Me and My Brothers

by Kray, Charlie

  In the end, the Germans saved my life. They scored a direct hit on the hospital and in the pandemonium I walked, unsteadily and unnoticed, out of the ward and down the stairs. In view of the things I’d heard, I expected to drop dead any minute, but nothing happened and the next day Mum took me home. For the next week or so the old man – still ‘on the trot’ – took a risk and stayed with me day and night. And then, one morning, I felt well enough to get up. Touch wood, I’ve been as right as ninepence ever since – a walking miracle, according to the doctors.

  Before I was taken ill, I’d graduated from the Coronet junior club to Crown and Manor youth club in Hoxton, and as soon as I’d recovered from the rheumatic fever I took up boxing again. I also joined the naval cadets at Hackney Wick, where the training facilities were good, and it wasn’t long before I started taking the sport very seriously. I’d been a very useful welterweight, and the idea of turning pro appealed to me: a good crowd-pleaser could earn as much as ten quid for four three-minute rounds. There was also the handy bonus of ‘nobbins’ – coins thrown into the ring by satisfied customers – although boxers often came off second best to their helpers. Try picking up a handful of coins wearing boxing gloves and you’ll see what I mean.

  When the twins saw some of the cutlery, glassware and trophies I won as an amateur they felt boxing might be for them, too, and they joined me in my early-morning road running, copying my side-stepping and shadow-boxing in the streets around Vallance Road. They were so enthusiastic that I turned an upstairs room into a sort of gym, with a speedball, punchbag, skipping ropes and weights. I found some boxing gloves to fit the twins and started to teach them. We were at it every day. It used to drive them mad, I suppose: keep that guard up, shoot out that left, duck, weave, watch that guard now, keep the left going…Ronnie was a southpaw; he led with his right. I corrected this by tying his right arm down, so that he couldn’t move it.

  The twins loved that little gym and it wasn’t long before they started inviting their mates round for some sparring. I’d come home in the evenings to find the room full of kids, all waiting for me to get them organized. After a while, I started arranging contests and bought books and things to give the winners as prizes. The kids adored it. That gym was like their own little club.

  Mum made sure all our gear was the cleanest by washing it every day, and the old man even cleaned and ironed the laces on our boxing boots. Mum didn’t come upstairs much, except to bring the boys tea and sandwiches. But as long as no one was getting hurt she didn’t mind all the noise and running around. She loved having kids in the house and the Kray home got a reputation for always being full up.

  A year later the twins showed so much promise that I took them to the Robert Browning Institute in Walworth, near the Elephant and Castle in South London. One of the resident trainers watched them in the ring, a look of amazement on his face. ‘How old did you say they were, Charlie?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure they haven’t been in the ring before?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I replied proudly.

  ‘They’re amazing,’ the trainer said. ‘Bloody amazing.’

  ‘So you want them in the club?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  And so the short-lived but sensational career of the young Kray twins was born.

  My own career in the ring was about to take off, too –courtesy of the Royal Navy. I decided to volunteer for the Navy before being called up and sent into the Army, which I didn’t fancy. I joined towards the end of the war, but my boxing reputation preceded me, and I spent most of my active service representing the Navy as a welterweight against the Army and Air Force.

  After the war, contests were arranged to keep the men entertained while they waited to be demobbed. I found myself boxing roughly twice a week in various parts of the country. Whether it was the pressure of these fights or the legacy of my rheumatic fever I don’t know, but I suddenly developed chronic migraine and was discharged from the Navy on health grounds.

  I was thrilled to return home to find that my little twin brothers had become quite famous locally with their spectacular triumphs in the ring. They had fought locally and nationally with outstanding success. In the prestigious London Schools competition they got to the final three years running and had to fight each other.

  I shall never forget the third encounter at York Hall in Bethnal Green; it was a classic. I went in the dressing room beforehand and told them to take it easy and put on a good show. Ronnie was as calm as ever, but Reggie was extra keyed up. He had lost the previous two fights and I sensed he’d made up his mind he was going to win this one.

  The announcements ended. The bell rang. And to the deafening roar of a thousand or so school kids the tenacious thirteen-year-old twins came out of their corners to do battle: Reggie the skilful boxer, Ronnie the fighter, who never knew when he was beaten. For three two-minute rounds they were totally absorbed, both committed to winning. They were belting each other so hard and so often that Mum and the old man wanted to get in the ring and stop it and it was all I could do to restrain them, although the battle got so bloody in the final round that I nearly shouted ‘Stop!’ myself.

  The judges found it difficult telling the twins apart in the first part of the fight but they had no trouble towards the end: Ronnie’s face was a mess and Reggie got a unanimous verdict.

  Afterwards, in the dressing room, Mum laid into them. She was horrified at the sight of her two babies knocking the daylights out of each other and told them in no uncertain terms that they would never appear together in a ring again as long as she was alive.

  The twins burst into tears. But they never did fight each other again.

  Back in civvy street again, I teamed up with the old man on the knocker, and dedicated myself to boxing. The Kray fame began to spread. Three brothers – two of them identical twins – chalking up one victory after another was hot local news, and suddenly our photographs were all over the East London Advertiser, with reports of our fights.

  Mum hated boxing, but she always came to our fights with her sisters; she felt she had a duty to be there. We used to laugh at her because she admitted that half the time she didn’t look. She tried to talk us out of it, saying, ‘Do you really want to end up disfigured?’ And if one of us got hurt, she’d say, ‘You’ve got to stop – it’s no good for you.’ But in the end she gave up because she realized we loved the sport.

  As boxers, the twins were quite different from each other: Reggie was the cool, cautious one, with all the skills of a potential champion and, importantly, he always listened to advice. Ronnie was a good boxer too, and very brave. But he never listened to advice. He was a very determined boy with a mind of his own. If he made up his mind to do something, he’d do it, no matter what, and unlike Reggie he would never hold back. He would go on and on until he dropped.

  A trainer told me, ‘I know Ronnie doesn’t listen half the time. But he’s got so much determination that he’d knock a wall down if I told him to.’

  Once, at Lime Grove Baths in West London, Ronnie was fighting a boy Reggie had knocked out a few months before. In the dressing room, I warned Ronnie, ‘This lad can punch. If he catches you, you’ll be over, I promise.’

  Ronnie nodded. But I sensed he wasn’t listening.

  In the first round, his opponent threw a huge overhead punch. Everyone round the ring saw it, but not Ronnie. He almost somersaulted backwards on to the canvas. It seemed all over, but Ronnie rolled over and crawled to his knees, then slowly to his feet. He didn’t know where he was, but he survived the round. He was still in another world when he came out for the second and he took a hammering. But when the bell went for the third, his head suddenly cleared and he tore into his opponent, knocking him out after a series of crushing blows to the head.

  In the dressing room afterwards, I said, ‘That was very clever.’

  Ronnie barely looked at me. ‘What did you want me to do?’

  ‘I told you
to keep your chin down otherwise you’d get knocked over.’

  Ronnie looked pained. ‘Oh, stop nagging. I won, didn’t I?’

  Another time, at a dinner-jacket affair at the Sporting Club in London’s West End, I took a look at Ronnie’s opponent – a tough-looking gypsy type. I knew what to expect and I said to Ronnie, ‘He’ll be a strong two-handed puncher and he’ll come at you from the first bell trying to put you away. So take it easy. Keep out of trouble for a bit.’

  But, as usual, Ronnie wasn’t too interested in what I had to say. In sport, it’s good to have some nerves, it gets you keyed up, helps you perform well. But Ronnie didn’t have any nerves. He didn’t care.

  When the bell sounded the gypsy almost ran from his corner and then started swinging at Ronnie with both hands. Ronnie looked totally shocked. He was battered about the head and forced back against the ropes taking massive lefts and rights to the head.

  The gypsy’s brothers, sitting near me, grinned. ‘That’s it. It’s all over,’ they said triumphantly.

  Suddenly Ronnie found his breath. He started ducking out of the way of the gypsy’s punches, then got in a few of his own. The gypsy’s onslaught stopped. It was all Ronnie needed; he was in, smashing rights and lefts into the face and body as though he was possessed. It was quite devastating.

  I knew the signs, and turned to the brothers. ‘Yeah. You’re right. It is all over.’

  Less than a minute later the gyspy was being counted out.

  I think Ronnie was secretly annoyed with himself for being caught cold because in the communal dressing room afterwards, he acted out of character. He overheard the gypsy moaning to his brothers about being caught unawares. It would never happen again, he said.

  Before I could stop him, Ronnie had walked over to them. ‘Stop making excuses,’ he told the gypsy quietly. ‘If you want, I’ll do it again. I’ll catch you unawares again.’

  I stepped in and took Ronnie away. But that was him all over: he always believed that what was done was done and there was no point whingeing or trying to change it. Reggie would always be prepared to discuss matters, but Ronnie was withdrawn and would say, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ And he was always right: there would be no argument, no discussion, no possible compromise.

  Once, as boys, the twins were due to box at Leyton Baths, and Ronnie did not turn up. Reggie and I waited for him at home, but in the end had to leave without him. We were worried about his safety, naturally, and about the inquiry that would be launched by the boxing board: it was bad news not to turn up for a bout.

  A few minutes after we got back home, Ronnie walked in with a school pal, Pat Butler.

  ‘Where the hell were you?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘I had to go somewhere with Pat,’ was all Ronnie replied.

  ‘You know you could lose your licence.’ I was livid.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Ronnie said. ‘Pat was in trouble with some people.’

  ‘You’re out of order, Ronnie. You should never not turn up for a fight.’

  But Ronnie just shrugged. ‘I don’t care about not turning up. This was more important to me.’

  Then Reggie chimed in. ‘You could have helped Pat out tomorrow.’

  ‘No,’ Ronnie said, quietly but forcibly. ‘It had to be done tonight.’

  Reggie and I continued to argue with him, but Ronnie just said, ‘Anyway I had to do it and it’s done now. I’m not apologizing.’

  We pointed out that Mum had stayed at home because she was worried about him. Ronnie was sorry he’d caused her to miss the fight, but otherwise he couldn’t care less.

  The twins seemed unaffected by their local Press coverage and the local fame that went with it. They still went to school regularly, didn’t throw their weight around and were never loud-mouthed, like some kids in the neighbourhood. If anything, they were quiet and modest and always respectful. Someone who saw this side of their character was the Reverend Hetherington, vicar of St James the Great, in Bethnal Green Road. The church youth club, which the twins belonged to, ran jumble sales and other fund-raising functions, and they were always keen to help set up stalls and so on. The twins admired the vicar and went out of their way to oblige him whenever he wanted a favour. He liked them too, and always spoke well of them. That friendship was to last a lifetime.

  One night, the vicar was standing in the doorway of the vestry when the twins walked up.

  ‘Can we do anything for you, Father?’ Ronnie asked.

  Mr Hetherington was a heavy smoker and had a cigarette going at the time. He drew on it. ‘No, I don’t think so, Ronald.’ he said. ‘But it’s very kind of you to ask. Thank you.’

  He asked them one or two questions about what they were doing with themselves and was generally as pleasant and friendly as usual. Then he said good-night and went into his vestry.

  Half an hour later he felt in his cassock for his cigarettes and was amazed to find an extra packet. The twins had bought the cigarettes for him. But they knew he would not have accepted them had they offered. So they slipped the packet into one of his pockets without him knowing.

  Later, I learned that Mr Hetherington said no when the twins asked if he wanted anything because he always wondered: ‘What on earth are they going to do to get it!’

  That immediate post-war period in the East End was a happy time. Life was getting back to normal after the horrors of the Blitz, and the family atmosphere Mum created at Vallance Road was warm and cosy and very secure.

  As boys, the twins were very disciplined about their boxing. They went to bed early, ate well and regularly, and were almost fanatical about their fitness; they were always pounding the streets early in the morning.

  Just after their fourteenth birthdays, however, the twins started to change. For the worse. Suddenly they started staying out late and neglecting their morning roadwork. They became very secretive about where they were going, what they were doing, who they were seeing. Mum was very concerned but she bit her tongue. She put it down to their age: they were probably going through that ‘growing up’ stage and she didn’t want to appear a moaner. But then I discovered the twins were calling in at Aunt Rose’s house late at night to clean themselves up before coming home.

  The reason for their secrecy was suddenly very clear. They had been fighting in the street and knew that Mum would give them hell if she found out.

  The East End had been relatively free of violence during the war and the couple of years after it. But now that the wartime controls were being relaxed, teenagers roamed the streets looking for excitement. It was, perhaps, inevitable that the twins, tough, utterly fearless and locally famous, would be involved, and with their flair for leadership it was hardly surprising that they were out in front when the battles began.

  An incident that stands out involved a Jewish shopowner, aged about seventy who made a point of coming round to our house to say how wonderful the twins were. Apparently they were walking home one night when they saw some boys smash the old man’s shop window and help themselves to some of his goods. As they ran off, the twins chased them – not to have them arrested, but to give them a good hiding and to get back what they had stolen. They didn’t catch them, but the thieves never came back. The shopowner was very grateful to the twins, but it was nothing to them; they were always eager to help someone in trouble. Once Ronnie pawned a gold ring for a couple of quid to help a kid out. Another time he came home with no shoes. When Mum asked where they were, he said, ‘I’ve just given them to a poor kid who didn’t have any.’

  They could not stand bullies, especially if our family was involved. When they were fifteen they heard that the old man had been slagged off by a crowd of young blokes in a pub. The old man and some friends were having a singsong when the crowd started taking the mickey out of them.

  ‘Leave us alone,’ the old man said. ‘We’re enjoying ourselves.’

  ‘Who are you, you old bastard?’ one of the youths replied, and he went to give him a smack.

>   One of the old man’s friends warned, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ and the trouble was stopped.

  But a few of the bullying crowd said, ‘We’re not finished here.’

  The next day the old man told Ronnie and Reggie what had happened. ‘Who were they?’ the twins wanted to know. The old man thought they worked for a chap called Jack Barclay, who owned a big East End store. The twins were round there like a shot.

  ‘Hello, Mr Barclay,’ Ronnie said respectfully. He asked for two people by name.

  ‘They’re out the back,’ replied Mr Barclay.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ronnie. And he walked straight through with Reggie and confronted the two bullies.

  ‘You had a go at our old man last night. And we don’t like it.’

  With that, Ronnie floored one of the guys and Reggie did the other. Then they went out, saying goodbye to Mr Barclay on the way.

  Several times in that long hot summer of 1948, I talked to the twins. I tried to tell them what fools they were; that the only place they should be fighting was in the ring, where they could made a good name for themselves. I should have saved my breath. My twin brothers were not interested in what I had to say or what I felt. They were not fifteen yet, but almost overnight they had become men and nobody, not even their elder brother, was going to tell them what to do.

  Adolescence, tragically, had passed the Kray twins by.

  Chapter Three

  My own life as I entered my twenties was going along nicely. I was earning a few quid with the old man. My boxing was fine; I was winning most of my fights and thinking seriously of turning pro.