The Guv'nor (6 page)

It was a nice holiday for all of us and not much worse for him either, because he didn't even do 12 months, and most of that time was at Ford Open, which was, and still is, a bit like Butlin's without the ‘Goodnight, campers' sung to you at night.

Just after he got out it was my turn. Me and the other boys were still nicking for a living. Ducking and diving. Real Jack the Lads. Then that law of averages I mentioned decided to level me off a bit. Funny enough, it wasn't the thieving that caught up with me but a bit of bravado that went wrong.

This particular night I wasn't with Tommy, Andy, or Joe. I was with another kid called Charlie. He was a couple of years older than me and worked for a Jewish firm as a tailor. Well, he had this knife, a penknife – lovely tool – even had a thing for getting stones out of a horse's hoof. Bloody handy thing for a tailor's apprentice. Not to be outdone, I got myself a bayonet. I gave some kid two bob for it. The handle was all wound round with black tape and the edge was like a razor. It's funny the fascination kids have for knives. Well, I was no exception. I didn't see it as a weapon, more like a bit of jewellery.

Nobody could see what we were carrying but perhaps our cocky swagger down the road caught Old Bill's eye. We'd just gone past Woolworth's when two coppers stepped out and grabbed one of us apiece. They pulled us back into the doorway, turned us inside out, and that was it. They found his penknife and my bayonet, and we were well and truly nicked. They called up a motor and we were taken down Old Street nick. Processed up, laces out, belts off, then we were banged up in separate cells.

This is my first time and my bottle's starting to go a bit, but I thought, ‘Fuck ‘em. I won't let them have the pleasure of seeing it.' What a dump. It was like a public piss-hole, and smelled the same as well –plain brick all round, little window about ten feet off the floor, and a flush toilet in the corner. If you were banged up with
someone else they couldn't see you on the bog because of a partition, but in the wall right in front of it was a peep hole so that the cozzers could have a sly look at your bum while you're sitting there. Bleeding perverts.

The only thing to read was a notice stuck on the wall saying, ‘Any persons defacing HM property will be …' possibly shot for all I knew, because somebody had torn the rest off. Every now and then the little square window in the cell door would open and a different face would peer in. I shouted to one of these faces, ‘I know my rights … shouldn't I have a phone call or a cup of tea or something?' The window banged shut and this voice, disappearing down the corridor, said, ‘Shut yer fucking gob.' So much for British justice.

My mum turned up with Charlie's mum and dad and we were bailed to appear at Bow Juvenile Court in 30 days. Mum was breaking her heart, but I told her not to worry because I'd only be down for a fine and a good bollocking when I went back.

Jim Irwin's first words to me when I got home were, ‘Did Old Bill give you a belting when they got you down the station?'

I thought, ‘Hello, here we go,' but I said, ‘No,' anyway.

‘Right then, I'd better sort you out,' and he did. ‘Fucking teddy boy' – punch – ‘Thug' – punch – ‘Disgrace your family' – punch. He'd just done 11 months behind the door and he was belting shit out of me for getting myself nicked. For the next month I didn't see the light of day after four o'clock. It would be straight home from school and into bed. I began to hope I'd get sent down just to get away from it all.

Then the day arrived. I wore my best pullover and my hair was slicked down with Brylcreem. Anyone seeing me would have thought I didn't have a care in the world. What they wouldn't know was that my bum had been glued to the toilet seat since half-five that morning.

So we turned up. Jim Irwin didn't show, thank God, so there was Charlie and me, his mum and dad and my mum. We all stood in this great big room, wood panelling and chandeliers everywhere, all shuffling our feet and talking like we were in church.

Charlie was called in first, and I could tell by the tight-arsed way he walked that he was feeling like me. Ten minutes later and he's back out again grinning all over his face. As he was ushered past us by a teacher-looking bloke, he whispered out of the side of his mouth: ‘Three quid fine.' Result, my son!

Then it's my turn. Being Juvenile Court, the courtroom wasn't
like the ones you see in the pictures or on the telly. It was just a big posh room, like a library without the books. Down the middle there was a dining table about 30 feet long that you could see your face in, and all round it were carved chairs with high backs.

In the biggest chair was a bloke in a blue pin-stripe suit and beside him were two old girls in flowery dresses and glasses, and they were all looking at me as though I was something on the bottom of their shoes. They let Mum sit down, but I had to stand in front of them while they read papers and mumbled to each other. Then I got the lecture: dangerous weapon … vicious thug … streets not safe … society will not tolerate … and so on. I wasn't really listening. I just kept my eyes on the pigeons crapping on the window sill outside.

I must have gone into a bit of a daze, because the next thing I knew, the bloke in the suit was saying, ‘Three pounds,' and Mum started crying and shouting, ‘Oh no, please no.' I thought, ‘Hold up, Mum, I can nick more than that tomorrow.'

They were all looking at me as though I was stupid because I must have been smiling or something. One of the old girls said, ‘If, by the smirk on your face, you imagine three years in an approved school will be some sort of a holiday, then I suggest you think again.'

Bloody Hell, what did she say? Three years? I was stunned. I looked at Mum and she had her hanky over her mouth, and I looked back at those three mugs and I could see in their eyes they knew they'd got a result.

What did they know about me and what sort of life I'd had? Did they care that I'd been belted nearly all my life, abused and knocked about, and known nothing but fear, terror and pain? No. They'd go back to their cosy little houses in Croydon or Barnet, proud of their day's work protecting society. Back home to worry about real life like the daily papers being late or the milk not being delivered – fuck ‘em.

Because he was a tailor, they'd swallowed Charlie's story that he used his knife for work. Were they mugs or what? Me, because of my little bit of previous, they treated me as though I was Jack the Ripper.

Anyway, I was locked in a back room while they sorted things out, and after about half-an-hour they let my mum in. She was still crying and I said something I've always regretted. I told her to pack in the tears because she was showing me up real bad. Tough guy, eh? She didn't say anything but just tried to stop crying. I can still see
that hurt look on her face and all these years later I just want to cuddle her and say, ‘I'm sorry.'

The system sent a coach round all the juvenile courts picking up the kids who had been remanded, so we had to sit there for about four hours, staring at the walls, without even a cup of tea. I know I said I was hoping to go down to get away from Jim Irwin, but that was when I thought it wouldn't happen. Now I felt different. The coach arrived too soon and I was taken out the back door. Mum just had time to say, ‘Be brave, son, be strong for me,' then I was bundled aboard.

As the coach pulled out of the yard, I wiped the steam off the window and looked back. Seeing that little figure of my mum standing there in the rain with her shoulders all slumped, still crying and giving a little wave, I felt my own eyes filling, so I mouthed, ‘Love you, Mum,' then turned away to face whatever was coming.

CHAPTER TWO

S
tamford House is a remand centre in Shepherd's Bush where they assess you before deciding in which unit you'll serve your term. It was a bit like a very strict school. Everything was done on the double – march here, march there. First, I was taken to reception. You're not allowed to talk to the other kids, you just have to stand there in a line while they sort through your papers. Then, on the trot, we were taken to whichever house they had decided to put us in. Mine was Amby House, for the youngest, the 12–16-year-olds.

All your personal bits and pieces are taken away and stuck in a big envelope, then all your clothes. You get a towel and a bit of soap and you've got to have a shower. Once that's out the way, you get dressed in the clothes they give you and you are well and truly part of the system. Once you put on that rough grey shirt and short pants, you not only feel a prat, but it seems like you've lost your identity, and that effectively knocks any fight out of you. Not that there was any in me; it had been a long day and I was missing my family already.

Tea was bread and jam, and then, because it was our first day, early bed. The dormitory was a long room with lines and lines of beds. Again, we weren't allowed to talk, but had to get into bed straight away, and I was glad about that because I wanted to shut it all out.

I lay there with the blankets pulled right up to my chin and slowly let it all sink in. It seemed like a distant dream being in my own house early that morning. I pictured my mum standing crying at the court house and I thought of my nan and my brothers and sisters – would they all forget me? Then I thought of Jim Irwin. His
beltings and abuse had driven me out of our home and into trouble so it was down to him I was here and I hated him for it.

In the beds all around me frightened kids were scrunching their faces into their pillows and crying themselves to sleep. But I just stared at the blue light in the ceiling that was always on, and I burned with rage.

I felt hot, then cold. I wanted to jump out of bed and smash everything to bits. My arms and legs kept jerking as my mind raced through ways I'd like to kill that bastard who'd ruined my family. Then, when I eventually fell asleep, I dreamt of my dad and he was singing ‘Yellow Rose of Texas' and the pain woke me up. I was a tough guy, but in the dark, in the middle of the night, I was just like all the other kids as I pulled the pillow over my head and let myself go. That was my lowest point.

After that first night, I came to terms with the life there and it wasn't so bad. Don't forget, I'd known some rough times up until then, so I was no kitten. Nothing could be as bad as what I'd suffered at home. If Stamford House had an old school tie, most of the villains in London would be knotted up with one. Charlie Richardson and Ronnie Biggs are two chaps who spring to mind. It wasn't Oxford or Cambridge, but it turned out some likely lads. It wasn't a prison so they didn't bang us up and we didn't have to work. We had to do lessons, though, and that was hard for me – I hadn't put in a full week at school for years. What most kids feared wasn't the screws – or teachers, as they liked to be thought of – nor the system in general. What they really worried about was other kids, the tough, violent kids. And there were always plenty of them.

About a week after I moved in, this little, effeminate kid in the next bed to me said, ‘Lenny, I got something to tell you.' Now I'm a big lad, and this kid's about the size of tuppence, so I reckon he's looking for a minder.

‘Lenny,' he said, ‘the Daddy is telling everybody that you're a cockney poof.'

‘What do you mean, fucking “Daddy”?', I said. ‘Who's that?'

‘It's that Scotch boy in the next house, the tough one.'

I realised that by ‘Daddy' he meant ‘Guv'nor'.

‘Well, you pass the word down the line that Lenny McLean thinks he's a haggis-eating c**t.'

That was a Friday. On Saturdays we were all allowed to play in the orchards in the grounds. You weren't allowed to climb the trees, but you could play cricket or football, or lay and have a kip. That's
exactly what I was doing when I looked up to see a big kid of about 16, standing right over me, surrounded by a gang of others.

He looked down at me and said, ‘So you're the tough guy who's browning all the little ones in Amby.' I knew who he was because of that ‘hoots mon' voice, and I never even got up. I just put some leather in his bollocks while I was still lying on the grass.

As he went down clutching his nuts, I leapt up ready to give him some more. Then I was grabbed from behind. Luckily I didn't
back-nut
whoever it was, because it was one of the teachers.

‘Right,' he said, ‘you know the rules.' I didn't, but he soon put me right. ‘If you want to fight, it's in the ring only, so three o'clock in the gym or you're on report.'

I didn't know it at the time but this was a regular Saturday afternoon event, the official way fights were settled – boxing matches in the main hall and everybody would be there to watch. So that's what happened. At about four, we're in the ring; plimsolls, shorts and gloved up. Referee as well. Professional stuff.

As we touched gloves I whispered to Jock, ‘How's your maraccas?' That got his temper up, so he wasn't thinking. Me, I'm as cool as a cucumber. The first round knocked the temper out of him, and the second spilled enough of his claret for them to stop the fight. His nose was bleeding and his lip was cut and all the other kids were cheering. Even the teachers were clapping.

Once we'd been cleaned up, we both had to go to the main desk to get our prize, which was an apple or an orange – the winner had first choice. I chose the orange, and didn't it taste sweet! Now
I'm
the Daddy.

Did the Jock get his revenge by creeping up on me in the dark with half a brick? No, he didn't. Like all kids everywhere, once the fight was out of the way we became the best of pals.

The pair of us got into a bit of trouble one day and we were due for a right bollocking, so I said: ‘Fuck this … let's have it away.' I'd been there for about three months so I knew the layout and the ropes, so getting out was easy as pie. Straight after roll-call we just walked out. Remember, Stamford House wasn't a prison, so there were no bars or barbed wire, nothing. It was about eight o'clock on a summer's evening, and still light, but we'd got no money and we're miles away from the East End. We didn't even know where we were heading. Perhaps in my mind I was taking Jock to Nanny Spinks.

Dusk fell and we were still walking. Hours later dawn was breaking, and by this time we were limping down Old Street. Not
suspicious, are we? Both in grey uniforms wandering about at
half-four
in the morning. Then one of life's little coincidences popped its head up. We were just passing Old Street nick, about 20 minutes from home, when down the steps walked the copper who had nicked me for the bayonet in the first place.

He looked at us and we looked at him. I had blisters up to my arse and we were both absolutely knackered – it was a waste of time even thinking about running away. So, like a pair of lambs, we followed him back into the nick. The coppers were as good as gold. They gave us a cup of tea and a couple of smokes each, even though I was under age. Then they phoned Stamford House to pick us up.

That little trip out cost us both six of the best, two on each hand and two on the backside, as well as loss of privileges, which meant no telly and no cinema in the main hall on Fridays. It didn't do our reputation any harm though, because all the other kids treated us like gangsters.

A month after that incident I got my allocation through for approved school proper. So I'm on the move again, this time to Redhill, further north. It didn't make a lot of difference really, it was Stamford House all over again. What did help was that my reputation had preceded me through kids who had been shipped out earlier, so I was halfway to being the Guv'nor without raising a fist.

In all I did 18 months. I was 15 – not a kid any more. I'd grown a few inches and the stodgy grub had filled me out. So when I was released, I felt ready for the world.

When I got back home to Hoxton I felt strange and awkward. Everybody made a fuss of me, except Jim Irwin, of course. The best welcome home he could manage was, ‘Hope you've learnt your lesson.' Mum said, ‘Please don't start again, Jim,' and he just pointed and said, ‘He's the troublemaker,' as though I'd asked for all the beltings I'd had over the years. Still, he didn't raise his hands, so I thought that perhaps I'd grown too big for him. That was naïve. I might have been a handful for kids about my own age, but I was no threat to a man over 6ft and weighing in at 20 stone.

But, for the time being, things were quiet. I'd reached
school-leaving
age while I was away so it was time to get a job. It wasn't my idea, but Mum was old fashioned like that. After about a fortnight, she got me fixed up with a job in the print. A friend of hers had a husband working in the same print works, a handy person to know really, because the print has always been a bit of a closed shop.

The Saturday before I started work Mum dragged me down to Burtons the tailors and got me suited up; two-piece, latest colour (royal blue), and it set her back 18 guineas, and that was a week's wages for a working bloke then. She should have saved her money, because the job didn't last 18 days. Come to that, it didn't even last a week.

I had never been so bored in all my life. I was supposed to be learning indexing and how to put books and papers together, but as reading wasn't my strongest point it was a bit of a struggle to say the least – especially as the going rate was only £2 10s a week.

Well, I messed everything up. I know I wasn't trying too hard, but everything I touched got itself in a muddle somehow, and I was getting some grief from the manager. We hadn't started off on the right foot because on the first day he said, all snooty, ‘I've marked your card, McLean. I know you've been in jail.' Cheeky git. By Thursday I'd had enough, so when I saw this manager going to the bog, I crept up and tied the door handle to a pipe, so he couldn't get out.

He banged, he hollered and he swore, and I dared any of the others to let him out. After a bit, one of the office girls came down and undid the rope, and he came out like a greyhound from a trap. His face was bright red and he was sweating like a pig. ‘Right, who did it?' he shouted. Nobody grassed me up, but eight pairs of eyes all swivelled in my direction. ‘Get your cards, McLean, and don't expect any wages.'

‘Stick ‘em up your arse,' I shouted at him,‘and yer poxy two and a half quid.' I felt like smacking him, but I wasn't that daft. I was still on licence from approved school. Fuck his money, I was well covered. Three mornings running I'd passed what they call quires of paper over the wall to Tony, and he'd delivered it to a local fence by the name of Tommy. He's dead now, poor old sod, so Old Bill can't touch him.

I'd got my eye on a nice load of lead as well. In those days, they printed books and all kinds using lead letters and numbers, then afterwards they scrapped them. This scrap was all piled in a lean-to near the fence, saying, ‘Lenny, take me home.' I'd be back. I told Mum I'd been victimised because I'd been inside, and she swallowed it. Sorry I lied to you, Mum, but it saved a lot of aggravation at the time.

She was going to send the suit back but I said I'd get some bits and pieces of work and stand the five bob a week myself. As it
turned out, the lead we got a few weeks later easily covered the bill. How could anybody be expected to work all week for peanuts, when you could nick twenty times as much in a fraction of the time?

Tony and me made ourselves busy; we were a good team, and getting a bit too big for creeping which was a pity because it was a good earner. Still, as usual, Tony came up with some good ideas for grafting a few quid. There was a little place down a back street off Commercial Road. Tony's mate, who had a Saturday job with one of the big shops in the main road, said it was extra storage space for the shop and was stacked up with electrical goods. There wasn't a bit of security. No lights, no alarms, nothing. We said, ‘Lovely, we'll have some of that.' This wasn't a game we'd tried before, but if we could rob a few quid out of it, we were up for it.

We arrived there at about nine at night. If you go too early there are mugs all over the streets. If it's too late, Old Bill's got their eyes peeled for anything that moves. So nine's about right, and I'm dying to know why old clever bollocks Tony has brought a big tin of syrup and a lump of brown paper.

So we were down the alley and over the wall. It was dark but not so dark that we can't see what we're doing. The back door was covered in sheet metal but the windows weren't meshed up or nothing. Tony messed about with the paper, holding it up to one of the windows then tearing bits off.