Chapter 1 — The Cavalier Sixties on a Council Estate in Leeds

The 1960s in Leeds? I often strain to remember my earliest childhood recollections.

Now, at 55 years of age, sat in a Bankruptcy Court, waiting to be condemned a bankrupt by the presiding official, my mind drifts. I overhear the word ‘crusade’ echoed across the room, and that brings to mind a memory from many years afore.

When, no older than six, hearing the stirring music and hoofed sound of the Crusaders — both a cheap television programme and the name of my childhood gang, battling our way against the dark forces of Evil in faraway distant lands. Crusaders and Foes would meet upon a Middleton council-estate field, and then bricks and other objects would fly high and down over the field. It wasn’t long before a screaming kid took half a fist of concrete on the head, whereupon the ambulance was called for, and the wicked game was ended for another week. On another occasion a baked-bean tin lid, complete with jagged edges, and as big as a dinner plate, was hurled, only to return, boomerang fashion, and stick into the head of a bleeding comrade.

Wicked? No, it aroused in us council brats much fun. Then, you didn’t see the danger. Does any kid see the dangers of life at that age? Strange, now, to launch a handful of brick and hope with eager eyes it would smash and fell a foe by knocking him senseless. No concept of danger; no understanding of the injury caused. Lobbing bricks and sharp metal lids from a distance is fun to a young kid, incomprehensible to us adults, but fun to them. A child is insensitive to danger. For the most meagre gain of advantage, all personal safety will be sacrificed.

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Growing up on a Leeds council estate in the 1960s and in autumn meant only one thing to a young scamp: apples and apple nicking. In the posher parts of Leeds they had pear trees, but on the Middleton sprawling council estate, there were only apple trees.

Jimmy and I had been eyeing up this one particular tree since the beginning of September. Now, nearing the last days of September, the fruit hung heavy from that tree. There was only one problem though: the owner of such a treasure tree was a big brute of a man, and even at our tender age, knowledge was known he wouldn’t take kindly to two kids nicking his apples. But that did not deter us, and a stratagem was called for.

‘We’ll knock on his door first, and if no one’s in, we’ll raid the bloke’s apples and then get away quick. If he’s in, we’ll ask for a drink of water and pretend we’re thirsty, but we’ll know he’s in, and then we will wait for him to leave.’

We dutifully marched up to his front door, through the large garden of that semi-detached house, past the apple tree with the lush apples hanging from the branches, and knocked upon the door.

‘What de yer want?’ boomed the big man.

‘We’re thirsty, and can we have a drink of water please?’

‘No, you can’t, and fuck off out ov here,’ throwing his big, grubby finger towards the iron gate, ‘and if I catch you in here agen, you’re in forrit,’ and without ceremony, he began to march us towards the gate with a firm grasp of our dirty shirts and our little legs in short pants scrambling to keep apace.

The first part of the plan was accomplished, however, and we now knew he was in the house, and the raid couldn’t take place until he’d left. All we had now to do was to wait, be patient, and the man would go to work or somewhere else; it mattered not: the apples ‘were gonna be ours.’

Sure enough, barely twenty minutes had passed before there emerged from the front door the aforesaid brute, now complete with jacket and striding towards the gates.

‘He’s here, Jimmy,’ and I pointed to the man opening the gates and then walking back to get into his car.

‘Yea, I bet he gets back out o car and shuts his gates.’

Sure enough, Jimmy was right. The man had barely closed the gates and driven away from the drive before Jimmy and I were hurtling towards our booty of apples.

The gate was flung open, and within a second or two, I was ascending the tree. Jimmy remained below, cupping his scruffy shirt to gather the apples as I shook the branches of treasure. The apples were that ripe even climbing the tree loosened them from their creator. The biggest fruit was at the top, and that was where I was headed, when suddenly, the horror: he was back in his car: the brute.

‘Jimmy!’ I cried.

But Jimmy had barely turned around to see the danger when the man came crashing through the gates. I can still remember to this day viewing the spectacle up there in that apple tree.

Subtly, Jimmy’s body froze, and only his arms moved, falling to his side, whilst the purloined apples, out of Jimmy’s cupped shirt, fell to the ground, bouncing upon the concrete and rolling away.

The attack was instant, and Jimmy had no escape. Slaps across the face and even harder ones across his bare legs were administered without much respite. Even Jimmy’s cries went completely unheard, as the man picked him up by an arm and leg, and without much effort, launched him over the fence and onto the grass on the other side.

As Jimmy took to his feet screaming and ran off home, the man purposefully walked up to the base of the tree and growled, ‘And you’re next, you little thieving bastard.’

There are times when incontinence cannot be resisted, and the very terror of being beaten, as had just happened to Jimmy, sent the warm liquid through my short pants.

Here I was: undone, shaking with fear, pissing myself, and about to die of a heart attack at six years old when my little brain came to the rescue.

The mind can be extraordinarily astute at saving your arse in moments of utter despair, and my mind did just that. In a matter of moments the man would be upon me and violence upon my person was indeed a certainty. Within those few short seconds, from up the tree, I saw a privet hedge of saviour. To those who’ve never jumped into or on a privet hedge, the hedge can take a significant impact upon the top and can also be quite bouncy, especially to a young child of no more than a few stone.

Just as the brute was about to reach out for my foot, I hurled myself towards that hedge, making sure I landed upon the bushy and springy top as flat as possible to spread my weight. Sure enough, the top did its deed and took most of the impact; only a small part gave way and administered a small cut upon my knee.

But I was free. I knew the man couldn’t follow such a daring escape, and with this knowledge and him cursing to himself, ‘The little bastard,’ off I fled through the next garden and off like the clappers, as the saying goes, with only a wet pair of pants and a little cut as punishment for apple nicking days on a 1960s Leeds council estate.