Authors: Victor Gregg
Out we came for the fourth go at each other. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself when the stupid sod in front of me led with his left as if to give me a cruncher in the gut, and as I went down to cover he brought over a right that connected with the middle of my face. Back I went under the impact, back and back until I was sliding down below the ropes. I thought I’d been hit by a bulldozer. I could dimly hear Roscoe and his mates yelling for me to get up and ‘kill the sod’. When I finally tottered to my feet the bloke refereeing had sent the other lad back to his seat and declared me dead, game over sort of thing. Then the lad who’d been responsible for the damage to my face came over and asked me if I was OK. ‘Yep, I’m OK, see you another time,’ I says. ‘Not before you learn to keep yer guard up,’ he says.
‘You don’t ’arf look a bit ropey’, said Roscoe on the tram back. ‘Thanks to you lot,’ I said, and they laughed all the way home. When I turned up for work on the Monday morning and they all asked how I got my face done up, I had to endure another bout of hilarity. ‘Who was yer fighting, wasn’t Kid Berg was it?’ The only one who didn’t see the funny side of all this was Maisie. ‘I bet yer mum told yer orf then, that’s all you men think about, sex and fighting.’ I was in her bad books for a few hours but by the end of the day she had relented. ‘You won’t get anywhere by fighting, Victor.’ It was as if I was listening to Mum.
After that I was determined to learn to keep my guard up, not because I was interested in boxing as a career, but just in case I ran across the hulk who had tried to alter the shape of my face. As it happened I had the last laugh. Roscoe got hold of a couple of tickets to the Royal Albert Hall for a battle royal between his idol, Harry Mizler, who was having another go at defeating Jimmy Walsh. This was early in 1937. Harry won the fight and, as we were celebrating, a gang of Jimmy’s supporters started wading into us. Roscoe came away from that little fracas with his big Jewish conk bent almost backwards, from which it never seemed to recover.
I was now working in the market as though I had done so all my life. To Maisie’s delight Sammy was doing all the light work while all the heavy lifting fell on my shoulders, which were getting broader by the day.
One morning when we were alone, Maisie said: ‘You know, Victor, I’m real pleased that you’ve taken all the ’ard work off of Sammy, but you got to be gentle about it. If he starts thinking that ’e carn’t pull ’is weight any more it will effect ’im. Let ’im do a bit now and again but, like yer doing now, keep an eye on ’im.’ And then, as if on impulse, she bent over and planted a kiss on my forehead.
‘Sorry about that, Victor, but the good Lord never saw fit to bless us wiv a little one and you’re the only one we’ve met that would fit the bill.’ After a slight pause and a little wipe of her eyes, ‘There, Victor, I’ve only said what the pair of us have been thinking, perhaps I’ve upset you?’ ‘No, you ’avn’t done that, missus, I was thinking all along that Sammy would ’ave made a nice dad.’ Whereupon Maisie burst into a flood of tears.
Later that year, some time in May, Sammy dropped to the floor while we were loading up Bert’s cart. In no time the ambulance arrived and Sammy was on his way to Charing Cross Hospital. Maisie wanted him to stay off work for at least a week after he got out, but as soon as Sammy could get out of bed he was back on the job and Maisie’s face was lined with anxiety. By now I was earning the enormous wage of three pounds a week, almost as much as my granddad. Maisie and Bert didn’t want me to leave; as it was they were just hanging on by the skin of their teeth.
The days were getting warmer and Sammy’s health improved although, when we were in the shop by ourselves, Maisie kept on about not letting Sammy do too much. ‘Let ’im think ’e’s doing it, Victor, but I’m relying on you to make sure he don’t do too much.’ ‘Don’t worry, Mum.’ I’d started calling Maisie ‘Mum’. I don’t know why; it just seemed to be the right expression, and she never challenged me about it.
By now Maisie knew all about my life. During the slack periods she used to ask me about my family: what it was like living in Holborn, what school I had gone to and so on. I told her everything – about my dad leaving home, the months I’d spent in the Shaftesbury Home, about my mates and the way we all stuck together, being frightened of no one. I told her how I wanted to make my fortune and how I liked working for her and Sammy. She said, ‘You don’t need to make a fortune, Victor, all you have to do is to play it straight with those around you, never tell lies and, if you do wrong, face up to it and admit it. Live like that and you will have a happy life, maybe not rich, but happy.’
She said that, despite the misfortune with my dad, my mum was lucky to have not one but three lovely children. When Maisie let herself go like this, as she did on several occasions, it always ended in tears which she tried to hide, but couldn’t.
Was there any difference between our mum and Maisie? I think there was.
Maisie could command attention. Even the hulking great porters buckled when she had a go at them for not doing things as she saw wanted doing. Mum could never have been as forceful as that, but, if it came down to what was right and what was wrong, they were as alike as two peas in a pod.
I told Maisie about Peggy, how we had been born and bred in the same streets and how she fancied me and how she had gone off with this stupid ginger-haired sod who I was sure was going to start beating her up, and when that happened I would have to go charging in and rescue her. I could never have told my mum these things. Maisie sat in her chair by the desk, with her hands over the old Valor heater, and listened silently until, at some break in my meanderings, she would try to sort things out for me. ‘You have to understand, Victor, that a woman has different feelings to a man.’ Then she would go on and on, just like my mum and gran. What is it about women? Sometimes after these sessions with Maisie I used to ride my bike round to the street where Peggy lived. I didn’t see her so I rode round again hoping that if we did bump into each other we could have a chat, just to see how things are going. I’d make certain she was OK and not being beaten by the ginger-haired sod. But we never did meet. Maisie once told me that I would probably miss Peggy all my life because she was my first love, and, ‘Man or woman, it makes no difference, we’re all the same. You never forget that first introduction to the great mystery of life.’
Back in the market the talk was all about what was going on in Germany. Meetings were held on street corners which the police tried to break up. I think that was because there was such a large Jewish community in the market: they were more aware of the danger of what might happen if Hitler was allowed to carry on unrestrained.
I was coming home after an enjoyable evening playing in the café with Ron, which we now did on a regular basis (my music gear was a permanent fixture in Ron’s bedroom), when I bumped into Roscoe and two of his mates. I didn’t know them but if they were mates of Roscoe they must have been OK. We all agreed that a fistful of fish and chips was a good idea, so off we headed to the fish shop in Kenton Street.
We arrived to find the place surrounded by the local fuzz who were loading half a dozen screaming girls into a Black Maria. We learnt that three new girls had tried to operate on the patch of three of the regulars who, naturally, took offence and started a fight.
Roscoe’s mate Billy sussed it all out in a flash. ‘Someone’s trying to muscle in, some gang probably. Who’s running this lot ’ere?’ I wasn’t certain but guessed it must be the Somers Town lot. ‘That’s Charlie Donahue,’ pipes up Dusty, Roscoe’s other mate, who lived in Ossulton Street, right next to Somers Town goods station. We all knew that this meant trouble we’d be better off out of. The problem was we all lived in the vicinity, and I lived right opposite the girls’ patch and was known as a wide boy. Not that I personally took part in criminal activities, but I did associate with the lads whose big brothers were running the gangs. They were into protection rackets, burglary and, of course, prostitution, which is where these girls came into the picture. Roscoe and I and his two mates knew all the characters involved, and, more importantly, they knew us.
The following Saturday, Roscoe was sitting in the usual café in Gray’s Inn Road, along with his usual retinue of Al Capone lookalikes, when they were called to order by a couple of smartly dressed cutthroats who suggested they all take a walk to the café in the Caledonian Road so they could have a discussion that might be to everyone’s advantage. What wasn’t said was that refusal was not an option.
It turned out that Dusty had spread the news around that he had seen the girls being put away. The lot who controlled the girls wanted to know more. When Roscoe met them in the other café they asked him who else was involved. Who’s this other bloke? Vic? Who’s he? What they really wanted to know was who had run the newcomers on to their patch. They were worried that it might turn out to be the Sabinis from Millman Street. Someone chancing their arm could be sorted out with a couple of broken bones, no problem. But if it was the Sabinis that was a different matter. They asked us what we could find out and said to tell the local girls to behave themselves; tell them everything was being ‘sorted’.
Afterwards Roscoe dispatched Billy to get me to have a ‘meet’ with the Somers Town lot to discuss the problems. This was serious stuff. Up to this point we had all steered clear of the courts and now here we were, standing on the brink of, and getting involved in, what could easily turn out to be a vicious gang war.
As far as I was concerned it was nothing to do with us; let them sort out their own troubles. Dusty, who obviously knew a bit more about the mob involved, butted in: ‘All very well for you, Vic, but we’re with Roscoe and his old man is in a dodgy line of business. You don’t think he’s doing that without paying his dues? You ought to know the score by now!’ I looked across at Roscoe, ‘’E’s right, Vic, we all ’ave to pay our dues. You know the score, works both ways. Nobody interferes wiv our little business, if they ask us to do a favour it’s expected we give it the nod.’ I still had no idea just what Roscoe’s dad did to earn a crust. Then Dusty interrupted: ‘Best we go see what they want, ain’t no ’arm in that, see what they want and what’s in it for us.’ We all agreed and left it to Dusty to make the arrangements, after which we shuffled off down the Cross to get a tram up to the Angel and spend the rest of the afternoon in Harry’s gym.
Two days later and the four of us are sitting in a café down in Somers Town Market, with some of the heavies from the Somers Town mob. Dusty knows everyone there, the other three of us are just sitting listening to the chat, and thinking that there’s some real hard stuff in here. It was agreed that the Sabinis were trying it on but further proof was needed. They wanted us to get some evidence. Roscoe and Billy gave me a look. I knew what they’re thinking: I lived on top of the scene. I piped up that it should be simple: put a tag on the ponce and see where he handed over the dosh. If it was Millman Street then it was the Sabinis. The heavies in the café gave me the hard look. I continued that it was going to cost a few oncers. ‘’Ow much?’ ‘A fiver should cover it.’ One of the gang handed me three one pound notes which he peeled off from a roll done up with an elastic band. We’d get the rest after we’d come up with the goods on the girls. This was their way of telling me that they were in charge and to make sure I knew my place in the scheme of things. I kept my cool and headed for the door, followed by my three mates.
When we were back on familiar territory I told the others not to worry. I told them I’d get a couple of the kids in the street to follow the girls’ ponce: we should have results in a couple of days, then that was it, all over, done and dusted. The other three agreed. ‘Thought you were going to chicken out, Vic,’ said Billy. ‘’E’s not a mate of mine for nuffink,’ said Roscoe. Billy didn’t know how near the truth he was. I certainly had very nasty feelings about this little job and I knew that finding out who the intruders were would not be the end of it.
I knew enough about the strength of these gangs to understand that, in order to stand up to the Sabinis, the other gangs, who were usually at each other’s throats, would have to come together. The other thing was that the only real potential allies with the necessary grunt were the Hoxton lot, and I was the only one of our little gang who was on speaking terms with them, and that was because of my past employer, Abe.
A couple of weeks later we’d supplied the info that it was indeed the Sabinis who were muscling in and they weren’t hanging about. A new café had opened on Battle Bridge, the very heart of King’s Cross, and it was common knowledge that Sabini money had supplied the down payment, added to which four new girls were operating in Argyle Square, which was a small, quite sedate square considering the neighbourhood that surrounded it. Argyle Square was also the territory of the Islington lot. It was now just over a month since the Sabinis had started extending their territory. The Somers Town lot were going round in circles trying to conjure up enough support to engage the enemy but had made little progress. Then something happened
It was Dusty who came knocking on Roscoe’s door. The gang from the Angel had intervened. The ponce who was running the four girls in Argyle Square was now resting in the Royal Free Hospital, just down the road. The girls had been given a warning: ‘Don’t come back, or else.’ The threat was accompanied by a bit of razor waving and the girls were terrified. Having done over the ponce, four of the gang, armed with pick-axe handles, went to the café on Battle Bridge, tied up two Sabini hustlers who happened to be in the café at the time, told the rest of the customers to scarper and then locked the door and started on the café’s interior with some gusto. Having satisfied themselves that there was nothing more to smash up, they left.