Mum said he was “a bad ‘un”, an armed bank-robber, never any good; had “never done nothing for us.” She said I’d be wasting my time looking for him. If I insisted, she said, I should start with the prisons. He was bound to be in one of Her Majesty’s nicks. Could she do any better? I’d asked. “He mentioned his lock-up near the Bent Spoon in Barking.” That’s all she said she knew. I thought not, but I let it go.
I had just graduated from Bristol with a first in German, without much of career plan. One of my tutors had suggested that the intelligence services were always on the lookout for top-notch linguists. Mum didn’t know why I wasn’t looking for a man as my brothers, Tom and Richie, were both married with families and good jobs, selling cars and houses respectively. Good for them, but I wanted to find out what happened to dad before deciding on my next move.
It’s a bit of a trek from home in Leeds to Barking, especially in a vintage VW Beetle. I decided to spend a few days with a friend from university, Beth, who lived and worked in a small coastal Essex town called Maldon. We had shared a flat in Bristol for two years and she’d always said I’d be welcome to visit at any time.
It was only about an hour from Maldon to Barking, so I thought it would make a good base from which to start my search. The Bent Spoon was easy to find with Google’s help. Finding someone - anyone - who knew dad and would talk about him, that could be harder. The young chap who pulled my pint had never heard of Erskine Dowd.
“Erskine Dowd!” he shouted across the room, “Anyone know of him?”
Silence filled the air.
“Looks like you’re outta luck, darling,” he leered. “Still, I’m free after me shift …”
I took my drink and sat at a table on the wide pavement outside. If I drew a blank here, where next? The prisons, as mum suggested? Asking in the local businesses? Dad might still be in the area, working at his old trade for all I knew, and feared, hated or respected for it. Draining my glass and about to stand, I was joined at the table by a dapper man somewhere between sixty and seventy-ish, dressed in the style of early Suggs, his hands and neck liberally besmirched with tattoos. He introduced himself as Norman.
“Erskine Dowd,” he rasped. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in years. What do you want with him?”
“He’s my dad.”
“Prove it.”
I took out the copy of my birth certificate that had dad’s name on it, unfolding it for him to read, alongside my driving licence.
“You’ll want to speak to Mervin. He knew your dad better than most. He used to run this pub and he took care of a lot of your dad’s business - the legit stuff, his lock-up and such.”
“Where can I find Mervin?” Things were looking up.
“He’s not well. He’s in a care home. I’ll see if he wants to talk to you. If you give me your number, I’ll call you later on today.” He read the doubt in my eyes. “You’ll have to trust me.”
I guessed I would have to, but what to do in Barking to kill some time? Not far from the pub were the Barking Abbey Grounds, a public park and not far from there was The Boathouse Cafe and Bar that overlooked the River Roding. Returning my glass to the bar, I affected distress and said to the barman, “Maybe next time I’m in town.”
“I’ll hold you to that, darlin’.”
Without looking back, I was sure I could hear him drooling.
The park was interesting and the bar had rather more to offer than the ‘Spoon, especially regarding the demeanour of bar staff!
What if I found dad? Mum said he had a history of violence, that he’d hurt and maybe even killed people. Would I want to know such a person? Is that something I would want to live with? How might it affect my job prospects, especially with the security services? What about my relationships with mum, Tom and Richie? I know mum hated him and what he did to the family. The boys would have known him better than me, but didn’t talk about him, at least, not to me. Their attitude to my quest was, I suppose, broadly supportive but they would rather not be involved. That’s the difference between us. I’ve always been curious, wanting answers, whereas they wanted secure and comfortable family lives.
My earlier interlocutor called when I was deciding whether or not to indulge in one of the many cakes on offer. He said Merv would be only too pleased to meet Erskine’s little girl. We arranged to meet back at the pub and he’d come with me to the care home. I bought three slices of carrot cake to go.
I’ve never visited a care home before but, based on press reports, my expectations were not high. Merv’s place was, then, a surprise. Bright, colourful, spotlessly clean and smelling vaguely of cleaning products. There would be worse places to spend one’s final days. After signing in, a cheerful member of staff showed us through to the lounge and indicated Mervin.
Norman introduced me to a shrunken figure with thin, grey hair wiped over a balding, flaky pate. He looked me slowly up and down with rheumy eyes before extending an age mottled hand that was little more than skin and bone.
“So you’re little Harry, sister of Tom and Dick,” he wheezed. “You could barely walk when I last saw you.” He was wrapped in a fleecy dressing gown, a blanket around his legs and propped in his armchair with several pillows. “Your dad was a real villain, years ago, but not anymore, I think. He wanted to put the past behind him. I used to keep an eye on things for him when he was away. He had a lock-up where he stayed after his last time inside, there and at the ‘Spoon.”
Norman chipped in, “He traded the lock-up for a newish, good-sized van from my forecourt and headed up the A12 to …” He exchanged a look with Merv, who nodded. “ … Felixstowe in Suffolk. Haven’t more than that as an address, but I’m sure you’ll find him if he’s still there. I can tell you that he wanted nothing to do with his former life. New leaf and all that. We’ve not heard from him since he left. We respect that. Good luck to him. The lock-up’s gone now. They built a Lidl supermarket there, in case you wanted to see it.”
A carer asked if we’d all like some tea, to which I added the cakes I’d brought. Merv only managed a couple of spoonfuls with Norman’s assistance but finished the tea. As Norman was telling me that dad planned to use the van as a strictly legal ‘Man-with-a-van’ business, I noticed that Merv had dozed off.
“He does that a lot now. More every day lately. He hasn’t long to go. His body is just packing it in, bit by bit. We’d best be off and let the staff get him back to bed. He insisted that he couldn’t meet you in his bed, lying down. Old fashioned sort of a gent is Merv.”
The taxi drove past the new Lidl so I could see where lock-up had been, then dropped Norman back at the Bent Spoon with instructions to drive me back to Maldon. It was a quiet journey back to Beth’s, but I learnt that Norman, as well as owning several car dealerships and the taxi firm, had other business interests involving “this and that, if you know what I mean”. I think I did know but didn’t enquire further.
The following day, Saturday, was spent on local sightseeing and cruising the delights of Maldon’s coffee shops and pubs. Everything Beth had told me about her hometown was true. On Sunday we slept off the night before!
I had already researched dad’s criminal past and his court appearances. It was not pleasant reading. He was a thug and a crook who had spent much of his adult life behind bars. I had come across a note in one of his early court appearances stating that his father had deserted the family when he was small and that he’d had a brother who was killed in the Falklands war in 1982. A traumatic start to a tragic life. Norman had confirmed this information and was also fairly certain that my paternal grandfather had gone to Swansea. He didn’t say how he knew this, only that he’d never passed it on to dad. A quest for another time.
According to Wikipedia, Felixstowe has a long and ancient history, is a seaside tourist resort and is the largest container port in the country. Google Maps show that the port and the town appear to be just around the corner from each other. It must be an interesting place. Not so very big. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find a man-with-an-unusual-name-with-a-van. If he was still alive. If he still lived there. If he hadn’t changed his name.
I gave Beth a lift to work on Monday and thrashed the Beetle up the A12/A14 to arrive just in time to get caught up in all the school traffic. Where to start? Googling had got me nowhere except his past. Local directories might be helpful. Libraries? Newsagents? Cards in shop windows? I could try the police station but they might just Google him to discover a dangerous ex-con on their patch. Probably not helpful to dad or me. It’s not a very big place and the weather was kind, so legwork was the order of the day.
It was the end of an unsuccessful and rather dispiriting day, drawing blanks everywhere I looked. I couldn’t outstay my welcome at Beth’s and I couldn’t afford to pay for accommodation, but I hated the idea of giving up so soon. Sitting outside a cafe in the evening sunshine, gazing out across the North Sea, I took out the only picture I had of my father. It was from a Daily Express report of his last known criminal activity. All members of the gang were pictured, including their useless and hapless getaway driver who had shopped them all and was subsequently knee-capped by a ‘person or persons unknown’. Mum had long since burnt all the pictures she had of Erskine so this was all I had to go on. He was a handsome man in a rugged sort of way and I could see something of him in my brothers.
Pouring my second cup of Darjeeling, I noticed a large, blue van pull into a parking bay about a hundred metres down the road. On the side of the van was ‘EED Van Hire’ and mobile phone number. Two men got out: one tall, thin but stooped; the other, shorter, thick-set, muscley and shaven-headed. They crossed the street to a seafood restaurant and went inside. The man in the picture was much younger, but I was sure it was him I’d just seen. Heart thumping, mouth dry and hopes high, I headed for the restaurant. I could see them through the window, sitting opposite each other, holding menus and chatting to a waiter who was opening a bottle of red wine. When he had gone, I took a deep breath and entered.
They both looked up at me as I stopped by their table.
“Hello, dad,” I said. “I’m Harriet.”
I had just graduated from Bristol with a first in German, without much of career plan. One of my tutors had suggested that the intelligence services were always on the lookout for top-notch linguists. Mum didn’t know why I wasn’t looking for a man as my brothers, Tom and Richie, were both married with families and good jobs, selling cars and houses respectively. Good for them, but I wanted to find out what happened to dad before deciding on my next move.
It’s a bit of a trek from home in Leeds to Barking, especially in a vintage VW Beetle. I decided to spend a few days with a friend from university, Beth, who lived and worked in a small coastal Essex town called Maldon. We had shared a flat in Bristol for two years and she’d always said I’d be welcome to visit at any time.
It was only about an hour from Maldon to Barking, so I thought it would make a good base from which to start my search. The Bent Spoon was easy to find with Google’s help. Finding someone - anyone - who knew dad and would talk about him, that could be harder. The young chap who pulled my pint had never heard of Erskine Dowd.
“Erskine Dowd!” he shouted across the room, “Anyone know of him?”
Silence filled the air.
“Looks like you’re outta luck, darling,” he leered. “Still, I’m free after me shift …”
I took my drink and sat at a table on the wide pavement outside. If I drew a blank here, where next? The prisons, as mum suggested? Asking in the local businesses? Dad might still be in the area, working at his old trade for all I knew, and feared, hated or respected for it. Draining my glass and about to stand, I was joined at the table by a dapper man somewhere between sixty and seventy-ish, dressed in the style of early Suggs, his hands and neck liberally besmirched with tattoos. He introduced himself as Norman.
“Erskine Dowd,” he rasped. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in years. What do you want with him?”
“He’s my dad.”
“Prove it.”
I took out the copy of my birth certificate that had dad’s name on it, unfolding it for him to read, alongside my driving licence.
“You’ll want to speak to Mervin. He knew your dad better than most. He used to run this pub and he took care of a lot of your dad’s business - the legit stuff, his lock-up and such.”
“Where can I find Mervin?” Things were looking up.
“He’s not well. He’s in a care home. I’ll see if he wants to talk to you. If you give me your number, I’ll call you later on today.” He read the doubt in my eyes. “You’ll have to trust me.”
I guessed I would have to, but what to do in Barking to kill some time? Not far from the pub were the Barking Abbey Grounds, a public park and not far from there was The Boathouse Cafe and Bar that overlooked the River Roding. Returning my glass to the bar, I affected distress and said to the barman, “Maybe next time I’m in town.”
“I’ll hold you to that, darlin’.”
Without looking back, I was sure I could hear him drooling.
The park was interesting and the bar had rather more to offer than the ‘Spoon, especially regarding the demeanour of bar staff!
What if I found dad? Mum said he had a history of violence, that he’d hurt and maybe even killed people. Would I want to know such a person? Is that something I would want to live with? How might it affect my job prospects, especially with the security services? What about my relationships with mum, Tom and Richie? I know mum hated him and what he did to the family. The boys would have known him better than me, but didn’t talk about him, at least, not to me. Their attitude to my quest was, I suppose, broadly supportive but they would rather not be involved. That’s the difference between us. I’ve always been curious, wanting answers, whereas they wanted secure and comfortable family lives.
My earlier interlocutor called when I was deciding whether or not to indulge in one of the many cakes on offer. He said Merv would be only too pleased to meet Erskine’s little girl. We arranged to meet back at the pub and he’d come with me to the care home. I bought three slices of carrot cake to go.
I’ve never visited a care home before but, based on press reports, my expectations were not high. Merv’s place was, then, a surprise. Bright, colourful, spotlessly clean and smelling vaguely of cleaning products. There would be worse places to spend one’s final days. After signing in, a cheerful member of staff showed us through to the lounge and indicated Mervin.
Norman introduced me to a shrunken figure with thin, grey hair wiped over a balding, flaky pate. He looked me slowly up and down with rheumy eyes before extending an age mottled hand that was little more than skin and bone.
“So you’re little Harry, sister of Tom and Dick,” he wheezed. “You could barely walk when I last saw you.” He was wrapped in a fleecy dressing gown, a blanket around his legs and propped in his armchair with several pillows. “Your dad was a real villain, years ago, but not anymore, I think. He wanted to put the past behind him. I used to keep an eye on things for him when he was away. He had a lock-up where he stayed after his last time inside, there and at the ‘Spoon.”
Norman chipped in, “He traded the lock-up for a newish, good-sized van from my forecourt and headed up the A12 to …” He exchanged a look with Merv, who nodded. “ … Felixstowe in Suffolk. Haven’t more than that as an address, but I’m sure you’ll find him if he’s still there. I can tell you that he wanted nothing to do with his former life. New leaf and all that. We’ve not heard from him since he left. We respect that. Good luck to him. The lock-up’s gone now. They built a Lidl supermarket there, in case you wanted to see it.”
A carer asked if we’d all like some tea, to which I added the cakes I’d brought. Merv only managed a couple of spoonfuls with Norman’s assistance but finished the tea. As Norman was telling me that dad planned to use the van as a strictly legal ‘Man-with-a-van’ business, I noticed that Merv had dozed off.
“He does that a lot now. More every day lately. He hasn’t long to go. His body is just packing it in, bit by bit. We’d best be off and let the staff get him back to bed. He insisted that he couldn’t meet you in his bed, lying down. Old fashioned sort of a gent is Merv.”
The taxi drove past the new Lidl so I could see where lock-up had been, then dropped Norman back at the Bent Spoon with instructions to drive me back to Maldon. It was a quiet journey back to Beth’s, but I learnt that Norman, as well as owning several car dealerships and the taxi firm, had other business interests involving “this and that, if you know what I mean”. I think I did know but didn’t enquire further.
The following day, Saturday, was spent on local sightseeing and cruising the delights of Maldon’s coffee shops and pubs. Everything Beth had told me about her hometown was true. On Sunday we slept off the night before!
I had already researched dad’s criminal past and his court appearances. It was not pleasant reading. He was a thug and a crook who had spent much of his adult life behind bars. I had come across a note in one of his early court appearances stating that his father had deserted the family when he was small and that he’d had a brother who was killed in the Falklands war in 1982. A traumatic start to a tragic life. Norman had confirmed this information and was also fairly certain that my paternal grandfather had gone to Swansea. He didn’t say how he knew this, only that he’d never passed it on to dad. A quest for another time.
According to Wikipedia, Felixstowe has a long and ancient history, is a seaside tourist resort and is the largest container port in the country. Google Maps show that the port and the town appear to be just around the corner from each other. It must be an interesting place. Not so very big. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find a man-with-an-unusual-name-with-a-van. If he was still alive. If he still lived there. If he hadn’t changed his name.
I gave Beth a lift to work on Monday and thrashed the Beetle up the A12/A14 to arrive just in time to get caught up in all the school traffic. Where to start? Googling had got me nowhere except his past. Local directories might be helpful. Libraries? Newsagents? Cards in shop windows? I could try the police station but they might just Google him to discover a dangerous ex-con on their patch. Probably not helpful to dad or me. It’s not a very big place and the weather was kind, so legwork was the order of the day.
It was the end of an unsuccessful and rather dispiriting day, drawing blanks everywhere I looked. I couldn’t outstay my welcome at Beth’s and I couldn’t afford to pay for accommodation, but I hated the idea of giving up so soon. Sitting outside a cafe in the evening sunshine, gazing out across the North Sea, I took out the only picture I had of my father. It was from a Daily Express report of his last known criminal activity. All members of the gang were pictured, including their useless and hapless getaway driver who had shopped them all and was subsequently knee-capped by a ‘person or persons unknown’. Mum had long since burnt all the pictures she had of Erskine so this was all I had to go on. He was a handsome man in a rugged sort of way and I could see something of him in my brothers.
Pouring my second cup of Darjeeling, I noticed a large, blue van pull into a parking bay about a hundred metres down the road. On the side of the van was ‘EED Van Hire’ and mobile phone number. Two men got out: one tall, thin but stooped; the other, shorter, thick-set, muscley and shaven-headed. They crossed the street to a seafood restaurant and went inside. The man in the picture was much younger, but I was sure it was him I’d just seen. Heart thumping, mouth dry and hopes high, I headed for the restaurant. I could see them through the window, sitting opposite each other, holding menus and chatting to a waiter who was opening a bottle of red wine. When he had gone, I took a deep breath and entered.
They both looked up at me as I stopped by their table.
“Hello, dad,” I said. “I’m Harriet.”