1969: Made in Yorkshire, #2

Warning

This book will contain large numbers of colloquialisms, phrases, and sayings that apparently make no sense at all. I assure you, I’m not utterly insane. That’s really how some of us speak in Yorkshire.

Connect with me on

Facebook

Twitter

www.jamesfarnerauthor.com

James Farner’s Newsletter

Click HERE

...and get an email when my next book comes out. Also, you’ll receive the short story anthology Made in Yorkshire – Between the Years, including stories like 1967 – A Friend from Liverpool and 1971 – Backpacking with the Past completely free of charge and found nowhere else (not even on Amazon).

Find out what happens to Richard Warren as soon as you can in James Farner’s Made in Yorkshire series.

Prologue

It was March 28th,1968, and the anarchists were back out in force, along with everyone else with any affiliation to radical politics. Protestors planned a massive demonstration against the Vietnam War in London. Everyone from Vanessa Redgrave to anarchists over from France intended to join in. London, as it had been for years, was under siege from demonstrations.

A group of anarchists from the Black Liberation Division, carrying their familiar plain black flag, congregated towards the front of the growing crowd. They all dressed in ripped denim with various patches sewn into the fabric, or plain black leathers.

Their golden-haired leader, with his hair covering half his face and a dirty black rag across his mouth and nose, waited to rally his troops. You ready?

Yeah, yeah, I’m ready, one of the anarchists said.

Walk with the rest of them and if they get all around us, push them out. Don’t get yourself stuck with the skinheads. We’re not here for that.

Some of the French anarchists standing alongside the Black Liberation Division looked bemused at the strange northern accent of this anarchist leader. They expected to march alongside Londoners. None of them said anything. They were the guests here and they were the ones who needed their help.

The march commenced, and the noise ascended another decibel. Chants against the Americans and the ruling classes began as the masses began to depart from busy Trafalgar Square towards the American embassy in Grosvenor Square.

The anarchist groups had plenty of experience in these situations and they were the ones shouting the loudest, yet marching with caution. They watched for any signs of the police horses turning to charge their ranks, as they were prone to do. The Black Liberation Division’s leader watched the movements of their commanders on the ground. The Metropolitan Police, or ‘the Met’ as locals called them, had sent in amateurs today. They looked scared.

The march up to Grosvenor Square had the support of banners from trade unionists, left-wing types, and any other fashionable teen who had nothing to do that day. The crowds formed not only from London, but from groups coming from all over the country. Journalists with their notepads and photographers with their cameras walked in tow alongside them.

Nothing happened on the way up to the imposing American embassy. The police held their lines on the lawns and refused to allow the protestors to move any further. This worked, for a few minutes, before the stones started to fly. The war had started.

Micky, watch Anna. The golden-haired dealer ducked as a firework flew over their stationary lines.

Micky made sure he had Anna by his side. He could see the police getting more nervous. Their lines swayed and moved like an ocean wave.

It wasn’t long before the front lines of the protestors rumbled forward again. The anti-war, anti-state slogans melded into nothing but incomprehensible screaming as missiles flew over their heads.

Yellow, said Micky. They’re going to charge us if we keep going.

The leader, known as Yellow, saw this happening. The commanders were shouting behind the lines and the Met drew their batons. One scream later and a wash of officers dressed in black coats and pretty white shirts hurtled towards them.

Get Anna out the way. Yellow grabbed the black-haired Anna and dragged her back. Where’s Cocker?

Over there with the frogs. He’ll be brown bread if he stands there, said Micky.

Yellow grabbed hold of a huge, bald anarchist who was cracking his knuckles alongside the incomprehensible shouts of the French. Stay with us, Cocker.

Ah, it’ll be alright. Cocker didn’t turn around.

No, it won’t. Us Tykes know more about fighting than you southerners.

Cocker didn’t have a chance to reply to the playful comment as the police officers came upon their lines, swinging their batons and fists. The anarchists struck back with any stones they still had in their hands and the banners they were carrying. The crowd was too big to retreat, and the Met knew it.

Yellow punched and kicked at the enemies in front of him. They were in retreat. The officers retreated to the lawns of the embassy. He dabbed at the blood flowing from his nose, and unwittingly smeared it in his hair as he threw it out of his eyes.

Go forward, said Micky. We need to keep going.

Yellow had his reservations but didn’t say anything. The rest of the front lines were already moving, with the injured being passed through to the back where they could receive rudimentary medical attention.

Cameras flashes from inventive photographers hiding behind various obstacles briefly illuminated them. The Black Liberation Division was more than used to this and knew their name would appear on tonight’s evening news. It all helped the cause.

The police retreated further than Yellow had expected, leaving them in front of the embassy’s picket fence. The protestors quickly gobbled up the fence posts and began launching them back at the police and towards the embassy. The uniformed American soldiers guarding the embassy appeared in the distance.

Stay with me, Anna. Yellow clasped her hand.

Get off me, you stupid northern monkey. Anna wrenched her grip away. I’ve been in more of these than you.

They’re getting the horses out, look.

Horses don’t bother me. We’ll cut their heads off, said Anna.

The police indeed began gathering their horses for a charge. The horses came barrelling forward. There was no turning back now. Most of the crowd parted for the horses and enclosed themselves around them. Mounted officers swung their batons wildly, whilst scared horses reared and hit out with their hooves.

There were bodies trapped underneath the horses. Micky pulled at the leg of a young, French anarchist trapped under the frantic equine. Yellow pushed through the battle and came to his aid, helping to pull him out and back to relative safety.

Get him back there. He’s been done over, said Yellow to his French friends.

Go on, Cocker. Micky watched the enormous anarchist grab a banner and smash it into the neck of a horse, sending the officer’s hat reeling away like a tossed shilling.

They’re going off now, said Yellow.

The horses retreated back. One of them limped heavily. It looked like a broken leg. If it a horse lost a leg, it would be shot and ground down into glue before the day was out.

They’ll be back. We’ll have to get out or they’ll trap us. I can’t get done in again or I’ll be back in Pentonville, Yellow said.

Yellow knew the crowd had got too close to the embassy and there was only so long they could fight the police like this.

Hell’s teeth, we’re stuck here. We could try getting into that street back there, but we’ll have to get back, said Yellow.

What about the French? said Micky.

They’ll be alright. Don’t have time for any of their lip. Come on.

Yellow grabbed Cocker by his jacket and dragged him away from a policeman he had under his boots. The Black Liberation Division threw their banner at the police lines and began to melt away into the crowd. A nearby street Yellow had noticed had a few scared protestors cowering in it, but it was clear. He emerged onto Adam’s Row with Anna and Cocker close behind.

For God’s sake, where’s Micky gone, Cocker?

Lost him. Just go. We’ll get him later, said Cocker.

Watch yourselves. It’s all kicking off now, said Yellow.

Yellow was right. Police officers started to close off escape routes around Grosvenor Square and small groups of protestors fled the scene. Some still had their banners. There were anarchist groups, hippies, and normal civilians trying to get away. The police began to round up anyone they could for a series of show trials, common Met practice.

Crap, said Yellow. Skinheads. White power ones up ahead. We’ll have to get past them. It’s the only way out.

Two skinheads hung around on the street corner, smoking cigarettes. They both had red braces on and combat boots. They’d expected the skinheads to try to pick off anyone who strayed from the main crowd, as they always did.

Oi, where’d you think you’re going? One of the skinheads threw away his cigarette and stamped on it with his boot.

Get stuffed, said Yellow.

The skinheads ran towards them and made to hit them. Cocker grabbed his attacker by the throat and threw him to the ground.

Yellow received a glancing blow to the side of the head, but hit back with one of his own. The anarchists and skinheads clashed for a few minutes, with Anna joining in, until they heard a police siren wail.

Christ, be off with you, Cocker. Get Anna back to your house. I’ll meet up with you later.

The beaten skinheads ran the other way. Yellow managed to get back to his feet as three officers came in to arrest him.

Cocker tipped one of their hats off their heads as a distraction. Two of them peeled away and tried to chase Cocker and Anna, but they sprinted well ahead. The other wouldn’t let go of Yellow.

You’re nicked, son, the officer said.

Get off me. Yellow spat in the officer’s face and aimed a punch at his cheek.

The officer hit him back with his baton, smacking him in the stomach. Winded, Yellow curled up on the ground as the officer’s boots collided with his ribs and head. The other officers returned from their futile chase and joined in. Lifting him up to his feet, they clasped his wrists in handcuffs and began to lead him away to their car.

You’ll be in prison by tomorrow, said an officer.

He spat in Yellow’s face for good measure, and gave him another hit to the stomach before bundling him back into the back of the car and driving off.

Yellow could hardly breathe. He knew he had cracked ribs, but at least Anna had got away. He couldn’t allow her to end up in prison. She was the most important person in the movement to him.

Soon after Yellow’s arrest, the rest of the protestors filed out into the backstreets as a thousand police officers began arresting three hundred protestors. They stuffed them into buses for a first-class shuttle to the various courts around London. The media would get fat off these headlines.

Two days later, Yellow, in a messy, wrinkled suit, found himself standing in front of a judge, with at least ten people he’d never met waiting for their sentences.

You are accused of assaulting a police officer and breaching the peace. In light of the circumstances regarding yesterday’s riots... said the judge.

Riots, you want to see a real riot? Yellow said under his breath.

The judge banged his gavel down, making him jump.

In light of the circumstances regarding yesterday’s riots, you oblige me to deliver an abnormally harsh sentencing as an example to the general public. Officer Geoff Barnes was unable to appear in court today, but he presented a written statement. The statement reads you spat in his face, hit him multiple times, and attempted to strangle him. He also alleges you involved yourself in the assault of a police horse outside the American embassy in Grosvenor Square.

What a load of rubbish. Yellow jumped up in his seat. I didn’t do any of that crap. He spat in my face and hit me around. Him and his bonny mates went for me for no reason. They’re all corrupt and on the take. Slip them a few quid and they’ll do whatever you want.

Nonsense. I have no interest in your mad stories about supposed police corruption. We must proceed through cases quickly in the interest of the public good.

Oh, sod off. What a waste of time. You ponces at the top are just enemies of the people.

The judge banged his gavel down again and again, drowning his voice out.

I will hear no more nonsense regarding your personal political opinions. Due to your constant disdain and disregard for the law and justice in this country, you will go to Pentonville for a period of two years.

Yellow never remembered what he screamed afterwards as the court officers threw him through a door and into a van to face his first stint in an English jail.

Chapter One

1969. A year of turmoil across the world with communists, socialists, and hippies rising up against war and exploitation had just ended. With opposition to the Vietnam War in full swing and the Prague Spring now a distant memory, 1969 arrived, and with it the world’s eyes turned to space and the prospect of breaking new frontiers. All this came against a backdrop of Cold War tension and paranoia.

Richard Warren, however, had nothing to do with any of this. Richard had turned fifteen and aspired towards a career as a writer. Ever since his first interview in The Yorkshire Writer at the age of twelve, everything had changed. Magazines wanted him to write more stories about his fictional world of Crackonia, and his parents wanted to know what he was going to do for the rest of his life.

Richard, as ever, said he didn’t really know. Despite disagreements over this matter, he led a happy life in the small North Yorkshire village of Ledder Bridge. Little had changed over the years. The town gossip, Mrs. Forde, had departed for the next world, but other than that everyone stayed the same, just older.

Today, Richard travelled to Ripon on a cold February morning for his first day as an apprentice journalist at the Ripon Chronicle newspaper. Dad had originally got him the job. He still wondered to himself how he’d ever met anyone in the newspaper business. Nevertheless, Richard agreed with anything that got him away from the family farm. Dad had never stopped trying to get him to take it over.

The cathedral city of Ripon sat a few miles away from Ledder Bridge. Wiping some dust off of his jeans, he peered at the scrap of paper with the address again. He wouldn’t have understood it any less if they’d penned it in Chinese. He shook his head and spotted a man smoking a cigarette outside a pub with a wooden sign hanging above it with the One-Eyed Rat written across it.

Excuse me, said Richard. Could you tell me where this is?

The man squinted at the paper. Can’t help you, son.

Do you know if I’m close, at least?

Told you I don’t know. Now piss off.

The people of Ripon definitely weren’t as friendly as those back in Ledder Bridge. After all the unfriendliness Richard had dealt with over the years, it didn’t shock him anymore.

Eventually, he found a police officer who pointed him in the right direction. The building he wanted was only on the other side of the One-Eyed Rat. Richard thought the rude man surely must have known where the building was.

He walked into the breezeblock Ripon Chronicle building. The word ‘dull sprang to mind. The walls were of a depressing brown colour and the furniture looked like it came from a second-hand sale. A bored-looking secretary picked her teeth with the end of a long fingernail and sat behind a desk, trying to look busy.

Morning, I’m due here for an apprenticeship, said Richard.

The young secretary looked him up and down, her blond curls bouncing as she did.

The Ripon Chronicle. This is it, isn’t it?

What’s your name? The secretary picked up an appointment sheet.

Richard Warren.

The new boy. Yeah, they’re expecting you.

She dismissed him with a gesture of her hand towards the stairs. He wasn’t sure where to go, but he knew he wouldn’t get anything else out of her. A sign said the building had another three floors above the ground floor. He needed to find someone who knew the building. Richard was already late enough.

He came across one man balancing a stack of papers in one hand, whilst carrying a coffee mug in the other.

Excuse me, do you know where Donald Perris is, the editor?

Third floor, take a left, then a right, then it’s the last door at the bottom. The man moved on as he spoke.

Relieved, Richard climbed the long flights of stairs until he reached the third floor. It was much quieter up here with lots of maroon doors and no signs of anyone on the other side of them. A few solitary pictures of previous front pages plastered the shadowy corridor wall.

Richard.

He swung around to the speaker. A man strode down the corridor from behind.

Eyup, Richard, I thought you were due here an hour ago? said the almost bald and slightly overweight figure.

Aye, sorry, I got lost and couldn’t find the place. He flushed.

They all do. Only Mark in the print room found it the first time without any problems. Anyway, I’m the editor here. Donald Perris. Just call me Don.

Don led him down the corridor towards his office and let him inside. He offered him tea, but Richard declined. He’d always hated hot drinks.

James sent me your reference. James Spinks was the first editor you worked with, correct? Don read through a handwritten reference.

Yeah, he did an interview with me a few years ago.

Excellent. Well, he said you’re obviously talented and a bright young lad, and that’s all I need to know. If you do your job well over the next six months, we’ll see what we can do about an extension. I’ll be honest, apprentices don’t get the most exciting time here. It’s all making up cuppas and typing. Since you’ve already done some writing before, we should have no problems getting you onto something more interesting.

Will I be working with you? said Richard.

No, not with me. Too much work to do so I never take on the apprentices. You’ll be working with Dean on the floor below us. He knows what he’s doing and he’s been here a few years now. He’s on the investigative journalism team.

So he’s into the tabloid stories?

Don laughed. No, we don’t do any of that here. We only print what’s true and whatever we can prove.

Richard smiled back, remembering a recent scandal involving where a right-wing newspaper had