Ronnie’s brain was eventually removed from that Oxford laboratory by a representative from English’s, who put it in a casket and buried it beside Ronnie’s coffin at 7 A.M. on 23 February. I would have liked to have been there, but I had no idea it was happening.
One of those who wanted to see Gary was his mother. She had not been to the hospital or Judy’s house, but she turned up at St Christopher’s unexpectedly one day. I walked in to find her sitting at Gary’s bedside with her sister and brother-in-law. After a few minutes, they all got up and left.
‘I don’t know why she came,’ Gary said. ‘She hardly said a word to me.’
We should not have been surprised. The few times she phoned Judy’s house, it seemed she couldn’t wait to get off the line. Always, Gary would look at me, confused, and say: ‘What did she ring for?’
I didn’t tell Gary, but I knew why: it was a guilt thing. When Gary was gone, she didn’t want people accusing her of not making contact with him. That was Dolly all over.
She turned up again a couple of days later. There were half a dozen of us around Gary’s bed and when Dolly saw us all she collapsed on the floor outside the ward. She made it look as though she had fainted, but a nurse told us she had fallen on the floor deliberately. It was her guilt complex again: she knew what she had done to Gary all those years ago and she knew he knew. What she couldn’t handle was coming face to face with people who might know, too. Hence the dramatics.
She was taken to a room at the end of the corridor and asked a nurse if she could see Gary on her own for five minutes. Nancy was with us that day, and we all went to the tea room, while Dolly sat with Gary. After about fifteen minutes, Nancy could stand it no longer. She marched into the ward and said: ‘I think you’ve had long enough. Charlie is here every minute. So is everybody else. Charlie wants to come back now. I think you should go.’
Dolly did not want to go, and there was a bit of an argument. But she did leave in the end and we all went back in with Gary.
When Gary heard that Diana, and her daughter, Claudine, were coming to visit him, he admitted he was worried that there might be friction between them and Judy. But there wasn’t: all three ladies put whatever feelings they may have had to one side and thought only of Gary, not themselves. I will always respect them for that: it was difficult enough for Gary without having to worry about an ‘atmosphere’.
For most of those awful weeks since January, I believed Gary had no idea how seriously ill he was. But I now know he did. Once, when Di was with him, he suddenly said: ‘Will Dad be all right?’
Di could not bring herself to ask him what he actually meant; she just assured him that, of course, I was going to be all right.
Then, on the evening of 7 March, a friend of ours, Alan Land, was with Gary when I had been delayed.
‘What’s the time, Alan?’ Gary kept saying.
‘Don’t worry, Gary, he’ll be here. You know he’s always here around this time.’
‘I know,’ Gary said, ‘but I’m a bit worried about him really.’
‘Why?’ Alan asked.
‘I don’t think he knows how ill I am,’ Gary said. ‘I’m worried about what will happen, what he’ll do, when he finds out.’
I walked in a few minutes after that conversation. Gary just said, ‘Hello, Dad,’ the same as usual. There I was, worried about him and all the time he was worrying about me and not wanting me to know. I found that deeply touching.
The following day I was at Gary’s bedside with Judy, Diana, Nancy and Dolly’s sister when a nurse called me outside into the corridor.
‘I think he’s got about three hours, Charlie,’ she said.
I went back into the ward and looked at Gary; his eyes were closed and he looked as if he were in a deep, peaceful sleep. I told the others what the nurse had said and we all just sat there, looking at Gary, not really knowing what to say to each other.
We sat there for two hours and then I had to go to the toilet. I was walking down the corridor when I heard Nancy’s voice: ‘Quick. Tell Dad.’
I ran back into the ward. I got to Gary in time to hold him as he took his last breaths.
All of us held him in turn and no one wanted to leave. Finally, after about half an hour, a nurse came in and said, softly: ‘Of course, you can stop as long as you like, but we feel it best if you leave Gary with us. We must see to him now.’
She was right; there was nothing more we could do for Gary. We had done all we could, given him our love, let him know he was a special person, but it was over now.
All I could think, leaving St Christopher’s and the lovely people who work there, was: I wish it could have been me, not him.
You don’t expect to have to bury your children, do you?
Three days later, the phone rang at Judy’s. It was Dolly. And she wanted a row over an article in an East London newspaper about Gary’s funeral.
‘Dolly,’ I said. ‘Gary is lying dead at the moment and I don’t want to argue with you.’
‘Your feet won’t touch the ground when I’ve finished with you,’ she yelled.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Gary is lying dead. Do you think I want all this? I don’t need it. I’m shattered.’
I honestly didn’t want a row, but she said something – I forget what – that wound me up.
‘You want to remember something,’ I said. ‘You threw Gary out of the house years ago for no reason whatsoever.’
‘No I didn’t,’ she screamed.
‘You know you did,’ I said. ‘He came home one night and his bags were packed. You threw him out so George Ince could move in.’
Dolly just screamed down the phone, denying what everyone who knows her knows is true.
‘Your son was a great kid,’ I said. ‘He knew what you did to him. And so do I. I will never forget it. Without my mother, whatever would have happened to him? Don’t ring me. I don’t want to talk to you. Ever. I don’t want to know you.’
And I slammed the phone down.
I couldn’t handle it. Gary lying dead in the Chapel of Rest and his mother screaming at me, wanting a row, when all I wanted was a miracle that would open my Gary’s eyes and bring him back to me.
As Reg had lost part of himself when Ronnie died, so I had lost part of myself with Gary’s death. The unexpected suddenness of it slaughtered me, to be quite truthful. All I could think was: he was such a lovely, gentle innocent, and I’m not going to see him again.
I dreaded the funeral. It was less than a year since Ronnie died and we would all be gathering at the same funeral parlour, watching the coffin being carried into the same church and driving to the same cemetery. It was going to be an eerie experience and, quite frankly, I was relieved when Reg asked if he could, again, make the funeral arrangements. The way I was feeling, weighed down by a crushing, exhausting emptiness, unable to think of much except my grief, I was going to find it tough enough just getting myself to St Matthew’s Church.
Reg did a good job. He organized a short but moving service in which the packed congregation heard his voice on tape, reading an appropriate poem by his favourite writer, Kahlil Gibran, and some lovely hymns.
I knew that the Reverend Ken Rimini was going to say a few words about Gary before the Final Commendation, but I had no idea what they were. What he said knocked me out, and because he seemed to sum up Gary so perfectly that sombre day, I have reprinted some of what the packed church heard:
‘When we recount the life of someone who has died we often tend to emphasize the great achievements they have attained: running the fastest mile, climbing the highest mountain, sailing the widest ocean. But the human race is not made up solely of superstars and heroes. On the contrary, the world is actually made up of ordinary people going about their ordinary business, living their own lives.
‘Gary was a bit like that. He never sought the limelight. He never wanted to be front page news. No, Gary, in many ways, was just one of those ordinary people. But ordinary people are capable of
extraordinary deeds and they manifest themselves at times of crisis.
‘A couple of months ago, crisis struck the life of Gary Kray when he was diagnosed as having cancer. Now, an ordinary man would have fallen apart, devastated at the news. But Gary’s acceptance and courage were stunning, a shining example to all the “superstars” that surround our lives.
‘His courage made the pain of those who loved him and cared for him somehow easier to bear, particularly the staff at St Christopher’s Hospice, who immediately fell in love with this polite, gentle man. That ordinary man, whose extraordinary courage makes him a ‘superstar’ in his own right and an inspiration in our lives, will live forever in our memories.’
Sue McGibbon read a hymn, then Diana’s daughter, Claudine, bravely battled through her tears to read Henry Scott Holland’s famous and poignant ‘All Is Well’ and, almost before we knew it, we were all filing out of the church to the same record that had accompanied Ronnie’s exit twelve months before – Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’.
Hundreds of people had been drawn to English’s funeral parlour, because of publicity nationally and locally, but the crowds were nothing compared to Ronnie’s amazing turnout, and the cortege of seven limousines arrived at Ching-ford Cemetery just forty minutes later. Six of them carried lifelong friends, such as Billy Murray, my old Canning Town mate, who is now one of the most popular actors in The Bill TV series. But there was one empty car – the one travelling directly behind the hearse. That was Reg’s idea: a symbolic gesture that he was there in spirit, even though the prison had refused him permission to attend the funeral.
Someone who was there was my old mate, Patsy Manning, from Birmingham. He had been driven down in a Jaguar owned by Joe Sunner, an Indian pal, who runs a bustling general stores in Snitterfield, a village just outside Stratford-Upon-Avon, fifteen miles from Birmingham.
Indian Joe, as he was called, did not use his regular chauffeur for the trip; he called in someone else – a shortish, stocky guy in his mid-thirties, with thinning hair and a week’s growth of beard.
He was introduced to me only as George. He seemed a nice enough bloke and I thanked him for taking the trouble to come, particularly as he had never known Gary.
Four months later, I would learn why the trip was so important to him.
We buried my lovely, innocent, gentle son, in the rain. I thanked our many friends for coming from all parts of the country to pay their respects. I couldn’t thank Dolly. She wasn’t there. Too heartbroken, I’ve been told.
Then I went home to be alone with Judy and her children, Nina, Glenn and Sean. Still, all I could think was that I wasn’t going to see Gary again. Not ever. And it hurt.
It did for many months afterwards. I would be overcome with the most stressful panic attacks at the oddest times –either in bed in the middle of the night, sitting on my own having a cup of coffee, or driving the car in the middle of the afternoon. The finality of death – as far as we know anyway – will suddenly swamp me and my heart starts pumping and I break out in a sweat. The thought of never seeing Gary again is too horrible to contemplate and I sit where I am until the panic is over, trying to convince myself that I will see him one day.
I will never know for sure, but I’m convinced Gary’s cancer was triggered by a traumatic experience that shocked and upset him deeply two years before his death.
He had come back from Blackpool and was renting a little flat in Crystal Palace, just round the corner from where I had lived with Diana.
One night in May 1994, he was walking home with a Chinese takeaway when two, possibly three, young blokes jumped him from behind. They knocked him to the ground, kicked him in the ribs, cut his eye, then snatched a gold chain from his neck, a wallet containing £70 and his watch.
A passing police car found Gary lying on the pavement, dazed, but thankfully not seriously hurt. He was taken to nearby Gipsy Hill police station, then driven home in a police car.
Gary had done nothing to warrant such a cowardly attack. He was a quiet, peaceful bloke who never invited trouble. He had such a nice way with him. He never spoke badly about anyone and no one had a bad word to say about him. He was liked by everyone who met him.
Please God I will see him again when it’s my turn to go.
Chapter Twenty-one
Big Albert, we call him. He’s a huge bear of a man, about 6ft 3in. and broad with it, but it’s his heart, as much as his physical presence, that makes his nickname so appropriate. He is a warm, generous man and has been a good, loyal friend to me for more than twenty years. So, really, I should not have been surprised, a few days after Gary’s funeral, when Albert rang, inviting Judy and I to spend a couple of days in Birmingham.
‘After all you’ve both been through, you need to get away from London and relax,’ he said. ‘When can you come up?’
‘It’s really lovely of you, Alb,’ I said. ‘But to be quite truthful, things aren’t too clever at the moment. I can’t afford to come up just now.’
Albert laughed. ‘Who’s asking you to pay?’
I had a word with Judy. She was able to get the following Friday off. She sorted out Nina, Glenn and Sean for the weekend and we got an early coach from Victoria, arriving in Birmingham at midday on Thursday 28 March. Big Albert had booked a double room at The Novotel Hotel, in the city centre, and waiting for us there was a bottle of champagne.
It was the start of what turned out to be a most wonderful weekend. As tour manager of the hugely successful rock band, Black Sabbath, Albert had a few bob and, where I was concerned, he didn’t mind spending it. He told us to order anything we wanted in the hotel and, that night, when he took us out to dinner, then on to his club, The Elbow Room, in Aston, the drinks continued to flow. I don’t mind admitting I got well and truly smashed. I think I needed to. For three months, while my heart had been breaking, I had forced myself to be stoical for Gary’s sake. But now that the terrible, tragic, inevitable end had come, I needed a release from all the anguish I’d been holding in check.
Through Patsy, I’d got to know a lot of people in Birmingham and I felt comfortable – safe, if you like – in their company. I didn’t need to look over my shoulder. I was among friends and able to get as drunk as I wanted without worrying what anyone thought. Towards the end of the evening, however, I found myself getting emotional: being back in The Elbow Room again brought back memories of Gary, because he had been there with me, in May the previous year, celebrating Patsy’s sixty-fifth birthday. But it was a wonderful night nevertheless.
Judy and I got the coach back to Victoria around lunchtime on the Sunday, and were back in Sanderstead by teatime. We were tired, but happy, having been thoroughly spoiled by a lovely, gentle-natured man, who always puts others before himself. Big Albert knew how much Gary meant to me and recognized the pain I’d been going through. I’ll always be grateful to him for providing that bolt hole for me at a time when I needed it most.
Money was always the problem, but I never lost faith in Ian Walsh and in the oil deal he was setting up. I was confident he knew what he was doing and that, eventually, he would pull off something that would solve my financial worries once and for all. But waiting for it to happen was becoming more and more frustrating and, not surprisingly, the cash problem caused tension between me and Judy. Most of her £14,000-a-year salary went towards the mortgage, household bills and upkeep of three youngsters at expensive times of their lives. I would have liked nothing more than to have a windfall and taken the financial pressure off her, but, apart from the six-monthly royalty cheques of a few hundred pounds and the odd loan from friends, I had nothing coming in; not a penny. I felt ashamed that I did not even have enough to pay for Gary’s funeral; I had to ask Reggie to deal with that.
I hated being in a situation where I had to rely on Judy for money, but I felt there was nothing I could do but wait and hope that the oil deal would come off. With money so tight, we did not go out socializing much. To be honest, I didn’t m
ind: there’s nothing worse than being in the company of people with money when you haven’t got any to stand your own corner. And, anyway, I preferred to stay at home with Judy and the kids, watching telly and talking about Gary.
On the few occasions when we did go out, that April, I discovered that drink was now having a different effect on me. Before Gary’s death, it had always made me happy and sociable, the life and soul of the party; but now, the more I drank, the more sad and emotional I became. People would be talking to me, but my mind would be elsewhere. Everyone around me would be laughing and joking and I’d be conscious, suddenly, of my eyes filling with tears. I’d try to cover this by faking a smile, but I never fooled Judy. When she saw the signs, she would give me a nudge, or tap me on the knee, to bring me out of my mood. It may seem off-hand of her, uncaring even, but it was just the right attitude. If she had been more demonstrative, hugged me and tried to comfort me, I’m sure I would have broken down and howled my eyes out, which would not have been too clever in public.
This was the frame of mind I was in, when Patsy rang, saying Big Albert was throwing another birthday party for him at The Elbow Room, on 9 May. As politely as I could, I said I didn’t think I would go up this time; I didn’t feel in the mood for partying and, in any event, it would all be too emotional for me.
Perhaps, I would have felt differently if Judy could have gone with me, but the party was on a Thursday and getting time off work was out of the question for her. I felt bad about not going, however: apart from snubbing Patsy, I was concerned about offending other friends up there who had been very supportive over Gary’s death. I tried to excuse myself, saying I could not afford to make the trip, but Patsy knocked that one aside: a friend of his owned a hotel in Moseley, about four miles from the city centre, and Patsy was sure he’d let me stay there for nothing. And the party at The Elbow Room would be free, he reminded me, courtesy of big-hearted Albert.
Me and My Brothers Page 31