My Story

by Ronald Kray

  When I left I carried my suitcase home to my mum’s because that’s where I felt I wanted to be. I guess I just wanted a bit of love and some home comforts. But she was not sympathetic. As I arrived at her doorstep she told me, ‘Sod off!’ She said, ‘You made your bed, now lie on it.’ I suppose she was trying to make me give my marriage another go. Instead I went to see my brother, Joe, and he offered to put me up at the house he shared with his wife and two children. Unfortunately, while I was there, because I was so down in the dumps and unsure of what the future held for me, I started drinking heavily and got myself in a right old mess. It wasn’t until I got really sick that my dad came and got me and took me home. I have never drunk alcohol since.

  I can remember the lovely feeling of being home. I had a hot bath and sat in front of the fire and I felt really safe and warm. It was a brilliant feeling. Soon I started to get myself together and I managed to find a job at a swimming pool as a lifeguard. I’d always been a good swimmer and I started studying in my spare time to be a swimming teacher. I passed all my exams and started giving swimming lessons to adults on my evenings off. Everything was fine again, until one day during a long, hot summer. By then I was in my twenties and I knew I’d developed into quite an attractive girl.

  This particular day was especially hot. I’d just got home from my afternoon shift at the pool and a few of us decided to go for a swim. We had a nice time but as the evening wore on my friends all began to leave and go home. The only people left were me and this one particular man.

  There had never been anything improper between us before, not even the suggestion of it, but suddenly and without warning he hit me over the head with a rock and put his hands around my throat as if he was going to strangle me. Then, violently, he tried to rape me. I fought him off and he failed in his attempt. But I can honestly say I have never got over what he tried to do to me. Even though later he cried and said sorry, when you trust someone and they break that trust, you find it very hard to trust a man again. I figured that if I couldn’t trust him, a friend, then I couldn’t trust any man. They always say it’s the person you least expect and, in my case, that was true. But then I met Harry, the boy I had known when I was just eleven. But, if I’d changed, boy! so had he. Now he was a real Flash Harry! He looked really good in his handmade suits and crocodile shoes. I’d always liked him, all those years ago, and we found we were getting on really well once again. We started going out together and I loved him because he was funny and he made me laugh. He had his own flat and eventually I moved in with him. He supported me all the way with my studies because he knew how desperate I was to get on, to better myself. He once told me there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do if I put my mind to it. And he was right. With his help I worked really hard and we began to build a good life. He asked me to marry him and I said yes.

  It wasn’t long before we bought our first house in Maid-stone, Kent. The happy ending to the story, I suppose, would have come if we’d had kids, but I couldn’t have children because of the bad abortion I’d had when I was sixteen so Harry and I buried ourselves in work instead. We tried all sorts of businesses knowing that one day we’d come up with a real winner. And we did. It was a kissogram business, which we called Kandy’s. I did a lot of the actual kissogram work myself and I was good at it. Now, most men would get all funny and say, ‘I’m not letting my wife do that sort of thing,’ but not Harry, he knew he could trust me. We were very successful and soon we bought a big house in the country. Then we opened a shop called Flash Harry’s, selling men’s clothes and, again, it did well.

  We were working day and night and I got tired and close to exhaustion. Harry realized and took me on holiday to the Canary Islands. It was the best surprise I’d ever had. After we returned we invested in property and letting bed-sits and we continued to do well. But, sadly, all the hours we were working began to take their toll on our marriage and slowly we began to grow apart. By this time we had been married thirteen years and we’d rarely had an argument in all that time. Neither of us wanted to get to the stage where we did start to fall out and dislike each other - so we decided to get a divorce. We’re still partners in the business sense, still the best of friends, and I still love him very dearly. I truly hope that one day he meets the person who is right for him and who will give him the family that I couldn’t. He is a good man.

  And that’s the position in my life that I had reached when I saw that book on the Krays and started to write to Reggie. Finally, after about four months of writing he asked me to go and visit him at Gartree prison. I was really nervous on the long journey up from Kent to Market Harborough. The prison is a grim-looking set of buildings in the middle of what seems to be mile upon mile of flat fields, two or three miles outside the town. I’d never been to a prison before and, the first time I went to one I found it to be quite an unnerving experience. I went into a small reception area and my name was checked off by a prison officer against a list of expected visitors. It was all very formal and the officer told me to go and wait until the name of the prisoner I was visiting was called out.

  Several other women were there, some with children, all waiting to visit other prisoners. The atmosphere was very sub-dued and there was no conversation. Finally a voice shouted, ‘‘Visitor for Kray.’ I walked forward to an iron door, I heard a key turning in the lock on the other side and the door opened. I went into another room and had to go through a metal-detection gate to see if I was carrying any metal objects. While this was happening an officer was checking through my handbag. Then it was through another door and into the visiting hall. Actually it was more like a shed, very bleak and barren, with lots of formica- covered tables and chairs.

  I thought I would be meeting Reggie here but an officer in the hall indicated that I should go to a small room at the end of the hall. I learned later that prisoners can request this room if they have a ‘special’ visitor coming and want to talk a little more privately. In this room was a table and two chairs. I sat down, my mind buzzing. What would we say to each other? What would be my first words? What would he say to me? What would he be like? I waited for what seemed like ages but was really only a few minutes when the door opened and in walked Reggie Kray. I recognized him immediately, I knew it had to be him.

  The first words he said to me were, ‘Better shut that door.’ ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘you sound just like Larry Grayson’s Everard.’ We both cracked up laughing and that broke the ice. From that moment we got on like a house on fire, chatting non-stop. I felt as if I had known him for years. And yes, he was grey round the ‘Shirleys’, and yes, he did have all his own teeth! He was smaller than I’d expected but very muscular and fit-looking, very fast-talking and full of a kind of explosive nervous energy.

  We talked about his life in Gartree, how much better it was than Parkhurst, on the Isle of Wight, where he’d spent so many years, even though Gartree was by no means a ‘soft’ prison. He told me a bit about his mother and about his brother, Ron, and I remember him saying, ‘I’m not a bad man and neither is Ron, yet we’ve been banged up for so many years now. It doesn’t really seem fair, Kate, but we’ve just got to put up with it.’

  That was really the start of our friendship and I continued to write to and visit Reg as often as possible. It was not a romantic thing, it was purely friendship. He told me all about his wife, who had died, and how he would never get involved romantically with another woman out of respect to her memory. But we kept in regular touch and all through that time he kept urging me to go and visit Ron in Broadmoor. I kept trying to put him off. I thought Broadmoor must be an eerie place and I suppose I was frightened of the unknown, scared by Broadmoor’s reputation. Broadmoor Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Just saying those words sent a shiver down my spine. Later I was to find out how wrong I was and what a caring place it is.

  Ron once said to me, ‘This place can be heaven or hell, it all depends on you.’ And that just about sums it up, really. I suppose, also, I was nervous of getti
ng in touch with Ron because of what I had read about his so-called ‘madness’. Contacting and meeting Reggie was one thing … but Ronnie? Well, I just wasn’t sure about it at all.

  Anyway, I started writing to him. His letters back to me were much shorter than Reg’s. I thought at first that this was because he didn’t really want to write to me but later I discovered that Ron simply doesn’t enjoy writing letters. Finally he wrote and asked me if I would go and visit him the following week. I thought about it. I didn’t really want to go, but how could I say no?

  I drove up to Broadmoor and sat for quite a while in the car park outside. I looked at the walls and the bleak, dark buildings and I thought to myself, ‘God, I can’t go in there.’ Even outside there’s an atmosphere about the place: it’s quiet, sort of unsettled, disturbed, like something could happen at any moment. But I plucked up courage and walked into the reception area.

  I told them who I was, who I’d come to see and signed my name in a large book. Then I just stood around and waited. Finally my name was called by an officer and I followed him through several doors which were locked shut behind me. Then along some corridors, all painted a dreadful yellow colour, until we reached what I can only describe as a school assembly hall, because that’s what it looked like. It was a big room, full of tables and chairs, and it had a big stage running along one side of it. This was the visiting room.

  It was quiet and cold in there and quite smoky. I noticed several more officers - actually they are called nurses, though I didn’t realize that at the time - some male and some female. All of them looked at me, obviously wondering who this blonde lady was and who she’d come to see. Sat by himself at a table in the middle of the room was a smartly dressed man. He looked at me, I looked at him - and straight away I realized that this was Ronnie Kray.

  My first impression was, ‘Bloody hell, he looks like a bank manager!’ He was dressed in a navy blue double-breasted suit, a white double-cuffed shirt, a smart tie and beautifully polished black shoes. He looked smashing! For some reason I’d never expected him to be wearing a suit. Whenever I’d met Reg he was usually in a grey tracksuit and always in casual clothing.

  Ronnie shook my hand, kissed me gently on the cheek, and we sat down. He asked me if I wanted tea or coffee. Then there was a lull in the conversation as we took stock of each other. I thought he was a bit older-looking than I’d expected and he was wearing spectacles. He was very softly spoken and very polite. He said to me, ‘Kate, you look wonderful.’

  And, at that moment, I really felt as though I did.

  I had a pot of coffee and Ron had a six-pack of non-alcohol lager served by a ‘waiter’ in a white jacket who, he explained, was another patient who did the job for a small payment. He told me that many patients in the hospital had jobs which paid them a bit of money to buy cigarettes and chocolate and other little luxuries, but that he had never had a job in all the years he had been there. He asked me lots of questions about me, but really I wanted to talk to him about the things he liked. He told me how he loved classical music and how he listened to it in his room every day, how he enjoyed reading books, and how he had just one close friend in the whole place, a patient called Charlie Smith, a much younger man than him, who was in Broadmoor for murder committed when he was under the influence of drugs. He told me that Charlie was a very gentle man who was also a good guitarist, and he would sometimes play his guitar and sing songs to Ron. I found it hard, listening to him talk like this, to believe that this was the same man I had first read about in that book, who had committed all those crimes and who the news¬papers painted as a really evil man.

  That was the only time he got a bit aggravated in our whole conversation, when he spoke about what some of the papers write about him. How they said he lived a life of luxury in the hospital when, in reality, he had no extra privileges and was, in fact, more restricted than most of the other patients. He wasn’t even allowed to walk around the hospital grounds and gardens.

  We had a really nice conversation which lasted for about two hours. I must say, I liked him and I was impressed by him. He was nothing like I had expected. The only thing I wasn’t too keen on was that he seemed to smoke a lot but, I thought to myself, he’s got to have some pleasure in life. At the end of our meeting he got up, shook my hand, kissed me again on the cheek and said, ‘Please come and see me again, Kate.’ I stood and watched as he was led away by a nurse and he gave me a wave.

  In the week which followed he sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers, then came a letter asking me to go and see him again a couple of weeks later. On this next occasion we again had a nice conversation, though he seemed a bit agitated, as if he’d got something on his mind. Finally, he came out with it. Right out of the blue he said to me, ‘If you don’t marry Reggie, will you marry me?’

  God, I thought to myself, this man has got more ‘front’ than Woolworths! I was, to say the least, shocked. Especially when I saw from the expression on his face that he wasn’t joking. Reggie and I had no intention of getting married; we were just friends, nothing else. I told Ron this and, as gently as possible, I told him that marriage was the last thing on my mind. He seemed to accept this, though he didn’t seem too pleased about it.

  After I left Ron on that second visit I honestly thought that might be the end of our friendship. I thought I’d probably offended him and wouldn’t ever hear from him again. I didn’t know then that he’s one of the most persistent men in the world and never takes no for an answer! I hoped I wouldn’t lose him as a friend but there really was no way I was ever going to get married again … to anyone.

  However, his letters continued - and so did my visits. Our friendship continued to grow - and so did his marriage proposals. Every time I went to see him he asked me to marry him. Finally, in the early summer of 1989, I said yes. Don’t ask me why I changed my mind, it just seemed the right thing to do. Over a period of time I just found myself thinking that he was the perfect man for me, that I liked pretty well everything about him, that I was in love with him. He was so pleased when I agreed to get married, and must have got the news telephoned to Reg straight away because a day or so later I received a letter from Reg saying how pleased he was, how we had his blessing, and how I couldn’t have picked a better-looking chap! Ironic really, seeing as how they are identical twins!

  We had a good laugh over that, in fact we had a good laugh on all my visits because laughter, I feel, is one of the most important parts of our relationship. And laughter is something I’ve always shared with the staff at Broadmoor, who’ve turned out to be really nice people, in the main. They always had a smile for me, and still do, and that makes things pleasant. There has never been any animosity shown by them to me.

  A lot of people seem surprised whenever I talk about Ron having a great sense of humour. But it’s true, he really does, and he can take a joke against himself. I remember when mad cow disease started to make all the headlines. I went to see Ron one morning and he said to me, ‘I’ve decided not to eat beef any more, Kate, because it drives you mad.’

  ‘But you’re mad already, Ron,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yeah, so I am,’ he replied, ‘at least, that’s what they say. Still, you’d better stop eating it anyway.’ And he was roaring with laughter when he said it.

  There was another occasion when one of the highbrow Sunday newspaper colour supplements had got hold of a painting which Ron had done and they had got a psychologist to analyse it. The painting was of a little house, which he often paints. The psychologist said the red and black sky and the red and black house in the painting showed that Ron was in a black mood and prone to acute depression. I asked Ron for his comments. ‘What a load of bollocks,’ he said. ‘I used red and black because they were the only colours I’d got left in my paintbox.’ Again we had a good laugh. So much for psychology!

  But there were serious things to discuss, of course, and one of them was Ron’s sexuality. Whenever anyone talks about me and Ron the subject will inevitab
ly get round to sex - or the lack of it. Let me make my own position clear on this. Sex is not all that important to me and it hasn’t been for a long time, probably because of those fairly disastrous experiences I had with men when I was much younger. I really am not bothered about it - there are far more important aspects to relationships between men and women.

  However, I still had to ask myself, did I want to marry a homosexual, no matter how much I liked or loved him? I put the problem to Ron and I will never forget what he said to me.

  He said, ‘I am not a homosexual, Kate, I am bisexual. I’ve always believed in being open about this and I don’t believe people should be afraid to admit it, if they have homosexual leanings. It won’t make any difference to your friends, not if they are real friends. Some of the greatest men in history have been bisexual and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s something you are bom with, like the colour of your eyes.’ And he added, ‘I will always be a man as far as you’re concerned, Kate, and I will prove that to you, one day.’

  That was good enough for me and I knew I could accept him the way he was. In any case, again because of the circum-stances he’s found himself in, sex is not all that important to Ron any more, either. Anyway, as I’ve said, by the summer of 1989 I had agreed to become Ron’s wife, and it was a decision which would turn my quiet life upside down.