by Linda Calvey
A year after we’d started dating, I was sitting in a pub in Epping sipping a port and lemon, when it occurred to me to ask Frank why we couldn’t stay a bit closer to home.
“You’ve promised that I could come for tea, meet your mother, but when will it happen, Frank?” I asked one Friday night. I was beginning to get fed up of the drive.
“It’s not a good time, Linda, don’t keep askin’ me,” Frank replied sharply.
“But why not? Why won’t you let me come home? You ashamed of me?”
“Mum’s sick. I told ya, now leave it,” Frank snapped.
I sighed. “Since I met you, your mum’s been sick, your sister’s been away, your dad’s had mates around. What’s really goin’ on?” I wasn’t intimidated by him – perhaps I should’ve been.
“You say another word and I’ll give you a slap. Now, drink up, I’m takin’ you home.”
Frank got up and marched out, where I found him a few seconds later sitting in his car, looking stony-faced and staring straight ahead. We didn’t say a word on the way back.
“I’ve defended you to my sisters and my friends,” I said. “They all said you was a pikey, a gypsy, and you were no good, but I said you was straight up. I’m beginnin’ to think my friends were right about you, Frank Chapman. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Fine by me, now shut yer face, will ya.”
A week later, Frank appeared at work, his cap in his hand: “I’m sorry, Linda, darlin’, I love ya, will you forgive me?”
Somehow, I couldn’t resist him. Soon enough, Frank and I had broken up for a second time, but we kept getting back together again, even though all we ever seemed to do was quarrel.
We were out one night, in a horrible old man’s pub in Romford, and he’d had one too many to drink.
“You bitch, you was lookin’ at him, I swear it.” Frank snarled in my face.
I was sick of our fights, but I couldn’t seem to let go of him, though he treated me badly.
“Don’t say that, Frank, of course I wasn’t lookin’ at another man.”
Whatever I said seemed to make little difference to him. He was eaten up with jealousy, and it came out in these unfounded outbursts.
“You’re a slag. I know you go with other fellas behind my back…” Frank was slurring. I hoped he’d be alright to drive us home.
“I haven’t Frank, come on, let’s make a move, I don’t want you drinkin’ any more or you’ll be too legless to drive us home.”
Frank perked up at that. He got us home, but I was becoming weary of his moods, his possessiveness.
As well as my secretary work and helping Mum with her stall, I went round to babysit a couple of times for my cousin Pat and her husband George. I admired Pat – she was always dressed very elegantly. George was a tall man with a kind face, and I knew he worked as a cat burglar.
Pat had phoned me up when their babysitter let them down, and I agreed to fill in. They were going out for the evening, and when I came round they were dressed up to the nines.
“You lead such a glamorous life!” I exclaimed. Pat was dressed up in furs and jewellery, and I wished I knew where they were going.
Pat laughed. “Oh, Linda darlin’, we’re just going to see some friends at a club. Here, you make yourself comfortable and have a nice evening with the kids. Thanks for doing this. I’ll sort some money out for you when we get back.”
I was surprised at Pat’s generosity. “You don’t need to do that! You’re my cousin, Pat, I’m happy to babysit for you any time. You don’t need to pay me.”
Pat looked surprised. “Oh, well, if you’re sure, darlin’. Maybe we can organise somethin’ else to say thank you.” She turned to George.
“Tell you what,” he smiled. “Next time we go out, why don’t you come along with us. Would you like to? There’s a very nice place we go to on the regular, I think you’d like it, Linda.”
I looked at him with wide eyes. “I’d love to,” I said earnestly. “Thank you so much, George, that would be wonderful.”
He winked at me. “No problem, love, we’ll let you know when we’re next going.”
And so, at the tender age of 19, I had my first taste of real East End nightlife. I knew Pat and George were well connected, as he did a lot of his work up in places like Mayfair, mixing with some of the most notorious names around. Neon lights blinked in the darkened windows of the club, and there was a queue stretching down the street.
A red velvet curtain was pulled back by a bouncer, and I was transported to another world. The smell of cigar smoke mixed with perfume hit me. A singer belted out a jazz number from a small spot-lit stage. The room was dark, crowded and buzzing. There was a lamp on each table casting a pink glow, while famous faces mingled with men who looked like they’d be more at home in a prison than a top-end club. Women wore diamonds around their necks. Men wore tailored suits. In short, it was heaven.
The Swinging Sixties were well and truly underway in Harold Wilson’s Labour Britain, and huge change was underway across the world. America had entered the Vietnam War four years earlier, Martin Luther King was galvanising the civil rights movement, Enoch Powell was arguing against immigration, and the Beatles and Rolling Stones were vying for musical supremacy. Suddenly, London was a melting pot of hipsters, blaggers and stars – and they all seemed to be in the club that night. I was in awe of all the glamorous women and smart-suited men.
There was one man in particular who stood out as he walked through the crowds. Everyone was turning to stare at him – an impeccably-dressed, dark-haired man with a cigarette dangling from his full lips, and stylish black slicked-back hair. As he approached us, I saw his starched white shirt, his tailored navy suit with slim trousers and a thin navy tie. He looked elegant and expensive.
He shook George’s hand with a smooth smile, and turned to me. “Who’s this young lady, then?”
“Reg, this is my cousin Linda,” glowed Pat. “Linda, say hello to Reggie Kray.”
We locked eyes, and I smiled.
Well, I’d heard of the Kray twins, of course. Who hadn’t? I’d grown up only a few streets away from their patch, and everyone knew they ruled everywhere east of Aldgate. The twins were feared and respected in equal measure. But until now, our worlds had been light years apart.
“Hello Reggie, I’m glad to meet you,” I said.
Reggie looked me up and down, took my hand and kissed it, like a proper gent.
He smiled at Pat. “She looks very refreshing, does your Linda.” I blushed. In amongst all the glammed-up women in furs and diamonds, I felt positively underdressed in my ordinary 19-year-old clothes. But Reggie instantly made me feel at ease about how I looked.
After exchanging a few more words with George, Reggie moved off again into the crowd. He exuded power and money, and it was breathtaking to meet a man like that on my first night out.
“Reg owns this club,” George explained. “I’ve got to know him through work, and he always gives us a good time here.” He laughed at my starstruck expression.
Frank wasn’t happy at all when he found out I’d gone to a club without him.
“It’s my choice, Frank, and my cousin invited me,” I pouted.
“That’s not the sort of place a girl like you should be going!” he shouted.
Frank and I were on-and-off together for around three years in total, until Mum made a discovery that changed everything and explained his evasive, aggressive behaviour.
By this point, Mum had a little boutique in Commercial Road selling clothes. A young woman came into the shop, with a newborn baby in a perambulator. She picked out a dress, and asked Mum if she could pay it off if she put £1 down as a deposit.
“What’s your name and address, love?” Mum said matter-of-factly.
“Mrs Chapman,” the woman replied.
Mum raised her b
row, but said nothing, continuing to scribble down the girl’s details. There might be many Chapmans in that part of town. It had to be a coincidence that it was Frank’s surname too.
Just as the woman was about to leave, another customer came in.
“Oh hello darlin’, how’s your Frank? Is he alright?”
At that, my mother’s ears pricked up, and she listened in to the rest of the conversation, already suspecting the worst.
“He’ll be starting the coal in a few weeks.” Mrs Chapman replied.
“What’s he doing now then?” The friend asked.
“Oh he’s on the scrap now.”
At that moment, Mum knew. She knew why Frank hadn’t ever taken me back to his house, why he’d been cagey about meeting his parents. He had a wife and at least one child by the looks of it.
That night, before I had a chance to take my jacket off before sitting down after a day’s work, Mum grabbed my arm and instructed my dad, “Get the van, we’re going out.” Dad didn’t dare question Mum when she was like that. “We’re taking Linda to Shadwell…”
“But why, Mum, what’s going on?” I said, utterly bemused.
“I’ll show you. Don’t argue, just come with us.” In her hand, she had a dress. I was becoming more and more confused by the second.
We juddered through the streets of East London, my mother looking ahead grimly, saying nothing, and my dad just driving silently to the address she’d given him. I didn’t know what to think. Was I in trouble? I racked my brains to think what I might have done to upset Mum like this.
We arrived at a block of flats, the modern type that were built after the wartime bombings destroyed many of the Victorian tenements. Mum marched the three of us up the concrete stairs, checking the numbers as she went, until at last we walked out onto a balcony strewn with washing hanging from lines that criss-crossed the pathway. We dodged grey vests, pink sagging brassieres, and nylon petticoats in various stages of drying. Children with dirty faces ran past us, calling to each other like wild animals from different floors of the building, though it was getting late. Mum walked up to one of the doors and banged on it loudly. I stood gawping at her. What was she up to?
Clutching the dress, she thrust it into the hands of the woman who opened the door. She looked about the same age as me, probably 19, with brown hair and a tired expression.
“I’m givin’ you this. You don’t have to pay for it because I believe your husband is goin’ out with my daughter.”
The woman looked at Mum, then at me, as I stared at them both.
“Frank! FRANK!” She shouted. I could hear the sound of a baby crying inside. Then my Frank, her Frank, appeared, poking his head round the door.
“Oh shit, I’m goin’ out.” He pushed past Mum and started to half walk, half run along the passage way, brushing the laundry out of his way with a practised gesture.
“Do ya know her?” screeched the woman, clearly devastated by the news. I looked down at the floor, suddenly overcome with guilt and shame. I’d been dating a married man for three years, and I hadn’t realised.
“Yes, he certainly does know her, and you can tell him he won’t be seein’ my daughter ever again. It’s time to go,” Mum said, clearly satisfied at having said her piece. She motioned for Dad and me to leave. I was in shock. My first love was a total sham. Frank had a wife and child. No wonder he’d never invited me back to his.
I didn’t say a single word on the way home, and that night I couldn’t eat, instead lay miserably in the bedroom I shared with my sister and wept for the boy I thought I’d loved. I felt such a fool for falling for his charms and not guessing the truth. But I’d had a lucky escape, I told myself, at least I had found out in time and would never have to see him again. If only it could have been that easy.
Chapter 3
Mickey
1968
I took myself off to Whitechapel market to cheer myself up after ending it with Frank, and caught sight of a pink dress with a large bow at the collar. I thought it was wonderful, and so I’d bought it, not having a clue when I’d wear it next as I had no boyfriend to impress.
Walking along, admiring the colourful clothing, the bustle of traders and sound of people going about their business always calmed me. But today the noise, the shoving as people elbowed past to get a good look at each stall, just made me feel worse. I almost walked straight into Pat and George. They were looking glamorous as usual. I wondered what had happened to the club they had taken me to, as the Kray twins had finally been arrested two months before.
“Why the scowl on that pretty face?” George said.
“Looks like you’ve been down the shops,” Pat beamed. I tried to smile back, but I couldn’t stop myself – my troubles poured out of me. I told them about the fight I’d had with Frank.
“Best off without him. Don’t go buying such a lovely dress and wasting it on that idiot. That’s it, you’re comin’ out with us tomorrow night. A pal of mine just got out of the nick after an eight-year stretch for robbin’ an M&S van, and we’re havin’ a party for him, which you’re comin’ to!”
“Am I?” I answered.
“You are, darlin’,” George said swiftly. “We’ve all got partners and Mickey hasn’t got anybody, so you’ll make up the numbers.”
“I don’t think I want to meet someone who’s been in prison,” I said, rather prudishly.
“Well, I’ve been in prison, does that mean you won’t talk to me?” George smiled.
“No, of course not, you’re lovely.” I laughed. “Alright then, I’ll come.”
I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of meeting another man so soon after Frank – especially one that’d been banged up.
Saturday night came around and all of a sudden, I didn’t feel like going out. I’d styled my long blonde hair with a false hairpiece, and was made up to the nines with false lashes and plenty of black eye make-up. Just as I was about to pull on my new mini dress with its fetching big bow, I suddenly felt tired.
“I can’t be bothered to go, Mum,” I said, sidling up to her on the sofa. I’d got into my dressing gown, though I still had my “face” on. In my heart, I really did feel that a man who had been in jail must be pretty horrible and ugly. I was sitting there, watching telly, when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Linda, it’s Pat, where are ya? Why aren’t ya here? Please come, George says he’s really embarrassed because he’s told his friend you’re comin’ and you’ve stood him up! Don’t mug him off.” Pat sounded upset.
“I’m not dressed, Pat, I’m so sorry, I just don’t feel like it tonight. I’m missin’ Frank…”
Pat snorted. “Get your dress on, I’ve sent a cab for you and it’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
That was that. I had no choice but to run to my room and pull on the dress. I just had a moment to check my hair and grab my handbag before the cab’s horn sounded outside.
“I won’t be late…” I called as I banged the street door behind me.
Minutes later the taxi drew up outside a pub off Bow Common Lane. I got out, smoothed down my dress, and teetered in. As I entered the pub it seemed like the crowd of people parted, and standing there, dressed in a sharp suit with slicked black hair and glasses, was the man who would become the love of my life. I inhaled sharply. The sight of him almost stopped me in my tracks. As I approached, George appeared at my elbow and steered me over to him. Standing in front of this man, I felt my heart thumping out of my chest. I could see he liked the look of me too.
“Mickey, this is Linda, the girl I told you about. Linda, this is Mickey…” I don’t remember if George hung round to make conversation, or whether we were left alone. All my focus was on this man.
“I was just sayin’ to George, that any girl stayin’ in on a Saturday night without a fella must be really ugly…” Mickey’s voice was dee
p and throaty. He had liquid brown eyes and dark skin, like an Italian.
“Well, to be honest with you, I thought that a man who’d been sent to prison for eight years would be ugly too…” I replied.
Mickey and I looked at each other and smiled. We understood each other. The attraction was instant, and I knew from the way Mickey looked at me that he felt the same.
That night Mickey walked me home. Our first kiss wasn’t very romantic, as my dad was asleep in the armchair in the lounge while I sat on Mickey’s lap in the kitchen. I remember the feel of his stubble against my lips, which even now, so many years later, sends shivers down my spine.
“You bitch!”
Frank lunged at me, dragging my hair. I struggled for a moment as we tussled on the street outside the factory I worked in. I had walked out seconds before, completely forgetting that I was due to meet him that Monday evening. Sure enough, he was waiting for me, tooting his horn as I appeared.
Frank let go, and for a moment I thought he’d lay off me. That thought splintered as the impact of his fist hitting my face almost knocked me off my feet. The pain struck me, the world seemed to swim before my eyes and for a moment, I really did see stars, though not the kind my mother was thinking of each evening.
“Oh my God, Frank, stop! Leave me alone. I don’t want to see you anymore. I’ve met somebody else,” I said, clutching at my sore cheek, but speaking calmly. I blinked a few times, reassured that I could still see out of my left eye, but I could already feel the skin tightening, and I knew I was in for a shiner.
“No, I’m not havin’ that, Linda. You have to go back out with me once you tell me how long you’ve been whorin’ yerself out for…” Frank stepped back from me and ran his fingers through his brown ruffled hair.
“That’s a horrible thing to say, Frank.” He always did have a spiteful tongue. “No, I don’t have to see you anymore. I’m tellin’ you I met someone on Saturday night at the pub. I wasn’t seein’ him and you at the same time. Anyway, you’re one to talk, you’re still married, aren’t you?” I added.