The Guv'nor (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

I
've never been one for looking back – I never saw the point. It didn't matter how much I might have wanted to change my past, it just couldn't be done, so I never really tried. I was always looking forward, that was me – to that deal round the corner or the clever move round the next; on my toes all the time. As far as I was concerned, anyone rambling on about their past was a mug without a future.

So when me and my pal Peter got settled in the front room to make a start on this book, I thought, as long as my Val keeps the tea coming, no problem. Was I in for a surprise! Not only was it hard work thinking back over nearly 50 years, but many childhood memories that I'd buried away were very painful to bring to the surface and I'm not ashamed to say that, more than once, they brought a lump to my throat.

I was born in my Nan Campion's bed on 9 April 1949. My mum Rose and dad Lenny lived with her at 61 Gopsall Street, Hoxton, which me and most people put slap bang in the East End of London. But Mr Know-All writer sitting opposite me, who's got my Val running up and down making tea, reckons that after looking at the map, the part I was born in really lies in a corner of Islington in North London. Still, it doesn't matter where they stick it on the map, up until the Sixties it was the roughest and toughest corner of London. Hoxton has always been well known for its market, and even today it brings the tourists and punters in from miles around, but back then it was better known as a place to keep away from if you didn't belong. The people who lived there were a breed apart and had a worse reputation than those who lived in Bethnal Green, and that's saying something. I expect some college professor could
explain why that little area turned out more villains to the square inch than anywhere else. And I don't just mean toe-rags, Jack the Lads or plastic gangsters. I mean men like the Krays who ruled London's underworld. I don't know the answer to that, I just know it's a fact.

In the old days, the whole of London was a collection of villages. They were all joined together but every one of them had its own identity. You were known by where you came from, and everyone was very suspicious of outsiders, and would fight to protect anybody from their own community, even killing for them, if it came to it.

Hoxton was one of those villages. It was a close-knit community where everybody talked, knew each other's business and shared what little they had with each other. All of them were in the same boat, with nothing to prove, so there was a friendly atmosphere. You could go into this house or that and no one ever worried about the street doors being open all day or even all night – you just walked in. What little unskilled work there was was badly paid. Everybody was hungry and everywhere people were just trying to get by – it was a very, very hard life.

For working-class people to get a living in those days, you had to be involved in some sort of villainy or be ‘at it', so everybody was breaking the law just to put bread on the table. The police were the enemy, because there was no money about. Outside the ghettos it was only people with anything worth having who relied on the police, because they worried about their property or their own skin. Then the police became their friends. People like us knew the police were no good, so they didn't have any time for them. If the streets needed looking after, they did their own policing. Step out of line in those days and the guv'nors of the manor would put the word out and then you'd be in for a bloody good hiding. If that didn't do the trick, you'd get a striping across the face or the cheeks of your arse. You didn't get a third warning.

Today, things are different. Society has changed and lots of the old values have gone out of the window. Old families have moved away, loyalties have become weaker, and in the gap that's left a new breed of villains have sprung up. I don't think most of them deserve the name ‘villain', because that word makes you think of tough men trying to survive, but at the same time having respect for each other and the law. No, what we've got today is a lawless society, full of
no-value
toe-rags, druggies and nonce cases, and that's why we all need
the police minding our backs, because the violence and senseless murders have gone beyond being controlled by the local guv'nor. So remember, when I'm slagging off Old Bill, I'm going back years to what I think were better times.

With the war over, changes were taking place all over London. Bomb damage was still being put to rights and the councils were taking the opportunity of clearing away the areas they classed as slum housing. Perhaps they weren't up to today's standards, but they'd stood up for years and, with hindsight, it seems wicked that close communities were ripped apart and families shunted into anonymous blocks of jerry-built flats. Still, as I said, that's with hindsight. At the time, if you got the offer of one of the new flats, you thought that you were the business.

We were the first family to move into Godwin House. It wasn't until then, when we crossed the boundary of Kingsland Road over to Godwin House in Kent Street, Bethnal Green, that we were in the East End proper. It might have been well over 40 years ago, but I can still feel the sense of excitement as we climbed down from the open lorry and stood looking at our new home. It seemed colourful and shining, like something out of one of my picture books. Bright-red brickwork, white concrete and fresh paint everywhere. You could take a shiny, clean lift or use the concrete stairs with their iron handrail to reach the flat. It had three bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom, and sitting-room. One of the bedrooms was used as a storeroom so all of us kids slept in the one room.

I went back there a few months ago, the first time for over 30 years, and afterwards I wished I hadn't. It's a dump now. A shabby, depressing piss-hole. I stood on the pavement in front of the flats on the spot where we'd jumped down from the lorry all those years ago, and just let the memories flood back. Some of the feelings were nice, but mostly they were bad and those bad ones hit me right in the stomach. And I've got to say, they hurt worse than any punch that's been thrown at me over the years.

That first day, though, I couldn't imagine anything ever being bad. It's funny, but I can picture that little family standing there. It's like looking at a cracked and faded old photograph. I know it's me I can see, but looking at that baby in my head, all smiling and clutching his dad's hand, I can feel choked knowing what that poor little sod had got to go through.

I expect that Mum and Dad were feeling pretty chuffed with life then. They had four healthy kids: Linda, six; me, five; Barry, four;
and Lorraine, three. Mum was pregnant with Raymond. Dad was grafting well and they had this lovely new home. Being a kid, I was only aware of what concerned me, so as far as I could see everything was perfect. My strongest memory is of feeling warm, loved and happy. I know Mum had her hands full but she always seemed to be laughing and singing. Dad used to sing as well. He'd wait until she was washing up then he'd grab her and start singing ‘Yellow Rose of Texas', and she'd be flicking him with soapy water telling him to get off.

They were always messing about like that, or kissing and cuddling. I remember one day he caught a mouse. He put his fingers to his lips for us to be quiet, then opened the kitchen door. ‘Present for you, Rosie,' I heard him shout, then he pulled the door shut quick. Bloody hell, you never heard anything like it. I bet the Hayes upstairs thought Mum was being murdered. When he came in that night, he had his hands behind his back. ‘Got another present for you, Rosie.' Of course, she starts squealing straight off and the look on her face made us nearly wet ourselves. But this time it wasn't a mouse, it was a box of Black Magic chocolates. He was like that, a lovely man.

As far as I'm aware, he was a good money-getter in those days. To tell you the truth, and I'm not ashamed to say it, he was ‘at it', which meant he earned his living however he could. He'd do a bit of running for bookies at the races, a bit of thieving, flogging knock-off gear, anything that would turn a shilling. But he was best at conning people. He never conned his own, but he'd go up West and talk some greedy mug into buying a lorryload of iffy figs. When they'd unloaded them, they'd find most of the boxes full of newspaper. By then, though, he was on his toes. Another time, I remember our sitting-room was nearly full up with boxes of Liquorice Allsorts. He told us he was looking after them for a bloke who had a shop. He let us have some, but we couldn't take them outside. It was only a long time after that I realised why.

As I said, he was a lovely man, and unlike a lot of dads, he seemed to make time for us. I was watching him dry himself in the bath one day and I noticed a great big scar that went right round his chest and back. When I asked him what it was, he laughed and said the Germans had done it, but he got his own back because he killed them all and that's how we won the war. I looked at this great, tall man and thought, ‘My dad's Superman.'

He had served in the Marines, but the truth of the scar was a
major heart operation about a year before. I learnt later that he'd picked up a germ in India which affected a valve. After the operation, he was told he probably only had two years to live – and he died two years later to the day. At the time, I didn't realise his health wasn't good. If I'd known, it would have explained why every now and then I'd walk into the room and Dad would be sitting in the armchair and Mum would be beside him holding his hand and crying. That used to frighten me, but when I put my arms round her shoulders and asked what was the matter, she'd just smile through the tears and say, ‘Don't worry, son, I've just got a little headache.'

To me, that man was a giant, and when he carried me down to the Bethnal Green Road market on his shoulders I felt like a giant as well. Other times, I'd walk behind him with my hands behind my back, copying him and taking great strides to keep up. I'd clomp around in his boots and he'd stick his trilby on my head and we'd fall about laughing. He loved us all, but looking back I like to think I was his special favourite because I was his first son and took after him in name and looks.

Then one day this lovely, laughing handsome man was gone. It's all a blur now. All I can remember is him being there one day, then we never saw him again. Perhaps he'd been taken into hospital first, I don't know.

The only people in the block who had a television at that time were the Hayes, who lived in the flat above us, so every chance we got we were up there. In those days, people used to watch telly in the dark, so there was me, Barry, Lorraine and the Hayes' kids, all sitting on this big dining table watching
The Flowerpot Men
– it was a puppet show where the sets wobbled and you could see the strings, or every now and then a big old microphone dangling down. Simple stuff, but we loved it. Mr and Mrs Hayes had bundles of kids, some about my age and others a lot older. And if I sit and scratch my head for five minutes I can put a name to every one even now, 40 years later – Alfie, Patsy, Timmy, Billy, Johnny, Hilda, June, Robert, Fred, Rose and Pauline.

It's funny how little things stick in your mind, but Barry was being a right pain, squeaking, ‘Weed, Weed,' in my earhole like the puppet on the telly. The next thing I knew, Mrs Hayes came in and said, ‘Your mum's here, you've got to go.' I couldn't see her face in the dark but I think she was crying. We jumped down and ran out, and there was Mum holding Raymond, who was only tiny, and she
was crying as well. She took us down the stairs and we were all crying by now, but we didn't know why.

She wrapped her arms around us and cuddled us all at once in a tight little bundle, and said, ‘Your dad's gone to heaven. He's gone to be an angel.' I couldn't take it in. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, which was all wet, and I said, ‘Don't cry, Mum, he'll come back tomorrow.' To me, it was like he'd gone to do a job or something.

It's as though my mind blanked out what I didn't want to know. You'd think I would remember every detail, because I loved that man so much, but all I can recall of that time is the funeral, or a bit of it. We were in a great big church about a mile long and there were hundreds of people, all crying, and next we're standing by a hole in the ground and they're putting the coffin down it. Everything after that is blank.

Then that night, and many nights after, I'd be in bed with my brothers and sisters, with Mum in the other room, and I'd hear her crying out, ‘Oh, God … Oh, God … why, why, why? Oh, Lenny, I want you.' I thought she was calling me at first, so I'd creep through and get into bed with her and we'd have a cuddle until eventually she'd fall asleep, but still sobbing his name. It brings a lump to my throat even now to remember that time. She was 24 years old, had five kids to look after and the light had gone out of her life.

Some years later, my cousin, Tony McLean, and me were on the hop from school. I must have been about 12. Don't ask me why, but with nothing better to do, I suddenly thought I'd like to go and see where my father was buried. We had a few bob from some thieving or other, so we got a bus to Stamford Hill, then walked up the hill to Albany Park Cemetery.