My Criminal Past

 

This explanation begins, as most criminal tales, with a sob story.  It was 1973 and my husband, Sid and I were absolutely skint.  He’d been quite badly injured in a car accident some months previously while working in an industry with no sick pay.  This had resulted in our wedding’s being postponed from November to January and, even then, he staggered up the aisle in a surgical corset.  We lived in a basement flat in Stamford Hill, London and Sid had been subsidising me while I sold my artworks in small galleries.  Sudden lack of money meant that I had to quickly get a job as a skivvy in a local Hassidic hotel.  I celebrated the pantomime season by impersonating Cinderella, scrubbing big soup vats while the proprietress and her two daughters constantly berated me for muddling up all the strictly separated ‘milky and meaty’ kitchenware.  

This situation soon motivated me to apply for a teaching job with Tower Hamlets.  I was offered one immediately.  It began two days after our wedding in a spot which nowadays I believe is a pretty chichi place to live.  However, then it was untamed high rise hell with matching demonic young people.  To them a brand new teacher was a delightful plaything to be toyed with, tormented and then tossed aside when she was broken.  No quarter was given to new teachers in the way of mentors and lighter timetables in those days.  It was sink, swim or just flounder as best you could.

A few weeks later, Sid had recovered enough to return to work and, being a sound engineer, this meant going off on tour with some band or other.  So, there was I at half term, alone and penniless, reeling from my new job and wishing I could afford to go and see my family up north.

I was bemoaning my fate to my neighbour Norman.  This was a bit unfair as he was the saddest looking bloke, skinny, pale, watery eyed and lank-haired.  I knew him because of his tendency to take overdoses.  On these occasions his enormous wife would ask me, the only car-owner in the row, to take him to hospital.  To Norman, a few days recovering in the ward surrounded by nurses was a welcome break from his miserable life.

Norman worked as a cleaner for British Rail and was always proud that he had emptied the queen’s ashtray on the Royal Train.  He was thrilled to be able to help me out after my mercy lifts and said that, as a BR employee, he got free train tickets.  He would get me a return to Hull. This seemed too good to be true but Norman insisted it was no problem.  ‘I just go along with my pass and get a ticket.’ (When I said earlier I had a car, it wasn’t the sort of car which would get you to Yorkshire)

Why didn’t I think that, not only was Norman a bit dim but he had also probably never been on a train journey himself so wouldn’t really have much understanding of how it all worked?  I so wanted to believe that I persuaded myself it would be fine.

So, armed with my ill-gotten ticket, I set off from King’s Cross and arrived at Hull Paragon without incident.  Returning a few days later I heard a voice coming down the carriage, ‘Tickets please.’  Unconcerned I held out my ticket as the inspector approached.  He seemed to inspect it very closely.

‘Could I see your pass, please?’

‘Pass? I haven’t got it with me.’

‘This ticket isn’t valid unless it’s accompanied by a British Rail pass.  Do you work for us?’

Oh dear, I had to confess all.  The inspector made me go with him and sit at the end of the train for the rest of the journey.  If that wasn’t embarrassing enough with the craning necks and excited whispers of other passengers, I was escorted off at King’s Cross where two policemen were waiting at the barrier to arrest me.  I was charged with Obtaining Pecuniary Advantage by Deception which, when I enquired what exactly that was, I was told it was fraud and I could go to prison.  Aaargh!

I was picked up in a police car and taken to the local police station to be searched.  During that week there had been a huge commotion in the press about the new magazine Playgirl so, to join in the razz-a-matazz I’d bought myself a copy at the station and the policewoman excitedly lifted it from my bag.  This caused huge mirth amongst the officers as they passed it round commenting on the lewd pictures.  They then got down to the job in hand which was to find out who had given me the ticket.  A kindly man and a tough woman began some hard questioning.

I didn’t want them to think I was taking the mickey but I had to say,

‘Look, I’ve seen loads of TV police dramas.  I know there’s a horrid one and a nice one who do the questioning but no matter how hard you try I won’t be telling you who gave me the ticket.  It was a kind friend who felt sorry for me and I won’t get them sacked.  It’s pointless continuing.’

They gave up at that point and the procedure of bailing me took so long that it was late at night when I emerged into an unknown part of central London and started to find my way home.

To attend the court I had to take a day off work so, knowing my employer would be informed anyway, my next hurdle was an interview with the headmistress.  She was lovely, probably because she was grateful to any new reasonably robust teacher who might stay the course.  This did mean though that, if found guilty, I would be required to attend an interview at the education offices.

Upon surrendering my bail at the court I had to sit in the custody room, alongside my fellow thieves, vagabonds, drunks and peace breachers to await the call.  The only thing I remember about the case was standing in a dock like on the TV and, at some point, saying the words,

 ‘I didn’t think it was an arrestable offence.’

Afterwards someone, either the clerk or a policeman, told me that it was this phrase that did for me.  I was just trying to explain that I didn’t think it was as serious as it turned out but apparently that is a legal term and the magistrate then thought I must be a bit more familiar with courtrooms than I had appeared.  Whereas I might have been let off with a bollocking I was found guilty and fined.  Luckily, Sid came back from tour with a pocketful of money at just the right time.

The education office interview was very severe in spite of the head having sent in a glowing report.  I was put on some sort of professional probation but never heard any more so never knew if I’d passed.  I certainly never admitted my criminal past when applying for jobs and it’s many years behind me now.  I can’t say I didn’t appear in court again as I was prosecuted over a library book (Erica Jong’s ‘Fear of Flying’) at one point but that’s a story for another time.