After half a minute or so we sat down and, astonishingly, Reg’s mood lifted. He is a great believer in positive mental attitude and he was anxious to let us all know he was not going to allow himself to get too depressed at Ronnie’s death.
‘I was bad yesterday,’ he admitted. ‘I was refused permission to visit Ron in hospital and I felt I’d been deprived of comforting him as his life ebbed away. But I was granted a few privileges last night and I feel in a better frame of mind today. I woke feeling at peace. I know Ron is. He’s free at last. And he beat the system, didn’t he? He didn’t die in Broadmoor, as everyone expected him to.
‘I didn’t sleep much last night, but I forced myself not to think back over all the years, because it would have been too hurtful. During my sentence, I’ve learned to switch off and keep my emotions under control –be dispassionate about things.
‘You know, Ron had a premonition of his death three weeks ago. He told me: “I’m not long for this world.”
‘I had a premonition, too. Only a few days ago, another con asked me if I had a suit I could lend him for a wedding he was being allowed to go to. I gave him a black suit willingly, but as I handed it over I had this strange feeling I would be asking for it back before too long. And I was right. Ron died two days later.’
Then, businesslike as ever, Reg turned to me and said: ‘Now, what about the funeral? Ronnie wanted six black horses, you know.’
I did know. I remember him saying to Mum, as a kid: ‘When I die, I want my coffin pulled by six black horses with plumes.’
Mum was horrified. ‘For goodness sake, Ronnie. You’re a young man. It’s silly talking about things like that.’
‘I mean it, Mum,’ Ronnie said. ‘I want horses at my funeral. Black ones.’
‘I don’t think it’ll be possible, Reg,’ I said. ‘The cemetery is in Chingford. It’s six miles from Bethnal Green. It’ll take all day. The police won’t allow it.’
‘Ron wanted horses. And he’ll have them.’
I knew better than to argue. Reg was a persistent so-and-so when he wanted to be. Not as insistent as Ronnie, but still a formidable force. I knew he would have his way. ‘I’ll look into the horses,’ I said.
‘No, I want to do it,’ said Reg.
‘Leave it to me, Reg,’ I said. ‘Ronnie will have the best. The funeral will be exactly the same as Mum’s and the old man’s.’
‘Charlie,’ he said, ‘if it’s okay with you, I want to deal with the arrangements. I’ve got all the time in the world in here to sit and think about what to do for the best.’
I could see the sense in that. Ronnie was my brother and I hurt badly; but being one half of a twin made it worse for Reg, and it would help him overcome his grief if he occupied his time organizing the funeral.
‘Okay, Reg,’ I said. ‘Do what you want to do. If you need any help, just call me.’
‘I’ll make sure Ronnie has the best send-off possible. I want twenty Rolls-Royces and Bentleys for all our friends. And we will have those horses. And they will take Ron all the way to the cemetery.’
That was Reg all over. And he knew that if it had been the other way round, Ronnie would have done the same for him.
Reg wanted to get on with the arrangements, but there were two things worrying him. One was the cause of Ronnie’s death; the other was whether he would be given permission to say goodbye to his twin in the Chapel of Rest at English’s, the funeral parlour in Bethnal Green Road.
The cause of death really bothered Reg. On the Monday, he came on the phone to me, really wound up, saying he had heard the autopsy had taken only a few minutes, and he was far from happy about it.
‘They could fob us off with any old rubbish, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I’m not going ahead with the funeral until we’ve got some answers.’
He instructed Stephen Gold to look into it, but, by Thursday, we were no wiser. Ronnie had died of a heart attack, and that was that. If Reg or I suspected there was more to it, something sinister, we were never going to find out what it was. So, somewhat reluctantly, Reg gave the go-ahead for the funeral to be held the following Wednesday, 29 March. He asked me to organize everyone involved in the funeral arrangements to meet him at the prison the next afternoon. We had five days to get it all together.
Happily, Reg’s second worry was dealt with easily and without any fuss. There is a lovely married couple working at Maidstone Prison–Chris Rogers, the head of security, and his wife Debbie, who is a senior officer. They had had a lot of dealings with Reg in the year he had been there and knew he was a model prisoner.
I contacted them and said it would be marvellous if they could arrange for Reg to be escorted to the East End to pay his final respects. If they wanted me to be there, I would; but if they felt that, in the interests of security, it was better if I did not know when he was going, that was okay, too. I just wanted Reg to be allowed to say a final farewell.
Chris, bless him, spoke up for Reg, saying he posed no security risk at all, and, one afternoon, three days before the funeral, Reg was driven up me A20 and into the East End with hardly anyone knowing about it. His handcuffs were taken off and he was allowed fifteen minutes or so alone with his twin. I do not know what he said or did in that time, but what I do know is that being allowed to see Ronnie that last time gave Reg a big gee, as we say in the East End. As one of Britain’s highest profile prisoners, he knew it was far from certain he would be allowed out and he was thrilled when he was. It made a huge difference to his mental state and he told Chris and Debbie how much he appreciated their compassion. To be perfectly truthful, at that harrowing time, it was the greatest gesture they could have made for Reg and I know he will never forget it.
The funeral was a cross between a West End film premiere and a Wembley Cup Final: the crowds that Wednesday morning brought the East End to a virtual standstill.
I’d expected a big turnout, especially outside English’s, but the amount of people lining both sides of Bethnal Green Road amazed me. Fortunately, the police, and security guards laid on by Reg, had foreseen what chaos could be caused, and had cordoned off the area outside the funeral parlour with steel barriers so that invited guests could get through.
Reg had not arrived when I walked into English’s, an hour or so before the procession was due to leave. I took the opportunity to go into the Chapel of Rest, with my son Gary, to spend a few minutes with Ronnie. I went up to the coffin and found myself talking to him, as though he were merely resting.
‘You’re all right now, Ronnie,’ I said softly. ‘It’s the end of all the misery for you. You did it the right way, you got out. You’re with Mum and the old man now.’
No sooner had Gary and I left the Chapel of Rest than Reg arrived. He was brought to a reception room down the narrow corridor where sandwiches had been prepared for specially invited guests. He was pale and red-eyed, and dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie. He was handcuffed to a Maidstone Prison officer, with another officer and Chris and Debbie Rogers standing nearby.
Reg and I embraced and I said: ‘We’ll go in and see him in a minute.’
I looked at Chris, who nodded to the prison officer. Reg’s handcuffs were unlocked and we were escorted out of the room and along the corridor to the Chapel of Rest. We were allowed in on our own and, as soon as the door closed and we were alone with our brother, we both began to cry.
Reg walked to one end of the coffin and looked at Ronnie’s face. He started stroking his forehead, then his shoulders, saying over and over again: ‘You’re all right now, Ron, you’re at peace.’ He couldn’t take his eyes or hands off him; it was as if he were trying to get in touch with Ronnie’s soul to help him in some way. I did not know what to say; I just watched Reg breaking his heart and all I could think of was all those wasted years when destiny had parted them.
We were in that little room for ten minutes. Finally, I had to tear him away.
‘Reggie,’ I said gently, ‘we’ve got to leave him sometime. It’
s time. We’ve got to go now.’
Reluctantly, Reg forced himself away from the coffin and we went out into the corridor. The handcuffs were slipped back on and we were escorted to another, larger room where friends from Reg’s past had gathered to pass on their condolences.
Those ten long, emotional minutes watching my brother’s heart break was the most moving experience of my life since the Friday morning thirteen years before, when I had stood in a similar room at English’s funeral parlour in Hoxton, weeping beside my mother’s coffin.
Reg and I had not spoken again of our suspicions surrounding Ronnie’s death; seeing him lying so peacefully, dressed lovingly in a new white shirt and dark tie, we felt everything was as it should be.
How wrong we were.
Those beautiful black horses led a procession of twenty-six limousines up Bethnal Green Road, past where our house used to be, in Vallance Road, to St Matthew’s Church, in St Matthew’s Row, where the crowds were even bigger. Hundreds had come to pay their respects to Ronnie, but others, mainly young people, were there only to catch a glimpse of Reg, and, as he was escorted, through the crowds, ten deep in places, they chanted: ‘Reg-GIE! Reg-GIE!’ as though he were a soccer hero. It was comforting, even a little flattering, for him to know he had such support, but both of us would have preferred a quieter, more dignified greeting, in keeping with such a solemn occasion.
For the hundred or so relatives and friends in the limousines, getting into the church was a battle. Reg’s security men thought they had done the right thing, wearing badges to identify themselves to police, but looking back, the people who should have been identifiable were those entitled to be in the church. Sadly, it was such a mad scramble at the door that several we wanted there did not make it.
One who did, I gather, was Ronnie’s ex-wife, Kate. Why did she turn up? There was no money in it for her, now that Ronnie was dead. Maybe she just wanted her picture in the papers.
Ronnie would have been proud of his twin brother for the way he organized his final farewell. The service was carefully thought out, touchingly simple, yet poignant, and it went off without a hitch.
Reg had a brilliant idea, that the pallbearers should represent the four areas of London in a symbol of peace. He chose Johnny Nash, from North London, Teddy Dennis, from West, me from East, and Frankie Fraser from south. Frank dearly wanted to be a pallbearer but, as he pointed out, he was only five feet four and would make the coffin lopsided. So, reluctantly, he declined, and on the day, Freddie Foreman represented South London.
The four of us, plus Laurie O’Leary, carried the coffin into the church a few minutes after midday, to Frank Sinatra’s hit record, ‘My Way’–the song Reg felt typified Ronnie more than any other.
After Father Christopher Bedford had read out the names of certain prisoners Reg wanted included in the service, we sang the hymn ‘Morning Has Broken’, then Robin McGib-bon’s wife, Sue, read ‘Invictus’, William Ernest Henley’s classic poem about impending death.
I was standing a few feet to Reggie’s right, on the other side of the aisle, and I could not stop myself glancing at him to see how he was taking it. He was staring at the coffin a few feet in front of us, his eyes seemingly trying to penetrate it, as if he wanted to be in there, in spirit at least, with Ronnie. The service meant everything to Reg and the paleness of his face betrayed the tension he felt, wondering whether it would all go precisely as he planned.
Sue then read ‘A Message from Charlie and Reg’:
‘We wish for only good to come from Ron’s passing away, and what is about to follow is our tribute to Ron. It is a symbol of peace in that the four pallbearers, each representing an area of London, will encircle Ron’s coffin in a minute’s silence.’
Reg was allowed to join us for this tribute and he stood next to me, at the foot of the coffin, his left hand cuffed to a prison officer.
After a full minute of absolute silence–not one person among the 300 packed in the church so much as coughed–we returned to our seats and listened to Sue read a short message in Reg’s own words:
‘My brother, Ron, is now free and at peace. Ron had great humour, a vicious temper, was kind and generous. He did it all his way, but, above all, he was a man. That’s how I will always remember my twin brother, Ron. God bless. Affection. Reg.’
As Sue finished and stepped down from the lectern, Reg gave her me briefest nod of approval and mouthed the words: Thank you. The crucial part of the service was over and it had been faultless. The anxiety that had been etched in Reg’s face was gone and colour had come back in his cheeks. As we all stood to sing the hymn ‘Fight me Good Fight’, I could see him visibly relax.
And so to some lovely, honest words about Ronnie from Father Christopher, the Final Commendation, and a final poem read by Sue: ‘Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep’.
As me pallbearers lifted the coffin and carried it to the door, the most beautiful sound broke the silence: it was the ideal song Reg had chosen to conclude the service–Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’.
It is a memorable song, a fitting finale to a memorable service, and many of the 300 mourners were in tears as they filed out of the church towards the crowds, press photographers and TV camera crews milling outside in the bright spring sunshine.
The collection that morning reflected the respect Ronnie commanded. It totalled an astonishing £850, more than had ever been given in the church since it was built a hundred years ago.
My own tears and Reg’s would come later. Now, we had to face the toughest part of the day–the six-mile drive to Chingford Cemetery, where we would lower Ronnie into a grave beside that of our beloved mum and dad.
The six black horses clip-clopped out of the East End leading an incredible cortege that stretched almost half a mile. Frankie Fraser had given a radio interview that morning, likening Ronnie’s funeral to the State occasion given to Sir Winston Churchill, and he was spot on. Obviously, many of the people were there out of curiosity; few wanted to miss out on the East End’s biggest, most publicized event since the time the twins were allowed to attend our mother’s funeral thirteen years earlier. But I have to stress that the majority of the thousands on the streets that day were there out of respect for Ronnie and me Krays in general. People find it hard to understand, but my brothers did have a lot of respect in the East End. The Krays had a good name and, after the twins were jailed in 1968, it was passed down to children not born at the time of our heyday. Good, straight people, not villains, remember the twins as much for the help they gave less fortunate folk as for the murders that led to their demise. These people laugh at some of the ludicrous tales of terrifying violence that have been exaggerated over the years.
The cheering seemed to go on and on: ‘Reg-GIE…Reg-GIE…Free Reggie…’ Following in the car behind his, I could see young kids, no more than fifteen, running alongside the car, pushing their hands through the driver’s window, trying to touch him, saying: ‘They should free you Reg, it’s time they let you out…’ Reg did not take this as hero worship; he preferred to think of it as respect for his dead brother.
The kids even ran alongside my car, in which I was travelling with Judy, and begged me for autographs.
It was more like a wedding than a funeral.
The farther we got from Bethnal Green, the more the crowds tailed off. But they increased the moment we hit the hill at Chingford that leads up to the cemetery, and, of course, the graveside was packed, not only with mourners, but reporters, photographers and TV film crews.
As soon as he got out of the car, Reg was handed three beautiful bouquets of red roses. He was allowed to go first to our parents’ grave. Gently, he laid one bouquet at Mum’s headstone and another by the old man’s. He put the third bouquet on Frances’s grave, then stepped back and bowed his head. My heart went out to him: over the years I have had every opportunity to go to the cemetery, but that Wednesday afternoon was the first time Reg had seen the graves of his loved ones for thirte
en years.
Reggie and I and our closest friends gathered round the open plot where Ronnie was to be buried. Watching the coffin being lowered into the ground, I moved close to Reg and said: ‘He’s at peace now.’
‘Yes,’ Reg said, quietly. ‘He is.’
‘Part of you is with him.’
‘Yes it is,’ he said.
‘You’ll be down there with him one day.’
‘Half of me is with him now.’
The prison officer handcuffed to Reg allowed him two minutes looking down on the coffin, then indicated that it was time to head for the car waiting to take them back to Maidstone. Reg said: ‘Rest in peace, Ron; see you one day.’
Then he was escorted to the car and driven away. God knows how he felt.
Some people had asked me if I was worried that Reg might be so overcome with grief that he’d do something silly, like throw himself into the grave. I was not worried in the least; I knew Reg’s pride, his strength of character, would not have allowed him to behave in any other way than Ronnie would have wanted.
For me, those moments at the graveside brought back all I had gone through at Mum’s funeral and the old man’s. Although time is, as they say, a great healer, I miss them both terribly and think of them constantly. Reg and I will be buried on the same plot and I’m sure he, like me, takes great comfort in the thought that, one day, we will all meet again. I can’t think of anything nicer.
The TV that night, and the papers the next day, were full of the funeral. I was grateful for that, because, to be truthful, I was out of it on the day, floating in a sort of limbo, and I had very little idea what was happening around me. My deepest thoughts were for Reg, and how he was going to get through it, and I’m proud to say that he handled himself impeccably.
Ronnie would have been so, so proud of him.
Chapter Twenty
Me and My Brothers Page 29