Handcuffs
This story is, as the title implies, about handcuffs and how my sister
Karen and I came to own them, how we restored them to working order and what we
did with them after that. It's in the form of a series of linked episodes. The
second and third of these are an exercise in almost pure nostalgia and I hope
you will indulge me in that.
Our handcuffs featured in many games, but I have selected the ones which
were memorable for one reason or another as the ones most suitable for
inclusion in a story. As usual, some of the details are hazy after so many
years, but I have sought to make the story true to its period and to the
characters of my sister and I and our family as they were at that time.
1: Discovery
I have always enjoyed finding a good
bargain. I can't remember a time when I wasn't fascinated by antique shops,
jumble sales, charity (or thrift) shops or even a garage sale. The contents of
my house testifies to this: I have a few good antique pieces of furniture,
while the rest is just old, some inherited from family members, some from shops
and sale rooms, but most of it both cheaper and better quality than modern
counterparts would be.
As children, my
sister Karen and I often liked to visit a particular shop adjacent to the car
park that my parents most frequently used when they went shopping on a Saturday
morning. My brother used to like to see what was in the shop too, but never
developed the bargain-hunting bug that my sister and I had. The shop styled
itself as being an antique shop, but was engagingly unpretentious. Much of the
contents of the shop came from house clearances, often yielding interesting
items that we could afford from our pocket money. The proprietors, an elderly
couple, got to know us quite well, possibly because we spent an inordinate
amount of time looking around the shop while spending hardly any money there.
Nevertheless they were friendly towards us and seemed prepared to spend an
unlimited length of time explaining items on display to us.
Karen and I
learned to haggle in that shop. I remember one occasion when I saw a
particularly pretty brooch. It was an enamelled metal cat, shown in a stylised
profile and rather elegant. It was black with two tiny green glass gems as
eyes. Today, I would unhesitatingly identify the style as Art Nouveau, but
then, I just knew I liked it. Early twentieth century items like this are quite
sought-after now, but in the late 1950s, they were merely old and
unfashionable. The price was therefore very reasonable, only half a crown (two
shillings and sixpence, probably equivalent in value to about two pounds or
four dollars today). The trouble was that I was a few pennies short of that,
even after borrowing some from my sister.
The shopkeeper
(it was the husband that day) understood the reason for our frantic counting of
change and whispered discussion. "You know," he said, "some of
my customers regard a price ticket as a challenge."
Karen and I
turned to face him, puzzled. What was the challenge in a price tag?
"Sometimes
they offer me a bit less. And, do you know, sometimes I sell things for a bit
less, especially if I like the customer."
Emboldened, I
decided to make an offer. "Please sir, I've only got one-and-tenpence. Would you sell the cat brooch for that?"
"Well
canny customers often don't let on how much they've got to spend," the
shopkeeper told me. "Sometimes they make a really low offer just to see
what I'll say."
I took this as
a hint on how to proceed. I thought of offering one-and-six, a whole shilling
below the asking price, but seeing the twinkle in the shopkeeper's eye, I
decided to be outrageous. "Well, I'll offer you a shilling in that
case."
Karen gasped at
my audacity, but the shopkeeper beamed at me; clearly I was getting the idea.
"Oh dear
me, no," he said. "I'd go out of business if I sold things at prices
like that. My best price is two shillings."
I wasn't sure
how to respond to this, but he was smiling and nodding encouragement at me, so
I responded with another offer. "How about one-and-threepence?"
"One-and-ninepence," the shopkeeper countered.
"One-and-sixpence,"
I shot back, getting the idea of how this worked.
"I can't
imagine how I will ever stay in business, but it's yours," he replied
spreading his hands in mock despair but grinning broadly.
We solemnly
shook hands and I handed over a shilling and two threepenny bits. The
shopkeeper wrapped the cat in a scrap of tissue paper and handed it to me with
a respectful bow of the head.
The part of the
shop Karen and I frequented most was a series of shelves near the back where
miscellaneous small items were displayed, although 'kept' would be more
accurate than 'displayed' as a thorough investigation of this part of the shop
involved rummaging through dusty cardboard boxes. Most of the items in this
area were odds and ends from house clearances. Much of it was quite frankly
junk, but it was all inexpensive and therefore affordable to Karen and me.
It was on one
occasion after a Saturday morning shopping expedition with our parents, when my
sister and I were seeing if there were any new items amongst the assortment at
the back of the shop, that we found a small square cardboard box which was
surprisingly heavy. We opened it and found that it contained several pairs of
handcuffs wrapped in old newspaper. We put the box down on the floor and took
everything out of it. All the handcuffs were of the old-fashioned pattern
consisting of a D-shaped shackle rather than the modern near-circular ratchet
design. In fact, they were the traditional 'darbies'
beloved of the writers of detective thrillers from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
downwards.
The box seemed
to have been stored somewhere damp at some point in its life. The lower part
showed signs of water staining and was seriously misshapen. Also, while the
first two pairs of handcuffs we took out of the box were old and rather dirty,
the ones further down were increasingly rusty and the last pair was little more
than a mass of handcuff-shaped corrosion. The top two pairs of handcuffs were
noticeably smaller than the rest. Both shackles of one pair were locked shut
but the other pair was open at one side. I tried it on my wrist and it seemed
like a good fit.
"Don't!"
Karen warned me as I swung the cuff closed.
I acknowledged
her good sense and closed the shackle just enough to feel the fit but not lock
it.
The other
handcuffs were much bigger and locked shut. Karen, who was much smaller than
me, despite being over a year older, was able to slide her hands right into the
large cuffs without opening them. There was only one key, which seemed to be
jammed in one of the large pairs of handcuffs; it was certainly too stiff for
our small fingers to turn.
"I bet Dad
could fix these," I said to Karen as we inspected our find.
Karen nodded in
reply. I think most little girls regard their fathers as mechanical geniuses
who can repair anything, but in our case it was very nearly true. Our Dad was
the development manager for a local engineering company and he really could fix
very nearly anything, making new parts from scratch if necessary.
We repacked the
box and carried it, carefully supporting it under its sagging bottom, to the
shop counter where the friendly proprietor was carefully cleaning some antique
jewellery. As we approached, he looked up and raised one eyebrow to release the
jeweller's eyeglass he was wearing, deftly catching it and tucking it into a
waistcoat pocket.
Given the risk
that the handcuffs might prove not to be repairable, Karen and I had decided
between us that we were prepared to spend four shillings. We really only wanted
the two small pairs of cuffs, but recognised that we also had to purchase the
one with the key. We thought that we might as well bid for the lot in the first
instance. Clearly the shopkeeper didn't think the handcuffs were worth much as
he only asked six shillings as his first price. I countered with two shillings
and we eventually settled on three shillings and sixpence.
We left the
shop well pleased with ourselves carrying our purchases in an old canvas
shopping bag that we had been given for nothing in place of the disintegrating
cardboard box.
2: Restoration
Our parents and brother were waiting for
us in the car, ready to drive home. Far more often
than not, Karen and I came away from our favourite shop empty-handed, so it was
cause for interested questions when we appeared carrying an obviously heavy bag
between us.
"We'll
show you when we get home," Karen assured our family mysteriously.
While shopping
was being unloaded from bags into kitchen cupboards, Karen and I unpacked our
purchases and laid them out on the kitchen table, carefully spreading out the
old newspaper to protect the wooden table top from dirt and rust.
"Can you
fix these, Dad?" we asked excitedly.
Our Dad picked
up the handcuffs and looked them over. "I'm not sure about these," he
said, pointing to the rustiest pair, "but some penetrating oil should free
the rest up nicely." He continued examining the handcuffs and pointed out
that each pair was stamped with the letters MP, which he suggested was probably
the Metropolitan Police.
Our mother's
reaction was more surprising. She reacted in horror as soon as she had given
the handcuffs a cursory look. Karen and I were disappointed. We had owned (and
had broken) several pairs of toy handcuffs before, so we didn't expect that
there would be any objection to our possessing the real thing. Mum explained
that she didn't mind our owning the handcuffs, but that she had been shocked to
discover that the Metropolitan Police owned (or had once owned) child-sized
handcuffs. It was years later that it dawned on me that those handcuffs were
not intended for children at all. It was while I was reading a magazine article
on the social history of the East End of London that I learned how very small
some of the women were who lived in the terrible slums of Victorian times.
Poverty and poor healthcare meant that it was not uncommon for grown women
never to reach five feet in height. Modern handcuffs adjust to fit any size of
wrist, but traditional darbies just have a hinged
shackle and no adjustment whatever. Smaller wrists demanded special smaller
handcuffs and, rather than children, I realised, these handcuffs were very
likely intended for restraining unruly ladies of the night.
Dad was as good
as his word and that afternoon, he took the handcuffs into his well-equipped workshop.
Karen and I put on our 'messy-jobs' overalls, actually two of our father's old
shirts which our mother had modified by shortening the sleeves and putting
elastic on the ends of them and by removing the collar. We wore them reversed
with the buttons at the back to give the maximum protection at the front.
After
inspecting the handcuffs again, Dad decided to concentrate on the pair with the
key stuck in them as we would need the key to see what state the other pairs
were in. Today one would reach for a tin of WD-40 as the best thing to free a
stuck key, but then it had yet to make its appearance on our side of the
Atlantic. 3-in-1 lubricating oil had already found its place as an
indispensable part of any toolkit, so Dad squirted some of that into a small
glass jar. He added some heating paraffin (kerosene essentially) and mixed the
two up. Karen and I commented on the pretty green colour that the blue marker
dye in the heating oil made with the yellow citronella oil in the 3-in-1. He
applied the mixture liberally with a small paintbrush. Finally Dad lit the
paraffin heater in the workshop and set the handcuffs on top of its metal
casing, which would soon warm up.
"A bit of
heat makes the oil thinner so it soaks in better," he explained.
While we were
waiting for the penetrating oil to work, Dad examined the small pair of
handcuffs that I had tried on in the shop. After a few minutes of intense
concentration, his face lit up with understanding.
"I see how
this works! It's not really a lock at all!"
Dad beckoned us
to come closer while he explained the handcuff mechanism to Karen and me. I was
always fascinated by all things mechanical (and later became a mechanical
engineer myself, but that's a different story) while my sister never shared
quite the same delight, although she had no difficulty understanding what was
told to her.
The mechanism
of these old-fashioned handcuffs is simple but ingenious. As I mentioned, the
cuff is a D-shaped shackle. The curved part of the D is the fixed part, while
the vertical bar is hinged at one end. As the hinged bar swings shut, the tip
of the curved part engages in a hole in the cylindrical bar. This tip has a
small hole in it and inside the cylindrical swinging bar of the shackle is a
sprung latch which engages in the hole. With the cuff locked shut, there is no
way to force that latch back.
At the hinged
end of the bar, there is a circular keyhole and visible inside that is a steel
rod which has a screw thread on it. This rod is in fact the end of the latch.
The key is a steel forging with a hole drilled in what would be the shank of a
conventional key. This hole has a screw thread inside it to match the thread on
the end of the latch. To unlock the handcuffs, it is simply a matter of
screwing the key onto the threaded rod visible in the keyhole in the cuffs.
When the key bottoms out against the body of the cuffs, it pulls on the rod and
therefore also pulls back the latch, allowing the cuffs to open.
Once Dad had
deduced the way that the handcuffs worked, he rummaged through an old coffee
tin containing hundreds of odd screws, nuts and bolts in search of a nut which
would engage on the threaded rod. Eventually he found one. He then took a piece
of stiff wire and formed a small loop in one end of it with a pair of fine-nosed
pliers. He bent the loop back so it was at right angles to the wire then slid
it down over the threaded rod on the locked half of the pair of cuffs I had
tried earlier. He screwed the nut down onto it next, pushing it round with the
tip of a small screwdriver as the keyhole was too small to allow a spanner to
be used. Dad pulled back on the wire and we heard a creak as an internal spring
was compressed. With a gentle shake to encourage it, the cuff swung open.
Karen and I
applauded our Dad, his standing as resident mechanical genius confirmed.
"Who wants
to try them," Dad asked.
"Me!"
Karen and I shouted in chorus.
"Well wait
until I've got the other pair open."
We waited
patiently and, a few moments later, both pairs of cuffs were ready for use. We
both held our hands out in front of us and Dad snapped a pair of handcuffs onto
each of us.
Although I was
well aware of how heavy the handcuffs were, having handled them several times
and felt the weight of the bag containing all the pairs we had bought, I was
still surprised at how heavy they felt on my wrists. My only previous
experience with being handcuffed was with toy cuffs, which were either moulded
from plastic or die-cast from zinc alloy. Solid steel was a very different
proposition.
Despite the
weight, the handcuffs were surprisingly comfortable. Unlike most modern
handcuffs, which are stamped from steel sheet, these were produced by a
combination of casting and forging so that all the parts in contact with the
wearer's wrists were smoothly rounded and there were no sharp edges to dig into
flesh.
Once he had us
restrained, Dad went back to the pair with the jammed key, which were still on
top of the heater. They were now too hot to touch, so he carefully held them
with a rag as he picked them up. Protecting his hand with another piece of
cotton waste, he tried turning the key. We were pleased to see that it yielded
to very little pressure and unscrewed smoothly.
After a few
moments while the key cooled, Dad turned to us and said, "Now, let's get
these off you so we can lubricate them properly."
I held my hands
out and Dad offered the key up to the keyhole, only to discover that it
wouldn't fit; the keyholes on the two smaller pairs of handcuffs were
fractionally smaller than on the others and the shank of the key was just
slightly too fat to fit.
Karen and I had
a momentary panic until Dad assured us that he could open the handcuffs using
the same improvised method that he had before. We waited patiently while he
used the same bent wire and nut as before to free us.
The three of us
spent the rest of the afternoon lubricating and cleaning the handcuffs. When we
finished, we had the two small pairs with no key, one large pair which worked
perfectly with its key, two more pairs which would unlock at one end only and
the rusted mess that we didn't even attempt to clean up.
My sister and I
were intensely disappointed that we had no keys for the only handcuffs out of
our haul that actually fitted us. Having one fully working pair of the larger
cuffs was nice, but they were far too big for us; I could wriggle my hands out
of them with very little difficulty and they just fell off Karen's wrists
without any effort at all.
"You've
got a half term holiday next weekend haven't you?" Dad asked.
Karen and I
confirmed that we had the mid-term break in our autumn term coming up. (This
would have been in the last week of October or the first week in November.) It
would just be a long weekend, with Friday and Monday off school.
"Well, why
don't you come to work with me on Friday and we'll make brand new keys for the
handcuffs."
Karen and I
were delighted with that suggestion and, after a little prompting, agreed not
to play with the handcuffs until then.
3: Engineering
Breakfast in our household was generally
done in relays. My parents would be up in time for my
Dad to have a cooked breakfast and to leave just before 8 am to get a bus to
the town centre. Mum would already have woken Timothy, Karen and me so we could
bid our father farewell before getting out of our night things and into our day
clothes. (Hot water was not plentiful, so baths were something that happened in
the evening to remove the day's dirt.)
On the Friday
morning of our half-term break, we had to be up early enough to join Dad at
breakfast. We were slightly delayed by Mum fussing over us about what we should
wear. She normally liked us to be smartly turned-out if we were going somewhere
where she felt we would be 'on show' and going to our father's workplace, where
he was a senior manager, definitely fell into that category for her. On the
other hand, she knew that we were going to a dirty factory (which she knew
well, having worked there as a machine tool operator during the war). She
settled for allowing us to wear our second-best sweaters, skirts and tights
(all well-worn and darned) but with our smartest coats on top, a blue hooded
one in my case and a dark pink one with a matching hat in Karen's. Mum examined
us critically and then insisted that we both had to wear scarves to hide the
rather shabby collars of our sweaters. The smartness was slightly compromised
by our wearing black Wellington boots instead of smart polished shoes. Dad was
rather amused by this fuss; he wore what was then virtually a uniform for
office-based engineers: beige cavalry twill trousers, an old tweed jacket with
leather elbows, a white shirt and a tie. As he worked in a factory, the brown
brogue shoes he wore concealed steel toecaps inside them.
As we left the
house, Karen and I picked up the canvas bag containing the handcuffs we were
going to work on. Our mother thrust a bulky paper bag into the top of it.
"You'll
probably need these."
At the bus
stop, I probed the the contents of the paper bag. It
seemed to contain a bundle of our mother's cotton headscarves.
"Mum says
we'll need these," I said to Dad, questioningly.
"You
probably will," he confirmed, somewhat mysteriously.
At the factory,
we understood why Mum thought we would be 'on show'. Dad was greeted by
everyone he met and most also stopped to admire his two little girls, somewhat
to our embarrassment.
At last, we
reached the design office, a light airy room at the top of the factory, with
large windows on two sides, giving a panoramic view of the town and tilted
north-facing skylights in the roof giving bright light onto the tables and
drawing boards in the room while not allowing direct sunlight to dazzle.
"Would you
two like a tour of the factory before we start?" Dad asked us.
We confirmed
that we would.
Dad beckoned to
a woman with a stack of cardboard folders tucked under her arm. "Mrs
Baxter, do you think you could get these two kitted out for a tour
please?"
Mrs Baxter was
a motherly-looking woman in her forties or fifties, whom we knew to be the
administrative powerhouse that kept Dad's department running smoothly.
"No
problem at all, Mr Bailey," Mrs Baxter replied with a smile. "Come
with me, girls."
We followed Mrs
Baxter to a smaller room off the main design office. There were two desks in
there and at one of them a young woman of perhaps eighteen or nineteen was
sitting at a typewriter. She smiled as we entered, but kept on typing.
Mrs Baxter
closed the door behind us and said, "I've already looked out overalls for
you. I think yours will fit, Rebecca, but Karen's might be a bit big."
She pointed to
two brown boiler suits hanging from a coat-stand. During the war, there had
been a large female workforce in the factory, she explained. They still kept a
small stock of suitable clothing, mainly for occasional use by female administrative
staff visiting the factory floor.
Karen and I
took our coats off and hung them up. At Mrs Baxter's prompting, we took our
skirts off rather than trying to wear them under a boiler suit. Mrs Baxter was
right that my coveralls nearly fitted me. I had to fold the ends of the legs up
a bit and tucked them into the thick socks I had on under my Wellingtons. Karen
required a considerable amount of turning back of both legs and sleeves, but
was eventually comfortable.
"Did your
mother give you anything to cover your hair?" Mrs Baxter asked.
It dawned on me
that was the reason for the headscarves we had been sent out with
. I went and fetched the paper bag from the shopping bag which I had
left by my Dad's desk. Mrs Baxter opened one out flat and folded it into a
triangle. She put an extra fold along the long edge to reduce the size a bit
then centred it at the nape of my neck. The point of the triangle was draped
over my head and touching my nose. Mrs Baxter brought the tails of the scarf
together at the top of my forehead and knotted them, tucking the ends into the
folds of the material. Lastly, she lifted the point of the triangle off my
face, wrapped it back over the knot and tucked it in. I watched her repeat the
process on Karen and learned that was how to tie a headscarf in the traditional
'turban' style that was once standard for female factory workers, busy
housewives and cleaning women but has now vanished in the mists of time. There
were two more headscarves, which Mrs Baxter also folded into triangles then
tied over our mouths and noses so that we looked as if we were going to rob a
stagecoach. Once she had them tied on, she pulled them down off our faces.
"You'll
need those to protect your skin where there are lots of sparks or bits of metal
flying around," Mrs Baxter explained.
There were also
two old and much darned pairs of woollen gloves in the bag, which we put on to
protect our hands.
Finally, we
were equipped with a pair of goggles each. They were moulded in soft black
rubber with circular eye-pieces. The lenses were clear, but had green-tinted
filters which were hinged at the top so that they could be folded up when not
required. Mrs Baxter adjusted the goggles to fit then showed us how to pull
them down and swing them around to the backs of our necks when we didn't need
them.
Now suitably
equipped, we returned to Dad's desk. He had changed into his own brown boiler
suit, but with his collar and tie visible at the neck, indicating his status as
a manager.
I won't digress
too much on our tour of the factory. Suffice it to say that it was suitably
exciting for two young girls, with a satisfactory edge of scariness. We admired
the skill of the men who made the wooden patterns for items to be cast and the
nerve of their colleagues who directed streams of glowing molten brass into the
sand moulds amid a firework display of flying sparks. We struggled to hear each
other speak over the thumping and crashing of the trip hammer in the forging
shop and then again over the screech of the huge lathes and milling machines in
the machine shop. Karen and I both kept our faces covered and our goggles in
place during our tour and felt much safer that way, but we noticed that, other
than the leather aprons and gauntlets worn by the men handling hot metal in the
foundry, hardly any of the workers had any protective clothing beyond their
brown boiler suits and the flat cloth caps they almost all wore. Health and
safety at work had a long way to go in those days.
Eventually, we
reached a smaller workshop, which I later worked out was directly below the
design office. There was a selection of much smaller machine tools here and Dad
explained that they were used by the design engineers to test out prototypes of
the smaller items they made. On our way through the factory, Dad had helped
himself to a length of metal bar about an inch in diameter. He told us that it
was a hard machine brass which would be ideal for making keys. He took a pad of
paper out of his pocket and sketched the design he intended to make: a stepped
cylindrical shaft with a flat circular disk forming the part that you hold. He
used a micrometer to take the vital measurements off
the key we had for the large handcuffs and off both sizes of cuffs themselves.
He quickly jotted down a series of numbers on his sketch, explaining that they
were the required dimensions in thousandths of an inch. I thought hard but
couldn't imagine such a tiny unit of measurement.
Dad mounted the
brass bar in the chuck of a lathe and started the motor. Karen and I watched
spellbound as he turned up the cut end of the bar then quickly machined the bar
down to the diameter for the shank of the key, with the required step in it. We
were both fascinated and a little scared at the rapidity with which the
unwanted brass was converted into a long snaking coil of waste metal. Dad
warned us not to touch it even after it had dropped off the lathe as the edge
would be evilly sharp. He put a drill into the tailstock of the lathe and used
it to drill into the end of the shank. He then measured about another inch
along the bar and parted it off, handing the embryonic key to Karen for
safekeeping. Dad repeated the operation another three times, then used a
parting tool to cut a thin slice off the bar. He handed it to me to hold, still
warm from being cut.
Dad unmounted
the brass bar from the lathe and put in its place one of the partly formed
keys. At this stage, they each had a fully-formed shank sticking out of a fat
cylinder of metal. He fastened the shank of the first key into the lathe chuck
then used the slice of bar as a pattern to guide the lathe so that he converted
the cylinder of brass into a spherical knob. Again, he repeated the process on
the other three keys.
We moved to
another piece of equipment next, which Dad explained was a milling machine.
Again, he mounted one of the keys by its shank. The lathe was somewhat
intimidating to watch, but the milling machine was absolutely terrifying, with
tiny fragments of brass flying everywhere as Dad used a fly-cutter to reduce
the spherical knob of brass to a flat disc. Karen and I were very glad to have
every square inch of our skin covered as we cowered behind Dad in fascinated
terror. With all four keys processed like this, our Dad used the milling
machine as a drill-press to put a hole about a quarter of an inch in diameter
through each key, in the same way that ordinary keys have holes to thread them
onto a key-ring.
The next
operation was almost silent, in contrast to what had gone before. Dad mounted
each of the keys in turn in a vice and used a series of taps to cut the
internal screw thread into the hole in the end of the key. He quickly checked
that the keys would screw smoothly into both sizes of handcuffs.
Dad used a
grinding wheel to take the sharp angle off the edge of the circular head of
each key. He then told Karen and me that the final finishing would be our job.
Next to the grinding wheel, and mounted on the same workbench, was a buffing
machine, basically a motor in a metal housing with a shaft sticking out of each
end and supporting a pair of odd-looking wheels. In stark contrast to all the
sharp metal cutting tools we had seen, these seemed to be made out of coiled
strips of blanket. Dad confirmed that that was more-or-less what they were. He
showed us how to apply a little metal polishing paste to the wheels before
starting them and then to hold the keys against the spinning fabric. We were
delighted at how quickly the brass took on the appearance of burnished gold.
While my sister
and I were busy polishing brass, Dad used a gas welding torch to cut the chains
of the two partly-working pairs of the larger handcuffs and then to re-weld the
chain to produce one good pair.
Once the keys
were done, Karen and I polished up the handcuffs themselves. Being forged
steel, they didn't take a high polish, but acquired a very satisfactory dull
sheen.
With our work
done, Dad pointed out that it was almost lunchtime. Karen and I both suddenly
realised that we were starving and eagerly agreed to his suggestion that we
make the factory canteen our next stop. There was no women's washroom on the
factory floor, so Dad stood guard while we used the men's facilities. Dad had
said that we should wash our hands but not to worry too much about anything
else until we changed back into our own clothes. We were astonished at how
dirty our faces were, despite the goggles and the headscarves we had been
wearing as masks most of the morning, but we took him
at his word.
The canteen was
divided into 'clean' and 'dirty' areas, depending on the clothing worn. We took
our food, a huge plate of sausages and mashed potatoes each to the dirty area,
which was actually quite clean, with bare wooden tables and benches.
After we had
eaten, Dad took us back up to his office and turned us over to Mrs Baxter to do
her best to make us presentable again. She feigned shock at the terrible state
we were in (she must really have known exactly how dirty we would get). She
gathered up our skirts and a few other items then escorted us to the washroom
used by the female administrative staff. She helped us as we unwound the
headscarves from around our hair and peeled off the boiler suits then, using a
facecloth and lots of soap, scrubbed our faces and hands clean. Having been
wrapped up all morning, our hair was naturally a mess, mine especially so as
it's much coarser and wirier than my sister's. Mrs Baxter was well-equipped for
dealing with this problem; she had a large hairbrush which she wielded
vigorously once I had disentangled my hair from the ruins of the plaits I had
braided it into that morning. Karen's hair was similarly brushed out while I
re-plaited mine. After that, with stray dust brushed off our sweaters and
tights and with our skirts back on, we were back to much the state of
cleanliness we had been in when we left home.
With our coats
and scarves back on (and Karen wearing her hat again), we were ready to return
home. As it was Friday and a school holiday for us, Dad took the rest of the
afternoon off and chummed us back home on the bus.
4: Testing
As soon as Karen and I were home, we
showed our now-shiny handcuffs and the gleaming new keys to our mother. I think
she was pleased that we were happy with our day's work and genuinely very
impressed with the quality of the engineering work in the keys. We handed two
keys over to Mum, explaining that Dad had stipulated that spare keys must be
kept somewhere safe in case of emergencies. We also handed back the headscarves
and gloves she had lent us, now all very grubby.
There was still
quite a long time left before tea, so Karen and I decided to go up to our
bedroom and try out the handcuffs now we had keys for them. The smaller
handcuffs were just as good a fit as we remembered from trying them on in our
Dad's workshop the previous weekend. They were small enough that it was
impossible even for Karen's tiny hands to slip out of them, but they were also
big enough not to be too tight on my rather larger wrists.
We already knew
that the larger handcuffs were far too big for our wrists, but we decided to
try them on our ankles and were delighted to discover that they were large
enough to hang loose on our ankles but still too small for either of us to get
our feet out of them. It was possible to walk wearing these cuffs on our ankles
but only by shuffling along with tiny steps as the chains were the usual three
links of handcuffs rather than the longer chains that proper leg-irons would
have.
Having
handcuffed ourselves in front, we freed each other and tried the handcuffs
behind our backs. Karen was small and flexible enough that if her wrists were
tied behind her back with rope, she could get them in front by working her
hands down over her bottom and then under her feet. With handcuffs, which held
her hands somewhat further apart than rope, she discovered that she could do it
almost instantaneously in one smooth movement. I was delighted to discover that
I could also do this trick, albeit more slowly and with a lot more struggling.
I was (and still am) significantly taller than my sister and quite a lot of the
height difference is because I have a proportionately longer back than she does
and my arms were simply too short to get wrists tied with rope under my bottom.
My sister and I
had initially assumed that as handcuffs were looser than ropes and, in the case
of the ones we owned, had a smooth surface with no sharp corners or edges, that
there wouldn't be the same need for wrist protection. However, after we had
been experimenting with the handcuffs for a while, we realised that unyielding
steel against bare flesh was an unequal contest, particularly the bits with not
much coverage over the bone, such as wrists and shins. It was clear that we
would rapidly be quite badly bruised.
I experimented
with first one, then two pairs of socks over my tights and decided that gave
about the right amount of padding under the cuffs around my ankles. Karen tried
the same and agreed with me. I tried a pair of gloves, but found that the gap
that naturally opened between the gloves and the sleeves of my sweater exactly
corresponded to the place that received most battering from the handcuffs. My
mittens were better, as they had much longer knitted cuffs that would pull up
over my sleeves, but still didn't provide quite enough padding. I tried a pair
of thick socks on top of my mittens and, when Karen had snapped the handcuffs
onto me, I decided that was enough padding. It wouldn't protect against a
really vigorous struggle but it would be sufficient against the random knocks
that came about simply from wearing the handcuffs.
Karen released
one of my cuffs then put on her own mittens and a pair of socks on top. She
offered me her hands behind her back and I applied her handcuffs. I put my own
hands behind my back and positioned myself back-to-back with my sister, who
reached behind her to re-close the cuff that she had previously released.
We sat together
for quite a long time just enjoying the experience of being shackled hand and
foot. I liked the fact that without the keys, our bonds were completely
inescapable, but I found the feeling of being bound this way less satisfactory
than being tied with ropes. I preferred the sense of my movements being more
closely constrained by ropes and liked the sensation of being hugged by my
bonds.
We were still
sitting side-by-side on the edge of my bed when our mother called upstairs to
tell us it was tea-time.
"Turn
around and I'll get you loose," Karen told me.
My sister
swivelled sideways to retrieve one of our keys from my bedside table while I
sat turned slightly away from her, waiting for her to unlock my handcuffs.
After fumbling
first with one hand and then the other, my sister said, "I can't pick the
key up with my hands like this."
I offered to
try and she stood up while I shuffled along the edge of the bed and twisted
round to reach the key. I had the same problem. The highly polished key was
difficult to grip and with both a mitten and a sock covering each hand, I
couldn't separate my thumb far enough from my fingers to get a firm grasp of
it.
"I can't
either," I told Karen, with mounting panic.
My sister was
already sitting on the floor manoeuvring her hands to the front of her body. I
realised that this was a good move and got myself down on the floor to do the
same.
Even with our
hands in front of us, so we could see what we were doing, we still fared no
better with the slippery key. I could grip it using the finger
tips of both hands or with the fingers of one hand curled around it, but
neither of these arrangements allowed me to offer the key up accurately to
either of the keyholes on Karen's handcuffs and to engage the screw thread. I though that if I could get it started, I could use both
hands to turn it, but that vital first stage eluded me and Karen fared no
better.
"It's
getting cold!" our Mum's voice announced from downstairs.
"We'll
just have to go like this," Karen decided.
With our hands
in front of us, it wasn't difficult to stand up without overbalancing. We made
slow progress shuffling across the landing to the top of the stairs but there
was no way in which we could walk downstairs with our ankles chained together.
Instead, we had to sit on the top step and bounce down on our bottoms, pushing
back with our heels until we slid over the edge of each step and bracing
ourselves for the bone-jarring thump that followed.
Some minute
later, we shuffled into the dining room, where our parents and brother were
already sitting.
"Sorry,
but we got stuck," Karen announced as be both showed our manacled wrists.
Our mother's
expression changed several times as she tried to think of a suitable riposte
and keep a straight face. In the end, she said nothing but burst out laughing,
closely followed by our father and brother.
Still shaking
her head and chortling, Mum left the room, returning a moment later with one of
the spare keys. "I suppose I'd better get the hang of using this
thing," she said.
Once the
principle of the locks had been pointed out, it took Mum only a couple of
minutes to free our hands. We declined her offer of unlocking the cuffs on our
ankles and elected to eat our meal with them still on.
We expected
some remonstration from Mum, but all she said was, "Make sure there's
someone to rescue you if you do that again." And she was still laughing at
us as she said it.
5: Solo
Some time after acquiring our handcuffs, an occasion arose when I was in the house on my own. I'm fairly
sure it was a Saturday morning, but the precise circumstances now elude me. Saturday
morning shopping expeditions usually involved all five of us going out
together. I have no idea why I stayed home that day.
Since obtaining
the handcuffs, I had been wondering how effectively I could tie myself up using
a combination of ropes and handcuffs. As I mentioned earlier in this story, I
really preferred the feel of ropes, but I knew it was impossible to tie myself
up effectively with just rope (I had tried and failed). Handcuffs had the great
advantage that they were easy to put on oneself but (to me at least) had the
disadvantage of not giving a truly 'tied-up' feeling.
The experiment
I had planned was to tie myself up with rope all except for my wrists and to
use the handcuffs on those. I think I planned just to tie myself up, see what
it felt like and then untie myself again.
Through bitter
experience, Karen and I had learned that, even through
a layer of clothing, it's possible to sustain quite a bad rope burn. A
curiosity that I still don't really understand is that, generally, when that
happens, there is no visible damage to the fabric of the clothes, even when the
skin underneath is grazed and bleeding. The only solution we found was to make
sure there was plenty of padding in critical places. It was a coolish November day, so I was already dressed in the
sweater, skirt and woolly tights that were more-or-less my uniform in the
winter months. I also owned one pair of super-heavy tights, in soft grey wool
almost as thick as a sweater, which I put on over the tights I was wearing. I
supplemented the sweater I was wearing with a heavy cardigan and judged that I
was now sufficiently protected.
I pulled a pile
of rope out of the cardboard box in the bottom of Karen's and my wardrobe where
we kept our supplies and sat down on the floor to make a start on my legs.
Cinched bindings are more secure, but I always preferred the snugger feeling
that came from lashing the legs directly together. We had discovered that if
legs were tied in this way at the ankles and both above and below the knees, it
was impossible to kick off any of the bindings as there wasn't enough
independent movement of the legs available.
Once I had my
legs satisfactorily immobilised, I gagged myself while I still had full freedom
to move my arms. I debated using some packing, but decided just to use one of
our stock of muslin nappy (diaper) liners pulled between my teeth and knotted
behind my head.
The next stage
was the one I expected to be trickiest and one I hadn't tried on myself before.
I selected one of our longer pieces of rope and wound it around my upper arms
and chest, knotting it at the front. I didn't pull it particularly tightly as I
would attend to that shortly. I had two fairly short ropes already to hand to
cinch the coils I had just wrapped around myself between my arms and body. This
was a refinement that Karen and I had only recently discovered. We had found
out quite early on in our experiments with rope that it was often fairly easy
to jettison body ropes by working them up over the shoulders. Our initial
countermeasures involved pulling chest ropes ever tighter, but simply cinching
the ropes ensured complete security with no undue discomfort for the wearer.
The question
was whether I could apply these cinches to myself. Whichever arm I started
with, I would have to cinch the other one with the first one's movement
severely restricted. I am right handed, so, after a moment's, thought I decided
that I should cinch my right arm first. I had to use my left hand to thread the
rope under my armpit and then to catch it as it hung below the coils of rope
around me. I couldn't actually reach the location of the intended cinch with my
right hand, but I could still use it to form knots and then hold the end of the
rope while I pulled them tight by reaching across my body with my left hand.
As I
anticipated, it was much harder to cinch my left arm. I congratulated myself on
my decision to cinch the right first as my partly-immobilised right arm was of
far more use to me than my left would have been in similar circumstances.
Feeding the rope under my armpit and then catching it below the chest ropes was
frustratingly difficult as my ability to reach across my body was severely
compromised, but eventually I managed it. Tying the knot, a simple reef
(square) knot was relatively easy. The piece of rope was long enough that I
could form the half-knot that would be the start of the reef knot where I could
bring both hands together and simply pulling on the ends made the half-knot
slide up against the coil of rope around me. Repeating this process would
complete the knot and secure the cinch.
The only
remaining item in my plan was to handcuff myself. I put my knitted woollen
mittens on to protect my wrists (I had already checked that I could manipulate
the key with them on) and snapped one end of the handcuffs onto my right wrist.
I made sure that they key was on the floor within easy reach for when I wanted
to free myself.
When I had been
tied up with a cinched chest rope before, it had been at the hands of my
sister, mother or aunt and at that point I would already have had my wrists
tied behind my back. The cinches would therefore naturally hold my upper arms
in the position they were in when they were tied: slightly behind my chest.
Having applied this part of the tie-up myself, my arms were held much further
forward than was ideal. I struggled to work my arms further back but with
limited success as I was working against the friction of the chest coils with
the cinching ropes and also the friction of the ropes against my woollen
cardigan. Eventually, I was able to reach across my back to my left wrist with
the fingers of my right hand. I slid the open cuff into place and snapped it
shut.
I was very
pleased with my efforts. I was almost as snugly tied up as if someone else had
done it to me. My legs were as firmly clamped together as if they had been
welded. My arms were held firmly in place. Even the handcuffs were more
satisfactory than usual as my arms were not as far behind my back as they might
have been and that pulled the chain fairly tight, so denying me most of the
freedom of movement I usually found so disappointing with cuffs.
After twenty
minutes or so, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I had actually tied the
gag too tight and the sides of my mouth were starting to hurt. My wrists were
also suffering from pressure from the handcuffs. Unless I made an effort to
keep my hands behind my back, pulling against the chest ropes to do so, the
position of my arms tended to pull the handcuff chain tight, with the bar of
the shackle on each cuff pressing against the back of my wrist.
I decided it
was time to free myself. I shuffled myself across to where the key was lying
and picked it up with my mitten-covered right hand. I had no problem picking it
up; it was as I tried to use it that I realised I had made a horrible mistake.
A couple of
years before I was born, Major Edward Aloysius Murphy of the US Air Force
stated that, "If there's more than one way to do a job, and one of those
ways will result in disaster, then somebody will do it that way." This is
Murphy's Law in its original form. Now, when it comes to putting on handcuffs,
there is indeed more than one way to do the job. With modern circular steel
ratchet cuffs, it's well known that it's very awkward to release yourself if
the keyholes are on the side away from your hands. (With hinged or rigid cuffs,
of course, it's completely impossible.) The situation is slightly different
with old-fashioned darbies. Imagine for a moment the
process of putting on a pair of these handcuffs with your hands in front of
you. The cuffs are D-shaped shackles with the straight part of the D hinged at
one end. Your thumbs are uppermost, so the easiest way to get the cuffs on is
with the hinge at the bottom and the opening at the top; you just reach across
and squeeze the shackle shut with the opposite hand. However, the keyholes are
at the hinge end of the straight part of each cuff. To get out, you need to
twist one hand awkwardly under the other to fit the key into the hole. Doing
all this behind your back, of course, is even harder.
After a few
minutes fumbling with the key, the full horror of my situation was clear to me.
My hands were handcuffed behind me, with my thumbs nearest my back and the
keyholes on the cuffs pointing away from me. Worse still, it was only with
considerable effort that I could get the fingers of either hand in contact with
the opposite cuff. After a lot of straining and stretching, I was able to bring
the hollow end of the key into contact with the screw thread inside a keyhole,
but, try as I might, I was completely unable to get it at the right angle to
screw it in.
Finally, in a
mixture of panic and despair, I allowed the key to drop to the floor; it was
now painfully clear to me that I was trapped and that I had no hope whatever of
releasing myself. My wrists and mouth hurt more than ever and my upper arms
were now feeling bruised from struggling against my chest ropes. I rolled face
down on my bedroom floor to take the weight off my arms and sobbed tears of
misery and frustration into the carpet.
I waited for
what seemed like an eternity until I heard the front door open and the rest of
the family returning. (I worked out later that it was in reality only a little
over an hour.) Another panicky thought struck me: if Mum found me like this,
she would have a fit. I could foresee her banning all our tying-up games and
confiscating our ropes and handcuffs.
Karen came
upstairs as soon as she was in the house and it was she who found me. I turned
my tear-stained face towards her as she came into the bedroom.
"Crumbs!
You look a mess," she exclaimed. (We really said things like 'Crumbs!'
back then and it was about the strongest language we ever used.)
Karen knelt
down beside me and untied my gag. She gasped when she saw the state of my face,
confirming my worry that I had bruised myself.
"Thanks,"
I croaked hoarsely then went on to explain my fear about our mother's reaction.
Karen nodded,
then paused for a moment in thought. My sister was always a very quick and
decisive thinker and I hoped she could think of a way out of this mess I had
got myself into. She quickly outlined an idea and unlocked my handcuffs as she
spoke. It took only another minute or so to untie my arms, then Karen hoisted
me to my feet, even though my legs were still tied together. She supported me
as I hopped unsteadily out onto the landing.
I leaned over
the bannister rail, still supported by my sister, and called out, "Hello,
Mum!" in as bright and cheery a voice as I could manage.
I was already
hopping back to the bedroom when our mother replied. Karen helped me sit down
on my desk chair, a small wooden Windsor chair. She put my gag back on first,
not pulling it quite as brutally tightly as I had done myself. Next, she took
one of the short lengths of rope I had used for cinching and used it to bind my
wrists behind my back. I squeaked in pain as the rope tightened on my bruised
wrists. Finally, she used the long length that had been my chest rope to lash
me to the chair.
Karen stood
back and surveyed me critically for a moment then fetched one of the old winter
scarves from our box of tying-up supplies and used it to blindfold me,
arranging it to cover most of my face.
I tried to
question the need for the blindfold, but Karen shushed me into silence.
"Mum's coming," she hissed.
I heard our
mother's footsteps then her voice as she entered the room. "That was fast
work, Karen."
"We wanted
to see how quickly I could tie Becca up," my sister extemporised. "A
real burglar wouldn't spend ages getting everything just right; he would just
try to get the job done as fast as possible."
"Do you
want to be tied up too?" Mum asked.
I heard Karen
hesitate for a fraction of a second as she reflected on how that might fit into
her plan, then she replied, "Yes, please."
"Bathroom
first, then," our mother advised.
I heard Karen
leave the room and then the bathroom door shut. Various shuffling noises ensued
when she returned as Mum tied her to the other desk chair.
"Are you
all right, Becca?" Mum asked.
I was far from
all right, but I nodded enthusiastically.
Karen and I had
agreed that I should be tied up for about another fifteen minutes. The original
plan had been that Karen would go downstairs and then after a while, suddenly
'remember' that I was still tied up upstairs and then 'discover' that she had
tied me too tightly, causing my bruising. As it was, we had to rely on my being
able to attract attention. I wasn't sure how to estimate the passing time with
any certainty and was still wondering whether to start making a noise when I
heard Karen grunting at me through her gag. The words were unintelligible, but
the sense was clear: "Get on with it!"
I tried to make
as much noise through my gag as I could. My emotional state was still fairly
ragged, so it didn't take much to work myself up to the point where I was
sobbing uncontrollably. It wasn't long before our mother realised there was
something wrong and came upstairs to investigate.
Mum took my
blindfold off first, revealing my red puffy eyes and tear-streaked face. She
gasped, as Karen had done, when she took my gag off.
"Anything
else hurting?" my mother asked.
"Wrists,"
I replied between sobs.
Mum quickly
unwound the rope securing me to my chair and then carefully freed my wrists.
Rather stiffly, I moved my arms around so that I could rest my hands on my lap.
My mother gently eased my mittens off and I examined the state of my wrists
while she untied my legs. They were both slightly swollen and had the
beginnings of what promised to be quite nasty bruises.
"You must
be careful not to tie Becca up too tight," Mum admonished Karen.
A mumble that
might have been "Sorry" emerged from behind her gag.
Mum removed
Karen's blindfold so she could see how my wrists looked.
"It's not
really her fault, Mum," I said. "I asked her to tie me really
tight."
"Well, she
really ought to have known better," Mum retorted.
"Sorry,
Becca," Karen mumbled.
"Come on,
Becca, let's get those bruises seen to," our mother instructed firmly.
"I'll turn you loose when I've done first aid on
Becca," she added to Karen as she shepherded me out of the room.
Down in the
kitchen, Mum inspected my bruises then applied a wrapping of surgical lint
soaked in witch hazel around each wrist, secured with a gauze bandage.
"I can't
do much about the bruises on your face," she commented.
"I'm sure
they'll be all right," I assured her, speaking carefully as opening my
mouth too wide hurt more than I was prepared to admit.
I accompanied
Mum back upstairs and watched as she freed my sister.
"Thank
you," I whispered in Karen's ear as we exchanged a sisterly hug.
The bruising on
my wrists had gone quite deep and it was at least a couple of weeks before I
felt like being tied up again. (Karen and I investigated methods of restraining
each other that didn't involve anything around our wrists, but that's an
entirely different story.)
The damage my
gag had done was much less serious and it had more-or-less stopped hurting by
Sunday morning. However, as I looked in the bathroom mirror while I was getting
ready to go out to church, I was dismayed to see how apparent the bruises still
were. I could foresee some very awkward questions being asked about them and I
was reluctant to be seen outside looking like that.
Mum and Karen
(who had seen the state of my face at breakfast time) had already anticipated
my problem. When I came downstairs, I was surprised to see that Karen had
wrapped her face up in a scarf, with just her eyes showing between it and her
hat.
"Need to
bundle up," Karen told me. "It's really cold outside."
It was true
that my sister often felt cold before I did and it was also true that it was
November, but I didn't think the weather looked unusually cold outside. I was
about to say that I would probably be fine, when Mum joined in. She also had a
big scarf on, but only up over her chin, not covering her mouth.
"That's
right, and you've got a sore mouth, so you really ought to keep it covered up
and warm."
The penny
finally dropped and I tied a scarf over my face to hide the bruises before we
went out. I kept it on during the early part of the church service and when I
went out to Sunday School with the other children I
was able to say, completely truthfully, "I've got a sore mouth and my Mum
says I ought to keep it covered up and warm."
6: Candlepower
Playing with rope, Karen and I had
initially had the problem that if we both wanted to be
tied up, we needed to ask someone to do it. Our Mum would usually oblige, but
she was sometimes too busy. We eventually learned how to tie each other up.
This brought the added complication that escaping afterwards was either
trivially easy, which made the whole exercise rather disappointing, or
completely impossible, which meant that we had to wait for someone else to
rescue us.
Our handcuffs
solved the problem of being able to secure ourselves any time we liked, but
further polarised the escape problem. If the key was to hand, the escape was a
simple matter of unlocking the cuffs. If the key was somewhere inaccessible,
then the cuffs were utterly escape-proof and we just had to wait it out.
We played a few
games where we put the key in a different room of the house, so that we had to
get ourselves there, cuffed hand and foot or (much more challenging) roped and
cuffed. We even tried a variation where we put the key in one of several
identical small boxes, mixed the boxes up and distributed them around the
house. However, the find-the-key game changed the emphasis from simply enjoying
our predicament to the problem of getting around the house. It also dictated
that we were cuffed (and possibly also tied) in such a way that we could still
move from room to room.
It eventually
occurred to us that we needed some means of of
delivering the key to ourselves after some time had elapsed. That way, provided
we could still manipulate the key, there would be no restriction on how we tied
ourselves up. The problem was how to devise a mechanism to do this.
We actually
possessed a toy with a delayed action built into it. It was sold as a toy
time-bomb. This wasn't the spherical one used in pass-the-hot-potato games, but
one intended to be used in make-believe war games. It was oval and made of diecast metal, painted a suitably militaristic khaki green.
The body was styled after a hand grenade (a rather two-dimensional one) and
clearly marked 'Delayed Action Time Bomb'. The clever part consisted of a
sprung arm pivoted in the centre of the bomb. To use it, you folded back the
arm against the tension of the spring. A rubber sucker on the end of the arm
would hold it in place. After a while (anything from five minutes to almost an
hour, depending on how wet the sucker was to begin with and on the prevailing
air temperature and humidity) the sucker would let go and the spring would snap
the arm back into position. The arm had a sort of hammer on the end of it and
that would land on a bundle of the paper caps you use in toy guns, giving a
satisfactory bang.
Our first
thought was to see if we could use the time-bomb to release a key somehow. We
tried simply trapping a thread under the sucker, but that stopped the sucker
sticking. Next we tried using a thread that would be snapped when the sucker
let go, but any thread strong enough to support a heavy brass key was also
strong enough to resist being snapped by the arm.
We turned our
attention to the other end of the bomb, the hammer that made it go bang. The
'hammer' was just a cylindrical protuberance about an eighth of an inch in
diameter that pointed down from the tip of the arm. It engaged in a socket
which was where the caps were placed. We tried stretching a thread across the
socket but failed to break it with the hammer. Next we tried a Heath-Robinson
(Rube Goldberg if you're American) device made of strips of card, blobs of
modelling clay and stick tape which was supposed to support a pair of scissors
in such a way that they would be closed by the bomb's arm swinging across. It
worked once out of our dozen or so attempts.
We even tried
making the caps burn through a thread when they detonated. That singed the
thread slightly and inspired us to augment the caps with the red head cut from
a friction match. It flared up very satisfactorily, but still only burned through
a cotton thread with a fifty percent success rate.
Burning through
a thread led us to investigate that staple of cheap thriller movies, the candle
burning through a rope. We were aiming for a release time of half an hour or
more and discovered that even the thickest rope we used in our games would not
last that long if it was held in the hottest part of the flame. A further
problem was that in half an hour, the candle would burn down about half an
inch, so that the rope would no longer be in the flame.
Karen and I had
a 'lightbulb' moment when we realised that, far from being a problem, the fact
that a candle burns down could in itself be precisely the mechanism we were
looking for. We initially tried to find ways of passing a thread through a
candle, so that it would eventually burn through when the candle burned down to
that level. As we were experimenting with methods of drilling through a candle
with a darning needle, we realised that all we needed to do was to embed the
needle in the candle. When the candle burned down that far, the wax holding the
needle in place would melt, so releasing it together with any thread attached
to it.
After several
tests had confirmed the soundness of our mechanism, Karen and I put it to a
live test after school one afternoon. We embedded a darning needle in a candle
by heating it with a match then pushing it into the wax about an inch from the
top of the candle, which we estimated would give us something a bit less than
an hour. We put the candle on an old china saucer, supporting it with a blob of
modelling clay, and then put the saucer on top of a tall chest of drawers in
our bedroom. Next, we hung a handcuff key on a long length of string from one
of the handles on the top drawer. We gauged the length so that it would hang at
hand height for either of us sitting on a chair. We attached a length of
buttonhole thread (generally the thickest in any sewing box) to the darning
needle, threading through the eye and knotting it. We had borrowed a large
metal jug from the kitchen and half-filled it with water to weight it. We stood
this next to the saucer, with the handle sticking out over the edge of the
chest of drawers. We passed the thread through the jug handle, so it would act as
a sort of pulley. Finally, we lifted the key up and tied the thread to it.
With everything
ready, we set our timer going by lighting the candle. As we were using
handcuffs, we were able to see to our own bonds. We started by using the large
handcuffs on our ankles. We used rope to secure ourselves to our desk chairs. By
starting with long lengths of rope threaded through the tops of our
chair-backs, we were able to tie ourselves quite securely, with ropes over our
shoulders, around our waists and over our laps. We deliberately didn't tie our
legs to the chair as we wanted to be able to scoot our chairs into a position
where we could use the handcuff key when it dropped. We gagged ourselves with
handkerchiefs stuffed in our mouths and held in place with the usual muslin
nappy liners between our teeth. Lastly, we handcuffed ourselves behind the
chair-backs with our small handcuffs, wearing woollen mittens to protect our
wrists as usual.
My sister and I
generally enjoyed the experience of just sitting around tied up and gagged, but
watching the candle slowly burning down and anticipating our release mechanism
operating added an extra thrill.
I am certain
that our key-delivery system would have worked exactly as we planned, well
before it was due to operate, our mother came into the room with a bundle of
freshly-laundered clothes destined for our wardrobe and drawers. It wasn't
particularly unusual for her to find her two daughters bound and gagged, but
never before with a precariously-placed burning candle for company. Mum stopped
in her tracks when she saw the candle. There was a long pause, during which it
was obvious from her eye movements that she was working out what our
contraption did.
She put the
clean clothes down on my bed, the lower of our two bunks, then blew out the
candle, moved the jug back from the edge of the chest of drawers and laid the
handcuff key beside it.
A lengthy
tongue-lashing followed in which our Mum made it quite clear that it was
completely unacceptable to have an unguarded candle in the room with us like
that. To make the point crystally clear, she painted
a vivid and terrifying word picture of what it would be like do die in a
blazing bedroom, helplessly bound to chairs and gagged. We were both close to
tears by the time she had finished.
Having said her
piece, Mum put the clean clothes away and left the room, pulling the door shut
behind her. We were still tied to our chairs and handcuffed, but now without
any means of escape.
Some
considerable time later, our father came into our room, still in the clothes he
wore for work, having just returned home. He proceeded to give us his version
of the lecture we had already received from our mother. When he finished, he
studied the parts of our release mechanism for a moment (I assume that Mum had
briefed him on what she had found) then, using the scissors that were still on
top of the chest of drawers, he snipped through the thread connecting the
needle to the handcuff key, then disentangled the string and left the key
dangling from one the drawer handles as we had planned.
"I expect
you've worked out how to get out from there," Dad commented, then left the
room.
Karen scooted
her chair across the room so that her back was to the chest of drawers. I hear
a small metallic noise as she engaged the key in one of the keyholes on her
handcuffs. A moment later, she brought her hands around to the front of her
body, the handcuff key still screwed into the open cuff and the string still
trailing from it. It took my sister just another minute or so to unscrew the
key from the first keyhole and to use it to release her other wrist. She
quickly removed her gag and untied the ropes securing her body to her chair
then stood up.
My sister
unfastened the handcuff key from the string that it was still tied to then
brought it across the room to me, shuffling along with her ankles still cuffed.
She released my wrists and let me see to my own gag and ropes while she freed
her own ankles.
Somewhat
shamefaced, Karen and I went downstairs to face whatever music there was left
to face. We were slightly surprised to discover that our parents had already
said all that they wanted to on the matter. All that was left was for us to
offer our apologies, which were accepted, and to promise never to do anything
stupid with matches and burning candles ever again.
Our assurances
were accepted with grave nods by our parents, followed by hugs to assure us
that it was all over and we were all friends again.
7: Clockwork
Later on that in the evening of the
candle incident, our Dad had one more thing to say on the subject. He had been
out in his workshop for a while and came back holding something behind his
back.
"If you
want to make a timer, it's probably best to start with a clock," he
advised us.
The mysterious
something behind Dad's back turned out to be an old alarm clock, which he
handed to my sister and me. It was a traditional old-fashioned brass alarm
clock with a circular face surmounted by two dome-shaped bells with a little
hammer between them. It was somewhat tarnished and the glass protecting the
face was cracked.
"It works,
but it probably doesn't keep very good time," Dad told us.
Karen and I
knew that the traditional cartoon image of a time-bomb was of an alarm clock
connected to a bundle of sticks of dynamite, but of course a cartoon gives no
idea of how you might actually use an alarm clock as a timer. It was too late
to do anything practical that evening, but we discussed the problem and decided
to experiment the following afternoon.
Our first thought
was to make use of the striking mechanism. The hammer that sounded the bells on
our clock was a small spherical brass knob on the end of a rod. Except when it
was actually ringing, the hammer usually rested against one of the bells. We
discovered that it was sprung firmly enough that we could trap a small loop
tied in the end of a length of string between the hammer and the bell and that
it was secure enough to carry the weight of a brass handcuff key. Our first
test was encouraging; the alarm clock rang and the string dropped free. As
budding engineers, we knew that no mechanism was ever a hundred percent
reliable and that one test was never enough. The results of repeated tests were
disappointing. There seemed to be about a fifty percent chance that the loop in
the string would actually drop over the hammer rather than falling away. We
tried to work out what was going wrong, but of course everything moved too
quickly for us to see what was happening.
We tried to
enlist some help from our father, but he said we should persevere and see if we
could come up with a solution ourselves.
"How?"
we demanded.
"Observation,"
Dad replied. "See what an alarm clock does and find a way to exploit
it."
Karen and I went back to our bedroom. We
wound the alarm clock and set it to go off in about five minutes then watched
it as it rang. We repeated this about four or five times until I spotted
something we could use. The clock had two winding keys on the back; one wound
the clock itself and the other was for the alarm. When the alarm rang, the
winding key turned round and round until the ringing stopped.
We allowed the
alarm to ring and to run down completely, then, after a little experimentation
put a loop tied in the end of a piece of string over one 'wing' of the key.
Karen wound the alarm while I carefully guided the string. We ended up with a
slightly untidy coil of string around the winding key. We hung a handcuff key
on the end of the string and set the alarm to go off in a few minutes. We were
delighted to see the key slowly descend as the string unwound when the alarm
went off. Another nine tests gave us a perfect score of ten successes out of
ten tries.
Encouraged by
our success, Karen and I decided it was time to risk a proper test. One
afternoon after school, we set up the alarm clock on top of our chest of
drawers and set it to go off at six o'clock, which would be just before our
tea-time. We set about securing ourselves in much the way that we had for the
abortive test with the candle. We started by fastening our large handcuffs
around our ankles. We sat down on our desk chairs to apply our body ropes nest.
A coil of four or five turns of rope over each our laps and under the chair
seats was first, then a similar coil around each of our waists and the backs of
our chairs. We had already fastened the middle of a long length of rope to the
top of each chair-back, tying it around the topmost portion of the wooden arch
that formed the frame of the backrest. We each pulled the free ends of the rope
forwards over our shoulders and crossed them on our chests. We fed them between
our bodies and the sides of the chair-back then brought them forward to cross
just below our ribs then took them out to the sides of the chair and back
again, finally knotting them in the middle of our tummies. Our gags were the
usual muslin nappy liners with handkerchiefs as packing. We each completed our
helplessness by handcuffing ourselves behind the back of the chair, wearing
mittens to protect our wrists as usual.
We had the same
thrill of anticipation waiting for our timing device to work as we had
experienced with the candle. Our mother looked into our bedroom once while we
were waiting, presumably because we were suspiciously quiet. She smiled
indulgently and left us to our contemplation.
About two
minutes to six, the alarm sounded and our patience was rewarded by the sight of
the handcuff key being lowered on its string until it was within reach. Karen
shuffled her chair across the room until she could reach behind her and grasp
the key. She was just fitting it into her handcuffs when our Dad came into the
room, knocking politely on the door before letting himself in.
"I see you
found a use for the alarm clock then," he commented after watching Karen
free herself from the handcuffs.
"Yes,
thank you," Karen replied, as soon as she could speak. "It works
really well."
Dad gave us a
mysterious smile, probably at the sheer eccentricity of his daughters, then
left the room.
My sister and I
were completely free a few minutes later and presented ourselves in the kitchen
in time to make ourselves useful getting the meal on the table.
Now that we had
a reliable timer, Karen and I could indulge in tie-up games whenever the fancy
took us. I still preferred ropes to handcuffs, but this way we could make
ourselves completely helpless but guarantee to be able to get ourselves free
afterwards. With experience, we became progressively more adventurous in how
thoroughly we tied ourselves in these games. If we enlisted our mother's help,
we could be tied up so that we could hardly move at all and still get out as
long as one of us could get her handcuffs unlocked successfully. The process of
extricating ourselves from the ropes became an interesting challenge in itself
on those occasions.
Every few
weeks, Karen's and my parents went out for a meal and an evening of ballroom
dancing with our Aunt Lizzie (our mother's sister) and her husband, our Uncle
Alf. On those occasions, our cousin Annie (about eight years older than me)
would look after our brother and us. Our brother Timothy, three years younger
than me, generally went to bed shortly after we had eaten and the time after
that would be the opportunity for some girl talk between my sister, my cousin
and me. It was also the time when we sometimes engaged in silly games together.
One Friday
evening when Annie was looking after us, Karen and I told her all about the
alarm clock escape timer we had been using in tie-up games. (Annie knew all
about our predilection for being tied up.) Annie was astonished at the lengths
we had gone to in researching our timer and asked us to give us a
demonstration. We fetched the alarm clock from our bedroom and set it up on the
edge of a bookshelf. We attached a handcuff key to it in the usual way and then
set it to go off in about two minutes. The mechanism performed flawlessly as
usual, with the key being lowered smoothly as the alarm sounded.
Annie was
impressed at the simplicity and ingenuity of our solution and asked to see us
use it for an actual escape. We hesitated at this point. Karen and I both knew
from experience that Annie was something of a practical joker and that she was
entirely capable of doing something like confiscating the key as soon as we
were tied up.
"Only if
you get tied up too," Karen offered, knowing that Annie also quite enjoyed
tie-up games, but mainly to ensure that she didn't take advantage of our
predicament.
"Might be
safer," Annie conceded with a grin, reading Karen's mind, "but make
sure you don't ladder my stockings, they're new on today."
Unlike the
robust (and probably much-darned) woollen tights that my sister and I were
wearing, Annie had on a pair of proper 'grown up' nylon stockings. Nylons are
almost disposably cheap today at a little over a pound a pair for everyday
wear. However back then, stockings (no tights or pantyhose then) were twelve
shillings or more a pair, something approaching ten pounds or twenty dollars in
today's money, hence Annie's warning.
Annie had come
straight from the business college she attended and so was still dressed for
studying. Student attire then was smart and distinctly 'preppy' by today's
standards. I don't remember exactly what she wore that day, but a knee-length
pleated skirt with a white blouse and one of those snug-fitting sweaters with a
high round neckline and buttons at the nape of the neck would be typical.
Annie fetched a
wooden ladder-backed chair from the dining room while Karen and I brought our
box of tying-up supplies and our two desk chairs down from our bedroom.
We tried one of
the large pairs of handcuffs on Annie. However, even with her woollen gloves
on, I was suspicious that she might be able to slip her hands free.
Substituting a pair of knitted mittens (belonging to Mum) improved the
situation, but I could see that there was a risk of her working the mittens off
then slipping her hands out of the cuffs. After a whispered discussion with
Karen, we came up with a solution. A pair of Karen's or my hockey socks (don't
forget that when a Brit says 'hockey' she means field hockey) pulled on over
the mittens would make them impossible to shed, especially as the socks came
well up over Annie's elbows.
Happy with our
countermeasures, we snapped the handcuffs onto our cousin's wrists behind the
backrest of her chair. We fastened the middle of a length of rope around the
chain linking Annie's cuffs and one of the horizontal bars of the chair-back
then wound the rest of it around her waist and the chair, finishing off with a
knot at the front. We hitched the centre of another long length to the top rail
of the chair then brought the ends forward over Annie's shoulders, crossed them
rather intimately in the middle of her chest, took them behind the vertical
side members of the chair back, crossed them in the middle again, out to the
sides again, crossed in the middle one last time and finally fastened the ends
off to the tops of the back legs of the chair just below the seat. We used
another long length to form a band of rope around Annie's chest and the
chair-back just below her bust and two shorter lengths to lash her upper arms
to the side verticals.
Another pair of
hockey socks served to protect Annie's stockings. (With the tops not turned
down, they went well up over her knees.) We tied her legs to the front legs of
the chair at the ankles and just below her knees. Lastly, we wound a coil of
rope over Annie's lap and under the chair seat.
"I can see
you've been practising," our cousin commented drily.
Karen selected
a clean muslin nappy liner and a handkerchief to use as a gag.
"No
gag!" Annie protested.
"But it's
part of being tied up," I pointed out.
"Well, not
between my teeth, then; it always hurts the sides of my mouth that way."
After a brief
conference, Karen and I settled for putting a handkerchief in Annie's mouth and
holding it in place with one of the old winter scarves from our tying-up box
covering her mouth and nose. We made sure that it went well up over her nose
and below her chin and that it was securely knotted so that she couldn't work
it down and spit out the handkerchief.
"All right
like that?" Karen asked.
The mumbled
reply sounded as though it might be resigned assent, so we took that as an
affirmative.
We set the
alarm clock to go off in about thirty-five minutes (allowing for five minutes
tie-up time then half an hour until release) and
arranged the string and suspended handcuff key, measuring carefully to make
sure it would end up at hand height for Karen and me.
My sister and I
set about tying ourselves up next. We put all the rope we would need on a
coffee table between our chairs so that we would be able to reach it even when
partly tied up. As usual, we started at the floor and worked upwards, beginning
with roping our ankles to the front legs of the chair then our knees both back
to the tops of the chair legs and down to the front corners of the seat. We
wrapped coils of rope over our laps and under the chair seats and around our
waists and behind the chair-backs. We already had lengths of rope hitched to
the tops of our chairs that would form shoulder ropes and we secured them in
the usual way, crossing the ends on our chests and taking them behind the side
members of the chair before knotting them off about belly button level. If we
had someone else tying us up, we would have asked for our elbows to be tied to
the chair frame also, but we hadn't worked out a way to do that to ourselves.
We gagged
ourselves with the usual combination of a handkerchief each held in place with
muslin nappy liners. Finally we each put on a pair of mittens and snapped our
handcuffs shut behind our backs.
Karen and I
both enjoyed being tied up, so it was really no hardship sitting watching the
alarm clock tick away the time until our release. I noticed that Annie seemed
less comfortable with her situation. I was fairly sure that she wouldn't be
unduly uncomfortable tied the way she was (and I knew that she had plenty of
experience of being tied up) but she kept fidgeting as if she was bored with
the game and impatient to get free.
Now, having
read this far and seen what sort of incidents tend to stick in my memory, I'm
sure that you're expecting something to go horribly wrong. That's exactly what
happened. When the time came for the alarm clock to go off, there was a single
'ting' from the bell. A few seconds later, there was another 'ting' then
silence. After waiting for a minute or so, it was quite clear to each of us
that something was wrong and that our escape mechanism had failed completely.
It was well
after eleven o'clock when our parents returned from their evening out. They
were chattering together as they came in through the front door, then there was
a stunned silence as they found Annie, Karen and me in the lounge, sitting
dejectedly still bound to our chairs, handcuffed and gagged. It took only a few
seconds for Mum and Dad to spot the alarm clock with the handcuff key dangling
from it and to realise that our ingenious timing mechanism had let us down.
They both roared with laughter and then had to explain to Aunt Lizzie and Uncle
Alf why they were laughing.
It didn't take
long for Aunt Lizzie and Mum to get the ropes off us. Dad went to retrieve the
key to unlock our handcuffs. As soon as he touched it, the alarm went off. It
seems that the way we had wound the string onto the alarm winder key had jammed
it just enough to prevent it turning when the alarm was due to sound,
completely subverting our escape plan.
As soon as we
were free, we apologised profusely to Annie. She hugged us both but told us to
expect severe reprisals. She grinned as she said that, so we knew that the
reprisals would be fun when they came.