What's Tha Up To This Time?: More Memories of a Sheffield Bobby

By Martyn Johnson

“Authentically capture[s] the realities of the sixties and seventies policing in Britain . . . a fascinating and endearing book, full of character and nostalgia.” —Firetrench

As with his previous two volumes, the bestselling What’s Tha Up To? and What’s Tha Up To Nah?, Martyn Johnson has written this book from the heart, not so much nostalgia as a genuine feeling for the people, animals, places and history of Sheffield.

From naked young ladies at Wentworth Woodhouse to suspicious scrapyards and second-hand shops, shoplifters, burglars and pickpockets, Martyn takes you on an amazing journey through an almost lost world of crime and characters. Meet George and Albert Bloggs, Sadistic Sid, Mr. Cellarman, Twirls the key man, Mr. Furnaceman, Mr. Handcuff-man; and not forgetting Big Ginge and the most glamorous of all, “Diana Dors.” Why not let Martyn tell you about his hilarious “contemporaneous” court experience and the day he became Lester Piggot and a very reluctant sea fisherman. Whether it’s the story of the dodgy unisex haircut, the mystery of the lost fingers or insights into the Dog and Partridge characters or Banners Department Store, there’s something of interest for everyone inside this book. Humor apart, Martyn’s empathy and feeling for the people of Sheffield and South Yorkshire shines through the pages, including some sad and difficult cases and times.

“Sometimes the front line bobbies’ accounts of what they had to deal with during the course of their duties is more interesting than what goes on in TV adaptations of police dramas. Martyn Johnson’s second collection of memoirs is equally as entertaining as his first, and will delight anyone who reads it.” —Books Monthly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781473841109

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

All Mouth and Trousers

What a cracking day. Nice and relaxing, just what I needed, knowing that tomorrow would be the complete opposite. At 9am on Monday I was to become a detective in the tough and grimy industrial east end of Sheffield called Attercliffe. Sitting on the grass with my back to a pheasant pen and a flask of tea at the side of me, I munched on an apple whilst surveying the outside of the massive building some 50 yards in front of me.

The afternoon sun was red hot and its rays were shining on the thousands of sandstone blocks and the many windows that together, made up the largest house in England, bigger even than Buckingham Palace and 660 feet long. The present Wentworth Woodhouse had been built in several stages, starting in 1723 and, during the centuries, both before and since that date many distinguished people had lived there.

The Earl of Strafford was a notable occupant and was a valued advisor of King Charles 1st. He was made 1st Earl of Wentworth but unfortunately he wasn’t as valued as he at first thought because King Charles subsequently had his head chopped off at the Tower of London in 1641. The king had his comeuppance though, as he himself suffered the same fate shortly afterwards. What must the people of Wentworth have thought when that happened?

Then in the twentieth century there was Peter 8th Earl Fitzwilliam who was, by all accounts, quite a Jack the Lad in his day. His best friends were village teenagers and they got up to all sorts of tricks. He must have raised quite a few eyebrows in his time. A sad ending was in store for the poor 8th Earl when, during an illicit weekend away with Kathleen (‘Kit’) Kennedy, the plane in which they were travelling crashed in the mountains in France and both of them were tragically killed.

I was musing over the many events that befell the Fitzwilliams when my daydreaming about what life must have been like in and around the Big House, over the centuries was brought to an abrupt stop.

‘Hes tha watter’d and fed them pheasants yet, Martyn? They must be due.’ It was little Maurice Hodgson, an ex-navy man, who was as hard as nails and also very comical. During his naval career and much to his dismay, he was part of the crew of the first submarine used to test the possibility of whether such a vessel could travel underneath the ice cap. He used to say that the journey was absolutely terrifying and that when they opened the conning tower door after surfacing, it was the happiest moment of his life.

Maurice was typical of the old saying ‘If you want a good gamekeeper, employ a good poacher’, which was just what Maurice used to be and a good one at that. The well respected head gamekeeper of the day, and my good pal, was Harry Gale. Harry and Maurice first crossed swords when they met in a wood where Maurice was happily netting rabbits until Harry arrived and approached him.

‘I’m the head gamekeeper for Earl Fitzwilliam. Have you got permission to be taking them rabbits?’ shouted Harry.

‘I work for Her Majesty the Queen, tha’d best ask her,’ was Maurice’s answer. That was the beginning of a friendship with Harry that lasted many years.

Maurice’s sons, Ian and Mark, also went into gamekeeping, as did Maurice’s grandson Gareth who is now a head gamekeeper himself.

With that I jumped up and we both set about feeding and watering the several thousand young pheasants that were in the rearing field, 25 yards behind the Big House itself. The young poults needed regular sustenance and especially in the heat that we were now enjoying. The poults were kept at the back of the Big House because it was more secure and easier to look after them there rather than them being in the park. Later on, when they were older, the birds were released into the huge parkland surrounding the Big House itself.

An hour-and-a-half later the job was done and we had just settled down to a pot of tea when, coming towards us with a face like thunder, was Harry Gale himself – the gaffer.

‘Bloody hell, what’s up wi him? Look at his face. It’s like an angry wasp,’ said Maurice.

‘I don’t know, but he doesn’t look very happy,’ I replied. Both Maurice and I often helped the gamekeepers out during the pheasant rearing season when it was busy and we both thoroughly enjoyed it but looking at Harry’s face it looked as though this was about to change. Harry was a tall wiry man and his long strides brought him to us in no time at all; and he bellowed, ‘Martyn! Maurice!’ He was angry all right.

‘Yes Harry, what’s up?’ I said.

‘What’s up? What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s bloody up. Both of you get over there to that North Terrace wall. There’s thirty or forty brazen hussies laid out on’t grass and they haven’t got a stitch of clothing on between ’em. Can you believe it?’ Harry replied. ‘I’ve told ’em to shift and they won’t, so you two go and shift ’em, nah!’

From 1949 to 1979 most of Wentworth Woodhouse had been taken over and used as a Physical Education College where female student teachers were trained. It was called Lady Mabel College, named after Lady Mabel Fitzwilliam who was the sister of the 7th Earl. Some of the grounds were out of bounds to the students and it was these girls that Harry was obviously on about.

I looked at Maurice and he looked at me and we both had a grin stretching from ear -to-ear and we both combed our hair at the same time, we obviously needed to look presentable. With that we were off, quietly flitting between the trees looking for the source of every man’s dream – a bevy of naked young ladies – we couldn’t believe our good luck.

David Attenborough had nothing like the stealth that Maurice and I deployed in the search for the rarely seen ‘naked bird’ or, hopefully, a flock of them – if Harry wasn’t winding us up. After a short while I saw Maurice stop and on his signal to be quiet I joined him behind a large rhododendron bush.

Harry was right, there were loads of them, lying on their backs with not a stitch of clothing to be seen – unbelievable.

‘Tha’re a copper, what next?’ Maurice whispered.

‘I know they shouldn’t be there Maurice but they aren’t hurting anybody, it seems a shame to move them, but if Harry says they’ve got to go, then they’ve got to go,’ I replied as quietly as I could.

We both stepped out from behind the bush and bravely walked up and down the line of girls. There were blondes, red heads, brunettes and they were all shapes and sizes; and I suddenly realized that not one of them was phased out by our presence. Rather than them being embarrassed it was the other way round and it was us that were embarrassed. It was obvious that they felt that there was safety in numbers! I know what you lads reading this are thinking, you would think that we were in our element but suddenly, and somehow, the tables had been turned on us and it was hard to know what to do next. I can honestly say that, as full-blooded males, we should have been looking at every one in turn but the truth is that it was embarrassing and neither Maurice or I knew where to look, it was really, really weird.

‘Come on girls, you know you shouldn’t be here. This is private land that doesn’t belong to the College. Mr Gale says you’ve got to move, off you go,’ I said hopefully.

No one moved and all I got was a load of abuse, they were having none of it. I could feel Maurice shuffling at the side of me and now we weren’t as brave, when we were confronted with the girls, as we thought we would be. I tried again to make them move and again they completely ignored me. On my third attempt I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

‘Right, come on girls, I’ve told you twice and now I’m telling you again, up you get and off you go before I get to the count of ten. ONE – TWO – THREE – FOUR …’ but still nobody moved. ‘FIVE – SIX – SEVEN …,’ and at this point I realized that I was in trouble. What had set off as a good laugh was now turning into a nightmare. What was I going to do when I got to TEN? You can’t man-handle about thirty naked women and they knew it and were not in the least bit bothered. They knew they’d won. They were all giggling now and I meekly said ‘EIGHT, NINE.’ Then suddenly one of the girls shouted, ‘OLGA!’ And on looking to my right a woman stood up who was taller than me and probably a similar weight, about 16 stone! I suddenly realized that a physical training college didn’t just have runners, swimmers and athletes and I also knew that in their training area at the other side of the house there were some shot putting circles. Looking at the naked Olga I reckoned that she was probably a shot putter or discus thrower herself.

She was awesome and as she got closer up to me and Maurice, all the girls behind her were laughing. Olga walked straight up to me, shoved her face in mine with her ample bosom resting on my chest, and set about telling me off; and to emphasize every word she alternately prodded me and then Maurice in the chest. ‘You know you – big mouth,’ her fingers were like daggers, almost winding Maurice and he had to steady himself as she knocked him off balance. ‘I’m now going to count up to ten,’ she continued and her face was now bright red, ‘and if you and your mate aren’t out of here by the time I get to ten, me and my mates are going to have them trousers off you two in a flash,’ she said. As Olga started to count she must have also stood on her tiptoes, making her taller still and I thought both her nipples were going to blind me. The girls behind her were hysterical. ‘ONE – TWO…’

As a policeman I had been in many tough situations and fights that I was used to – but this was something else. By the time she got to SEVEN the girls were shrieking with laughter and then on the count of EIGHT Olga turned and shouted, ‘READY GIRLS!’ and they all jumped up off the grass flashing their bits and pieces. I don’t know whether it was me or Maurice that set off first but our legs were going like bees’ wings and I don’t think either of us thought that we could run as fast as that, what an embarrassment.

Back at the pheasant pens, I grabbed a fag and Maurice took a pinch of snuff. We were both shaking. What had set off as a good idea and a laugh had made us realize that we were all mouth and trousers, or should I say all mouth and ‘nearly no trousers’.

As we both fed and watered the pheasants again I looked across at Maurice and, like me, he kept shaking his head. We were both looking over our shoulders at the rhododendron bush making sure that they weren’t following us. We were ready to run if they were and you could still hear them laughing in the distance.

After seeing to the pheasants another part-time helper in the form of Bill Lister arrived and that meant Maurice and I could go for a well earned pint to the Rockingham Arms in Wentworth. Harry was standing at the bar and, obviously, asked us how we had gone on.

‘No trouble at all,’ said Maurice. ‘We asked ’em to shift and off they went. No trouble at all Harry.’

It must have been an hour and two pints later when we told Harry the truth and what had really happened.

‘Why do you think I told you two to shift ’em? They frightened me to death,’ said Harry laughing.

I went to bed that night chuckling about the day’s events and occasionally shuddering at the thoughts of what might have happened if Maurice and I hadn’t legged it. My mind drifted into thinking about Monday morning.

I’d only recently got married and, as every one knows, detectives fifty years ago wore suits and at that time I couldn’t afford one so I’d had to borrow one from one of my drinking pals in Attercliffe, Malcolm Shirt. I’d not asked to go into CID, but I’d been told to on the previous Friday. Would it be for me? I didn’t know. For the past seven years I’d been happily wearing my uniform and working the beat in Attercliffe and Darnall and loved it. The thoughts of not being in contact with all the children, old people and shopkeepers that I had got to know over the past seven years was, to me, daunting. A pot of tea here, a bacon sandwich there and a pint at the back door of the pub was the norm for me and I knew that I would miss it all. Doubts were in my mind. Would I fit in? Would I like or get on with the people I was about to work with? I hated paperwork and knew that a lot of that would be required. I’d just have to wait and see what happens and take it as it comes – and then I must have drifted off to sleep.

The stonework of the Victorian police station was black with soot from the many steelworks belching out their smoke – very different from the stately home of Wentworth Woodhouse where I had been the day before. As I walked through the double doors of the station I was greeted by Ethel, the cleaner, she was a smashing, ‘rough-and-ready’ Attercliffe lass.

‘Da looks bleeding smart dis mornin Martyn.’

‘Aye, new job Ethel. How’s your mester, he’s not been very well I hear?’ I answered.

‘He’s had a slight stroke love, but he’s on’t mend nah,’ she replied.

‘Tell him to get some practice in at crib while he’s off work and I’ll have a pint and a game with him in a couple of weeks,’ I said.

‘He’ll have no time for that Ethel, Martyn’s got work to do,’ and I turned to see Detective Sergeant Mick Smith, my new sergeant and he continued, ‘Come on up stairs to the office and I’ll show you the ropes.’

Until fairly recently the upstairs wing of the station had been occupied by Superintendent Slack and his family and it comprised three large rooms and a large kitchen. I’ll bet he was glad when he moved out, what with all the noise and goings on 24-hours-a-day and then all the furnaces surrounding us, belching out smoke all the time as well – if anyone needed a medal, it was him.

‘Right,’ said Sergeant Smith, ‘first things first. Welcome to the CID and now put ten bob (50p) in the tea fund jar. From now on call me Mick and not Sergeant, if we’re on surveillance and you call me Sergeant it would blow our cover. OK?’

After mashing a pot of tea he continued, ‘Here’s your pocket book, it’s different to your other and has no identifying marks to give the game away.’ Then pointing with his finger he said, ‘That desk over there is where you’ll work from.’

The desk concerned was large and made of oak and plonked on the top of it was an old fashioned grey ‘sit up and beg’ Olympia typewriter and a large day-to-day crime diary to record which crime complaints had been deputed to me for investigation. Mick turned to me and said, ‘Now for the down side Martyn. You’re working with Detective Constable John Longbottom and Detective Constable Rick Hardwick. Good luck to you; you’ll need it with them two,’ and off he went, chuckling.

‘How’s Uncle Jack at the farm going on?’ asked John. (see What’s Tha Up To?)

‘I’ll tell you better next week John. Christine and I are invited to a dinner party there along with a couple of my cousins Jim and Walter,’ I said.

I had known John ever since I joined the job in 1962 aged 19 and we became pals, but even though I had seen Rick before I had actually never met him. Rick was about 6ft 2in and slightly built as you might expect from an ex-Grenadier Guardsman. He was smartly dressed and you could see your face in his spit and polished shoes. John was from Swallownest, just outside Sheffield, whilst I hailed from Darfield, near Barnsley – we were both village lads and Rick had been born in Parsons Cross in the city.

I shook hands with Rick and I could feel that his hands were huge and when I saw the ends of his thumbs it looked as if someone had brayed them with a hammer, they were that broad.

We didn’t get chance for a chat as Rick and John were answering the phones as fast as they could go and filling in crime reports. It seemed and sounded to me that Burglar Bill had been very active in our Division over the weekend. At that point Mick shouted me into another office and passed me a great pile of crime reports.

‘All these are specimen cases similar to the ones that you may have to deal with as a detective. They are old cases that have already been dealt with. Spend today reading up on them and it will give you some idea of how to take different statements for the various crimes that you may encounter and also what is required for the Prosecution Department and sometimes a trial judge,’ he explained.

Mick must