I started at Acrow
Engineering in 1974 as an apprentice printer, it wasn’t a great job but I was
in the career I hoped would bring big rewards.
My foreman, Peter Kirby lived in Loughton which was fairly
close to where I did in Upper Clapton, a suburb of London; well he figured, he
had to come through that way to get to work. After a few weeks of being in the
job he offered to give me a lift to work as he knew my wages, £10 a week, were
so poor that the cost of travelling took up most of my wages.
Pete had a ‘souped up’ Ford Anglia, an ‘anglebox’, as they
were affectionately known. It was bright red and had the mandatory flared wheel
arches, patches of Plastic Padding and ‘Carlos Fandango’ wide tyres; the older
readers will get that reference. It also had the ‘farty’ exhaust so beloved of
the car enthusiast of that time; they had a brand name that I can’t remember.
Most of the interior had been stripped out for the weight ratio aspect; Pete
had a Recaro seat, the passenger seat was barely bolted to the chassis though
and was a standard issue Ford seat, uncomfortable and badly designed. The car
and its exhaust noises turned heads wherever he went.
We used to travel up Northwold Road, past Clissold Park and
through Newington Green heading towards Paddington and Praed Street, well South
Wharf Road; the same route day in and day out for months and years.
It was when we were driving around Newington Green one
morning that the title alludes to. We were driving round the green as it was
one way system then, it still probably is, as we exited out onto the Newington
Green road a Nurse who in front of us on her pedal cycle suddenly moved right
to avoid a pothole. Pete clipped her back wheel; she tumbled off the bike and onto
the tarmac. The bike and her clattered to the ground, she lay sprawled in the
gutter.
“Oh fuck, just what we needed…” he rather unkindly
commented. I think it was more something to say. Anyway, he stopped the car
about 10 yards in front of the now sprawled, spluttering nurse. She had managed
to sit up and was struggling to her feet nursing her arm in a gesture of pain.
“Oh fuck.” Pete said as we got out of the car and walked
back towards the distressed lady.
I picked up her bike and Pete helped the Nurse to her feet,
she was a bit shocked and was rubbing her knees and elbows intermittently to
soothe her pains.
“Didn’t you see me? You bloody fool I’m a big enough
target…”
It was true she was a rather Rubinesque lady perched atop a
delicate cycle frame; now in hindsight she reminded me a bit Nurse Gladys
Emmanuel from ‘Open All Hours’. I can still see her in my mind to this day.
“Course I did.” Pete said. “Course I did. You swerved out.”
“Are you okay?” I rather limply asked. The Nurse just glared
at me and carried on soothing her elbows and knees. She glared at Pete in
silence. That silence was broken by Pete;
“The guns! Dave, the guns on the back seat! Get ‘em quick!”
he blurted out. I looked at him, nodded and ran back to the car. The poor Nurse
just looked even more shocked and confused. She had been knocked off her bike
on the way to work and was now faced with two armed men in a souped up car.
I scrambled into the car and grabbed the two guns from the
backseat; a Colt 45 revolver and an automatic pistol. I knew it was an offence
to carry weapons uncovered in the street so I stuffed them gangster like into
my waistband and covered them with my jacket. I ran back to Pete and the Nurse
holding onto the butts of the guns. The poor woman looked terrified as she sat
forlornly in the gutter ; Pete was offering her a lift off the ground as I
joined them.
“It’s OK.” She said, “It’s OK….” The terror on her face and
in her demeanour was palpable. The poor terrified woman must have thought she
had been clipped by two IRA armed terrorists. I was terrified the Police would
arrive. The Balcombe Street Siege had only taken place a few months before and
I had two guns down my trousers. Great, just what I needed to be shot dead on
way into work. I hadn’t lived long enough to make a will. I looked furtively
around. I must have looked so fucking guilty.
“Are you sure?” Pete asked again,
“Sure.” She said “Sure.”
Pete looked at her bike, checked her chain and did that dry
run thing you do with bikes to test that the wheels go round by pushing it
backwards and forwards.
“The bike seems okay….that’s one thing. I am sorry love”
The Nurse glanced at me in sheer horror as Pete was saying
this; as my jacket moved aside and revealed the two pistols tucked into my
waistband.
“I’ll survive.” she said “You two go on, I’ll be okay.” Her
voice had a nervous tremor to it. She glanced nervously at both me and the guns
again as I covered them again to the best of my ability. I was wearing a cheap
bomber jacket, one of the green nylon ones with an orange lining. Not the best
fashion apparel to hide two rather guns under. Pete and I got back in the car,
I put the guns back onto the back seat and we drove off. The Nurse was just stood
watching us drive off.
“I offered.” Pete said. “I offered to get her to work.”
“I know.” I replied.
At that point both of us were completely oblivious to the
fact that she had seen the guns. It simply didn’t occur to either of us that
she might have been terrified by his expostulation of ‘The guns!’.
We drove on and went past the Angel Islington and went down
Penton Rise as usual, it was all a one way system so we had a route that we
followed every day.
As we turned and joined Penton Rise Pete said,
“We’ve got company….”
I glanced into the outside rear view mirror to see a traffic
Policeman following us. Then his blue light flashed and he gestured for Pete to
pull over.
“Oh fucking great.” Pete said. “A sodding crash and now
this…..” he paused and thought.
“The guns! The Nurse has reported us for the guns!”
My heart sank. I had images of the SPG turning up mob
handed, armed Police surrounding us á la Balcombe Street, spending hundreds of
years in prison for possession of firearms in a public place. My mouth went
dry. I have a strong bladder so that side of my terror was taken care of, plus
I’d only had one cup of tea that morning.
“The Nurse has reported the guns!” Pete said again.
“But they are licenced.” I said “they’re legal…”,
“Yep, they are, but she wouldn’t know that…..Balcombe
Street….oh fuck!”
Pete pulled the car over to the kerb.
We sat there and waited for the Policeman to come over to
the car. He put his motor bike up on the stand and sauntered towards the car in
that overly macho manner that traffic Policemans took up in those days. He
walked round to the driver’s side; Pete rolled down his window as the Policeman
leaned down towards it.
“Do you know why I have stopped you?” he asked rather
enigmatically. Pete just shook his head to say ‘No’.
“Out of the car sunshine and come to the bonnet.” The Policeman
said. He walked towards the bonnet and stared at it contemplatively. Pete leant towards me and in a stage whisper
hissed,
“When I get out cover the footbrake…”
I looked at him and nodded,
“Handbrake is fucked…” he hissed.
I looped my leg over the gear stick and low centre console
and jammed my foot on the brake as hard as I could. It was bloody
uncomfortable.
The Policeman glanced into the car. I was rumbled. He
shifted position as Pete joined him,
“Black letters on a red background….is this car registered
on the Isle Of Man?” It was a rhetorical and sarcastic question. I saw the
relief on Pete’s face.
“Red background and black letters denote an Isle of Man
registration, you’ll have to change them and get a number plate made up….Who’s
that in the car?”
Pete said I was a workmate and he was giving me a lift to
work.
The Policeman nodded and shifted position just as a cramp in
my leg kicked in; I eased my foot slightly on the footbrake. The car rolled
forward a few inches straight onto the Policeman’s foot, not over his foot, it
must have squeezed his boot. He jumped back clutching his leg,
“FUCK!” he shouted, “put your fucking handbrake
on…fuckinnel!”
Pete turned and jumped back into the car and ratcheted up
the handbrake, luckily the ratchet caught and held the car. The Policeman was
hopping up and down in a dramatic gesture of pain.
“Fuckinnel” he said more time, “Lucky I’ve got caps in me
boots…”
“Sorry.” Pete said rather limply and glanced in my direction
as if to say ‘Oh fuck this is funny.’
The Policeman gestured to me to get out of the car. Pete
said to him,
“I’ll get it off the road.” He craftily pulled the car into
a car park exit and jammed the wheels against the kerb to stop it rolling. We
both got out of the car and stood on the driver’s side as the Policeman leant into
the car and started a search of the car.
“I’ve got two guns.” Pete volunteered through the open
driver’s side window. The Policeman looked up at him and blithely nodded like
Pete had just told him he had shopping in the back of the car.
“Oh” The Policeman said, “Oh lovely, a Colt 45 and an automatic….” He trailed off
and backed out of the car carrying the guns.
“Lovely guns” he said, “I always wanted a revolver, they’re
much more like a ‘real’ gun than an automatic.” He fondled the Colt and then
handed the automatic to Pete.
The Policeman span the barrel of the Colt like cowboys in
films do,
“Lovely gun, lovely gun. Where do you shoot?”
Pete answered,
“Marylebone Gun Club…..”
“You lucky sod” the Policeman answered “I’ve been trying to
get in there for months.”
He reverentially span the barrel on the Colt one more time,
aimed the gun at the floor by squinting down the barrel like he taking aim and it
seemed, reluctantly handed the gun back to Pete. Then he gruffly said, and
reverting to Policeman stereotype,
“Number plate, get it sorted, I don’t wanna see that again.
Guns, check into Paddington Green nick in the next seven days to verify
ownership. Oh, and get that fucking handbrake fixed too, yer mate won’t be with
you all the time you know.”
Pete nodded weakly and got back into the car.
We were now over an hour late for work.
“Fuck it.” Pete said as we made our way up the Euston Road
towards South Wharf Road and work,
“We’ll stop off at Paddington Green and get these checked
in…might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
We did. The boss was far from happy but Pete could sell ice
to the Inuit and he bullshitted the whole episode away.
And so ended one of the most bizarre days in my life.
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