I am going to be doing until teatime. Where are you thinking of going?”
That was a difficult question to answer truthfully as I didn’t have a clue what I intended to do. But admitting as much would not be a good move. I needed to say something pretty convincing, and it needed to be said sharpish; all restless boys had to have a good reason to be allowed to roam. “I want to go fishing for Sticklebacks,” I said, splurting out the first thing that came into my head. “I know the perfect place – down the snicket and close to the railway crossing. The beck – it’s the ideal spot.”
Auntie Kathleen knew exactly where I was talking about. There was a large area of overgrown land, belonging to the University of Hull, that started on Thwaite Street and stretched almost as far as Jesmond Road, Cornwall Street and Station Walk. It was the perfect place for children to play, albeit to enter the grounds without an invitation was technically trespassing, but as many a transgressor had learned over the years, the rules only mattered if you got caught in the act! And that was certainly not part of my plan. The snicket (sometimes they’re called a ‘ginnel’ or ‘jitty’) ran at the rear of the university grounds and extended all the way to the railway line, and it was here that a small beck (stream) laced its way around the fauna and flora. I congratulated myself for thinking so clearly when I had been put on the spot. My suggestion was a good starter for ten, as there was a fishing net propped up in the backyard, next to where my uncles housed their bikes in the evening. I last used it a year ago when mum, myself and aunts Jessie and Kathleen visited Hornsea, and I had been allowed half an hour’s grace to play on the beach after a long and boring visit to the town’s famous pottery. I crossed my fingers as I saw the doubt etched all over Auntie Kathleen’s face as she weighed up the pros and cons of letting me off the leash once again. We both knew I’d betrayed her trust more than once already, and she had every right to be understandably cautious. Eventually, after mulling over all the possible risks and potential outcomes, she nodded her head and gave me her blessing.
“Mind, you really had better be on your best behaviour,” she added sternly, as the wheel of the mangle groaned its opposition when one of Uncle Jim’s heavy work shirts got stuck in its rollers. “I can’t be doing with anymore unpleasant surprises. Go and do some fishing, but please stay away from trouble – and make sure you release any fish you catch. Let’s try and finish your holiday on a high note.”
Her last comment brought back memories of my infamous attempt to raise a nest of young abandoned birds that I’d ‘rescued’ when I was a nature-obsessed six-year- old. I had found the four chicks in number seven’s back garden. Rather than leave them in the freshly clipped Hawthorn bush, I skilfully extracted the nest and placed it in a shoe box that I took into my grandad’s and grandma’s wooden veranda, where I proceeded to place them on the table and sought to tend for their every need. Despite my best efforts, they survived less than twenty-four hours. It was an act on my part that my mum and family rarely let me forget. All my relatives seemed to have very long memories, and without fail, they always brought up the incident (in a variety of ways) whenever I expressed an interest in looking after small animals. Banishing this painful episode from my mind as quickly as I could, I enthusiastically agreed to every condition Auntie Kathleen imposed: I would be back well before teatime; I wouldn’t deviate from the main road, or open paths, on my travels; I’d definitely return everything I caught back into the stream; and I would avoid getting into scrapes at all costs.
“You can trust me, Auntie Kathleen,” I said as I ran up the stairs to change into my shorts, training shoes and trusty, sweat-stained Hull City shirt. “I will only be out for a few hours and, when I get back, I can help you make tea.”
At that precise moment, I was happy, I felt free – and butter wouldn’t have melted in my mouth.
By ten thirty, I was striding down the Avenue with purpose, eagerly looking forward to a few hours of liberation. In my right hand I clutched the fishing net, although I had doubts over how much use it would be, after all, it had only been an excuse to get outside. I enjoyed being by myself, doing my ‘own thing’. There was potentially a lot to do and see, and not enough hours in the day to accomplish half of the things that were racing through my mind.
I had decided to take the Endyke Lane route to the stream, which meant walking past the neat rows of allotments that accommodated the green-fingered locals who loved nothing more than growing their own vegetables, fruits and flowers. It was located in a small expanse of fertile land sited between Brockenhurst and Lyndhurst avenues. For hungry youngsters like me, this was a prime spot to launch clandestine raids on the ripest crops of strawberries, raspberries, blackcurrants and gooseberries. Success or failure depended on whether an allotment holder had left their patch unattended. If they were in situ, urchins like me had no chance of filling their bellies. Today, however, I appeared to be in luck, for hardly anyone was tending their prized soils; this meant it wouldn’t take long to decide which allotment would provide me with my preferred choice: big, plump gooseberries! The reason I preferred the ‘goosegog’, as we liked to call them, was they were far sweeter than any of their rivals if you got to them at the right time of the season (conversely, if you didn’t get your timing right, the taste was incredibly bitter). August was definitely the right time of the year. So, as soon as I cleared the short, hedge-lined track that led from Auntie Kathleen’s, I crouched down on the flattened mud that constituted a path and got my bearings. A cursory glance to my left and right helped me realise I needed to make a beeline for the shed at eleven o’clock, which was approximately sixty yards to my left. There I would be reunited with my favourite hunting ground.
As I started to make my way to the flourishing goosegog bushes, I heard a shed door open and two male voices break the tranquillity of the morning peace. I strained my neck in an attempt to catch sight of where the noises were coming from. It was a plot directly to my right.
“The ground’s getting bloody hard,” said a tall man as he scratched his bald pate and rummaged in one of his pockets. “The sun has dried it out and it’s set like concrete. I’ll give it another fifteen minutes and then I’ll call it quits. There’s little point staying any longer. I’ll finish things off with a bit of watering and then I’ll make my way home.”
“Me, too,” responded his friend, as he swung his arm wildly in my direction, depositing what was left of his brew on a multitude of grateful vegetables. I continued to watch the two men between the stems of the tall green bean plants that hid my presence. After a few minutes, I started to get impatient: didn’t these blokes know how hungry I was?
“I’ve got to go and buy a couple of things from Skeltons for tonight’s supper, so I think I’ll clock off at the same time as you,” continued the second man. “Thanks for a smashing cuppa and chat. I’ll catch you in the morning.”
As the two men shook hands and bid their farewells, I instinctively pulled myself closer to the lush vegetation. I estimated they were less than forty feet away from where I was hiding, and I would be doomed if either looked too closely in my direction. I looked at the amber stripes of my City shirt, which wouldn’t take much detecting if they happened to look where I was hiding. And then I would be in trouble. For what seemed like an age, I crouched, remaining deathly still and quiet even when my legs started to ache. Then, the man needing a curd cheesecake, or two, departed. Five minutes later, the tall chap, who bore more than a passing resemblance to the Hollywood actor, Yul Brunner, secured the padlock on his shed door, placed his obligatory flat cap on his head and walked away in the direction of Lyndhurst Gardens. In next to no time he’d completely disappeared from view. At last, I was on my own.
I looked at my Timex wristwatch (a Christmas gift from Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Jim a couple of years earlier). It was ten past eleven, which meant I had been in hiding for almost forty minutes. It was little wonder I had lost track of the time. With the coast now seemingly clear, I crawled as quickly as I could to the dense row of bushes that would soon offer up their delicious fruit. I had visited here before and, so far, this particular allotment had never disappointed. This year’s crop looked like it might be the best ever. Bushes were weighed down with row after row of bulbous berries, their green skins strained to breaking point. To me, they looked to be as perfect as any fruit could be. I reached out and plucked four goosegogs from the same stem and instinctively jammed them all in my mouth. Mum had always told me I was a glutton, and I was definitely slightly over-eager on this occasion.
The taste of those gooseberries is something I will never forget. To say they were sour beyond belief is an understatement in the extreme: they were revolting and I quickly spat them out (not quite as dramatically as Uncle Jim, when he drank his sabotaged cuppa). Some of the acidic juices found their way into my air pipe, and I was forced to abandon my camouflaged hiding place and ride out a violent coughing fit. As I stood retching and coughing, the handful of men tending their plants on the far side of the field just continued with their toils as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. They were either thoroughly absorbed in their work, or the misfortunate of an errant youth was of no concern to them. Thankfully, after a couple of minutes, I managed to bring the coughing under control. It was time to get away. I walked back to the hardened mud path, where I picked up the discarded fishing net and nonchalantly continued on my journey, looking forward to my next bit of adventure. Had I been more reflective and thoughtful, I might have realised this was a foretaste of what was to come…
I had only been in the company of Carl Graham and Stephen Moorcroft for an hour. During this short time we had quickly formed a bond and enjoyed our first success.
The beck I had told Auntie Kathleen about was home to a large quantity of sticklebacks and freshwater shrimps, which I started to harvest as soon as I arrived at my destination. I had known about this place for several years, ever since I had attended Cottingham’s main primary school, and used the snicket to get there. Its shallow, clear water made it easy to observe both as they darted along the shallow sand and grit-encrusted bed, their silver and brown bodies creating vivid patterns as they zig- zagged and outpaced the slow-running water. Nature, in its rawest and simplest form, is indeed a wonderful sight. After I had got my bearings and decided where I would position myself to gain the maximum effect, I went foraging. I needed to find a large tin can, or a glass jar, which I could use as a temporary home for whatever I caught. And it was as I explored the lush undergrowth of the University’s grounds that I stumbled across Carl and Stephen.
Both boys lived close by, and like me they were bored – bored to distraction! In theory, long school holidays sound great. Six or seven weeks away from the daily grind of the classroom was surely something to celebrate and enjoy? Actually, for lads like us, it wasn’t. Our reality was somewhat different, for after three and a half weeks the novelty of being out of school had well and truly worn off. Unless you had a hundred different friends, who all enjoyed doing very contrasting things, every day became monotonous. I often dreaded waking up. You were forced to see the same people, do the same things – and even have the same conversations. It’s little wonder we all went a bit stir-crazy during the summer. While my walk from the allotments had increased my appetite for fishing, the boys were engaged in a far more ambitious project: they were rummaging in the grounds looking for anything that might help them build a treehouse. They told me they had already spent several days constructing a frame in a large fir tree, and they were now looking for sturdy branches to use as walling and roofing.
“It’s going to be epic,” said Carl, his distinct East Yorkshire voice ringing out in the undergrowth and his enthusiasm hard to contain. “You can help us, if you like? But you mustn’t tell anyone about it. If you do, they’ll wreck it. You’ve got to keep it secret. Do you promise not to say anything?”
I nodded my head, indicating I would remain tight- lipped. “I’ve just come to do some fishing, and to have some fun,” I said. “I’m here on holiday, and I’m going home on Saturday. My auntie has let me out for the day, which means I can help you for a few hours.”
Carl (tall and lanky, and a glory-hunting Leeds United supporter) and Stephen (short and stubby and a fellow Tiger) looked happy at the prospect of having a willing helper, particularly as I was soon going to be gone from these parts, thereby ensuring their secret would be safe.
“Once we’ve done the work on the treehouse, we’re going to do some fossil hunting,” added Stephen, as the three of us walked to the fir tree with several long branches tucked under our arms. “There’s loads of great rocks by the railway line, and yesterday we found ammonites and trilobites there. So, we’re going back today, and you can come with us. You’re bound to find something worth keeping.”
I had been interested in dinosaurs and rocks ever since my godmother gave me some volcanic lava she had found in Iceland. I had spent hours studying this coarse, black mass, imagining how it had come into being. Such things fascinated me. On the rare occasions I was taken to the beach, I always checked out the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. At home, my ‘finds’ – a couple of ammonites and several prehistoric shark’s teeth – graced the window sill in my bedroom. Also on show was a stunning piece of quartz a relative had given me. I was always on the lookout to add to my modest collection.
“I’m up for that,” I replied. “I love digging around in the dirt.”
It was shortly after dinner time (remember, that’s midday in Yorkshire) that we turned our attention to the rocks by the railway line which runs from Hull’s Paragon Station, through Cottingham and onward to Scarborough. Two iron tracks cut through the village, allowing trains to stop at the station at regular intervals every hour. Their arrivals prompted a temporary closure of Thwaite Street, where the level crossing protected pedestrians and motorists alike from the diesel locomotives that thundered up and down the lines.
My first exposure to Britain’s great railway network came when my grandad took me and the rest of the family on a train trip. The age of steam was coming to a close, so our journey was taken on one of the remaining ‘Puffing Billies’ that graced the rails until the eleventh of August 1968, when ‘dieselisation’ became a reality and the remainder of the nation’s coal-fired engines were consigned to museums and scrap yards. So, I had fond memories of Cottingham station, the place Carl, Stephen and I were about to explore.
We had worked on the treehouse for a couple of hours and it had come on in leaps and bounds, albeit it was decidedly shaky when more than one person attempted to climb into it. Having been badly winded when I fell from a tree the previous summer, I decided to keep my feet on firm ground and ducked out of the opportunity of joining Carl and Stephen in their citadel that stood about ten feet off the ground. I was happy enough to pass the boys the assorted building materials we had scavenged, but nothing more. Like me, Carl and Stephen were not used to hard graft, and the three of us were tired of construction work after a couple of hours. We made our way to the beck, quickly finding the place I had identified as a prime fishing spot. We took turns dipping the net in the water, following the elusive Sticklebacks and shrimps as they valiantly tried to escape capture. Some were successful, some failed, quickly becoming our captives. Those we caught were hastily placed in a couple of old five-litre Dulux paint cans we had found nestling in the weeds. Once we had cleaned them and they were filled with water, there was ample space for our ‘catch’. But with the church bells of St Mary’s ringing in the distance, we agreed it was time to call an end to the fishing and start the main business of the day. It promised to be the perfect end to the afternoon.
“Start looking in the embankment area,” Carl said to me. “We’ll take a look at the rocks on the tracks, and when a train comes, we’ll just get out of the way. We shouldn’t go onto the rails, but that’s where we found the fossils yesterday, so that’s where we’ll start. If anyone comes, we’ll head for the snicket and hide there until they’ve gone. Then we’ll try again.”
It was a simple plan that couldn’t go wrong, and for the next forty-five minutes, or so, it worked like clockwork. Its effectiveness was tested when a large freight train rumbled along the track and we all hid from view long before it passed us. Shortly afterwards a passenger train followed its larger cousin into the station. On both occasions, we saw the signals change in plenty of time and took appropriate action. There were no problems on either occasion. Alas, the hunt for the remains of trilobites and ammonites was faring less well – until Carl struck palaeontologist gold.
“Hey, I think we’ve found a really big one. Come and take a look,” he shouted gleefully. For some reason, I checked my watch: it was two-thirty. “It’s stuck in a rock. I can’t get it out. You won’t believe how big it is.”
Needing no prompting, I raced over from the embankment area I had been combing. True enough, the discovery was everything a fossil hunter could have wished for. What looked like a huge ammonite was protruding from a disproportionally large piece of granite, and although much of it remained hidden in the dusty rock, what I could see of the fossil measured at least seven or eight inches. There was possibly a lot more to be revealed as I could only partially see its distinctive, ribbed shell.
“We need to break the rock,” said Carl. “If we can open it up, the whole thing should still be intact.”
Our collective excitement was palpable. Even though we’d only known each other for a few fleeting moments, the three of us were experiencing a common joy. Our excitement had united us.
Carl didn’t need any prompting to start hurling the rock onto the ground, but despite his best efforts it refused to yield and give up its treasure. Every time he threw it to the floor, small shards would break away, but the main rump of the granite remained, frustrating us. We took turns hurling it against rails and rock, trying to create a major fracture. But nothing we worked. Then I heard Carl suggest an extreme solution. “Why don’t we put it on one of the rails and let a train break it apart for us?” he suggested. “Nothing will be able to withstand that kind of weight.”
The idea sounded like the practical solution we needed, and because we were all so engrossed we didn’t think about the bigger picture. Stephen and I instantly yelled our complete approval to the plan. Almost immediately after we had agreed the next steps, the railway signal turned from red to green, indicating the next train was only a few minutes away. It was coming from Hull, which meant it would be pulling into the station first before continuing its northbound journey. Our anticipation grew; within a handful of minutes, once it had pulled out of the station, the stubborn piece of granite that had caused us so much grief would meet its match.
“We’ve just got to hope the train’s wheels don’t crush the ammonite,” I said unhelpfully. “That wouldn’t be what we want, would it?”
“You prat,” exclaimed Stephen cheerily. “Don’t you think we know that? But we’ve got to try it as there doesn’t seem to be any other way.”
As we animatedly discussed what we hoped the broken granite would reveal, Carl picked it up, straightened his crumpled jeans, and cautiously walked to the rails. He bent down and, with careful precision, placed it on one of the heavy metal strips that ran as far as the eye could see. Only when he was happy did he make his way back to our hiding place, which we had chosen because it gave us the fullest visibility of the widest section of the track. Soon we heard the train’s brakes squealing as it came to a stop at the station. It was now less than a hundred and fifty yards from where we waited. We could hear doors being slammed shut as the guard paced up and down the platform ensuring everything was in order so the train could continue its journey. As the guard’s whistle blew, indicating it was time for the locomotive to continue onwards, the three of us leant forward into the long grasses that hid us from view, and we quietened, anticipating the sound of the train’s wheels gripping the iron rails as it started to build up speed. Yet rather surprisingly... nothing happened. We waited for a minute, then another, and possibly a couple more. We looked at each other, shaking our heads, unable to understand why there was a delay. None the wiser, we strained the sinews in our necks, looking to the left, in the direction of the station, but still, we couldn’t hear or see anything. In the end, all three of us stood up and were shocked to see the locomotive still standing on the platform. Its doors were closed, and the signal continued to state it was safe to proceed, yet the engine and its carriages showed no interest in continuing on their journey.
And then our peace was shattered.
The sudden screech of car brakes sent a shiver down my spine. The noise seemingly came from nowhere, drowning out the tranquillity of the afternoon. There was an urgency to the commotion that sent my finely tuned early warning system into overdrive. Carl and Stephen were equally alarmed. The noises came from the direction of the railway station’s car park, which was positioned to our right. We were unsighted, so didn’t know what had made the noise, or why. This meant we were completely unaware of the uniformed police officers who had come to hunt us down. Indeed, the first we knew of their presence was when a booming voice caught us completely off- guard. “Lads, I am a police officer and I know you’re hiding in the long grass,” said one of them. “If you come out without making any fuss, I am sure we can sort out the problem you have created to the benefit of everyone.”
To say we were terrified is an understatement. The simple truth is, we didn’t have a clue as to what was going on, or why. And, in the few seconds we had to comprehend what the policeman had said to us, we certainly didn’t appreciate what we had done that warranted the long arm of the law taking an interest in us. But one thing was very obvious: we couldn’t hide any longer.
Stephen was the first to rise and make himself known. He was scared stiff. So was I, and I quickly followed him in standing up. Carl rose out of the long grass last of all. I was able to make out the shapes of two panda cars – both of them Rovers – parked in the distance. Their blue lights were flashing vigorously. Considerably closer were four uniformed officers, positioned to cut off any possible escape. All of them were well over six feet tall and looked like proverbial outhouses. One was a sergeant, and he appeared to be the man in control. “Get over here,” he said, beckoning the three of us to come forward. “You silly boys have caused quite a commotion and delayed the train to Bridlington. You’ve got a bit of explaining to do, haven’t you? So, let’s be having you because every minute we’re standing here means those passengers on the train will have less time on the beach; and quite rightly, they’ll be blaming you for that.”
As the enormity of the situation suddenly dawned on us, Carl whispered: “I think we’re really in the S-H- ONE-T.” I agreed, as did Stephen. We were not hardened lawbreakers, and we certainly hadn’t meant to put anyone in danger, so we did as we were told. Within five minutes we were standing by the stationary pale blue and white cars, doing our best to explain what we had been up to. Thankfully, once they had regained a modicum of composure, Carl and Stephen admitted it was their idea to put the rock on the track. Much to my relief.
“What were you thinking, you daft young pups?” said the sergeant after listening to the confessions and mulling things over. “Are you really that clueless? What the three of you have done is put a train, and its passengers, at serious risk. Thank goodness the signalman spotted one of you placing the rock on the track. If he hadn’t, who knows what might have happened. You might have been facing murder charges.”
We hung our heads in shame, and for the first time I realised I could be in serious trouble.
In the end, the eight minutes past two service was delayed by more than forty-five minutes, as were all other services travelling towards Beverley (and beyond). It turned out that sorting matters out involved a lot more than simply removing the sixty-six million-year-old ammonite from the tracks. Safety checks needed to be completed, conversations had to take place, and everyone had to be satisfied all was in order before the train was allowed to proceed. It passed the two police cars just as we were asked to sit in the back seats, and as its wheels chimed out the rhythmic ‘thud-thud, thud-thud’ on the rails, we felt we were under the critical gaze and judgment of single every passenger whose journey to the seaside had been delayed by our foolishness. “Take a long, hard look at those unhappy people lads,” said one of the officers. “If looks could kill, you would now be taking your last breaths.”
One small factor in our favour was the recovery by the police of the granite. Upon inspection, it was plain for all to see that there was indeed a large fossil embedded in the rock. Without ceremony, the sergeant passed it to one of his fellow sleuths, who put it in a Grandways carrier bag and placed it in the boot of one of the cars. “Make sure you look after that, Constable,” he said, looking menacingly in my direction. “That rock is critical to our case against these young reprobates.”
I travelled into the centre of the village in the second of the two cars, separated from my fellow accomplices. Two officers kept me company as we made the short trip to Cottingham’s Victorian era police station, which was located on Finkle Street. Both gave me the silent treatment and such was their attitude you could be forgiven for thinking they’d captured great train robber, Ronnie Biggs, not a minor feral tearaway! Thankfully, it took less than five minutes to get to our destination. Once inside the station, the three of us were spoken to individually by the sternest looking coppers I have ever seen, the type whose good looks alone could quite easily curdle milk! My interrogator asked me to give him my full name, Auntie Kathleen’s and Uncle Jim’s name and address (and their telephone number), a brief explanation of what had happened, and state whose idea it was to put the fossil on the tracks in the first place. I knew everything I said needed to be spot on, so I did precisely what my mum had always told me to do when I found myself in a spot of bother: I told the whole truth.
My interrogation took place in a sterile room that was intimidating. I imagined the sort of criminals who had been forced to experience exactly what I was being put through: killers, fraudsters, bank robbers – and wretches like me. Sometimes I could think too much and I started to feel overwhelmed. When I composed myself, I heard a voice ask me to sit down at a big table in the centre of the room. It belonged to a different officer who must have entered the room without me realising. I had been so absorbed by the predicament I faced that I had drifted off into my own little world.
“It beggars belief, Tony,” said my inquisitor, after I had repeated everything that had happened for a second time. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. What I don’t understand is how none of you could understand the danger you were putting all those people in? Be in no doubt, you did something really dangerous today, and there are consequences for doing such things.”
He fell silent for a couple of minutes, looking down at the notes he had recorded in his notebook. Sporadically, his pencil weaved from side to side. And then, all of a sudden, he was done. “That’s it; all over,” he barked without seeming to move his lips. “Your aunt is on her way and will be here soon. Until the sergeant has decided what is going to be done with the three of you, you’re going to be put in a cell. In there, you’ll have ample time to think about your reckless actions.”
I heard Auntie Kathleen’s voice long before I actually saw her. My incarceration had seemed to last for an eternity, but in reality, it had been in the cell for a little over an hour. As it approached a quarter to four in the afternoon, I suddenly recognised her among the general chatter taking place in the long hallway. It was like hearing the voice of an angel. “Thank you, officer, you are very kind,” I heard her say from somewhere beyond the cell door. “I can assure you nothing like this will ever happen again. His uncle, and I, will be reading the riot act to him once he gets home, and his mum will also have something to say.” Seconds later, the key was pushed into the door’s heavy lock and a harsh metallic click confirmed the mechanism had opened. As the door swung open, the figure of Auntie Kathleen emerged. She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Here he is,” barked the constable who had quizzed me earlier. He waved his hands and beckoned me to leave. “Someone is looking after you today, young man,” he added as I walked past him. “My sergeant has said you can go back home with your aunt, but he has warned that if you step out of line again when you’re in these parts you’ll find yourself in serious trouble. So, please don’t waste this opportunity, Tony.”
Although the experience had left me slightly lightheaded, I understood fully what was being offered. With the warning ringing in my ears, Auntie Kathleen took a firm grip of my arm and led me out of Cottingham police station as quickly as her legs would allow. She didn’t say a word as we walked briskly to the centre of the village, where she hailed a taxi that took us all the way back to number thirteen. Silence ensued for the whole journey, and when the driver stated the cost of the fare, she simply paid him his dues, did an about-turn, and walked directly to the house.
When she next spoke, Auntie Kathleen was unambiguous and to the point: “Why do you keep letting yourself down, Tony; why do you seem determined to cause Uncle Jim and myself all this unnecessary upset and misery?” she asked in a hushed voice from her perch on the front room’s throne chair. “Do you like being the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons? Can’t you just enjoy coming here and visiting us? Do we make your stay so bad and so dull, that you feel you have to get yourself into trouble every time you leave the house?”
I felt wretched and was unable to offer her any kind of real explanation. At that precise moment, I could do nothing to change anything, particularly Auntie Kathleen’s anger and sorrow. Never before had I seen her like this and, at that moment, I feared she would never forgive me.