INGLEMIRE LANE RUNS FROM HULL ROAD (in Cottingham), all the way down to Beverley Road (in Hull). It passes the site of the old Jackson’s meat processing plant, scores of pre-war houses, and at least one of the city’s very best fish and chip shops. It also extended itself beyond a plot of land owned by the University of Hull, where John Kaye’s Tigers were busily preparing themselves to meet Sunderland in the opening Division Two league encounter at Boothferry Park at the end of the week.
As well as being a long thoroughfare, ‘the Lane’ was also home to one of my favourite shops. George and Nora Elliott had owned their popular newsagents for seven years. Family friends and neighbours who also lived in Brockenhurst Avenue, were regulars, as were Uncle Jim and Uncle Fred, who popped in daily to buy their packets of Embassy No 6 King Size on their way back from work. I was known to them. And so, too, was mum. I was always polite to the Elliotts whenever I bought my packets of sweets (usually Sherbet Dips and Liquorice Allsorts), and they were friendly and encouraging whenever they took the pennies I offered up in payment.
As well as visiting the shop for my own needs, Auntie Kathleen would often ask me to go and fetch her Old Holborn tobacco from the Elliotts. It was a ten-minute round trip that frequently allowed me to buy fizzy drinks that came in glass bottles. In those impoverished days, glass had a real value, and there was a drive to recycle as much of it as possible. So, for every large empty bottle that was returned to the Elliotts, a refund of two pence would be made to the lucky soul who claimed their reward. Best of all, no proof of purchase was ever required.
When I was twelve, I had never heard of the word ‘entrepreneur’. To be honest, I knew nothing about the business world and rarely watched the news on the box, and I had never really been exposed to big words like this. Mum and I never talked of these things, and neither did my family. Fast forward more than four decades and using this very word can be akin to calling someone a criminal. The only difference is an entrepreneur usually gets away with things while a common thief doesn’t. And on the fifteenth day of the month (a Monday), as I sat eating a bowl of cornflakes in Auntie Kathleen’s scullery and she stood by the ancient mangle, putting her freshly laundered washing through it, a cunning plan popped into my young mind that was very entrepreneurial. I wasn’t specifically thinking about doing something wrong. The thought just popped into my head and I couldn’t get rid of it. But for it to work, I needed to recruit some help. Thankfully, growing up in Cottingham meant I knew some of the local children and continued to play with them whenever I returned to these parts. I was confident, once I had spoken to Shaun Goadby and the Sidebottom boys (Paul and Ian), who both lived next door to one another on the Lane, there would be four of us itching to take part in an audacious mission that had every chance of netting us a tidy sum. So, I asked Auntie Kathleen if I could go out and visit some old friends, without specifically naming who I was going to see. It was a request to which she happily agreed.
I met my fellow co-conspirators at eleven o’clock in the morning after I had tempted them to leave their back gardens with the promise of untold riches. Unsure why I had dragged them away from a game of Scrabble and reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe , I quickly explained my intentions as we convened by a tall privet hedge less than two hundred yards away from Elliotts. Before revealing my hand, I was unsure how the proposal would be received, for there was every chance I would be told to bugger off. But that wasn’t their reaction. Far from it.
“So, tell us again,” said Paul after I had explained the perfect, victimless crime to him and the others. “Who is doing what, and are you really sure it’s going to be so easy?”
A year and a half older than me, Paul had a haircut that made him look like one of the cartoon characters in the Homepride Flour adverts that regularly appeared in newspapers and on the box. I had known him and his two brothers for as long as I could remember, but he didn’t like me that much. At best, he tolerated me – particularly on the occasions I said or did something that piqued his interest. And that day, I had certainly got his full attention. On other occasions, he would completely ignore me, or give me a thump on the shoulder that usually left me with a dead arm.
“What don’t you understand?” I replied, sounding a little bit too defensive. “It’s easy-peasy, and the simplest way you’ll ever make some money.”
Ian, Paul’s brother who was the same age as me, sided with his older sibling. “Just tell us again how we are not going to get caught, or into trouble?” he urged. “It’s that bit that frightens me the most. Our mum and dad will kill us if they ever find out.”
I looked at them all. Paul and Ian stared directly at me, awaiting my reply. Only Shaun, a blonde-haired youth who was half my size, wouldn’t engage in eye contact. He kept his focus firmly on the pavement, an action I have since come to realise is a clear signal someone thinks a scheme hasn’t got a cat in hell’s chance of working. But rather than confess his doubts there and then, Shaun just continued to stare downwards while pushing a pebble around with his right foot, as if he were Cottingham’s equivalent of George Best.
“It’s dead simple,” I said. “At the side of Elliotts, there is an area where they store all their glass pop bottles. There are loads of them and I doubt whether they ever get checked. They will never notice if we sneak into their backyard and take a few from the pile, and then go inside and claim the money. I reckon if we take three at a time, say every fifteen minutes, within an hour we’ll have got enough cash to buy a load of sweets. Each of us will have to have a go. But the risk is absolute zero. And the Elliotts will never know what we have done.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. There was clearly something agitating him. “And how do we get into the backyard?” he inquired. “There is no way the gate will be left open, and even if it was, they would definitely hear us.”
Triumphantly, I proceeded to unveil how we could remain undetected for the duration of the heist – and how an ancient house, which was home to an old lady who belonged to the Quakers (and where religious meetings were regularly held) was an integral part of the plot.
“We can use the old lady’s garden to shield us,” I told him. “It goes all the way up to the yard where the bottles are kept. Since yesterday, I have checked it out several times. It will be a doddle. All we have to do is get into the garden unseen and then get to the barbed wire fence. Once we’re there, we’ll be able to see everything that’s going on and make sure Mr and Mrs Elliott aren’t around. When the coast is clear, we’ll climb over the fence, take the bottles, and start claiming our reward. I’ll go first. Paul will go second, and then it’s Ian. You’ll go last, Shaun.”
I mentioned Shaun’s name more loudly than the others in a bid to shake him out of his state of disinterest. It did the trick: he nearly jumped out of his skin. “Okay,” he said. “There’s no need to shout. I more than get it. I am the last one to go and, as you’ve said, everything will be fine.” Despite his reassurances, Shaun didn’t sound convinced. And although he said he was willing to participate, his coolness forced me to have doubts for the first time. I started to ponder the plan’s merits, not realising I had wandered off into a daydream. I was brought back into reality when Paul hit my shoulder and I felt yet another dull ache take hold of my arm. His punch also signalled it was time to get going.
Thankfully, the Lane is long and straight, so you have good visibility when looking left and right. And as we made our descent into the old lady’s garden, successfully squeezing past the tall pillars that held two large gates in place, there were no cars or lorries in sight. Nor were there any pedestrians about. Apart from a bedroom curtain opening, and then shutting again rather quickly in a house opposite, there was nothing for us to be remotely concerned about. It really did seem as though our luck was riding high that particular morning.
Once we were on the other side, and safely concealed from prying eyes, we began the process of skirting the extensive garden’s perimeter, where a ditch no more than three feet deep conveniently led all the way to the newsagent’s backyard. Carefully, the four of us made our way through bracken and the broken branches of an assortment of mature trees. We also did our best to dodge the thorns of protective bramble bushes doing their best to impede our progress. As I heard the distinctive crack of a branch, a sure sign some careless soul had trodden on it, I also heard the tell-tale sound of muffled cries of pain. I looked around and saw Ian and Shaun wiping blood off their cheeks simultaneously after they strayed too close to a particularly vindictive mass of leaves, thorns and tempting brambles, which, when they were close enough, lashed out and punctured their skin. The assault wasn’t quite on the scale, or violence, associated with the fates that befell the National Guardsmen in the film Southern Comfort , but the scene was certainly reminiscent of coming under attack from unseen assassins. At that moment, I found myself thanking our lucky stars that we weren’t required to go too far under such conditions, as I fear we would never have made our ultimate destination – the back of the old coal shed.
With all four of us squatting behind the brickwork of the outbuilding, I took it upon myself to lift my head above the parapet and discover if our movements had remained undetected. Pushing upwards, I gradually increased my height, holding on to the mossy bricks as I rose from the bowels of the ditch, and soon, with only my forehead and eyes revealed, I could see everything that was happening in the yard, and via a small window, I could also make out what appeared to be a storage area at the back of the shop. A shiver ran down my spine as I sized up the riches that awaited.
“There are hundreds of bottles,” I said in a hushed voice while trying desperately to contain my excitement. “There’s going to be loads to choose from. And best of all, I can’t see anyone. It all looks good to me.”
With that, the Sidebottom boys and Shaun all hauled themselves up and adopted the same stance I had taken. After a while, presumably while surveying the same inactive scene before admitting it was safe to proceed, they nodded in agreement and visibly relaxed. It was time for me to carry out the first excursion, thereby proving the next phase of the plan would also work. I edged closer to the barbed wire, taking time to look around and get my bearings and ensure nobody was lurking in the shadows waiting to pounce. After carrying out a thorough risk assessment (which involved staring left, right and centre for thirty seconds), I took a deep breath and straddled the wire, which was only about three feet in height. It was an easy obstacle to overcome and, in the blink of an eye, I found I had made it into the backyard of Elliotts. I quickly took stock of the bottles. Directly in front of me were crates of Corona lemonade bottles, all with their distinctive white labels and bright yellow lettering. To the left was the space allocated to Orangeade and Limeade, while to the right there were neatly stacked rows of empty Cherryade, Dandelion and Burdock and Cream Soda. I felt overwhelmed. It felt like I had entered the Aladdin’s Cave of the soft drinks world. I quickly grabbed the first empty three bottles I could lay my hands on, put them under my armpit, and then hastily negotiated the barbed wire as I retreated to the safety of the brickwork.
“That was simple enough,” said Paul when I returned unscathed. “But I am not going anywhere near those bottles until you have been into the shop and got the money.” I suspected the three of them had been conferring while I set about securing the ill-gotten spoils because Ian and Shaun both made murmuring noises that sounded vaguely supportive of the declaration. “No problem,” I said. “Wish me luck.”
With that, I retraced my steps back to the large gate, ever mindful of the vicious nature of the bramble bush that had already drawn blood from two members of the gang, and squeezed through the small gap. As I re-emerged, a startled pigeon took off from an overhanging branch of a Sycamore Tree. As I looked up and watch it flee the scene, I noticed the curtain-twitching once again in the house opposite. I couldn’t see anyone, so I carried on about my business and within sixty seconds I was standing before Mrs Elliott – Norah to her friends – having placed my three empties on her counter.
“Have we been having a party at your aunt’s?” she enquired jovially as she made her way to the till. “That’s an awful lot of lemonade to be putting away. I hope you have been brushing your teeth well at night, otherwise all that sugar will damage your teeth?”
Without waiting for my reply, Mrs Elliott pressed a couple of the keys, a bell rang, the till opened noisily and the sound of pennies being toyed with filled the air. “Hold out your hand,” Mrs Elliott said after she had finished examining the till. I immediately did as I was told, and my fingers strained eagerly as they sought to clutch the coins. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And six. That’s your lot,” she said, pointing in the direction of the shelves that held the massed ranks of the glass jars containing the multi- coloured sweets. “Now, is there anything you’d like to buy with that little collection, or are you simply going to be on your way home?”
Unable to speak due to my surprise at the ease with which my plan had worked, I simply smiled at the friendly and trusting newsagent, raised my hand nervously to signal I was leaving and set about getting out of the shop as quickly as my legs would take me. In truth, I was bricking it and had I spoken, Mrs Elliott would have known I was up to something. But as the front door to Elliotts closed behind me, I felt sheer joy as the six pennies jangled against one another in my pocket as I raced back to the hideaway, where the rest were waiting.
“It worked. It really worked,” said an excited Paul, as I retrieved the coins from my pocket and showed the delighted trio. “I never believed you would get away with it. But you did. You flipping well did.”
I smiled. Coming from Paul, this was praise indeed. “Let’s give it ten minutes, and then it’s your turn,” I whispered to him. “Best to keep going, eh?”
Then we froze. The distinctive noise of footsteps on concrete that were too close for comfort snapped us out of our congratulatory mood. There was an energy to them that was a little unnerving, and there was a degree of urgency. Suddenly they stopped. But the person was definitely close by, because no sooner had silence descended than the gate to the backyard started to shake as its handle was twisted violently, first one way, then the other. Thankfully, it held firm. It was securely locked. Whoever was trying to get in would have to try another way. As if thinking the same thing, we heard footsteps once again, this time, however, they were walking away from the yard.
“For a moment, I thought our luck had run out,” I said feeling relieved. “It sounded like somebody knew something wasn’t quite right and was investigating.”
A nervous ripple of laughter cascaded among us, the way it does when boys are nervous but are too afraid to admit it. It lasted only a few seconds before it petered out. If we had been born with any sense at all, we would have settled for a net gain of six pennies. But we were far from sensible. So, when we considered a suitable amount of time had lapsed, Paul rose from the ditch, clambered over the barbed wire and continued with the business of collecting empties and relieving the Elliotts of their hard-earned cash. And everything proceeded as planned: Paul took his collection of bottles to Mrs Elliott and was rewarded with a further six pennies; a further fifteen minutes later, Ian did likewise. If anything, his was the smoothest transaction of the lot, taking considerably less time to complete than the previous two. The omens continued to look good.
Last up was Shaun. From the moment he got to his feet, I sensed there would be trouble “Can’t we just leave with eighteen pennies, and be happy with that?” he pleaded. “I don’t feel good and I really don’t want to do this.”
Before I could respond, Paul had lent over and was attempting to put some fire in young Shaun’s belly. “There is nothing to be scared about,” he told his friend. “They are not suspicious at all. But if you prefer to do things a bit differently, then do so. Why not just take a couple of bottles into the shop, that way the Elliotts really won’t suspect a thing?”
Immediately, Shaun looked revitalised. There is no way anything I could have said would have had a similar impact. But because Paul had spoken, Shaun had set aside his misgivings. At last, he was up for it. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.” And before we could respond, he was on his way.
Shaun almost hurdled the barbed wire, such was his haste to hunt down his quota of bottles. And before we could blink, he had picked up three empty Cherryades and was quickly into his stride on the return leg, again forcing his short legs to leap the barrier in a style reminiscent of the great American athlete, Edwin Moses. I’d be surprised if the whole exercise had taken more than sixty seconds, such was the speed at which it was conducted. Now there was only Mrs Elliott to deal with for us to get our hands on the final instalment of cash. Shaun didn’t hold back in this regard, and we didn’t need to look to learn of his progress, as he crashed, banged and walloped his way through the garden undergrowth, again coming a cropper at the bramble bush. But he refused to be knocked out of his stride, so we quickly heard the rhythmic pounding of training shoes as he ran from the gate to the shop front. He drew breath at the door, before opening it and entering. And then he was in – and we waited. By the time five minutes had lapsed, all three of us were getting agitated. Then we heard mysterious footsteps once again. They grew louder and louder until they, too, arrived at the front door of Elliotts. The clang of the doorbell signalled their owner had entered the shop.
Hoping and praying, we all craned our necks willing Shaun to be travelling in the opposite direction. There was no such luck, and the silence suddenly became overpowering.
“I think we need to leave right now,” said Ian, who was growing more nervous by the minute. “Something has gone wrong, so we have got to get away as quickly as possible. If we don’t, we’re going to get caught and into loads of trouble.”
“I agree,” said Paul. “We are going to find ourselves in the smelly stuff if we stay here.”
All three of us rose at the same time, our only thought being self-preservation. But just as we were about to depart, the back door of the shop opened and the familiar figure of Mr Elliott – or ‘Gordon’ as he was known to uncles Jim and Fred – emerged into the sunlight, and he strode over to where we were hiding. He said: “Okay, you three. The game’s up. You have been caught red-handed. Now get out of that garden, which you have no right to be in, and get into the front of my shop so myself and Mrs Elliott can tell you what is going to happen next.”
Ashen-faced and in a state of shock, myself, Paul and Ian did as we had been instructed, walking solemnly and tormenting ourselves as we played out the likely scenarios in our heads, most of which featured getting a severe punishment. By the time we got to the glass-fronted door, with its cheery Walls Ice Cream sign beckoning us in, we feared the worst. We trooped into the small shop so meekly you could hear the squeaks of the soles of our training shoes as they made contact with the tiled floor. Shaun was at the end of the shop, where he was sitting on a chair. He was holding his hands, looked frightened and had clearly been crying. Standing next to him was a man wearing a smart suit. I didn’t recognise him, but Paul did and he immediately cursed under his breath.
“We are in serious trouble,” he hissed. “That’s only Bob Starkey, the copper. He and his wife are friends with my mum and dad, and they are going to really give us a walloping when we get home. I wish I had never listened to your crazy plan.”
As I mulled over Paul’s barb, Mr Elliott rapped the counter with a wooden ruler. In unison, we all looked up and must have appeared quite pathetic. “You really have surpassed yourselves today, haven’t you?” he said in a staccato and unemotional voice. “A right little nest of thieves aren’t you? Cottingham’s very own Al Capones.” Mr Elliott let his words hang in the air, drawing the maximum effect. “So, we have caught you in the act stealing from us. But my question goes beyond today because I want to know how much more have you taken from this shop over the past few weeks, eh? Are you the ones who have been responsible for all the shoplifting Mrs Elliott and I have suffered during the summer, I wonder?”
Ian and Paul glanced at one another, and before I realised what was going on, they said with one voice: “It was all his idea, Mr Elliott. He’s to blame. As they made this declaration, Paul’s finger pointed accusingly at me.
“Is that so?”enquired the newsagent as he proceeded to manoeuvre himself behind us, blocking off any thoughts we may have had of making a desperate dash for freedom. “Well, I am not sure what to believe. For all I know, we may have caught a load of young gangsters who are responsible for all the major crimes in this area, isn’t that right Bob?”
At the mention of his name, Bob Starkey moved forward a pace. He had been lurking in the shadows and was a giant of a man, standing at least six and a half feet tall, and looking as though he could challenge Muhammad Ali for the world heavyweight boxing title – and possibly win. A member of the local CID, he was certainly not a man you messed with. Yet when he spoke, I almost sniggered out loud. “Vat’s abs-holutely correct, Misht-her Elliott,” he said, doing everything he could to conceal a pronounced speech impediment. “I may have to take you down to the police stay-shun right now, charge you with this ker-yme, and others, and lock you in the cells. And I will do so if you don’t ansh-her our quest-shuns honestly. Is that something vat would make your parents pw-owd of you?”
It was too much for Shaun to take. He started blubbing and was quickly followed by Ian, whose sobs bounced off the wall.
“Paul’s right,” I said, hoping I could placate the Elliotts and bring proceedings to a quick and decisive end. “This was all my idea. I am the one to blame, and I am very sorry for what we have done. I didn’t realise it was seriously wrong; I just thought it was a way for us to be able to get some sweets. That’s all, honest. I have only been in Cottingham for just over a day, so you can’t accuse me of stealing anything else. And there is no way Paul, Ian and Shaun would ever come in here and steal from you, Mr Elliott. That’s the absolute truth.”
Gordon Elliott eyed me for what seemed an eternity. His mouth remained thin-lipped, but I could see his eyes, shielded by his heavily framed spectacles, were carefully appraising me, working out whether he could believe me, or not. After a few seconds, he had made up his mind. Pointing at Paul, Ian and Shaun, he said: “You three, off you go. Get home and make sure you tell your mums and dads what you have done. If they decide to give you the good hidings you deserve, then understand that is a small price for what you have done today. Now, be away with you.”
With Mr Elliott’s words hanging in the air, my accomplices darted through the shop, into the midday sunshine that greeted them, running as fast as their legs would take them. Bob Starkey also chose this moment to leave the scene of the crime.
“If you are you o-o-o-kay tidying fings up here, G-G-Gordon?” he stammered. “I will get b-b-b-ack home. It’s been a long week already, and it’s only flipping M-m-m-m- o-n-day!” He closed the front door behind him, and as the bell signalled his departure Mrs Elliott, who I always thought was a formidable lady, emerged from nowhere. But instead of looking angry, her face appeared to be full of concern. “Whatever were you thinking of, Tony?” she asked. “Haven’t we known you for years, ever since you were just out of your nappy? What are you doing taking from us, from people who are friends with your mum, and your aunt and uncles? It’s a funny way to repay the kindness we have shown your family, don’t you think?”
I was lost for words. I didn’t know what to say.
“Now, you listen to me,” continued Mrs Elliott. “You and the others should be in serious trouble for what you have tried to get away with today. But we, Mr Elliott and myself are going to give you a second chance. If you promise not to try and con us again, we will put this whole matter behind us. But you have to promise, and you have to mean it. Do you think you can do that?”
I nodded, still dumbstruck by her words. “Good,” she said. “I am delighted that’s how you feel. We know you’re not a bad lad, and neither are the other boys. But stealing just the smallest of things can lead to all sorts of troubles further down the line, and it wouldn’t be right to let you off without any punishment whatsoever. So this time tomorrow, you’ll come back here and you will help to load all those bottles from the backyard onto the back of the Corona lorry that’s going to take them away, to be reused. Do I have your word you will be here at twelve o’clock sharp?”
I looked Mrs Elliott directly in the eye, feeling nothing other than admiration and respect for her.. “I promise I will be here,” I said. “I am really sorry for what I have done.”
The Elliotts looked at one another, seemingly happy. Then Mrs Elliott abruptly piped up: “I think we’ll be relieving you of the bottle money you took from us earlier. Hand them over; let’s be having those coins back, Tony.”
I did as I was told, and as soon as the money had been returned to the to the till, I was allowed to leave. In a bid to retain as much dignity as possible, I casually walked backwards on the tiled floor.. Unfortunately, I failed to see a protruding tile until it was far too late. I collapsed in a heap on the floor, much to the amusement of the Elliotts.
“You wouldn’t be old enough to appreciate what I am about to say to you, Tony,” said Mrs Elliott between bursts of laughter. “But what you have just experienced is what we adults call ‘the consequences of your actions’. Now get up, dust yourself down and be on your way. We expect to see you again at midday tomorrow, no sooner, and no later.”
And with that, I had my liberty once again – to reflect and thank my lucky stars.