The Guv'nor (8 page)

But there was no comeback. The mug might have said he had fallen downstairs, I don't know. David was well pleased and on the day he went home he had four ounces of Old Holborn brought in for me. I haven't seen him since that day, but I've heard about him over the years. From what I hear, he's done his fair share behind the door. The last time was in 1984 when he was handed out a 14 for holding up the director of an airline company, with his family, in Hyde Park Gardens. So, with a bit of luck and if he's kept his nose clean, he should be getting on with his life outside by now.

And that was what Tony and me were looking forward to back in 1967. When you go away, it's not just your freedom that's put on hold, but your life and your mind. The outside world becomes sort of distant and blurry. You think about home, your family, friends and what you might be doing if you weren't away from them all. But it's more a dream than reality.

I'd seen more of Mum and some of the others when I was in the Scrubs, but with Hollesley being nearly 100 miles from London, just the travelling could take all day and it cost a bomb. I always looked forward to visiting days, but when they came round I couldn't wait for them to be over. Suddenly, there was nothing to talk about.

Now that it was time for the release I'd thought about for the past 20 months, I started to get nervous. What struck me was the anti-climax of it all. When you're sent down there's a right fuss.
Police, courts, no time to yourself, rushed here, rushed there and watched all the time. Come your release day, they quietly open the door and shove you out. Well, not quite. A couple of the screws did have the decency to drop us off at Ipswich Station, but that was all. No brass band, nobody out front waving us goodbye. Just a quick ‘Bugger off and don't come back.'

As we left Ipswich well behind and the train roared towards London, I looked out at the woods, little streams and green fields, and I thought, ‘Fuck the countryside – we're on our way back to the East End.'

You would have thought that once I was back in London I couldn't wait to get home. But it wasn't like that. We pulled in at around six o'clock, I said ta-ra to Tony, then I just wandered about for a bit. I'd forgotten the smell of the place. Not a nasty smell, in fact it probably wasn't a smell at all, but as I breathed in I was sucking in the feel of crumbly houses, people and everything that was part of where I belonged.

Wandering through the market where they were all packing up, it was like I'd never been away. ‘How you doing, Len?' ‘Where you bin lately, Lenny?' ‘'Ere, cop this bag of apples, mate.' I don't remember if I let on or not. Most of them must have thought I was on something, but I wasn't, I was just drugged up on freedom and being home.

Not long after, I'm at my house and there's Mum. She just stood there looking at me like I was a ghost, screwing her hands in the pinny she was wearing. For a second, it was like we were strangers, then I grabbed hold of her and cuddled her to death. She's crying and she's laughing, both at the same time. I gave a couple of twirls, still cuddling her, and danced us both up the passage until she was screaming like a young girl. I hadn't realised just how much I had missed her.

Young girl she wasn't, though. When she was making a cup of tea I looked at her and saw this little old woman. She was 38. Her face was lined, she was thin, and that lovely blonde hair was slowly turning grey. What had we done to this woman who'd never had a bad thought in her life, or done anybody any harm? I wanted to blame Jim Irwin, but I couldn't kid myself. A lot of the wrinkles and grey hair were down to me. So I gave her a cuddle and said, ‘I'm sorry, Mum.'

I was well pleased to see Lorraine and Kruger and my little
half-sister
. Not that I ever thought of her as anything other than my real
sister. She was six then and she followed me round and round the house showing me pictures she'd done, prattling about school, and telling me what her dad had been up to. I thought, ‘Darling, you don't know half of what that bastard's been up to.' But I wouldn't have said that to a little baby.

Barry was gone and the house wasn't the same without him. At 17 he'd decided enough was enough and had emigrated to Australia. It broke his heart to leave us all behind, but Irwin made life so unbearable he couldn't take any more. He'd come down to the Borstal a few days before he went and the governor had allowed me an extended visit. He could be a hard man that governor, but give him his due, he was fair where it counted.

We had a good talk that day, Barry and me. A lot of it was about how Jim Irwin had screwed up all our lives. Then it was time to go. Because we were both men then and very conscious of not showing our real feelings, we just shook hands and said our goodbyes. Then as he left the hall I thought, ‘Fuck it,' went after him and gave him a good cuddle. I didn't see him again for five years, and that was going to be a sadder time than this. He still lives in Australia, working in the water industry and doing well for himself.

Jim Irwin kept out of the way that day, so it was a nice sort of family get-together, though I think he was in the back of all our minds. Uncle Fred came round to see me and wished me all the best, and slipped a few quid into my hand as he was going. Smashing bloke, he wouldn't see me potless and it kept me going while I was looking round for some way to earn a few shillings.

I reckoned Irwin was up to something, because he didn't show up until a couple of days after I got back. It was about eleven in the morning, so there was only Mum and me there. He just walked in and stuck his arse in the armchair, not so much as a hello or kiss my bum. Not even to Mum. I thought, ‘You ignorant pig, I'd like to smash you to bits.'

Nothing was said for ages until Mum went out of the front room. Then he looked up and said, ‘You've got a big lad.' I said, ‘Yeah,' and he leaned forward and said, ‘Don't ever think you're big enough to take me on because if you do, what I start with my fists I'll finish with an iron bar.'

It was funny in a way, that I could swallow that sort of shit indoors, yet outside I could be a violent lunatic if I was challenged or mugged off. I wasn't frightened of Irwin any more, so it could only have been the love and respect that I had for my mum that stopped
me from hurting him and I know I was capable of doing that. I just gave him some eye and walked out of the room. Now I know I'm definitely home.

I put Irwin out of my head and I soon got back into the swing of life again.

CHAPTER FOUR

I
'd never been a drinker, and where I'd been for nearly two years at the age when most kids get a taste for a jar or two, the strongest drink you could get was lemonade. Still, I was a quick learner with anything that wasn't work, and in no time I was a regular piss-artist. What a mixture – my evil temper and alcohol. Now that I've got more sense I think drugs are a terrible thing. Anybody who takes them is a mug, and those bastards that deal them and make money out of kids are nothing better than slags. But, back then, we were all a bit naïve as far as drugs were concerned. There wasn't the publicity about how bad they were. They were just a bit of a laugh. So we'd all take what they called ‘purple hearts' then and, when we was buzzing, go round all the clubs in the West End – the Tiles, the Flamingo, Twenties, anywhere we could get a drink – pull a few birds and have a good time. We never went out looking for trouble, but being five likely lads we seemed to attract other groups who wanted to take a pop. At some of the clubs we never even got in the door. Flying high or out of our brains with drink meant we weren't ideal customers. The doorman would pull a face and ask us to go elsewhere. We'd give him a bit of verbal, out would come the bouncers, chucking their weight about, and it would all end in a right tear-up.

For our spending money and a bit of excitement we got into a bit of ‘after-hours window shopping'. After we'd done our rounds of the clubs on a Saturday night, we'd jump in our motors (mine was a green Mini Cooper), and tour round the high-class shops in Oxford Street or Regent Street. When we found the right pitch we'd chuck a metal milk crate straight through the glass and cream the display. We had less than a minute to do the business. The alarm would be ringing and the police would be on their way, but we didn't give a
fuck. Cashmere jumpers, fur jackets, suits, posh dresses, whatever we could rip off the dummies. One night, we couldn't get this tasty suit off the dummy quick enough, so we flung the whole thing in the motor and drove off with its legs hanging out of the window. It looked like a kidnapping.

Another time, me and a mate turned over a high-class store in the West End. We got a load of good gear out of the window, mostly suits and posh dresses. After we stashed the stuff, we arranged to meet young Barry who always got us good money without aggravation for anything we asked him to move. We cut him in on a percentage so he wasn't doing us any favours. Barry got there first, then I turned up but my mate didn't show. After about two hours sitting there waiting, Barry said to me, ‘That prat ain't going to show, so why don't I flog the stuff and we'll cut it up between us two?'

‘What did you say?' I said.

‘We'll cut up the money and fuck him.'

‘No,' I said, ‘fuck you,' and I belted him straight in the mouth, breaking his jaw. That's all he got out of the job because me and my mate shared the split. What a slag, he'd rob his own.

Nicking the stuff was the easy part, but we didn't see any dough until it was flogged off. That Barry could piss off as far as I was concerned, so anything tasty we had was passed on to Tommy the Talker. We were quite busy and shifting a fair bit of gear, so if Tom ever got a bit loaded up we would slip round Hoxton or Roman market and do a few deals for ourselves. We were making good money and spending it like water, so come the weekend we'd start grafting all over again.

Back in 1968, the clubs didn't turn out until about four or
half-past
, so by the time we'd done some work and tucked away the night's takings in a little lock-up we used as a slaughter, it was well into the next day.

This particular Sunday, it seemed like I'd only just closed my eyes, when I got such a bang on the head I thought the ceiling had come in on me. It hadn't, it was Jim Irwin and he was shouting, ‘Three o'clock, you lazy bastard, and still in your pit. This ain't a fucking hotel,' and he was bringing his fist up to give me some more.

I've bashed up half the bouncers in the West End and this bastard's whacking me like I'm six years old. I chucked the covers back, shot out of bed just in my Y-fronts and I'm like a fucking madman. The look on his face, in that second before I smashed it, will stay with me until the day I die. It was like traffic lights changing.
Anger, surprise and, I'd like to think, fear. He fell backwards against the door and I swung another to his head but before it connected he slumped to the floor and I split the door panel instead.

If the bedroom hadn't been so cramped and I'd had more room to move I would definitely have seriously hurt him. As it was, Mum had heard the commotion, run up the stairs and pushed her way in. Irwin came to when she touched his face. I think for a second she thought I'd killed him. But he shoved her out the way, got up and staggered out holding his mouth. Mum put her arm round my shoulder. She didn't say anything, just gave me a squeeze to calm me down. I was still shaking with rage. I wanted to finish him off.

I said, ‘Mum, that is the last time he ever lays hands on me or you or any of the others, because I'm ready and I'll fucking kill him.'

She said, ‘Len, I don't blame you for hitting him, he's had it coming, but please, son, for my sake, don't hurt him any more.'

What could I do? That slag had battered me since I was five. I had given him a bit of a slap and the woman I respect more than life itself was asking me to leave him out. No contest.

But after I got dressed I went downstairs and into the kitchen where he was dabbing his nose with a flannel. He looked up and said, ‘You made a big mistake just now, boy.'

‘No, you c**t, you made the mistake,' I replied, ‘and if I didn't love that woman through there so much I'd be biting your face off right now.'

He just said, ‘Fuck you,' and pushed past me. I wish I could say that I battered him until he screamed for mercy and swore he was sorry for what he'd done, but that's just for films. Real life is never so black and white.

I liked to imagine that after our little disagreement Jim Irwin was nervous of being around me. When I was indoors he was out. When I was out, back in he'd go. It might have been coincidence. I felt sorry for Mum stuck in the middle. All of us kids hated the very sight of him, but what did we know of adult relationships? There had to be some sort of spark between them because with three of us bringing in some money she didn't need to depend on his charity. At about that time, he started working up north, in the rag trade, having got himself into the business of making bed-quilts in a little factory. He was away for most of the week, so I started to suspect that he was test-driving the quilts with the bird he was in partnership with but I wouldn't upset Mum by saying so.

Time crept on and the lads and I were getting older and wiser. We started going our separate ways, mixing with different people and giving up what we had begun to see were juvenile pranks. Most of our stunts were good capers, but we were at an age when we could be looking at serious bird for what was really schoolboy mucking about.

About then we all chose the various paths we were going to go down. Some decided that the straight road was the way to go. They'd had a good run so now was the time to settle down. Others took up some serious villainy on their own, or teamed up with some of the well established local firms. Me, I didn't make any decision one way or the other. I would take it as it came.

My reputation as a fighter was gradually spreading further and further. If a bit of aggression was needed for frighteners on a job, or a bit of business, my name would be put forward. People knew I wasn't just another thick-headed thug, but somebody who could be trusted to use his nut for thinking as well as breaking jaws. I never did favours, though. If they wanted me on the firm, I had to be well paid.

Life wasn't all about fighting and getting pissed up, though. I did have plans in other directions. Don't get the idea that because I'm always out with the lads and talking about me and the boys that I haven't got any time for girls. I'd had my share of birds, but what with the strained atmosphere at home and violence wherever we went, girlfriends didn't last too long. Then, one night, I was in the Standard in Kingsland Road having a drink and a talk with the governor's son, Sid. The door opened and in walked this little angel, and Lenny took a knockout.

She was a tiny little thing, about 17, blonde hair, beautiful face, and a tiny bum that would've fitted into one of my hands. I can even remember what she was wearing and I bet not many blokes could say that about their wife looking back nearly 30 years. She had a beige suit on, red shoes and a red handbag.

Me and Sid both eyed this little dream up and down, and I said, ‘You know what they say about girls who wear red shoes.'

He said, ‘You mean red hats, don't you?'

I straightened my tie and said, ‘Oh, bollocks, who cares? I'm going to give her a pull anyway.'

When the girlfriend she was with went out to the ladies' room, I slipped over and gave her a bit of the McLean charm. I said, ‘What's your name, darling?' and she said, ‘Valerie, and yours is Lenny McLean.' I was well chuffed that she knew me but I didn't let on, just gave her my film star look and said, ‘Why don't you park your
mate up and let me take you up West?' She gave me one of those looks that birds like to put on and told me, ‘I couldn't do that, I couldn't leave her on her own and, anyway, I might be seeing my boyfriend in here later on.' I sussed she was giving me a story. I could see by the look in her eyes that she was more interested than she was letting on, so I just gave a shrug, dead casual, and said, ‘Well, I'll be in here next Saturday, meet me then if you change your mind and I'll buy you a drink.'

I couldn't believe how I acted all the next week. I was like a lovesick kid, mooning about and counting the days until Saturday. There was no guarantee that she'd show, but it couldn't hurt to consider the possibilities.

Come Saturday, I was suited and booted and in the Standard at opening time. I never took my eyes off the door for the next hour. Then it opened and in she came, on her own, and even better looking than I'd remembered from a week ago. Her first words after we said hello were, ‘Are you going to behave yourself if I go out with you?' I pretended to be shocked. ‘Don't worry, babe,' I said, ‘I'll keep my hands in my pockets all night.'

She giggled at that. ‘No, I don't mean that, but I've been hearing all about you. Everybody says you're always fighting.'

‘Me, fighting, never. Just you tell me who said that and I'll belt them.' She giggled again and I knew I'd cracked it.

I took her to the Royal in Tottenham, and we had a great time. She said she'd like me to take her out again and after I left her that night I went home clicking my heels together, well pleased. I told Mum all about this beautiful girl I'd met and I must have gone over the top a bit because she laughed and said, ‘You're in love, son.'

‘Don't be daft,' I said, ‘that stuff ain't for me.' She just stood looking at me with a little smile on her face. Then we both burst out laughing. She was dead right. She'd spotted what I hadn't really thought about, but now that I did, I had to admit, yes, I was in love and it was a nice feeling.

I said, ‘Mum, don't say nothing to Jim. You know him, he'll try and dig me out and I'll have to unload him.'

‘I won't, son. But one night, when he's not around, bring Valerie home for tea, I'd like to meet her.'

Val and me went everywhere together, pictures, clubs and pubs, and day trips to Margate or Southend. I took her home to Mum and they got on like a house on fire, and, naturally, then Val's parents
want to meet the fella who's taking up all their daughter's time. I suppose it must have been about two months after I met her that she said, ‘My Dad suggested that as we are going to be very late home Saturday night, it would be all right if you stopped over, then they could meet you.'

So that's what I did. We had a really good night out and it was early Sunday morning before we got back to Val's house and we had to creep about a bit because her mum and dad were in bed. I got my head down in the spare room and fell asleep telling myself that I had to make a good impression on these people. Now I don't know what Val had said about me or how she had described the sort of bloke I was, but when I rolled downstairs next morning at about ten o'clock, the look on her parents' faces said that I wasn't quite what they'd expected.

What you've got to understand is that she came from a straight family – good people. Then out of the blue their little girl has brought home this big lump of a bloke, and he's sitting there eating toast, drinking tea and babbling on about life in Borstal. I was nervous, I suppose. I wanted to impress the parents of this lovely girl, and every time I opened my gob something stupid popped out. The room seemed to grow colder and colder, and if I wasn't so young, full of myself, and blind, I'd have noticed that Val's mum and dad were becoming less friendly and more po-faced with every word I said.