Well over a quarter of century ago, at the top of Wood Street, stood a tiny, dimly lit tobacconist and sweet shop - Wheeltons. I think it might be a home brew supply shop now. It’s probably been through more regenerations than Dr Who.

Entering the shop, a bell would distantly tingle alerting the aged owner to customers. She would slowly shuffle from the living quarters into the shop to serve. This gave plenty of time to look round. All the sweets were behind a glass counter, probably to stop shop lifting. The tobacco was in jars behind the counter to the left and packets of cigarettes were stacked on the back wall. It had that lovely aroma of fresh pipe tobacco mixed with the sickly-sweet smell of a multitude of confectionary. I can’t think how the old bat stayed in business. Our estate was a, ‘Twenty Bensons, a Sun and a Mars bar love,’ type of place: not ‘Two ounces of cherry and vanilla shag and a box of Milk Tray, if you please madam.’

The reason us kids went in there wasn’t for the sweets, they were much cheaper at the local newsagent. It was for the cigarettes. Old Lady Wheelton would sell us one fag and a match for five pence a go. Not only did she not care about our age, we didn’t have to save up for ages for a packet. This meant we could cobble together a few coppers and sneak off behind the police station for a quiet smoke. I should say: the police station was one of those part-time things they used to have before they moved all the coppers to new stations at out of town retail parks.

Wappo, the most adventurous of our gang and the one with the worst nicotine habit, was never satisfied with the four of us passing the butt round. He always wanted more and so talked us into his cunning plan.

The next night saw Wappo, Paul, Fergy and me behind the police station. Wappo had brought a long garden cane, Ronnie string, and me, the largest nail I could find from my dad’s shed. Paul held a canvas school bag in his hands and kept saying, ‘Are you sure? I don’t know about this. Are you sure?’

-x-

The bell tingled and we went to work. Paul waited outside while the rest of us went in. Fergy stood to the left of the shop and peered through the beaded doorway. He was checking Old Lady Wheelton’s progress towards the shop proper. I held the canvas bag. Wappo stood like a heroic javelin thrower. Feet shoulder width apart, left hand on hip, right hand grasping a garden cane topped with a six inch nail lashed on with string.

‘Go on then,’ whispered Fergy. ‘She’s at the end of the corridor. About fifteen seconds left.’

Wappo leant over the glass sweet cabinet and stabbed at the stack of Bensons in front of him. Turning the end of the cane to me, I pulled them off the nail and dropped them in the bag.

‘One more go. Just enough time,’ whispered Fergy again.

Same routine, except this time he went for Embassy No. 1. I’d just dropped them in the bag when Mrs Wheelton appeared through the doorway.

‘One cigarette and a match please,’ said Wappo placing five pence on the glass counter.

-x-

Okay, so it was shop lifting. We walked away with seven packets of twenty with four or five cigarettes in each packet damaged by the nail. Wappo probably smoked at least half of them.

We never got caught. In many ways it was the perfect crime. Did I feel guilty? Well actually, yes. Stealing was something I knew to be inherently wrong – but I still enjoyed its rewards. Old Lady Wheelton is long dead I suppose, she was nine tenths of the way there way back then. I don’t feel guilty any more. That was then, this is now. And besides, the old witch did sell fags to children as young as eleven. It’s taken me nearly twenty-nine years to kick the habit.

How many five pences is that?