Read Bronson Online

Authors: Charles Bronson

Bronson (3 page)

BOOK: Bronson
8.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

I don’t know why I’m so close to Loraine. Perhaps it’s because my mother had a little daughter – my sister – who died at birth. I’ve often called Loraine my ‘sister’. Perhaps she was meant to take the place of the little girl I never knew.

We are like twins, me and Loraine. One smile, one touch and I light up. Her laughter is contagious – and I love to laugh! Sometimes, I fear she no longer believes in me but, hell, 40 years can’t just be swept away.

Prison can destroy families. Not just me and my lovely ex-wife Irene, and the lost years with my son Michael. But also with close relatives like Loraine.

Years of my life have been spent in jails up north – how can working-class families get to visit? It’s almost as if the system has tried to make it difficult for me. In fact, I’m sure it has. Letters ‘disappear’, they deny you your weekly phone call, you’re moved to another jail just when your family is planning to visit the one you were in before. So the rift begins.

Just think back to my first days on remand. Not yet convicted, and I was asked to speak through glass to my beautiful wife and baby son. The rot, my hatred for the system, set in at an early stage. If I was a different person, maybe I could have coped, knuckled down. As it was, I felt thrown to the wolves – and I came out fighting. I’ve been fighting ever since.

My dear old dad, Joe, was a strict man. Never violent, but I knew I could never put a foot wrong. If we had to be in at a certain time as kids, then we were in at that time. He wouldn’t stand any cheek. He had a strong moral code, and hundreds respected him for it. Joe was good-looking and powerfully built. He had served in Africa and India from 1942 to 1947 as an aircraft mechanic in the Fleet Air Arm – and he became a Royal Navy boxing champion.

Dad was born in Northampton on 12 July 1924, one of three boys and two girls. He was English but had partly foreign roots. His mum, Dorothy – my grandma – was from Northamptonshire. But his dad, who was called Jack, had a German father and a Swedish mum who had run a bakery in east London. Jack was born over here and when his parents died within weeks of each other, he was brought up in a Dr Barnardo’s children’s home in London with his four brothers and sisters.

Jack grew up to become a skilled craftsman who used to put gold leaf on horse-drawn carriages and trains. My grandfather Jack’s real surname was a German one – Wolerstein. But that caused difficulties
for him during the First World War. He was trying to join the British Army, so he changed it to his mother’s Swedish maiden name – Petersen. It was only when Jack died that the family found out from the birth records Jack’s real name. Later, we changed our surname from Petersen to Peterson.

My mum, Eira, was born in Aberystwyth but left for south Wales aged eight, and then came with her family to Luton in Bedfordshire. She met Dad in Luton just after the Second World War. They got married there in 1949. Mum was 18, Dad was 25.

I remember very little up to the age of eight, but I know Mum and Dad did everything they could to make our lives happy. Some kids went short, but we never did. We weren’t rich; we lived in a three-bed council house on the Runfold estate in Luton – number 24, Leyburne Road. But the house was spotless and me and John always wore dickie bows to go to school. We always went somewhere special on Sundays, and we had holidays at the seaside every year. My granny Martha – Mum’s mum – had a neighbour with a static caravan at Caister-on-Sea, near Yarmouth in Norfolk. We’d go there for a week in the summer and play on the beach with our buckets and spades. I’d take a friend and so would John. We went there for about six years on the trot, then we would go on caravan holidays to Boscombe near Bournemouth. Dad bought me and John fishing rods, and every evening we’d all sit around playing cards for hours – usually Pontoon.

Mum used to cook a lot at home. Her apple pies were a special treat. I still love an apple pie! Dad was a proud man. He spent hours in the garden, tending to his flowers and shrubs. That garden was the envy of a lot of people on the estate. People waiting at the bus stop nearby used to stand and gaze at it in admiration. You’d never see my old man without a
shirt and tie on. He was always immaculate. He never owned a pair of jeans in his life.

I do remember one thing, from when I was about five or six. We used to play on the edge of some big woods at the back of our house – all the kids did. One day some teenage lads grabbed me, John and some girls and boys we were playing with. They took us into the woods and started to interfere with the girls. I was the youngest and I screamed and kicked my way out and ran all the way home crying. They never touched me, but I saw them touch the girls. I told Mum. I can’t remember much more, but I do know that three teenagers were sent to Borstal for it. I sometimes wonder if that incident scarred me.

Then, when I was about eight, I remember being hit on the head by my lovely mum. I adored her; she never meant it. She was looking after some neighbour’s kids, a boy and a girl who were younger than me. Their mum was at work and my mum used to take care of them for an hour or two after school. I was playing up, showing off, and Mum was trying to make the tea.

‘Michael,’ she said. ‘Michael, for God’s sake be quiet!’ She spun around with a bottle in her hand. It hit me bang on the head.

* * *

John and I went to the same schools. He was OK, but I hated it. My brother and I grew up together, but we were so different in so many ways. He was always cool, relaxed, contented … easy come, easy go. He always seemed to be reading something. I was more introverted and less academic. I was never one for team sports but I used to enjoy swimming at school, even though it affected my ears. I found it hard to mix and it took some time to overcome my shyness. I
had a great fear of the dark as a youngster and would have frequent nightmares. I couldn’t fully control my bladder until I was 10.

When I was eight, my younger brother Mark was born at home. I can still remember Mum’s cries of pain in the bedroom. That upset me; I couldn’t understand it. Then I heard the crying of a child. I’m still sorry there is so much of an age gap between me and Mark; we never really grew up together. He was only seven when I left school and went out to work.

One day, something strange came over me. I was about 13 and I had my first urge to kill. No one in particular, just anyone.

Maybe this was the start of my fucked-up life. Who knows?

I hung around by a big tree near my home. I had an empty bottle in my hand – a milk bottle. I was ready to bash anyone who came past.

No one came.

I smashed the bottle over my own head until blood trickled down my forehead into my eyes.

* * *

By about the age of 13, I had a nice little gang together. The four of us would go shoplifting every Saturday. Our hits were mostly big stores; we’d get pens, diaries, purses and jewellery and stash it all away before we sold it here and there. There was no real sense in it – just excitement.

Unfortunately, one of our little team was caught by a store detective, and the police were soon knocking on Mum and Dad’s door. That upset my family a lot. I was up before the juvenile court and had to go to an attendance centre for two hours every Saturday morning. That went on for 12 weeks and I hated the
regimented discipline of it. I learnt a lot through that episode, mainly about disloyalty.

What had hurt the most was that I’d been grassed on.

By this time, John was in the school brass band and had started going out with girls. But I wanted none of it. I was always trying to be different.

We were in an all-boys school and I had no interest in girls at that age. I got my kicks out of wanting to be Number 1 all the time … showing off.

I was never a bully, but while my mates would be happy firing their airguns at the birds in the trees, I would want to hit some stranger in the backside. We mucked about on old motorbikes, went camping and had the odd scrap. But I was always pushing things to the limit. So while the other lads were content to ride a motorbike up and down a dirt track, I was the one who had to go on the road. If somebody did 50mph, I had to do 60. If they had £10, I wanted £20.

Then there was a big change in my life. John joined the Royal Marine band. He wasn’t even 15 – he did the rest of his schooling in the Marines. I hadn’t realised how close we were. I really missed him. Dad was proud to see him in uniform, and so was I. But from then on, even though we’d see him when he came home, something was missing. I knew Dad would have liked to see me join up. But I’ve always believed in self-discipline, not being forced into it. I hated being told off.

All John’s mates asked about him – his pals, his girlfriends, the teachers at school, the neighbours. After a while, I got fed up of hearing about the Marines. Then another big change happened. My school became mixed. I hated being in a mixed class.

I was incredibly shy at first, then I opened up a little. I became very fond of a girl called Shirley – my first girlfriend. I wanted to tell her things but I could
never really find the words. I always felt a bit embarrassed. This was about the time I started getting into all sorts of scrapes. God knows why, but I sure wasn’t on my own. I’d go out with my mates, stealing motorbikes – just for the joy-ride. I’ll never know how I didn’t kill myself! We’d often get chased by a police car.

I moved from school to school as I kept getting expelled for fighting. I wasn’t evil, but I was sick of school. I would always respect my elders and give up my seat for an old person or a lady on the bus. And I loved animals, so there was definitely a good side to me! We had boxer dogs at home, and Dad used to keep budgies. A few years earlier, when I was about ten, I even had my own little zoo. I kept frogs and mice in the garden shed and used to charge the younger kids a penny or two to come in and see them.

I was coming up to 15, the age I could finally leave school, and I was getting into music … the Beatles, the Stones, the Small Faces. There were Mods, Rockers and Flower People. I was a Mod.

I took pride in my appearance, just like my dad. But I soon went seriously off the rails and ran away from home. I didn’t have any idea where to head for, so, with a haversack on my back, I ended up thumbing lifts all over. I decided to go to see my brother John, who was now based at Deal in Kent.

I remember it so well, and for good reason! I was on my way to Deal when I was dropped off by a lorry driver in a little village. It was a hot summer’s day and I was thirsty and hungry, so I bought a bottle of orange and put it in my haversack. I thought I’d get out of the village and find somewhere quiet to drink my orange and eat the few sandwiches I had with me. I was just getting out of the built-up area when I saw an orchard. I was over the fence in no time, filling up my bag with apples and pears. Then I came to a dual carriageway and just flaked out in the sun.

On the other side of the road was a girl walking towards where I’d just come from. She was some girl! She was older than me but somehow we got chatting. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we ended up in the fields.

I smiled all the way to Deal. I’d got plenty of fruit that day – more than my apples and pears!

That night, I ended up sleeping in an old barn. I was cold, I felt lost, but that girl had done something to me. I wanted so much to go back and be with her.

I made it to see John the next day. I saw his mates and told them all about my travelling plans. But I was just kidding myself – dreaming. John told me to go home. He was a real man in his Royal Marine uniform. I wasn’t. We said farewell and I hung around for a while, watching the Marines going in and out of the gate. They were smart, no doubt about it, but I knew it could never be for me. I knew I couldn’t stand the discipline.

I headed to London, and then back home to Luton. I was dirty, tired and hungry, but it was great to be back. I had learnt a lot, but Mum and Dad had been heart-broken.

I had a few months left of school, but I was playing truant so much I was hardly ever there. I just wanted to go out and get some good money. That eliminated an apprenticeship for me. I really started courting Shirley at that stage. I felt good with her, and my family liked her a lot. But I didn’t know what I really wanted. We were only kids. And at that age you’re as likely to fall in love with your pet hamster or your goldfish.

The last day of school was the best. A few of us padlocked the main gate to stop the teachers getting their cars out. We had a big punch-up with the prefects. It was great!

I had no qualifications but I started my first job a week later. Before I go into that, I have to say that I
don’t think my childhood was in any way different from thousands of others. I can’t blame my upbringing for what I have become. Maybe I was a bit more headstrong than some other lads, maybe a little more quick-tempered and rebellious. But don’t all boys fight, steal and take chances?

I took the first job offered to me, in Tesco’s supermarket. I had to keep the fridge section stocked up and stamp the prices on the goods. From day one I knew it wasn’t for me. It wasn’t a man’s job. I felt like a fairy.

There I was with my red top on, stamping the eggs, butter and cheese. But there were a lot of girls working there – and I met Sue.

I really fell for her. She was a couple of years older, but it boosted me that she liked me. I had a tattoo done with her name on. But that relationship didn’t last – like the job.

Two weeks after I’d started at Tesco’s, I ended up cracking the manager over the head with the stamping machine.

It was a chaotic Friday evening and he’d shouted at me in front of the customers because there weren’t enough eggs on display. He’d made me look an idiot. He had another go in the back of the store, so I just lashed out. One of the store detectives escorted me off the premises and told me my cards and wages would be in the post. Luckily, the manager never called in the police.

Soon after, I left home again, this time with a good pal of mine called Alan. We packed some gear and off we went! We hitched lifts all over, and after a while I decided to go to see my mum’s family who had moved to a small town called Ellesmere Port. It was near the seaside, a few miles from Chester and close to Manchester and Liverpool, but there wasn’t a lot there. We didn’t stay long. We ended up catching a
ferry to Dublin, and from there we hitch-hiked to Belfast. Then, everything started going wrong; we were picked up by the police and questioned about a few things and then made our way back to Luton, where I had a big bust-up with my old dad.

BOOK: Bronson
8.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Soldier of Finance by Jeff Rose
Strindberg's Star by Jan Wallentin
End of the Line by Bianca D'Arc
Blind Delusion by Dorothy Phaire
Poseur by Compai
Matters of Faith by Kristy Kiernan
Bad Heir Day by Wendy Holden
The Sword of Darrow by Hal Malchow
Love's Rescue by Tammy Barley