THE DAY I SAT ON A SMALL FORTUNE

THE DAY I SAT ON A SMALL FORTUNE

I was thinking the other day about some of the characters I have brushed-up against, some far less savoury than others, especially during the early days of my career during the nineteen-sixties.

For example, one of them was Annie Dytor, the shady proprietor of a Common Lodging House, then barely standing at the south west corner of Flag Lane and Wistaston Road in Crewe. I can now see on Google Earth that Crewe has changed a great deal since my boots pounded the pavements and back ginnels at all times of day and night.

Common Lodging Houses or 'Doss' houses were, well, fairly common in those

days and served a useful purpose for those at the lower end of society. They had superseded the Workhouse and provided the bare minimum for survival; a roof, a bed and on occasion a decent enough meal. They weren't a haven, nor did they provide any security or privacy but they were cheap and many came to regard them as their 'home'.

There were two or three of them in Crewe, one at the bottom of Mill Street under the railway viaduct, operated by Ma Hughes and her dubious family; one in Pedley Street which was a bit more up-market and Annie's place. Many 'residents' of these places were also regular 'clients' of the police, mainly for petty reasons but others had long-term mental health issues too.

It was 1964 and I was just a few months into my service. I'm talking here of an era of British policing mostly abbreviated by BR (before radios); BM (before mobiles); BT (before transport, save, that is, for one divisional dark green Rover 80 patrol car, a dodgy Moggy Minor and one dilapidated Trojan Prison Van). It was most definitely before PC (political correctness) had taken charge. The age of Dixon of Dock Green; if George Dixon ever did exist.

It was three o'clock of a winter's morning, cold, miserable and the rain was absolutely howling down. Huddled under my cape, refreshed and sustained by  butties and char, I had just left the Constabulary Divisional Headquarters, known by everyone in Crewe as the 'big-house' (formerly an imposing Ursuline convent) on Nantwich Road, later transformed into the Force Training School. Now I was darting between shop doorways down Edleston Road towards my beat in the Town Centre, shaking hands with the door handles as I went. We did that a lot in those days and woe-betide if you didn't find the break-in.

Fifty yards town-ward, through the incessant downpour, I spied an apparition. A ghostly, bedraggled middle-aged bloke standing, both feet in the free-flowing gutter, wearing a porous string vest, grubby flannel underpants and bugger-all else. The street was deserted which was fairly unusual for Crewe, it being a 'Railway Town'. There was nearly always some foot or cycle movement day or night, train drivers, engine firemen or guards making their way up to the station on Nantwich Road, to clock-on at 'thirteen minutes past two' or whatever.

Soon, I gleaned that the sojourner was Robert Monks, a long-standing resident of Annie's 118 Flat Lane Emporium, with issues more dire than just wet feet. I decided to walk him back to his abode. Consider for a moment, this was still a time in policing without any system of communication, except for a pre-determined “conference point” at a designated telephone kiosk and strictly at set times (five minutes before 'til five after).

The only alternative was to use the three one-penny coins that policemen always carried for emergencies and call in to the 'Big-House' from one of the red painted telephone boxes placed strategically around the town. Or, more likely, lift the receiver and tap out, 'three – two - two – one'. The following ring tone interrupted by the Post Office operator who would establish you were a police officer and connect your call to the police station switchboard operator. If he were still awake, that is.

Police officers were on their 'Jack Jones' in those days and nobody in charge had a clue as to exactly where you were at any given time. So in times of 'stress'. It helped considerably if you were of largish build and a good fighter. Alternatively, you would need to be a good talker and able to connect amiably with all sorts of humanity in an instant. Being of slight build, I soon began to imitate the native 'Crewishite';  "Amp't goin't fer't buzz", for example, and became a right chatterbox at certain crucial moments.

I remember when the Force changed from the traditional flat caps to the more imposing traditional 'Roman' style helmet. The good people of Crewe had never seen anything like it in their lives and the sight of me, all ten and a half stone (dripping wet) wearing over-sized head-gear that protruded outwards well over my shoulders, caused widespread consternation. It also gave me a few inches in height advantage over a lot of local trouble makers and with it, a new found sense of emboldenment. If you could manage to keep the unstable thing on your head, that is.

Arriving at Flag Lane we went to the 'Mistresses' back door and I began pummelling on it with my ebony staff for what seemed ages, until eventually a light went on in the vestibule and a woman's frail voice cried, “Who is it”?

“It's the police Annie, open the door”.

“Who is it”?..

“It's the p o l i c e open the door”.

“Who is it...”.

And so it went on for what seemed several hours until there was an unexpected metallic sound of sliding bolts and the door creaked open a few inches. She recognized her wretched lodger immediately and screeched, “What the hell are you doing out there you daft sod, you'll catch your death”... and dragged him inside. 

“Where d'you find him?”, she said”? ... and cordially invited me in for a quick brew.

First, she sorted him out, handing him a dry, threadbare cloth that had once doubled as an hotel quality Egyptian cotton bath towel, the bold monogram letters L M S (London, Midland & Scottish Railways) just visible. She ordered him straight to bed like a naughty boy.

I jest not; in the half-light of a bare, greasy 40 watt kitchen bulb Annie Dytor looked every inch like a wizened, grey haired witch, attired in a full length multi-coloured striped flannelette bath-robe. A sight not for the feint-heart, especially in this dimly lit 'Victorian' theatre and in these circumstances. 

The communal kitchen was the hub of the house with a central lino covered table surrounded by bench seats. An old range cooker fuelled by lethal “Town Gas” lurked in the corner on which stood an iron cauldron with the remains of last nights meal, cow-rib bones sticking out of the top, 'Desperate Dan' style, causing the lid to rest at a jaunty angle.

I reckon that at this time Annie Dytor was about 78 years old and her best years lay some distance behind her. But somehow she still found the energy and compassion to care for a dozen or so waifs and strays that nobody else had a single thought for; and the decade of the “swinging sixties” had left floundering in its wake. At least the Common Lodging House Act of 1851 now required authorities to register and regulate them and directed keepers to give access to officials and notify them of cases of infectious diseases.

Served with floral-patterned pint-mug (which seemed completely out of kilter with the surroundings) of steaming, milky,

sweet tea I was invited to retire for a “little chat” into her ground floor 'reception' room, which in the gloom, turned out to be her private boudoir equipped with towering wardrobes and a massive oak bedstead, on which lay a quivering Jack Russell and three mangy cats, all of whom occupied various designated parts of the mattress. I turned the mug to avoid the chipped rim.

Remember, I was nineteen at the time and unworldly. A short time later in my service, in the unlit back box-bedroom of a condemned terrace house, I received sage advice from the late, great Detective Sergeant (later Superintendent) Frank Morgan to the effect that "One should never refuse the offer a brew in such circumstances but on no account drink it". “Listen lad, you can catch syphilis you know. You'll learn, you'll learn”... and then blew his cigarette smoke directly into my face! Frank and I had first met several years earlier when I was just about sixteen but fortunately for me he had forgotten that encounter; and anyway that's another story.

Annie Dytor was uneducated and probably illiterate too, but she wasn't altogether stupid and now her hospitality was aimed at finding out 'what's-what' from the young fresh faced constable, she had now lured to settle at the foot of her bed.

It must have looked like a scene from one of Charles Dickens' novels. There she was, Old Ma Dytor, holding court; sitting-up in bed, snuggled under the eiderdown and candlewick bedspread, shawl around her shoulders and surrounded by her animals; and nursing a mug of tea. I recall that she was eager to let me know that I wasn't the first policeman to sit on her bed, no there had been many over the years and some of senior rank too! Had I been wiser the thought of 'catching' something off the bed might have sprung to mind. But it didn't, I was enjoying a mug of hot, sweet tea, left handed.

Talking of court, Annie Dytor was no stranger to the courts. In 1926 she had been sentenced to six months imprisonment for conspiracy and 'using an instrument'. In other words, amongst many other things, she was a back street abortionist, by all accounts a lucrative business in those hard times. Now, she also ran a fish and chip shop, owned three bungalows, as well as the common lodging house, and had somehow found time to conspire with others to trade as an freelance abortionist.

Again in June 1939, then 53, she appeared with three other local women and a

Doctor, a General Practicioner from Wolverhampton, at Chester Assizes before Mr Justice Wrottesley. She stood charged with 22 counts of conspiracy and 'using an instrument'. Caught at it again, operating (literally) her clandestine services over an extended period, “assisting young women to deal with their unfortunate predicament”; and always, of course, for cash.

She was described by the judge as “ A woman who could not refuse [assistance to] persons who wanted to be relieved of their condition”.

Despite their denials all of the defendants were subsequently found guilty and were sentenced to various terms of imprisonment. Annie Dytor got 18 months imprisonment on this occasion; a lenient sentence said the judge because he had taken into consideration that the defendant had assisted fully with the police, as testified by Detective Superintendent Platt and Inspector Bentley, (wonder if they had sat where I had many years later?). Anyway, noted the judge, she had not received as much money as some others involved, “for those nefarious practices”.

When I left the house and resumed my beat patrol, having inexcusably missed a scheduled conference-point, I legged-it to my next one at the Three Lamps in Hightown and waited. And waited. The 'phone didn't ring and it was clear that I hadn't been missed. A bit worrying really.

Almost a decade after my encounter with her, Annie Dytor died peacefully in her bed surrounded by her animals. The police who attended had the 'nouse' to take a 'shufty' under the sagging mattress of her bed and found, secreted there, thousands of pounds in bank notes of every denomination.

Yes, I remember the day I sat on a small fortune.