The Black Widow

by Linda Calvey

  Mum came in. “Come on Neil, darlin’, you and me, we’re goin’ for a little drive together. Melanie will be ok, I promise you, now come on little lad, come with me, handsome.”

  Neil looked confused, but curiosity won out. He ran over to Nanny, holding out his arms to be carried. She picked him up and the two of them went out. I don’t know where Mum got the strength to tell them. She was one resilient, determined woman. I didn’t question it. I didn’t question why it was Mum telling my children, and not me or my dad. It seemed natural.

  Melanie was hiccupping as the grief flowed through her. “It’s alright, Melanie, I’ll be your dad now,” said her grandad.

  “But I don’t want another daddy,” she wailed in response.

  I had thought the day I was told Mickey had died was the worst day of my life. I was wrong. This was the worst, the cruellest day, seeing my children in such pain, feeling such loss.

  At that moment, Mum walked back in, with Neil in her arms. He too was crying, but without the fierce intensity of Mel. He came straight to me and we sat on the sofa, me rocking him in my arms. I could see he didn’t really understand what was going on. Later that night, as I tried to put my children to bed, knowing they’d always have a daddy-shaped hole in their hearts, Neil bombarded me with questions.

  “Has Daddy gone to heaven?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he has, sweetheart,” I replied.

  “Where is heaven?” Neil cocked his head to one side, staring at me intently.

  “Well, it’s up in the stars. Tonight there’s a new star in the sky, and it’s your daddy,” I said, at a loss to explain something I wasn’t able to fathom.

  “Am I going to die? Will I go to heaven when I die? Will I see Daddy again when I’m up there? Are you going to die, Mummy?” The questions seemed endless.

  “Darlin’, we’ll talk more in the mornin’, now try and shut your eyes and go to sleep. Mummy loves you,” I said, with more determination than I felt. My body felt heavy. I felt exhaustion like I’d never felt before. Part of me just wanted to curl up, back under my blankets, and wait for a long, long time until my grief had subsided. I didn’t even know if that day would ever come, I’d loved my husband so dearly. I knew I couldn’t fix my children’s hurt. I could hear Melanie crying herself to sleep, my mum murmuring reassurance to her next door, and I prayed then for the strength to stay solid for my kids, to keep them safe from harm and get through these endless days of grief.

  Chapter 10

  Vows

  7 January 1979

  “Hello, thank you for comin’.”

  “Hello, it’s good to see you, thank you for comin’.”

  “Hello, Mickey would be so happy to see that you’re here.”

  I stood by the street door, greeting the steady stream of hardened, violent crooks as they crossed the threshold to pay their last respects to my husband. Mickey was lying in his coffin in his mother’s front room. I could barely hold myself together.

  “’Allo Lin, I was gutted to ’ear about Mickey.”

  “’Allo darlin’, I can’t tell ya how sorry I am for your loss.”

  “He was a good’un, Linda, we always knew we could rely on him.”

  Everyone had a kind word to say about my Mickey. Men who routinely wielded sawn-off shotguns, who would think nothing of holding up a bank or a post office for cash, who would use any ruthless means necessary to come out of a shoot-out or raid alive, were in floods of tears as they stood by my husband. Their wives and girlfriends sipped tea in the kitchen, keeping their voices low as they talked, while the so-called hard men broke down sobbing as they saw their dead comrade, laid out like an emperor in his coffin.

  The reaction to Mickey’s death had been one of utter shock and intense grief. That day in Mickey’s mum’s front room, I saw men crumbling before my eyes. I think it was because they knew that what happened to Mickey could have happened to any of them. It could have been them lying in that casket. And although these crooks were always prepared for the possibility they could get nicked, they never expected one of them would be killed in a raid. The sight was too much for some to bear. I had to comfort two of Mickey’s pals on the doorstep, because they couldn’t bring themselves to come in and see him in the flesh.

  I’d spared no expense. None of us had. Mickey’s family and I got him a handcrafted light wood coffin, which was the most expensive at the time, and I’d had it lined with lavender-coloured silk – his favourite colour. Mickey’s aunt had made a lavender silk cushion to rest his head on.

  But I came a cropper when I’d first seen him lying in there. I’d stroked his beloved face, then reached in to cradle his head, and found to my horror that his brain was missing. My fingers simply disappeared inside his skull. I recoiled in shock, my heart racing. Crying out, I bolted from the room, flying into the kitchen, where my best friend, Mickey’s sister Maureen, was making me a sweet cuppa to steady my nerves.

  When she saw my white face, the shock imprinted all over it, she nodded. “I did it myself when he came home. You put your hands inside his skull, didn’t ya?”

  I nodded my response.

  “Horrible, ain’t it,” she said, sadly. “When he first came back, his eyes were wide open in the morning, and twice I had to shut them, saying ‘darlin’, it’s time for you to sleep now’,” Maureen continued. “I said to him, ‘Go on, love, ’ave a bit of rest. I’m goin’ to shut yer eyes, I’ve got to, because people are comin’ to see you’.”

  “He was always nosy,” I replied, and we laughed and cried all at the same time.

  “I think we need something stronger than a cuppa, don’t you, Lin?” Maureen said, squeezing my arm. I was so grateful for every bit of kindness, but each time it brought fresh tears to my eyes.

  “Don’t you go cryin’ on me, you’ll spoil your mascara!” she joked, and I laughed tearily and took hold of the glass of brandy she had poured for me.

  “To our Mickey. May he rest in peace forever.” Maureen’s voice wobbled, but she didn’t crack. She was a glamorous Cockney woman, brought up to care for her own and weather life’s storms. I loved her like a sister, and never more than now.

  “To our Mickey. We loved him. We’ll always love him.”

  We clinked glasses just as a knock at the door announced the first of our callers that day.

  It was the day before Mickey’s funeral, and the final chance for his pals to say goodbye to him before the coffin was shut and taken for burial. I knew Mickey was popular, but I had no idea how loved he had really been. People arrived throughout that day. Maureen and her mum made endless cups of tea and rounds of sarnies, while the men drank spirits, smoked fat cigars and stood in hushed groups in the tiny lounge. Many put envelopes containing money into his coffin, with notes saying things like: “For your last fare home”. Maureen and I remarked how strange it was that it was the men who became hysterical and wept at the sight of him – rarely the women. It was a gruesome reminder that the risks were real, their lives and their families’ wellbeing were on the line every time they went out. No wonder it affected the hard men the most.

  No Cockney ritual is as over-the-top or as poignant as the death traditions. The real Eastenders, the working classes born within the sound of Bow bells, were part of a deeply rooted culture, and there were ways of doing things that had to be followed to the letter – especially funerals. When someone died, their body was always laid out in the coffin with the lid off for people to spend time with their loved one. For us, it made the shock of their death feel more grounded in reality, and it gave us a chance to have our beloved in their home with their loved ones for one last time. Even though it was a harsh winter at the start of 1979, the undertakers had told us not to have any heating in the lounge, or the rest of the house, as it would speed up the decomposition of the body, even though Mickey had been embalmed. The undertaker told us to keep all the windows open, and i
t was freezing. I remember feeling cold to my bones that day as I welcomed Mickey’s associates and friends. By nightfall, my feet were frozen in the black heels I had on, and I was shivering in the black two-piece suit I’d worn for the occasion.

  “’Ere, put this around you,” Maureen said, handing me a blanket. I couldn’t wait to take off my heels and sit down. I’d been standing all day, making small talk, thanking people for coming, and I just wanted to collapse. My energy was drained and I took the cover gratefully. Maureen went to make something to eat, as we’d been too busy to grab any of the sandwiches and sausage rolls Mickey’s mum had made for our guests.

  I sat down at last, breathing out heavily and rubbing my legs, which were sore from standing all day. I realised the house had gone quiet. Mickey’s dad was in hospital after suffering a stroke, and had no idea of the tragedy that had befallen us. His mum was in the kitchen with Maureen, and it was just me, alone with my husband.

  Suddenly, I was gripped with the notion that I had something important to say to him. I stood up again, despite my aching body, and walked to the end of his coffin. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again with his skull.

  Earlier, I’d queried why Mickey wasn’t wearing shoes, as he was dressed in all his finery, a handsome cream-coloured handmade suit from his tailor in Stepney. Mickey would buy himself a load of expensive fabric then take it in to the tailor, saying, “That’s for the next one.” As soon as my husband had a suit made, he’d already be trawling for new material to make another. He was like that. He was flash, he loved his expensive clothes, and he was proud of his appearance – and rightly so.

  But the undertaker had told me that in order to put shoes on him, they’d have to smash his feet. I’d blanched at the thought of that.

  “No-one will ever hurt him again,” I’d replied, fervently, and that was that. Mickey would rest in peace in his Italian socks, his lavish suit and a lavender bow tie that I’d had made for him.

  In the gloom of twilight, Mickey looked peaceful, at least. His skin, though still that distinctive olive colour, looked waxy. His hair was combed to the side as he liked, and yet, if you didn’t know he was dead, you’d think he was sleeping. Part of me still didn’t register that it was my husband, my Mickey, lying dead as stone. Even as I looked over at him, at the two lavender posies I’d placed in both his hands and the red rose I’d put on his lapel, I had to draw a breath. He was the most handsome man I’d ever set eyes on. I saw myself again – a young woman ready for love – and I saw why he’d bowled me over. If I’m honest with myself, the fact he was a blagger, acting outside of the law, stealing money and lavishing it on me, was a turn-on. I’d turned a blind eye to his “work” because I loved how racy he was, how glamorous and exciting. It was like an aphrodisiac to me. But where had it got me? Standing here, looking down at the man I loved, feeling my heart hollow out, an aching loss that would be with me for the rest of my days.

  The words came from nowhere.

  “Babe, I promise you I will make sure I do for our children what you died trying to do for them.”

  Perhaps it was the quiet of the evening, or the exhaustion threatening to engulf me, but I realised I wasn’t just grieving, I wasn’t just overwhelmed with sadness. No. There was anger there too, a deep, molten rage born of a working class mother, a widow left to fend for herself by the actions of a police officer proving himself with a gun. I realised how small we were, how easily crushed by the system, the authorities, the police, for God’s sake. I was sure they’d lied to me about my Mickey’s death.

  I understood what Mickey did. I knew everything he did was for his family, for us. There was no greater shame for the men I knew and loved than failing to provide for your wife and kids. That was our measure of success or failure – not the moral codes we weren’t privileged enough to live by.

  Our men took what they wanted because it was the only way they could get it. No-one would ever give us a hand up in life. No-one would ever raise us above our social class. Mickey knew this, and he was angry too. He wanted to give us the high life – and he did. He did it in the only way he could, a violent and dangerous way. How else could he do it?

  I saw then that Mickey was always destined to die this way, and I wanted to rip the heart out of the establishment that made it so. I’d been many things up to that point, but the sight of my man’s corpse, the grief that swelled and shaped me now, gave me a fierce desire for revenge. I was a widow, a mother, a sister and housewife. I was a blagger’s wife, a knowing recipient of stolen money and clothes. I’d never questioned it. I had taken what was given to me and laughed off the consequences – until now. My rage had no end, no edges. I knew it would burn as long as I had breath in my body.

  I realised then that my heart had hardened. Morals weren’t for people like me. We couldn’t afford them. Morals were for rich people, people in glass houses with nice lives, nice jobs, nice children and fancy wives. Morals were expensive to people like us. They served to keep us down, to know our place.

  Enough was enough. My heart turned to ice that day. My entire world changed forever, my life collapsed and I knew from then on I had to fight for our survival, to pick myself up from the wreckage and fend for myself and my children. All bets were off. I would fight back, and I would do it my way from now on.

  My voice sounded steady, even powerful, as I ended, “I will take up your role, babe. I will provide for our children and give them the finest in life. I will take what’s owing to us.”

  Everything had changed that day I’d stood in the mortuary. The helplessness I felt at the sight of my dead husband, the battle facing me to get to the truth of how he died. None of it should’ve happened – yet it had, and I would have to live with the result every single day of my life to come. The seed of my life to come was planted as I clutched Mickey’s toes, looking down at his coffin, cursing this day.

  Chapter 11

  Black Widow

  1979

  I was determined to bury Mickey like a king – a king of the underworld of course – but a king never-the-less. I had put the word out that his funeral would take place in Canning Town on 8 January 1979, and so among the robbers, the crooks, the hard men and the villains, there was a truce. Criminals and racketeers from north, south, east and West London, and even parts of Scotland, agreed to lay down their weapons, their feuds, their hatred of each other, their violent search for territory and power, to come to the East End to see my Mickey off.

  Some couldn’t make it because they were already banged up. The Kray twins were jailed for life, while Mickey’s friend Micky Ishmael, another notorious blagger, was inside at the time, along with their pal George Davis, a crook who had been imprisoned for 20 years. Micky Ishmael and George had gone on the pavement, targeting the Bank of Cyprus for a £54,000 raid, and the Flying Squad was lying in wait for them. Micky had tried to take an old geezer hostage, while George had tried to escape in the getaway car, but both men were caught and had got substantial prison sentences. My Mickey had grown up with Micky Ishmael, and they had been very close. I knew they were close pals of my husband, and was gutted they couldn’t attend. I later heard that the screws at their prison had taken pity on them, letting them be told about Mickey’s death together in a cell. Apparently, they sobbed together like small boys. It was a small drop of compassion in a vast ocean of suffering.

  The day of the funeral arrived. It was freezing cold, but I barely noticed it. So many people had rung with messages of support, and all I could think about was the officer who had put my husband in his early grave. I wanted to tell him to come down, see how popular my man really was, and ask him, “How could Mickey be a bad man if he inspired this much love?” I felt better when I thought of the press photographers, who were bound to be staking out their part of the church grounds and the roads leading up to the cemetery to get the best shot – that meant that the world would see our love for a man who was so much more than ju
st a blagger. He gave to local charities, particularly the boys’ clubs for disadvantaged tearaways – something I only found out later at the inquest. He had a heart of gold, though he was a crook. He never wanted to become a docker like his father, and his father before him. He wanted more out of life. He wanted luxury. He wanted to give his children and his wife everything they wanted. Is that evil? I don’t think so. But it had led to this – a wooden coffin being carried out of his mum’s house and into a hearse. He was a robber and a thief, but he didn’t deserve to die for it.

  I watched the coffin bearers, his brothers and friends, pick him up and carry him out to the waiting vehicles. I felt as cold as the winter day, bare and frozen like the branches of the trees lining the road to the small cemetery. Maureen held my hand as we stood and watched him go, our faces haggard in the weak winter sunlight. Ten shiny black limos stood waiting for us. As I stepped into the car at the head of the entourage, I saw Mum’s face peering up at me. She was a mirror of my grief.

  We sat in silence as the cars moved slowly onwards – me, Mum and Maureen, like three stone statues. My mother had insisted my children didn’t attend their father’s funeral. “It’s too much for them to bear, darlin’,” she’d said, putting her hand on my arm as a gesture of reassurance, a few days before the ceremony.

  I’d agonised over whether to allow Mel and Neil to go, but I trusted her judgement. I’d nodded my agreement, tears running down my face. I have never regretted that decision, but I know that it made their father’s death seem less real for both of them. I wanted to protect them, so Mum and I agreed they shouldn’t attend, and they stayed with their grandmother instead.

  We pulled into the cemetery road, ambushed by flashing cameras and reporters shouting out questions as we disembarked. The wind was chilly. I pulled my coat tighter around my collar, and stepped towards the crowds of broken-nosed hard men standing around wearing thick coats and smoking roll-ups. It had seemed like the whole of East London was walking with our entourage as we moved slowly through the streets of Canning Town, following the funeral director, who walked in front. I saw the passers-by through a blur of tears. I saw men taking off their caps or trilbies, women with their hair in curlers putting out their cigarettes and staring as we went past. Everyone knew it was Mickey’s funeral. I remember the smell that greeted us inside the Chapel of Rest most clearly. The scent of roses hit me, and I struggled to keep my feelings under control.