Memory Lane
In 1960, I had a beer delivery job during university vacations and was offered the customary pint after doing the cellar work at my ‘drops’.
The landlord at the Junction Inn near Manchester was Harry Allen (1911-1992), one of Britain’s last official executioners, working between 1941 and 1964. He was chief executioner for 41 executions, and assistant executioner for another 53. So, on three occasions, I chatted over a drink with a hangman.
The first time, Harry told me how he got the job. His father owned a coach firm and, during the Great Depression, had seen roads lined with men hitch-hiking south to find work.
‘Harry, you need security,’ his father told him. ‘Get a civil service job – guaranteed wage and pension for life.’
So, after a six-year apprenticeship and due succession, Harry became senior hangman. He followed Albert Pierrepoint, who had taken over from his uncle, Thomas, himself successor to Thomas’s brother, Henry.
In our second meeting, we’d scarcely started our drinks in the snug when the parlour telephone rang. Harry took the call, hurrying back with apologies that he had to leave right away.
‘I have a job in Belfast at eight tomorrow and there is fog over Ireland. I’m not allowed to be late; so they’re going to fly me to Shannon and take me up by car.’
When he reappeared, he was the image of a Whitehall mandarin – tall, dignified with greying hair and a neat military moustache. Immaculate in pinstriped trousers, black coat and bowler hat, with tightly rolled umbrella and polished, black briefcase emblazoned E II R, he reminded me of Anthony Eden.
A gleaming black Austin Princess glided to the door, and Harry was whisked away.
The third drink was at Christmas 1961. The pub wasn’t yet open – so we were alone. Harry had had a drink and was maudlin, lamenting the loss of his wife who had ‘run off’ with a regular from the ‘four-ale bar’ – three years earlier.
With tears in his eyes, he leaned over the bar and whispered, ‘I’m not suppose to talk like this, but if I could get that ****** on a rope, I’d have him up and down like a yo-yo!’
We never met again and, in 1964, his skills became redundant, with the last public executions.
I hope the Home Office gave him a good pension.
By Ken Bradley, who receives £50. Readers are invited to send in their own 400-word submissions about the past
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