The Five Stone Steps

By John Orton

Tom Duncan, a Scot, joins the South Shields Police fresh from the trenches after the Great War. Little does he realise, when he first walks down the five stone steps into Keppel Street Police HQ (pictured opposite), that fifty years later he will be writing his memoirs at his desk by the fire, a glass of malt at hand. He tells of his early days as a bobby on the beat in Shields – tales of life and love in a major seaport, shipbuilding, and coal mining town where people liked their beer, their bets, and stuck together in the face of poverty and adversity.

South Shields born John Orton brings to life the memoirs of a Shields bobby in the 1920s and gives an authentic picture of his home town, its character and its characters nearly a century ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Orton
• Release date: Sep 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310439384

Book preview

THE FIVE STONE STEPS

by

John Orton

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © John Orton 2014

The moral right of this author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Published by UK Book Publishing

UK Book Publishing is a trading name of Consilience Media

www.ukbookpublishing.com

Foreword

Thomas ‘Jock’ Gordon joined the South Shields Police after the First War, became Station Sergeant, and remained in the Force until after the Second World War. In his old age he went to live with his son, Tommy. Tommy had kept his father’s ‘stave’ or truncheon which his Dad called ‘Fagan’, and when I asked Tommy if he knew anything of Policing in the early days, he produced a dog eared manuscript of his father’s Memories. The hand written pages gave a wonderful insight, not only into the details of Police procedure, but also into life in Shields in the twenties and thirties.

The Five Stone Steps is my fictionalised version of the memoirs. I have intertwined Jock’s reminiscences with some of the tales told by my Grandmother, Gertrude, who was a real Geordie Hinny. She was the daughter of John Pells, a mariner from Norfolk who later became a North Sea Pilot. The family had lived in Maxwell Street, and Gertie worked as a cook in the North of England Café.

My aim has been to bring Jock Gordon’s Memoirs to life – in doing so some of the story lines have been exaggerated, or invented for dramatic effect. The characters have also been given fictitious names apart from one or two who are mentioned in passing but do not have any part to play in the tales. I have researched the stories as best I could, but if there are any errors or anachronisms, I apologise.

I would like to thank Marilyn Gordon, Tommy’s widow, who gave me permission to make use of all the material in the memoirs, and who has encouraged me throughout.

Thanks are also due to South Tyneside Libraries for allowing me to reproduce the images of South Shields in the 1920s which appear in the book and which can all be found on the South Tyneside Historic Images web site.

This book is dedicated to and written for the people of South Shields.

John Orton

Contents

A PIECE OF PIE

A NIP OF WHISKY

A BONNY LASS

A PAIR OF BOOTS

AN EARLY CALL

A SURE THING

A PAIR OF BLUE EYES

A TALE OF TWO CAPS

A CROSS TO BEAR

A DISH OF PANACKLETY

TOLL FOR THE BRAVE

List of illustrations

CHAPTER ONE

Lower Thames Street – STH0001762

CHAPTER TWO

Union Alley – The Black and Grey is the building on the far left having its windows cleaned! – STH0002665

CHAPTER THREE

Mill Dam & the Cumberland Arms – STH0000439

CHAPTER FOUR

Market Place – STH0000531

CHAPTER FIVE

Pilot’s stairs leading up to the Turk’s Head – STH0000270

CHAPTER SIX

Cuthbert Street – STH0002647

CHAPTER SEVEN

One of East Holborn’s narrow streets in which can be seen the Hop Pole inn and Mrs Camillieri’s Lodging House – STH0002355

CHAPTER EIGHT

Comical Corner showing the Burton House – the Ha’penny Dodger Ferry Pontoon is shown in the bottom right corner – STH0000049

CHAPTER NINE

Corporation Quay, Mill Dam – STH0002896

CHAPTER TEN

Open Air Swimming Pool – STH0002958

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Long Bank – STH0001407

The images are available to purchase through South Tyneside libraries using the reference codes above.

www.southtynesideimages.org.uk

A piece of pie

After three years in the trenches and fresh out of the Army, I had hoped for better in civvy street, but four months of door knocking with a suitcase of household goods in my hand had been enough. When the chance of going back into uniform cropped up, I jumped at it.

My first day in the South Shields Police was hardly memorable. I was given a second hand uniform, second hand boots and was told to be prepared to go on duty the next day in the Market Place where I would double up with one of the old hands for a fortnight. After that I would be on my own.

My accommodation was in Tyne Dock – a single room with a range to cook on and not much else. There was a cold tap in the yard but no toilet. I had a bucket which I would empty on the common midden out the back.

It did not take long to unpack my suitcase – my worldly goods comprised a change of underwear and socks, a tooth brush, a razor, shaving brush and mug – together with a half bottle of whisky and a dog eared edition of Burns’ poems.

My father had been a Scottish drover who passed through Carlisle each year. A young farm lass had caught his eye one year and he had married her on his way back to Scotland. My inheritance from him had consisted of two books: Burns and a Bible. He had carried them on his droves – they were the only company he needed.

My first days as a Shields Bobby were spent with Sam Beecroft – a big bluff fellow who liked his beer. We were standing at Crofton’s corner in the Market Place one Saturday afternoon when I made acquaintance with the newly appointed Inspector Mullins. He came striding up to us and without any word of introduction just asked, Any trouble today? Sam replied that things were quiet. I didn’t know Mullins then and tried to impress.

"There was an old drunk who’d fallen over outside the City of Durham. He lives in North Street so I took him home. His wife was pleased to see him." She’d shouted so loud at the poor old bugger that half the doors in the street had opened.

You did what? Mullins took out his notebook. Drunkenness in a public place is a criminal offence. The man should have been charged.

Sam tried to say something but I realised now which way the wind was blowing. Officer Beecroft did say that I should arrest the man but I took pity on him.

Pity’s not a word we use in the Shields Force. As you’ve just started out I’ll make nowt of it, Constable Duncan, but watch yourself in future. Mullins said no more and stalked off on his way down to the Mill Dam.

You made a mistake there, Tom. Mullins is best ignored, but I’d watch out for him in future. Sam was right. Mullins was a Methodist who had taken the pledge. It soon became apparent that he wanted to make everyone’s life as miserable as his own. Burns knew his kind:

"Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel,

Sae pious and sae holy,

Ye’ve nowt to do but mark and tell

Your Neebour’s fauts and folly."

Sam waited until he had disappeared, looked around, rubbed his chin and said, "Let’s have a scout down Union Alley, I’ve not been in the Black and Grey for a while."

Sam knew all the pubs round the Market and there were dozens of them. It meant that he could have a pint or two every day without becoming a burden on any landlord in particular. He’d look in, normally in the Snug or the Jug and Bottle. Everything all right, Landlord? A foaming pint would be placed on the counter and Sam wouldn’t take long over it. He took a shine to me in those early days as I am not a beer drinker. I’d normally take a couple of sips from my pint while Sam was emptying his, and then pour the rest into Sam’s glass. I never had a taste for it. Whisky was my tipple, but you didn’t get that buckshee in Shields’ pubs.

As we came out of the Black and Grey five minutes later I collided with a one legged man with a crutch – no harm done. I put my hand on his arm to steady him.

Keep your bloody hands to yoursel’ and watch where you’re gannin’.

It was my introduction to Hughie Ross. He was a character all right, with a shock of white hair that used to be red and a temper to go with it. He made a few pence washing up in cafés and hotels, and when they’d had enough of him he’d be a lookout for bookies’ runners. Whatever he earned he spent in the boozers.

Sam told him to bugger off. As Hughie went on his way over the cobbles muttering to himself Sam remarked, If you ever have to arrest him when he’s drunk, watch out for his crutch. If he catches you with it he’ll knock you into the middle of next week.

Saturday was a big day in Shields. The Market started early and finished around midnight. After two o’clock in the afternoon we always doubled up on duty. It was mostly drunks and fights but you had the odd bit of sneak thievery and pickpocketing.

There was every type of stall on the Market: clothes, curtains, materials, haberdashery, boots and shoes – old and new – butchers, greengrocers, tripe stalls, fish stalls. There was the man who made toffee on the spot; quacks selling potions that would cure everything; and the famous gypsy with his hedgehog ointment. The fish was fresh from the North Shields Fish Quay. If you were up early enough you’d see Annie Mountain with her barrow coming back on the Ferry to set up her stall. There were no fridges in those days and it all had to be sold. Those who did not have much waited until late to do their shopping. Many a poor family owed their Sunday joint to a Shields butcher clearing his stall for what it would fetch before midnight.

At about four o’clock Sam was starting to feel a little peckish. We sauntered over to the Pie stall. There were pork pies, steak pies, rabbit pies, cow heel pies, but the pie that was the cheapest, and many said the best, was the plate pie. Nothing but pastry and minced beef and onions cooked on a tin plate. It was a penny ha’penny a slice or ninepence for a whole pie if you brought your own plate. Sam knew Mrs. Hankey who served on the stall, and as soon as he caught her eye she finished serving her customer, cut two slices, put them on a piece of newspaper and brought them over.

We stepped into the small alley between the stalls to eat our pie. It was delicious – I licked my lips as a trickle of gravy ran down my chin. I looked round and saw that I was being watched. A young bairn who couldn’t have been more than four or five was staring at the pie in my hand. I could almost feel the hunger in his belly as his little eyes savoured the flaky pastry and the thick meat filling. He was standing by a pram which his mother was gently pushing back and forward. She was pale and thin with ash blonde hair and blue eyes – she would have been a beauty but for the suffering and worry etched on her face. They were not poorly dressed but it was plain to see that they were in want. As her eyes took in the look on the boy’s face the woman looked round, and when she saw two well covered Bobbies eating pie, she became even paler, put out her hand to move the boy on and then fainted clean away.

I wolfed down what was left of the pie and ran over. The little lad was crying. A woman had his mother’s head cradled in her lap, and was gently slapping her face to bring her round. A man in a bowler hat came forward with some smelling salts. The woman slowly recovered consciousness.

Do you want a doctor, hinny? the woman asked.

Oh no, I think I’m all right. I’ve been feeling run down.

She was not a Shields woman, but spoke with a London accent. I bent over. Let me help you up. She was still unsteady on her feet.

She wants a good feed if you ask me, muttered the woman who had helped her. Where do you live, hinny?

Just down Lower Thames Street. I’ll be all right if we take it slowly.

That’s on my beat. I’ll walk with you to see you home. I took her by the arm, and with the other hand held the bairn’s hand. The mother pushed the pram and we made our way out of the Market.

I’ll not be long, I told Sam. He said nowt – he didn’t need to, the look on his face said it all.

The woman’s name was Annie Burnett. She’d met her husband during the War, when he’d been on leave in London. She didn’t say so but I suspected that the young lad holding my hand had been the fruit of their meeting; a gallant soldier in uniform going back to the trenches with a pretty girl reluctant to say no. He was a riveter at the Middle Docks.

Lower Thames Street runs parallel to the river and like all the streets in old Shields had seen better days. It was a narrow cobbled street with soot-grimed houses. The family had one room on the first floor of a narrow three storey house – his wages should have brought better than this. A stout woman in a black dress and a white pinny was standing on the step as we went in.

Eeeh, what’s the matter, hinny? she asked. Annie said nothing.

She had a fainting fit in the Market.

Oh the poor soul. Here I’ll come up with you.

The room was clean but that was all. There was one bed, a table, two chairs and some wooden boxes for cupboards.

Mrs. Black, the neighbour, was a typical Shields woman, kind hearted but mouthy. All she needs is a good feed. It’s that man of hers. It’s the same each pay day – he stops in every pub on the way yem. Last Saturday he didn’t come home till past closing time. She feeds the bairns but starves hersel’.

He said he’d come straight home tonight. Annie tried to defend her man but I could see by her eyes that she feared another late night with half or more of the wage packet gone.

Well, she won’t gan roond the pubs to find him. That’s the only way with some men. She looked at me and whispered, She’s a bit hoity-toity. She’ll have to learn.

She’s in no state to go looking for him tonight. Could you make her a cup of tea?

Annie had run out so Mrs. Black went to get some tea. I’ll lend you half a cup.

I went over to one of the boxes and picked up a plate. I took the young lad by the hand and said I was away out for a while. Little Jackie, named after his dad, was only too glad to go for a walk with a Policeman. Half the street was out on their doorsteps by now but we took no notice. As we entered the Market and headed towards the pie stall Little Jackie began to hope.

Are you getting us pie, Mister? I like pie.

Mrs. Hankey didn’t make us wait in the queue.

Can I have half a pie, please? I had not forgotten the little lad’s eyes when he’d watched me eating and I reckoned that Annie had not eaten herself for a couple of days. What could I do? I’d thought of buying a whole pie, but ninepence was a lot of money for me, and I didn’t want any left over for John Burnett, whether he came home drunk or sober. Mrs. Hankey cut a pie down the middle and deftly lifted the half onto my plate. She looked at Little Jackie.

Is it for the poor woman who fainted?

Aye. She took my fourpence ha’penny and then scooped up a large dollop of pease pudding onto the plate. That’s from me. There’s nowt like pease pudding to fill you up.

Little Jackie was so excited we nearly had to run back. I didn’t stay; I just put the plate on the table and told Annie that she had to have some as well as the children. She blushed but hunger will always overcome pride. There might even be enough for a slice for Mrs. Black, I said. Annie would need all the friends she could get.

As I came back to the Market Place I saw Inspector Mullins with Sam, standing by the Pie Stall. I was in for it but as I approached them it was Sam who spoke first.

Did you catch the little beggar?

I said nowt. Mrs. Hankey looked over. I was just telling the Inspector how that little devil had pinched a piece of pie right from under me nose. She was in on it with Sam.

Aye, I was just about to collar him, but he dashed down one of the alleys off Thrift Street. I lost him, and myself, for five minutes.

It’s a warren down there, Sam added.

Mullins scowled. You should know the terrain, Duncan – you’re ex-army, aren’t you? He looked at me. Would you recognise him again?

Well I only saw him from behind. I thought I’d better use my imagination. But he had no boots on.

Mullins looked at me. You mean you couldn’t catch a barefoot runner over cobbles. He turned away in mock disgust. Now you haven’t been feeding these lads too much pie, Mrs. Hankey.

We all laughed. Mullins was in a good humour for once. I was lucky; on another day I might have been in his book.

It was night duty for me for the next two weeks but I was never one for sleeping long in the day, and in the afternoons I would often go for a good walk. There was always something to see along the riverside, and I would stroll around the narrow lanes and alleys of Old Shields ending up in the Market Place. It all helped with my local knowledge. I’d quite often go down Lower Thames Street, and not long after the day I’d first met Annie Burnett I saw Little Jackie playing on the step outside his house. As I stopped to say hello, his mother came out with the pram. She had a black eye or what was left of one. I asked if she was feeling better. Yes, she replied, thank you very much, and taking Jackie by the hand walked briskly away down towards Long Row. I’d seen the curtains on the first floor window move and Mrs. Black came down the stairs.

"He came back drunk as usual last Saturday. Mind he wasn’t as bad as he normally is, and he’d bought some fish and chips. I think the bairn must have said something about the pie. Well, he was furious. I could hear every word. He’d given her what was left of his wages, but he took some back and said he was going up to the Market to tell you that his family didn’t take charity. He was going to throw the money back in your face. He got as far as the Silent Woman in Thrift Street. When he finally came back he thumped her. She’d be better off without him.

She’s off down the Long Row to see Mr. Cleghorn. He keeps the lodging house at number 33. He was telling me last week that his wife’s pregnant again and he was thinking of taking on some help. I told her to go and see him. He’s a canny fellow. She won’t earn much but it’ll be her money and won’t go down her man’s throat. I said that I’d look after the bairns for her.

I was in two minds. I told myself that I should keep out of it, but I couldn’t stop thinking about those pale blue eyes. We used to keep an eye on the lodging houses, and I made a mental note to check out Mr. Cleghorn’s next time I was on duty in that part of town.

I was stirred out of my reverie by a commotion across the street. Hughie Ross was walking along the pavement and a gang of young lads were walking in front of him, pretending to have crutches, limping and talking to themselves. Hughie was going mad. He was shouting something terrible. If I’d been on duty I could have arrested him for swearing in a public place. I crossed over the street and told the lads to bugger off and leave old Hughie alone. They ran off laughing. I didn’t receive any thanks.

Why dain’t ye mind your own bloody business? I’d have caught the little buggers and given them a taste of this. He swung his crutch from the ground in an upwards strike that nearly took my head off, and left Hughie sitting on his bum on the cobbles as he overbalanced. I helped him up, and he went on his way muttering under his breath.

The next time I saw Hughie Ross was a couple of weeks later. I was back on the afternoon shift in the Market. It was a Saturday and I was doubled up with Sam Beecroft. We’d been busy – three drunks and a fight in the City of Durham. Sam had taken the last drunk down to Keppel Street, and Inspector Mullins had come back with him to lend a hand.

Things seemed to have quietened down for a while, and Sam went off to patrol down Thrift Street, while Mullins and myself stayed put at the Market. He must have smelled trouble coming up. The doors of the Tram swung wide open and Geordie Hardcastle, the barman, put Hughie Ross and a small red faced man out onto the pavement. And divvent come back until you’re sober!

Hughie and his fellow drunk had fallen out over something and continued a vituperative altercation that brought quite a crowd of onlookers. Hughie was always good value, particularly if he had had a few. I was minded to let them be for a while – not so Inspector Mullins. Drunk and disorderly – they’ll spend the afternoon in the cells.

As we walked over, the little red faced fellow saw us, and made off quickly across the cobbles, into the Market, and away. Hughie stayed where he was, shouting and bawling at no one in particular.

You make the arrest, Duncan. I’ll back you up. As if I needed back up to take Hughie down to Keppel Street. I made my way round the back of the crowd as I intended to come on to Hughie from behind to avoid the crutch. Mullins thought I was shirking. For heaven’s sake, man, we haven’t got all day. He pushed forward and as he confronted the little man, Hughie’s crutch shot up in Mullins’ direction. I reached out, just managing to grab Hughie’s shoulder in time. Instead of having his head knocked off, Mullins just lost his helmet.

I’m arresting you for being drunk and disorderly, I said to Hughie who couldn’t have cared less and continued shouting and bawling as I walked him off down Chapter Row. Mullins, who had recovered his helmet, had no option but to stay on duty at the Market Place at least until Sam returned.

The Station Sergeant’s face dropped when he saw Hughie. Couldn’t ye have just sent him packing down to Long Row. He’s nowt but a bloody nuisance.

I’m sorry, Sergeant. Inspector Mullins said I was to arrest him.

He took the charge of drunk and disorderly. In those days it was the Station Sergeant who was responsible for the charge book, and it was his job to accept or reject the charge, no matter what the rank of the arresting officer. The rejected charge book was an unpopular little volume. The arresting officer could appeal to senior officers to have the Sergeant overruled, but this rarely happened while Bob Jamieson was Sergeant.

We’d just locked Hughie up for a while to sober him up a bit before bailing him, when Mullins came down the five stone steps. The powers that be had selected Mullins as Inspector over the head of Bob Jamieson, who had been favourite for the job. What made matters worse was that Mullins came from the Durham Constabulary, and there was little love lost between the two Forces. Being a Bobby in South Shields might have its rewards, but it was not always easy to keep law and order in a big town with a lot of hard men from the mines and the ships who liked their beer on a Saturday night. Durham was mainly a rural area and they didn’t put themselves out.

I hope you’ve thrown the book at him, the vicious little bugger, Mullins snarled.

Sergeant Jamieson looked up. I don’t know why you even bothered with him. He’s no harm if you just ignore him. It’s more trouble than it’s worth to bring him in. He’ll be bailed when he’s sober and fined a tanner on Monday.

He’ll be sent to Durham for three months. Assaulting a Police Inspector’s a serious offence.

I’d told Sergeant Jamieson about Mullins’ helmet. We’d both had a laugh. I did not know Bob Jamieson well at that time. He may have been a bit too blunt in his way of talking to certain people but he was a good copper.

The charge is drunk and disorderly, Jamieson replied to Mullins showing him the Charge Book.

"Well it will have to