by Linda Calvey
Two days later, another man came, and the nurse returned to my bedside, a look of puzzlement on her face.
“Linda your husband’s come to see you again, he looks rather different today.” She looked at me, her brow arching.
Unruffled, I said, “Thank you, please show him in.”
On the third day, the nurse just came and sat at the end of my bed, laughing. “You’ll never guess, but there’s another of your ‘husbands’ here to see you.”
Four different men came to see me over the course of my stay, all of them visiting me because they knew my Mickey was banged up and couldn’t come himself. I appreciated the gesture from those hardened crooks. When I was discharged I went up to the ward every day to feed Melanie. And when Mum and Dad got back home from their August holiday, they came in with me to meet her.
The sight that greeted Mum when she went into the ward shocked her to the core. There was little Melanie, lying in her own vomit, her soiled nappy unchanged, bawling her eyes out.
My no-nonsense mum was furious. “This is how you look after a little baby?” she raged at the matron. “You take her away from her mother and leave her in a state like this? You think this is better than what her own mum could do for her?”
Mum demanded that the hospital discharge Melanie at once, and, after cleaning her up and calming her down, the three of us marched out of the hospital, my daughter finally safe in my arms.
My baby was coming home with me, and I couldn’t wait to show her off to Mickey. Six weeks later, I dressed her and got ready to have our first visit as a new family.
“Come on darlin’, let’s get this pretty pink dress on you so you can look your best for Daddy,” I cooed to my beautiful baby girl. Melanie gurgled in response. I leant over and kissed her tummy, smelling that warm, baby smell, a mixture of talc and milk.
“You’re goin’ to be a stunner today. Let’s change that nappy and make you perfect.” I undid the pin holding together the terry towelling material she was swathed in and tossed it in the bucket Mum left in the kitchen, so that she could tip the dirty ones straight into the large pot she used to boil them clean on the stove.
“Come on, beautiful, let’s go and show Daddy how pretty you are,” I said, adjusting the big bow I’d placed on her head.
When I got to Wandsworth Prison, both six-week-old Melanie and I were searched. I didn’t like to see the screws going through her blankets, but it was unavoidable, as everyone knew that people would smuggle drugs inside by hiding them in a baby’s nappies or blankets. I had to take my coat and boots off then they ran a metal detector over the length of my body.
“Find anythin’?” I quipped, and the screw shook his head, grinning, and nodded me through with a wink.
Mickey was in the visiting room, in his prison clothes. Even looking like he did, seeing him made my heart miss a beat. I sat at the table, opposite him, and passed him the bundle of blankets that was Mel. “Oh she’s lovely,” he said, not moving to take her.
“Go on, you won’t hurt her.”
“I’m scared I might drop her,” Mickey replied, looking helplessly at me.
I snorted with laughter. “Course you won’t. Go on, she’s your daughter.”
Mickey reached out and took his baby girl in his arms. My heart melted to see the look of pure joy on his face.
“’Allo darlin’, I’m your daddy. I hope you haven’t got the short straw by havin’ me.” Mickey looked up at me. “Other men in here, hard men, tough men, said to me, the minute you look at her you’ll fall in love, and I have. She’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled, watching the love of my life hold our child. It didn’t matter that we were sat in the visiting room of a prison, surrounded by other men and their families. It didn’t matter that he was banged up for another three or more years. All that mattered was that we were now a family.
Mickey cleared his throat.
“Now we’ve got Melanie we should get married. I want her to have a proper dad. You know I love you, and I want her to be in a proper family.”
I blinked, unsure what to say, my heart was so full.
“Is that your idea of a proposal, Mickey?” I joked, eventually.
“Yes,” he said simply.
I could only smile my response. When I went home that day, Mum took Melanie off me, while Dad took my coat and sat me down at the kitchen table. Terry was there, Shelley and Maxine too.
“Mum, Dad, I’m goin’ to marry my Mickey,” was all I said.
Mum and Dad glanced at each other. Their look was one of trepidation rather than outright objection.
“We know he’s a crook, love,” said Mum, “but we like him and we can see he loves you.”
“We know how determined you can be,” Dad interjected, “and we’ll support you whatever happens.”
I could see in that moment how they’d struggled with the idea of me being caught up with a blagger, even one as charming and loving as my Mickey. Both my parents grew up on the right side of the law, and they’d brought us kids up to think the same way.
“Thank you, that means a lot to me. I know Mickey loves you. We’re all goin’ to be family now.”
Mickey saw the prison chaplain and got permission from the governor for us to get married. The date was set for our wedding at Wandsworth Registry Office, and I was told we could only have two people. Mickey was good to me. He told me I could choose who came, and so I asked my parents to be there. He approved, saying that his daughter would be living with them, so it was fitting they should witness our marriage.
On the day of the wedding, I wore a cream mini dress, a fur coat, and had my hair done with flowers in it.
“Ready, love? You look lovely,” Dad said in my bedroom doorway.
“Thanks Dad, yes, I’m ready.”
I loved Mickey so much that I didn’t mind going to a registry office near the prison in Dad’s old van to meet the groom-to-be. It was hardly the most glamorous way to arrive – but as we got closer, there seemed to be some disturbance going on. Police officers were crawling over the place we were due to wed, and there was a huddle of photographers from the press.
“What’s goin’ on?” I said, peering out.
“I don’t know, love. Oi, mate, what’s goin’ on here?” Dad called out to a passing police officer.
“We’ve got a prisoner gettin’ married,” the copper said, looking at me in my cream dress, and realising he was talking to the bride’s party.
“But why the fuss?” Dad went on.
“It doesn’t matter. Just get inside as quickly as you can,” the officer replied, looking round as we got out of the car and made our way through the crowds.
“It’s the bride!” said someone, and a camera flash went off in my face.
“Blimey, Dad, get me in there,” I said, frightened of the crush, and the attention. Why were there press photographers at my wedding?
Once inside, another copper came over to us. “We have to search you. The baby too,” he said. Dad, normally a mild-mannered man, lost it.
“What a fuckin’ cheek!” he blasted. “I’ve never been searched in all my life, and you won’t lay a hand on our Melanie.”
“Dad, just let them,” I whispered hastily, to try and smooth his feathers. “I want to get married today, let’s just do what they’re askin’, please.”
Dad submitted. Melanie’s blankets were searched. When they’d finished, I grabbed her and held her close. I didn’t like this one bit.
“What’s this?” the copper asked after searching Mum’s handbag.
“A pair of scissors, what d’you think they are?” replied Mum, smartly.
“What are they for?”
“Cutting things,” Mum retorted. “I run a market stall selling wigs, and often I need to trim them.” The officer took them off her anyway.
Once searched, we had a chance to look round at the place where Mickey would make an honest woman of me. It was grand, with a sweeping staircase leading up to the rooms where the wedding would take place.
Dad whistled. We walked up, running our fingers along the smooth balustrade, smiling at each other at last. After all, it was a wedding. Inside the room, Mickey walked in wearing the suit I’d delivered a week earlier to the prison. He saw my look of surprise when I realised he was handcuffed to a screw.
“Can’t he just have one cuff on? Why must both of his hands be cuffed?” I begged. The prison officer shook his head.
“They tried to put a bag over me head, and I had a police escort around the prison van.” Mickey shrugged.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Our married life was starting with Mickey cuffed to a screw, while I hovered beside him, clutching a small posy of white roses. It wasn’t the most romantic of ceremonies.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the registrar said finally, and immediately the screw pulled Mickey away.
“Where’s the bit where I can kiss my wife?” Mickey said, indignantly.
“Nowhere,” said the guard. “Our orders are to take you straight back to prison. Don’t want you trying to escape, do we?”
I looked at Mickey, puzzled. He wasn’t going to do anything as stupid as that. What was the screw talking about?
“If you keep up, you can have a half-hour visit,” the screw called over his shoulder as they left.
“Come on, Dad, let’s get there before that bloody guard,” I said. I was fuming. Instead of being greeted by confetti, there was a barrage of camera flashes as we left the building.
“Run, Dad,” I yelled, and we scuttled around the corner to our parked car, the press in hot pursuit.
“Quick, let’s get out of ’ere,” Dad shouted above the din, starting the engine. What was going on?
A reporter knocked on the van window, shouting, “Was this an escape plan?”
Dad replied, in no uncertain terms, “No! It was a fuckin’ wedding, now clear off!”
Later, I discovered that someone had anonymously rung the police to say that Mickey was going to try and escape from the registry office. A total lie, of course. Why would Mickey try to run from such a short stretch inside and risk getting caught, and being handed a longer sentence as a result? It didn’t make any sense.
Back at Wandsworth, we had a 20-minute visit talking across a table. We barely had a chance to kiss, let alone do anything more, before Mickey was taken back to his cell.
Back at Mum’s, my nan said, “Oh, your wedding photographer is ’ere.”
“I didn’t book a photographer, Nan. What would’ve been the point?” I said.
Then a man stepped into the lounge from the kitchen. He was wearing a brown coat, and a large camera was slung over his chest. “If you pose for me, I’ll send you a free set of the copies. At least then you’ll have the pictures,” the man smiled.
I didn’t much like the look of him, but we didn’t have any other way of marking the day.
“Why not?” I said. “And make sure you get one of the baby.”
Of course, we never did get those photos. Perhaps they’re in the local rag’s archive somewhere, but they did end up on the front of the newspaper. Marrying a crook was, apparently, a big story.
That was the day I realised my life would never be ordinary. How many wives are swamped by the press as they marry a jailbird? Not many, I assume, though I loved Mickey too much to care.
A year before Mickey was due to come home, Mum urged me to put my name on the council housing list. Meanwhile, she found a private flat four storeys up in an old Victorian tenement block called Brady Street Mansions in Whitechapel. It was as far from a mansion as you could imagine. Dirty children played in puddles in the yard that separated the blocks, washing hung at the windows, and litter lay in the streets. The whole place felt seedy and neglected. Despite first impressions, though, I was desperate for my own place. The private housing officer for the block showed us round, but said there was a long waiting list.
“I bet if I gave you £50, that waiting list would shrink,” said Mum. She was right. I got the flat, and took it, even though I felt sorry for those poor people who’d been waiting.
The day I got my key, I opened the street door straight into the shabby dark lounge. The door facing me was for the small bedroom, and one on the left led to my kitchen. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. My parents had bought me a three-piece suite and a bed, while I signed a hire purchase agreement at Wickhams to get us a colour television.
That winter was horrendous. I tried to make it homely, but water was pouring in through the roof and down the walls. After a few months, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I called the council to complain. They sent round an officer. I had bowls placed under all the leaks, and they were all full to the brim with ice-cold dirty water.
“My God,” said the officer, “I know all the tricks people play, throwing water at the walls to try and get moved to a better house, but this is a genuine case. You’ll get an offer from the housing department for another place very soon, and it’ll be more decent than this.”
“Thank you, that means a lot. I can’t bring up my daughter here, it will make her ill,” I said. Those tenements were notorious for poverty and hardship, and were knocked down only a few years later.
And so I was offered my first council place, this time on the tenth floor of a council block in Brabazon Street, in Poplar. Mickey’s brother Pat helped me to decorate it and make it my own.
And when Mickey was finally released, I brought him home for the first time.
“Ta-da, our beautiful new flat, and look at these views, Mickey!” I ran over to the window and pulled open the curtains, wanting to surprise him. Outside there was a summer haze over the city landscape, but you could still see for miles, across the rows and rows of rooftops.
“Stop! Shut them curtains, Lin!” Mickey yelled, diving onto the sofa.
“Shut them? But, why? Mickey what’s wrong?”
My husband, the big tough armed robber, looked pale all of a sudden.
“I don’t like heights! Shut them curtains!”
I moved quickly, pulled the fabric to cover the glorious views, and turned to Mickey.
“We can’t live like this, with the curtains closed all the time!” I hadn’t known he was terrified of heights. There was nothing else we could do – Mickey, Melanie and I had to move again, so we swapped with my brother-in-law Terry, and went to live in his place in Oslack Road, Catford.
And soon enough, we had a second child to welcome into our home, a son who we called Neil. That was the icing on the cake for Mickey. When he held baby Neil in his arms, he said, “A son, I’ve got a son! This is wonderful, Lin, let’s have two more children!”
This from a man who hadn’t wanted kids in the first place.
“More children? Are you mad? I’ve got enough on my plate lookin’ after you three, and Mickey, it isn’t right to bring more little ones into the world because of what you do.”
We both left that hanging in the air. I never berated Mickey for his work, but I also couldn’t consider giving us more mouths to feed, so I put a stop to that idea. Being an armed robber wasn’t exactly a steady job.
But we didn’t settle in Terry’s old place, and I soon had itchy feet again, spotting an advert for a new two-bed house in Laindon, Basildon. Going from a flat to our very own house felt wonderful, though we had a big garden, and I worried whether we’d be able to manage it. But my Mickey told me not to worry.
By this time, Mickey was going “out” again. He never told me where he was going this time round, but he’d be picked up by a pal at odd times of the day and they’d head to London. I could only assume he was back working on the pavement. Mickey never did learn how to drive, though he
bought me a brand-new Datsun as the money started rolling in once more.
Mickey would always make me laugh when we met new people in Basildon. He was wary of being caught again after his stint in prison, and told me that the best way to avoid being sussed out was to hide in plain sight. When we met the neighbours, they’d inevitably ask the usual questions.
“So, what do you do for a living?”
Mickey would smile warmly and simply say, “Oh, I’m a bank robber.”
This would send the neighbours into fits of laughter. “No, come on, what do you really do?”
Cool as ice, Mickey would chuckle with them and reply, “I’m a painter and decorator.”
And that was that – they bought it every time, and didn’t suspect a thing.
When Neil was still a baby, Mickey went out on a job which went very well. On his return, he and the lads zipped open their large holdall and showered Neil with notes as he lay gurgling on our bed.
“May you always have money,” smiled Mickey.
“Amen to that,” said one of the men.
Someone took a photo on one of the old Polaroids at the time and gave it to me. Neil had such a lovely smile on his face. Sadly, the photo had to be burned, as something like that sitting on my mantelpiece would’ve got Mickey 15 years inside.
Life felt good again. Mickey did the place up, decorating it and making it look lovely.
“But what about that garden? It’s depressing,” I said to him one day, staring out at the window at the flat grass and wooden fencing.
“Leave it to me,” he replied, kissing me on the forehead, ruffling Neil’s hair and heading for the door. It was around 7pm, and he was dressed head to toe in black. I saw that he’d put all of his jewellery in a kitchen drawer, his ritual before doing a job. Even though I was used to the uncertainty and the waiting, that evening I was fraught with worry as ever. He crept back into the house late in the night. I was lying awake in our room, unable to sleep while he had been out. The kids had been asleep for hours, but I just couldn’t go off without knowing he was safe. As he slid into the bed, I put my arm out for him.