With a flurry of her pen, she announced, “If you want Lesley Shepherd, we’ll get you Lesley Shepherd!” and then scribbled me a cheque for £100.
Armed with a holdall of new clothes, a ticket west and a pocket full of “spending money”, I was sent back to Somerset.
Aside from the odd walk about in Shanklin, IOW, I had not ventured far so the actual experience of returning to Somerset was unreal and the view from the train window a revelation.
When I reached Crewkerne, the home town of my girlfriend, I experienced a really bizarre test of my integrity and honesty. Obviously aware of my own situation and still smarting from my experiences at Haslar, I walked out through the station to a phone box. I needed to phone a taxi.
Dodging a commuter rushing to join the train I had just left, I put my luggage on the floor outside the phone box. On pulling open the heavily sprung door, I fumbled for change and scanned the adverts for a cab – and then froze in shock!
A leather wallet lay on the shelf in front of me. Instinctively, like anyone, I picked the object up to examine it, peeling open the two folds of the leather.
I caught sight of several folds of paper, suddenly aware that I was holding a substantial amount of cash. In the following split second, the concept of putting the wallet in my pocket entered my mind but in the same time frame, the memory of my court appearance, my stay in Haslar and a sense of guilt and panic invaded me.
At the same time, I heard a whistle.
In the few seconds since I had dodged the commuter, entered the phone box and picked up the wallet, its owner had been running for the train. He had been running along the platform when the whistle had sounded.
When I rushed onto the platform, the man was only 50 ft in front of me but was just opening a carriage door. The train was moving slowly – but it was moving.
I had every opportunity to watch him board and be spirited away by the train.
Instead, I shouted “Excuse me, Excuse me!” as loud as I could and ran flat out towards him.
He was on board now and the train was moving at a jogging pace. I ran after it gaining ground but aware that I was running out of platform.
The man heard me, glanced back out of the open window but simply looked at me with wide eyes as I ran alongside him.
I pushed the wallet through his vision and he registered! His hand shot through the window like a relay runner and I slapped the wallet into his palm.
His eyes caught mine and without a word they expressed the biggest thank you I had ever seen.
I stopped running, the train thundered out of the station, and a lone arm waved back excitedly before disappearing from view.
That evening I booked into The Antelope Hotel, enjoyed a good meal and then set of into Crewkerne town to look for my girl. And I found her, virtually immediately, walking towards me arm in arm with a tall, scruffy man in a giant jumper!
My funds supported me at The Antelope for another night and in the time I stayed in town, I earthed with some of the friends I had left behind. We resurrected my little car from a nearby pub car park, charged its battery, filled its tank and I headed back to the IOW.
And I cried – every mile. On the journey, on the ferry, off the ferry and even after I picked up a teenage hitch hiker wanting a lift for the 20 mile journey across the island. God knows what she made of me. She must have thought she’d been picked up by a disturbed psychopath!
I stayed with my mother for a further month before she finally phoned my uncle Norman in Yeovil. It was clear I was unhappy and it was clear I needed some direction.
Uncle Norm initially set me up in a caravan in the grounds of the little village pub on the outskirts of Chilthorne Domer. My father also lived in the village but I did not contact him. Instead I worked for Norman, rewiring one of his properties and helping out in his Honda motorcycle franchise in Yeovil. I also acted as “The management” when he had to recover cars and motorbikes from customers unable to keep up payments on their hire purchase agreements.
In the summer of 1977, Uncle Norm invited me to Bridport, Dorset. He had a problem with a tenant of a flat / shop / workshop premises and wanted me “nearby” while he cut the tenants padlock off. He was repossessing the place.
While we were there, I commented on the state of the paintwork. Uncle Norm’’ eyes twinkled and he asked me if I could paint.
The next week, I would be return to paint a door. I would stay for nearly 25 years!!!
Uncle Norm had between 20 and 30 classic British motorcycles that he had taken in part exchange. Bridport was full of bikers, most of whom were about to get a wonderful surprise.
After completing the painting job, my next task was to prepare the shop and workshop. It was to become home to 30 British motorbikes.
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