King's Cross Kid (20 page)

The gang never showed their faces in the Garden again and the police, no doubt concluding that discretion was the better part of valour, let the whole thing drop.

Then something else happened. A small group of Mosley’s lot set up a platform almost on the edge of the Garden itself where it joins Long Acre and, inevitably, a fight broke out between the porters and the Blackshirts. This was the first time since I started working for Maisie that I had seen violence in the Garden. This was a real bust-up and in no time the law was around in force rounding up the porters who had been knocking the Blackshirts about. Then up comes a police car out of which gets a senior copper with all this silver braid round his cap to prove it. I recognised him as one of the regulars who I used to pass Abe’s envelopes to. I left Maisie’s side, went up to him and said, ‘Hello, mate, must be over a year since we last met.’ I could see he recognised me and knew what I meant. He stared at me for a second, saying nothing, then he walked over to the luckless porters who were expecting to end the day in the cells at Bow Street nick. He told his constables to let them go. He was exercising clemency; no further action was necessary.

Maisie saw all this and said, ‘I always knew you had a dark past, Victor, but I’m not going to poke my nose in.’ She never mentioned the incident again.

37

Frankie's Café

One Saturday afternoon, I was sitting in Frankie's café in Gray's Inn Road with Roscoe and a couple of his mates. There was a bloke sitting in the café all on his lonesome. Toby, who was one of Rozzie's mates, went over to Frankie and asked him if he knew the lad. No, Frankie said that the bloke has been in a couple of times but he didn't know anything about him. Toby went and sat down opposite this unknown. ‘Whatcha, mate, you new round 'ere?' Instead of looking annoyed at this direct approach, he told Toby that his parents had just arrived in the country and he didn't know anyone but that he'd learnt some English at school.

The long and short of it was that in no time he was sitting down with us and had accepted our invitation to come up to Harry's gym for a couple of hours. He told us he lived in Harrison Street and it was better than where he came from, so we assumed that he must have come from a right dump. We couldn't pronounce his name so Toby, who'd taken to the kid, called him Mickey because his name started with an ‘M'. When we arrived at Harry's one of the lads came over. ‘Care for a couple of rounds, Vic?' I knew that this wasn't going to be serious stuff so I said I was OK for a little knockabout. Rozzie and the other three lads pulled up chairs to watch the fun, which ended with blood streaming down the front of my vest. We two warriors went four good rounds before calling it a day. Meanwhile, the new lad, Mickey, demonstrated his agility by shinning up the ropes that hung from the ceiling. The speed with which the lad climbed to the top was unbelievable. Everybody was watching him and I know that they were all thinking, ‘Wonder what he's like up a drainpipe?' The bloke was by now the centre of attraction and agreed to try his luck with one of the local lightweights. The bundle began and there was no doubt about it, the kid was quick but not quick enough. He stopped a left-hander, got dumped on the canvas and that was the end of that. Everyone gave him a slap on the back.

On the tram back home the kid told us that his mother and father had come to England because the local police where he came from had started rounding up all of his dad's mates and that once they disappeared they were never seen again. His dad had said that England was the only country in the world where people could find refuge. We didn't have a clue what he was talking about and, as he seemed to be a decent lad, Toby told him to keep his prowess as a climber to himself. Mickey never really became one of us but now and again he would join up with us. I don't know what eventually became of him or even where he came from. I guess it was Germany.

Frankie's café had been our unofficial headquarters and meeting place for the last three years. On one occasion about half a dozen of us were sitting round playing a few hands of solo when in came none other than the Bear, towing along behind him a young copper who none of us had seen before.

We greeted the Bear – ‘Afternoon, Mr Thomas' – all very respectful like. ‘Wanna cup of splosh?' ‘Only passing by,' said the Bear, ‘see what mischief you lot are up to these days. And you, young Victor, what you doing round 'ere, Kenton Street too good for you?' Dusty butted in, ‘You ain't come round 'ere for nuffink, sergeant, what yer looking for? We're all clean.' The Bear came back, looking straight at me. ‘I don't know what this one's involved with at the moment and I'm aware none of you are on the thieve, but it's only luck that you and yer old man' (now he looked straight at Roscoe) ‘ain't been run in and that goes for all three of you.

‘Anyway, in case you don't know, in the last month there's been three cases of rape around the Cross. As far as we know there are two men involved and we reckon they're outsiders. So far it's been kept out of the papers, you lot 'eard anything?' ‘News to us,' said Roscoe, ‘but I will tell you this, sergeant, if you don't know already, if we ever get our hands on them, those bastards are lumbered. By the time you get your 'ands on them they will probably be minus their dicks. And who's this new bloke you're trotting around wiv?' Roscoe pointed to the shiny new member of our local constabulary. ‘We got some new recruits and a new Super and he wants to make a name for himself so don't tell me you ain't been warned.' With that, one of the few coppers we trusted stalked out into the sunshine.

Within three weeks the two rapists had been cornered up the top of Penton Street by a group from the Collier Street mob. One of the victims had been the sister of the lot from round the back of Millman Street. The Collier Street lot had sent word to the Millman Street lads that they should feel free to come and collect the two blokes. A couple of the Millman hard men dragged the two unfortunates off in a car and later on threw them out on to the steps of Judd Street nick minus their dicks and in a very bloody state. Although everybody knew the names of the two hard men, they were never grassed up to the police.

38

The Loss of Sammy and Maisie

‘Tell yer what,’ I said to Rozzie one day. ‘How do you feel about ’aving a meal in a decent restaurant?’ Rozzie agreed that it would make a change and so I took him round to Percy Street to the restaurant run by Ron’s dad. ‘Haven’t seen you for a few weeks, Vic,’ said Ron. I explained it was the market job and the hours I had to work: straight to kip by nine at the latest, up at two and into the market by three. ‘It’s real graft but the money is good. As for this bloke here,’ I nodded to Roscoe, ‘I ain’t got a clue what ’e does for a living but ’e was the clarinet player in the band I told you about.’ Ron suddenly perked up a bit. I knew what he was thinking: Roscoe might be a useful addition to our duo. Then Roscoe chimed in, ‘I dropped that, Vic, I’m on the guitar now.’ Then Ron asked, ‘Ever heard of Django Reinhardt, mate?’ It turned out that Roscoe’s only source of musical inspiration was Roy Rodgers, ‘the Singing Cowboy’. The gleam that I had seen in Ron’s eyes faded, and I saw the promise of a free meal sliding away, so I chipped in, ‘I reckon the three of us ought to give it a try, get together for a couple of hours. Lend Rozzie the record and let him do a bit of practice.’ ‘Better than that,’ said Ron, ‘I’ll bring the machine down and we can ’ave a listen while we’re eating.’ Ron’s eyes are lighting up again; if only we could get a halfway decent guitar and bass player we might make a go of it, although Ron must have known that his future was bound up with the café. Ron went to get the player and Rozzie sat in silence, looking a bit depressed.

‘Whatsamatter, Roz? You look as if the world’s coming to an end.’ ‘Tell yer what, Vic, I’ve put some skirt up the spout, and I’m expecting a visit any day soon.’ ‘What yer mean? Wiv a shotgun?’ ‘Could be,’ said Roz, ‘she’s the sister of one of that Somers Town lot.’ ‘I always thought your mum said you had to marry “a nice little Jewish girl”. You sure it’s yours?’ ‘’Fraid so,’ said Roz, ‘got to be honest about it, all mine.’ ‘Blimey.’ Rozzie was almost the same age as me, heading for eighteen; the most I’d ever achieved was a few desperate kisses and a fumbling feel with my lost love Peggy, while my mate Roz had put one away in the oven.

Ron heard this and gave his solution to the problem. ‘Only one fing to do, Rozzie; join the army and get posted somewhere out of the way.’ ‘Carn’t do that, I’ve already thought about it. I can’t join up until I’m eighteen and the thing will be out by then.’

There’s no doubt about it, poor Rozzie was in dead trouble. At that moment Ron’s mum brought up the grub, and his dad put our beloved Hot Club on the turntable. ‘Get an earful of that, Roz, and tell us if you can do something like it, and remember that geyser who’s playing the guitar has two broken fingers.’

It was quite obvious from the start that the genius of Stéphane and company didn’t do anything for Rozzie. ‘Is that wot they call jazz? Then, nah, don’t care for that.’ My attempt to enrol Roscoe into our twosome had failed at the first hurdle. Suddenly, as if let out of a cage, Ron blurted out, ‘I can’t hold back any more, Roscoe, how on earth did you get that bent conk? It’s got to be the ugliest conk I’ve ever seen.’ Talk about calling a spade a spade; I had visions of Ron getting flattened against the wall, but, no, Roscoe laughed it off. ‘I tell yer wot, Ron, if you’re out to catch a bird it’s not the conk wot matters.’ Roscoe being the type of bloke who didn’t give a cuss for anyone hadn’t lowered his voice and the punters in the café were roaring with laughter at what was being said. I’m sure that Ron got a talking to from his mum after we left. ‘Who’s that rough lot you’re mixing with? And don’t forget we expect you to marry a nice Italian girl, one that goes to church regularly.’ Neither Roscoe nor I could come up with a solution to the problem of the impending ‘visit’.

I was slowly losing interest in the job at the Garden, probably because of the lack of social contact. What stopped me leaving were my feelings of loyalty to Maisie and Sammy. They had taken me on and broken the unwritten code of the market: everything was family, no entrance to outsiders. Not that there was any hostility to me; it was accepted that I was doing my bit to keep Maisie’s head above water; Sammy himself was by now unable to lift a sack of spuds.

Then one Monday morning, I’m not sure whether it was May or June, up came Bert with the horse and cart, but no Maisie or Sammy. There was another bloke with him who I’d never set eyes on before. Bert gave me the eye. ‘Sammy’s gone,’ he said, ‘passed away on Saturday night. Maisie will be here tomorrow. We’ve got to do our best to keep the customers happy. Solly here will give a hand but he knows nuffink about the business.’ Bert went off to have a chat with one of the other firms a little way down the road. After a bit a woman came up and said she’s going to look after Maisie’s side of the business and we must do what she said. Everyone set to with a will and by ten thirty Bert was back with the wagon and the shutters were going up. That was the only day I never had a breakfast. I wouldn’t have been able to get it down if I had been offered one. All through the morning men and women had come up to offer their condolences and to give a hand if necessary. It was a great show of strength and unity on the part of the market people.

Maisie, Bert and this other chap turned up the next morning. The funeral had been arranged for the following Sunday so as not to interfere with the market trade. Maisie told me it was going to be held at a synagogue in Bethnal Green and I was welcome to come. But I decide that this was a highly religious affair, the family in their dozens would be in attendance, and it wasn’t the place for a gentile like me. I told Maisie this and she put her head on my shoulders and wept away like a waterfall.

Later Maisie broke the news that she had decided there was no way she could carry on without her Sammy so she was going to sell up. There would be work for me until such time that somebody else took over the business, which should be in about three weeks. Then Maisie said, ‘I’ll see you’re taken care of when I go, but I have to tell you, Victor, that you won’t be taken on by whoever buys the firm, it’s all Jewboys ’ere. I know you understand, Victor, you know the score.’ ‘That’s OK, Maisie, I can take care of myself and I do know the score, so no ill feelings on my part.’ ‘We’ll all go down the boozer and get sloshed before we go, Victor – go out wiv a bang, sort of.’

Maisie was true to her word. I invited Roscoe to the beer-up and for the first time in my young life got pissed as a newt. Rozzie and me staggered home completely sozzled.

The job held on for another three weeks and then Maisie told me that the Saturday coming would be our last day of business. She also told me that she had tried to get me another job but that she didn’t have much say in the matter. ‘I’ll see you all right, Victor, you’ve been a great help to us.’ So we carried on and each day seemed to get gloomier than the last. Finally, on the Saturday morning, we put up the shutters for the last time and Maisie made a cuppa on the little stove in the corner of the shop. Then she opened a box of nice pastries, and her eyes were wet with tears. I reckoned she would never get over the loss of her Sammy and I remembered my own mum with her eyes streaming as she sat on those dark winter nights bewildered and hurting at the loss of her Eddy. It was these two women, neither of whom knew each other, who taught me that it is the women who suffer most from the ups and downs of life.

Maisie gave me a hug and then a lecture. ‘Victor, you listen to me, you’ve the makings of a good boy, but at your age you should be thinking of your future. Who was that scruffy Jewboy you brought along with you the other night?’ ‘That was my mate Roscoe, he’s all right.’ ‘All right my foot,’ said Maisie. ‘Look at ’is ’ands the next time you meet up wiv ’im, never done a day’s work in ’is life. Looks like a crook to me. ’E must be breaking ’is poor muvver’s ’eart. Yer got to make somefink of yerself, Victor. Don’t forget us, yer know where we live’, and with that she shoved an envelope in my hand. ‘It’s something for yer to put in the Post Office. It’s not a free gift, Victor, you’ve earned every penny, now get along wiv yer, you’re breaking me poor Jewish heart.’