Me and My Brothers

by Kray, Charlie

  My darling, adorable Nancy, just eight years old and so lovely and innocent. How I idolized her! The thought of her being hurt cut through me as I sat in my cell that evening, but I knew there was nothing I could do, especially from prison. It really was all over with Dolly, and the sooner the break was made, the better. Nancy would come to terms with it, I consoled myself: kids always do.

  But later that night the pain was deep as my mind ran back over all the precious years I’d missed of Nancy’s growing up. She had been three when I was arrested. One minute I’d been free to come and go as I pleased, to take my child wherever I wanted and care for her like any normal working father, the next I was caged like an animal, stripped of all parental rights except an unnatural, stilted chat in a sombre prison visiting room a couple of times a month. Five years I’d missed, years that should have been carefree and fun-filled, lovingly memorable. And I was to miss more. Even if all went well and I was released in January 197S, Nancy would be coming up to ten. Another two years and she would be in puberty, then a teenager. Before I knew it, she would be asking me to give her away in church.

  Sitting in my cell, alone yet again with my thoughts, I concentrated on memories of Nancy until I could summon up a mental picture of our holiday together in Sitges. How pretty Nancy had looked that April, her blonde hair bleached even lighter by the Spanish sun and her little body bronzed deep brown. She was a water baby, always in the hotel pool – only two years old but totally fearless, running and jumping into the safety of my arms then, as her confidence grew, jumping into the deep end on her own. When I reprimanded her with fatherly concern she would climb out then leap straight back in, going under and coming up again, clinging to me and giggling with childish joy as she rubbed the water from her eyes.

  Yet, as always when I thought of Nancy, the doubts surfaced in my mind despite my attempts to push them away. That night after I’d seen Nancy dragged from the hall without a chance of a loving goodbye kiss the doubts stared me in the face, again, and this time I had to accept they were real. Deep down I knew Nancy was not my child.

  It wasn’t easy to accept, of course, and for a long time I’d refused to believe it. Not mine! That laughing, giggling, squealing, shrieking little ball of wide-eyed innocence, that cartwheeling bundle of energy, that adorable impish little girl? Not mine!!

  As a loving father it was something I had never ever questioned or considered. Cradling Nancy as a new-born baby, watching with pride as she tottered on her first unsteady steps, holding her hand as she toddled along East End streets, talking to her softly as she lay in bed exhausted after a play-filled day…the very idea that the little girl I worshipped might be someone else’s flesh and blood was absurd. No, impossible. And then I had heard it from the mother of the child herself and for six years the horrible haunting question had hung over me like a thunder-cloud.

  Dolly told me during a row when Nancy was two. I was getting ready to go to Leicester on business and Dolly didn’t like it. ‘You think more of that bloody club than you do of me,’ she said.

  I groaned inwardly. This was an old chestnut and I wasn’t in the mood for it. I wanted to get on the road. ‘You know I’ve got to keep an eye on things,’ I said, fighting to keep the exasperation out of my voice.

  But Dolly was in the mood for a row. She’d been tense all day, building up to it. ‘It’s probably not the only thing you keep your eye on,’ she sneered.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I snapped.

  ‘You certainly don’t seem interested in me. You don’t want to know.’

  I ignored that and carried on dressing.

  ‘You don’t want to bloody know!’ Dolly raised her voice, trying to provoke.

  ‘Leave it out, Dolly.’ I said calmly. ‘Not now. I’m late.’

  ‘Business. Bloody business. It’s business all the time. When’s the last time you took me out?’

  I felt it best to ignore her and not rise to the bait.

  ‘Come on,’ Dolly persisted, more loudly. ‘When’s the last time?’

  ‘Keep your bloody voice down. What’s the matter with you?’

  And then she went into one, shrieking hysterically, accusing me of ignoring her, not wanting her any more, moaning that I let the twins run my life. Her voice got louder and louder and then she shouted, it’d serve you right if I found someone else while you’re enjoying yourself up there.’

  I snapped. ‘Shut your mouth, for Christ’s sake!’ I said fiercely. ‘You’ll wake Nancy.’

  ‘Why should you worry about that?’ Dolly bellowed.

  I didn’t understand what she meant, so I said nothing.

  ‘I don’t see why you should worry about someone else’s kid.’

  Silence. Then I said, ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What I say. Nancy’s not yours, you know.’

  I froze, then just stared at her, searching her hard green eyes, unblinking now in blazing hatred.

  ‘She’s not, you know.’ Her mouth curled and twisted with arrogance, enjoying my pain.

  What she had said roared in my ears, deafening me with its implications. I felt suddenly weak. A thousand responses hammered in my head but my brain was too numb to make sense of them, then one single thought forced its way to the front of my mind, pounding and pounding away: ‘Don’t let it be true. Don’t let it be true. Please, please don’t let it be true.’

  But Dolly, cocky in her desire to hurt, just stared at me in silence, enjoying my anguish.

  Later, days later, she took it back, said it was a lie dreamt up in the heat of the moment. But it was too late. She had sowed that seed of doubt and it was to grow and grow until it was always there in the back of my mind.

  And now in my cell, swimming around in a sea of warm memories of little Nancy, Dolly’s damning declaration began to dominate my thoughts. I remembered all the odd coincidences, the strange happenings that somehow didn’t add up, and I remembered, too, the innocent slips of Nancy’s tongue telling me ‘George’ had been round.

  All those wasted, precious years when my little girl had needed the influence of a caring father. Well, I had to stop tormenting myself. For my own sanity I had to accept once and for all that Nancy had indeed had that father’s influence all the time I’d been away.

  His name was George Ince.

  Mum and the old man were not surprised, of course, by my decision to divorce Dolly. When the papers revealed the affair with Ince Mum admitted she’d known about it for some time but hadn’t said anything because she felt it was not her business. ‘I didn’t like it,’ she said, ‘but I felt you had enough problems. I knew you’d have to decide for yourself one day.’

  Dolly, ever ready to see the worst in people, always blamed Mum for telling me about Ince, but that simply wasn’t true. Mum was not the sort of lady who liked making waves and causing problems. When the mystery witness story broke I told Mum I hoped Diana would read it and get in touch with her, in which case she was to be sure to bring her to see me. I was tempted to ask Mum to try to find Diana herself, but decided against it because she had enough on her plate earning a living, taking care of the old man and visiting the twins and me in different parts of the country. I’d been keeping my ears open for departing inmates going to Leicester but had not heard of any so far.

  I’d spent hours describing Diana to a little Jewish man called George who was in for fraud. He often said I talked about her so much that he felt he knew her personally, and he told me nothing would give him greater pleasure than to go to Leicester to try and find her. But of course that’s easy to say when you’re locked up more than 150 miles away. George was coming up for release and due to be given a little job in a hostel to prepare him for life outside.

  One day he came looking for me, beaming all over his face. ‘Charlie,’ he said, excitedly, Tve got the hostel. They’re offering me London.’ He paused, then grinned. ‘Or Leicester.’ He stood there, waiting.

  I didn’t know what to say; it’s difficult to ask
someone to organize their life in a certain way just to help you find a lost love. But it was as if George was reading my thoughts.

  ‘Charlie, I’ve got no family to worry about. It makes no odds to me where I go. I’d love to go to Leicester to try to find Diana.’

  I was lost for words. Prison life is not known for its generosity of spirit, for humane gestures that demand nothing in return. Finally I said, ‘That’s really nice of you, George. I’d love you to try to find her.’

  George beamed. I think it made his day.

  Sadly, George had no luck. The club in Leicester had closed and he could not find anyone who had worked there. He did the rounds, asking in pubs and so on, but drew a blank. I was disappointed, naturally, but told myself it was probably for the best. If Diana had got her marriage sorted out she certainly wouldn’t need an ex-jailbird knocking on her door and asking her to renew a romantic relationship with someone she had probably forgotten long ago.

  And yet, as the months towards my release wore on I could not get Diana out of my mind. She had been so beautiful, so kind, so loyal; so much the woman of my dreams. I knew I was still in love with her and had never stopped loving her.

  And I knew, despite everything, that I would not be able to stop myself trying to find her to tell her so.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I could see the road from my cell. Day after day I would gaze out, lost in thought about the horrors of yesterday and the hopeful tomorrows waiting for me on my release. I would watch the cars on that road and think of the people in them, trundling along in comfort, peace and freedom. One day, I thought, I’ll be on that road. One day, I’ll be free; free to prove to my captors, my prosecutors, my friends even, what a terrible wrong I had suffered in the name of justice. One day…

  At Maidstone there is a reception area where inmates arrive and depart. One morning I had to go there for something connected with my job in the kitchen and I found myself staring at four cubicles, each with a prisoner’s name on the outside. I peeked into one of them: there was a long mirror, and a jacket and trousers hanging on a hook. There was also a clean white shirt, some socks and on the floor were some shoes. The cubicles were for inmates leaving for good or for a pre-release weekend. I looked at the clothes, then at the names on the doors. One day it will be my clothes hanging there, I thought. One day it would be my name on the door. One day…

  Two or three months later, in July 1974, a prison officer told me to go to reception again. It had nothing to do with the kitchen, so I guessed it was about my pre-release weekend. A wave of excitement surged through me; I felt like a schoolboy being given an unexpected day’s holiday. Sorting out the clothes I needed for my weekend was a tingling experience: nylon socks, not coarse woollen ones, white cotton pants, not drab prison issue, a blue blazer, and neatly pressed light-brown trousers. I didn’t need to try them on, but I did, even the socks. Then I looked in the mirror at myself. It was an indescribable feeling, the first time in more than six years that I’d worn normal clothes.

  They told me I was being released on Friday 23 August for three days and I went back to my cell, walking on air. Over the next few weeks I could think of nothing else but putting on those clothes and walking out of the door, breathing the sweet, fragrant scent of freedom. And then it was the Thursday before the Friday and I Was so excited that I felt I’d never drop off to sleep. But I did and slept wonderfully peacefully. I was woken twenty minutes before other prisoners so that I could get washed and shaved. I could not do it all quickly enough: I was quivering all over with excitement like a child on Christmas Day.

  There are many people in prison who are not worth two bob, but there are others who are genuinely sincere and really care about people other than themselves. I’d struck up friendships with several people and later that morning as I sat around waiting to be called to reception they came over to me. ‘Have a lovely weekend, Charlie…Enjoy yourself, mate…Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, my old son…Don’t forget to come back, Charlie…’ They were all pleased for me and I didn’t hide my excitement, then someone was calling my name and I was on my way to reception, half-running to taste the freedom I’d dreamt about for over six years.

  A prison officer told me there were some people waiting outside, reporters and photographers mainly, but I couldn’t care less. My day had come and I would talk to anybody about anything. Not for long, however, because Mum was meeting me to drive me to London and I was going to make the most of my three days, squeezing the maximum enjoyment and pleasure from my short-lived liberty.

  The Press were great, as they always had been to me, then I was in the car and Mum, bless her, was putting fifty pounds in my hand and we were driving away from the grim establishment that had been my home for the last eighteen months.

  I glanced back and caught a brief glimpse of my cell. Yes, I would be back there on Monday, I knew that. But for the next seventy-two hours I was going to push my hatred for that lonely cage out of my mind. My ‘one day’ had come and I was going to think of nothing but catching up with the world that had left me behind so cruelly on 8 May 1968.

  That evening, Mum and the old man suggested going to the Blue Coat Boy pub in Bishopsgate; just a quiet drink, they said – there were a couple of old friends who were dying to see me again. We walked into the downstairs bar and chatted to a few people. I was a little baffled; I certainly knew the people there but only to say hello to – they were hardly old friends. But I was enjoying myself anyway, so I didn’t say anything.

  Then Mum said casually that we ought to go upstairs where there was a bigger, more comfortable lounge.

  And I nearly fell over.

  There were not a few friends who wanted a quiet drink with me, there were over two hundred! Everyone I’d known down the years, it seemed, was standing there waiting for me, wanting to shake my hand and say how good it was to see me again. There was a beautiful buffet laid out, the drink was flowing, and ail the time I was being taken from one person to another, exchanging a piece of news here and enjoying a bit of nostalgia there. Suddenly, around closing time, I started feeling dizzy: I’d spent more than six years with just a handful of people –sometimes only one or two – and the hustle and bustle and heady party atmosphere was getting to me.

  As if by magic, the chap who owned the pub came over and asked me to go downstairs with him; he had something important to tell me. The pub had now closed, and in the welcome tranquillity of the downstairs bar he sat me down and grinned. ‘I haven’t got anything specially important to tell you, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Your mum saw it was all getting a bit much for you so she asked me to get you away for a few minutes. She could see it was doing your brain in.’

  I laughed. It was typical of Mum; she didn’t miss much.

  After I’d got my breath back we rejoined the fray, and the drinking, eating, laughing and joking went on until 4 A.M. I was so high on excitement and joy I was neither tired nor drunk, and when some of us went back to Braithwaite House I happily sat there, drinking one gin after another, with no thought of going to bed. We talked about prison but it seemed a long way off. It was as if those six years had never happened.

  I spent the whole weekend in the East End, strolling around to see how much of the old place was still standing, and chatting to other people I’d known before I went away. They were a highly charged, emotional few days for me and of course they couldn’t last. Before I knew it, it was Sunday night and I was making plans to return to the prison at 10 A.M. Mum wanted to come back with me, but I did not want her to have the upset of seeing me walk back through that door again. So, around 8 A.M. the next day, it was my old mate Tommy Cowley who drove me through South London and on to the A20 to Kent.

  The Press were there in force, not so much to record my arrival, I think, but to be on the spot if I failed to turn up; that would have been a far better story. Tommy and I sat chatting until a couple of minutes to ten, then I walked to the gate and pressed the bell. The cameras clicked and I forced a
smile I didn’t feel. ‘Fooled you, didn’t I?’ I cracked. ‘Bet you thought I wouldn’t be back.’

  The newshounds liked that.

  It was weird being back inside. It was as if I’d never been away and those three marvellous days as a free man had never happened. But they had, of course, and my friends wanted to know all the details – what I’d done, who I’d seen, whether things had changed, and whether I’d enjoyed myself. They would not taste that freedom for many years, so I drained my seventy-two hours of every little detail and they hung on every word. What I told them could have been put over in five minutes; I made it last a week.

  Of course, one of the things they wanted to know was whether I’d slept with a woman. Like any normal man I’d missed sex desperately and had thought of going to bed with someone – probably a professional lady – on my first day out. But when it came to it, so much had been arranged for me, so many people were wanting to see me, that I simply did not have time. And anyway, deep down, the only person 1 wanted to go to bed with was Diana and I didn’t even know where she was.

  My mates in prison thought it hilarious that I’d been too busy for sex.

  Everything, they say, comes to those who wait. And the one thing I’d been waiting for – my full release – finally arrived on 8 January 1975. My name was on one of those reception cubicles again and I changed out of my prison gear for the last time. All the excitement I’d felt five months before was still there, but this time it had a hard edge to it, tinged with a fierce determination that once I was out of prison I would begin a campaign to prove I should never have been jailed in the first place.

  Several days earlier I’d been told that, despite our divorce, Dolly had rung the prison governor asking for details of my release. No doubt she wanted to make a big show of meeting me to squeeze some more money out of a newspaper. Fortunately, the governor had told her she had no rights, and the only people who met me that nippy winter’s morning, apart from the Press, were Mum and two dear friends, George and Sue Dwyer. Driving down that road I looked back at the retreating prison wall, then up to where my cell was. For a few brief seconds memories of my prison existence swam around in my mind: the boredom and frustration, the anger and bitterness of maximum security, and the joy of coming off the A-List; the callous prison officers who loved making life difficult, and the sympathetic ones who bent the rules; the stupid inmates who drove me mad by talking rubbish and the mild-mannered ones who became my friends. These memories sped through my mind like a fast-forward video and then suddenly seemed to switch off. As on my pre-release weekend, it was as if those years, all that never-ending forever, had never happened.