The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books)

by Robin Barratt

  We left the flat at 8.45 that morning. Ray drove while Michael gave directions. I sat at the back with the wreath. As we drove through the streets of East London, I thought about the day ahead and felt honoured to be part of it. I was surprised at how quiet the roads seemed to be as it was rush hour in London … then we hit gridlock a quarter of a mile from Bethnal Green Road, where English’s Funeral Parlour was situated. The roads that had been so good to us looked as if they were going to let us down. Somehow we managed to push our way through the traffic, and with Mick’s local taxi knowledge we reached the funeral parlour with a few minutes to spare. We pulled up outside behind a police cordon and got out to lay our wreath. The first thing that struck me was the number of people gathering to witness another chapter in the Krays’ storybook unfold. It was an amazing sight – like a state funeral. People pushing to get a glimpse of anything … reporters and camera crews … police all over the place. It was at this moment I realized that I had finally walked into the books that I had read all those years ago, if that makes sense. I had read every book about the Kray twins and their associates, and now I was part of one. I was not just a bystander … I was a family guest. The security was impressive, they were massive – all with as much jewellery as Mr T, all immaculately dressed and very mean-looking. Leading the operation was Reg’s close friend Mr Dave Courtney. As we mingled amongst the who’s who of the underworld, we could hear the cameras clicking across the world. Photographers were perched, balanced and clinging on for dear life from different vantage points, all trying to get the best picture for tomorrow’s papers.

  I laid the wreath next to Reg’s floral tribute, which read, “To the other half of me”. As I stood up, I shook hands and embraced Dave. There was no sign of Gary, so as Ray parked the car Mickey and me nipped to the nearest cafe for a cuppa. Once Ray had parked the car, I cleared it with Dave to allow Ray and Mick into the parlour. It was impossible to walk anywhere at a normal pace. We just had to stand in line and shuffle in as best we could. I could still not take in the numbers of people congregating. The flashguns and the clicking of shutters rattled through the air again as a prison van pulled up outside. It turned into the alley adjacent to the parlour … all eyes were on it, but no one emerged. God knows how many rolls of film were wasted in those few seconds. There was confusion until a dark Peugeot pulled up with Reg handcuffed to a well-dressed screw in the back. He was led quickly and quietly into English’s as the crowd cheered. The authorities obviously wanted to get him in unnoticed, which was an impossible job. Reg Kray was back in the East of London once more.

  We managed to get into the funeral parlour after around fifteen minutes of uncertainty and were shown to the room set aside for friends and relatives. A few familiar faces had already arrived in the shape of Frankie Fraser, Tony Lambrianou, Charlie Richardson and, of course, Charlie Kray. I also saw Alan and Janet Alsop – we were now good friends after sharing visits to Reg. I introduced them to Ray and Mickey, before I beckoned one of the funeral directors over. I asked him to tell Reg that I had arrived and within a few minutes the director reappeared and took me to see him. I was led down a small corridor to an old oak-panelled door on the left-hand side. He pushed the door open and said, “You can take as long as you like, sir.”

  My jaw dropped. Instead of seeing Reg, I was now alone in the room with Ron’s body in the coffin. I looked back and the door closed behind me. It was no mistake. He was in a large oak coffin, his hair was swept back and immaculate, as usual. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and silk tie. Even in death, I thought to myself, he looked dignified and dapper – every inch the well-dressed gangster. I know undertakers are experts at making the dead look good, but all the strain and mental torture which had been etched on Ron’s face in his latter days had disappeared without a trace. It was like he had been wearing a mask and now it had been removed. He was free at last; he was completely at peace. I did not feel sad at seeing him in the funeral parlour. I felt sad for the fact he had died in prison. I felt sad for Reg and for Charlie, but in a way happy for Ron. I put my hand on the coffin, said my own goodbye and left for the last time. The funeral director had been waiting for me outside and led me back to another door on the opposite side of the corridor. As he opened the door Charlie Kray spun round, “Steve, good to see you mate, thanks for coming down, it’s a long journey.” I shook his hand, and he pulled me towards him and embraced me. Standing next to him was Reg, still handcuffed to a middle-aged prison officer.

  He stepped forward, bringing the officer with him, and put his arms around me as best he could, “Steve, thanks for coming. How are you?” He seemed calm, just as he had on the phone the last time we spoke, a lot calmer than I thought he would be. English’s had put on a lavish buffet for Reg but food was the last thing on anyone’s mind. Reg then patted me on the head (he was always amused at my lack of hair), and asked, “Who have you come with?” I explained that I had driven down with Ray and met up with Michael and that we were staying at his place. Quick as a flash he asked, “What about Bulla Ward? Is Bulla here? Is he coming?”

  Bulla and Reg had fallen out in the 1960s. Bulla was a tough bloke and laughed off one of Reg’s punches one night in the Regency. There were not many men who could withstand one of his punches, so to save face Reg took out a knife and carved Bulla’s face up. He regretted the fall out and had asked me to get him there to make the peace. To be truthful, with all that was going on I had forgotten to ask Mickey whether he had managed to get in touch with Reg’s old mate, and whether he would be attending the funeral to pay his last respects. Mickey had claimed to know him, and had tried in vain to contact him before the funeral. I had tried as well but to no avail.

  Thinking quickly I replied, “He’ll be here Reg, paying his respects. Reg, I know he will.” Reg smiled and then asked, “Has he forgiven me?” I didn’t quite know what to say. “Yes, Reg, he’s forgiven you.” What else could I say on the day of his brother’s funeral? “Good, good. Well thanks for coming Steve, I’d like you to go and see Ron now. I’ll be in touch. In fact, you ring me later tonight, I’ll let the staff know you are going to call, take care and God bless. Thanks again for coming.”

  He kissed me on both cheeks and embraced me. It was quite a moment, something I will never forget. Charlie repeated the farewell, saying, “I’ll see you for a drink later on, Steve.” The same funeral director was waiting for me outside the door, and began to lead me down to see Ron’s body. “No, it’s okay mate, I’ve already seen him,” I said. He apologized before taking me back to rejoin Ray and Michael in the friends and relatives room. I think they had felt a bit out of place standing alone. I told them that I had been with Reg and Charlie and had been taken to see Ron. It was then that the whole emotion of the day hit me. I had always wanted to see the Kray brothers together, but not like this. I wiped a tear from my eye as we waited for others to pay their final respects to “The Colonel”, and express their sympathies to his brothers.

  By now Dave was close to having a blue fit. “I’m fighting a losing battle. I’ve got old blokes trying to get in here, saying they are old friends of Ron, Reg, Charlie and any old uncle you can think of. I can’t let everyone in, for God’s sake.” I didn’t envy his job one bit, but I knew that if anyone could pull off the biggest organized funeral since Winston Churchill’s, then he could. Once everyone had paid their respects, the wreaths were loaded on to the horse-drawn carriage and the twenty-two limousines, which were following behind in procession. The horses were black and beautifully dressed with long black plumes protruding from their heads. We were ushered from the parlour and as we made our way outside the flashing from the cameras dazzled us once more. There was pandemonium outside. Things were beginning to happen. Dave told me to make sure I got into a car … it didn’t matter which one. We made our way down to the eighth car; a black, six-seater, top-of-the-range limo. No expense was spared. The cars were immaculate inside and out, and each one was decked with floral tributes (our wreath remai
ned with Reg’s tribute alongside Ron’s coffin throughout the day, and could be seen clearly in photographs in most national newspapers the next day). Inside our car were Ray, Michael, Janet and Alan Alsop and me. The driver started the engine and with the rest of the procession we were off on our long journey, first to St Matthew’s Church in Bethnal Green, and then on to the Kray family plot in Chingford Mount Cemetery, Essex, on the outskirts of London.

  It was an unforgettable journey. We had only to travel approximately three-quarters of a mile from the parlour to the church, but it took over forty-five minutes. The crowds of people were ten deep, all leaning and peering over metal fences, which had been put up by the police. I stared out at all the people. It was the sort of mania that’s normally reserved for rock stars or movie idols … certainly not the sort of admiration the authorities would expect the public to bestow upon a notorious murderer. Cries of “We love you” and “Good on you, Ron” could be heard, whilst in the distance the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves weaved their way to our first port of call. I wonder what was going through Reg’s mind as we passed along roads and streets that he had not seen for the best part of twenty-five years, and how he would feel as he passed along the street where he and Ron once lived. As we neared the church, I caught a glimpse of Patsy Palmer (Bianca from the BBC soap “Eastenders”) paying her respects. The East End of London had changed so much since Reg had been taken away from it, and as we finally reached St Matthew’s I promised myself I would ask him how he felt about what he has seen. The scene when we reached the church was unbelievable. It was bedlam … simple as that. Roughly 1,200 people had gathered outside the church gates and many were chanting, “Free Reg Kray. Free Reg Kray!”

  I led the occupants of our car towards the church doors. Reg had arrived about two minutes before us and was already inside. At the doors the orderly queuing system for friends and relatives had been reduced to a free-for-all. At one stage it looked like we would not get in. There was a public address system set up for those outside to hear the service, but I did not want to have travelled all that way to be stuck outside. I noticed the funeral director and luckily he remembered me … he ushered the five of us to the front of the crowd and into the church. The pews at the back of the church were all that was left, but I saw Dave and he waved me over.

  The coffin was carried into the church by Johnny Nash from north London, Teddy Dennis from the west, Charlie Kray from the east and Freddie Foreman from the south.

  Close friend Laurie O’Leary also helped take the coffin in. Frankie Fraser had originally been asked but felt his height might be a hindrance. Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” played as the coffin was placed alongside Reg. The atmosphere was tense as the service began, the smell of incense hanging heavily in the air. Reg, Charlie and Dave had masterminded the day’s events to Ron’s specifications and it was running like clockwork. Throughout the service Reg remained handcuffed to the officer. It did not seem to bother him too much. The officer was just there with him as opposed to trying to be heavy-handed. Every so often Reg would place his free hand on top of the coffin in a moving display of affection. But why handcuff a man who had no intention of escaping? Why humiliate him? Was it a political statement by the Home Office that this man would never be free? Whatever the reasoning, to me it was inhumane. Okay, the officer was just doing a job … but if they wanted to they could have handled the situation differently and let him mourn without being chained to someone.

  Sue McGibbon read out messages and telegrams from well-wishers. She also read out a message from Reg. It went, “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.”

  As the service ended, Ron’s coffin was carried out to Whitney Houston’s song “I Will Always Love You”. I don’t think there was a dry eye to be seen in the rows and rows of hard men. As Reg left the church he winked at our group … he was bearing up. It was bedlam once more as we made our way back to the car. The five of us held on to each other as we made our way through the swaying masses. It was too easy to get split up as journalists, television and radio interviewers threw questions at us. I was not interested in commenting, not today of all days. But I noticed a few others such as Patsy Manning, a close friend of the family, were willing to stop for a chat.

  When we eventually made it back to the car, our driver was a little stressed, to say the least. Someone had climbed into our car and refused to move. The driver had tried to explain to him that he had the wrong car, but he would not have it. After a quiet word in his “shell-like” he left to find another car and more people to annoy. Drama over, the driver started our six-mile journey to Chingford Cemetery … take two … enter nutcase, door left. The front passenger door was pulled open and in stepped a middle-aged woman who was madder than a coach load of hatters at a magic mushroom convention. Her name was Georgina and she was armed with valium in one pocket and a half bottle of whiskey in the other (for Reg apparently). She told us a tale of woe – she was meant to marry Ron before he died and told us a few other things I can’t remember. The driver looked back for some kind of assistance, but as the procession of cars had already started to move, I told him to drive on. We would have to take the unwanted passenger with us. As the car pulled away we all exchanged anxious glances in the back of the car as Georgina said, “We were going to have kids you know.” This was going to be a very long six miles indeed.

  This gave me another excuse to just sit back and watch the crowds. Young people, old people, hundreds upon hundreds had gathered just to catch a glimpse of the brothers. There were many memorable sights throughout the day from that limo rear window, but nothing more memorable that the sight that greeted us at the Bow Flyover. Construction work was taking place, yet the whole workforce had downed tools and were standing in a line by the roadside, hard hats off and heads bowed … it was one hell of a sight. I can only imagine how Reg and Charlie must have felt. As we reached Chingford, it had taken one-and-a-half hours to travel six miles, though with Georgina in the front, it felt like one-and-a-half days.

  The horses pulling Ron’s hearse had struggled up the steep bank leading to the cemetery gates and we followed them in. By now we were almost used to the strobe-effect lighting from the constant photographers and the pushing and pulling of the crowds. As we followed the road to the family plot, our hitchhiker decided it would be a good idea to walk the rest of the way. There were no arguments from any of us. The surrounding fence to the cemetery had a lot of holes in it and I was shocked to see people, many of them kids, clambering through. If ordinary people had made it to the graveside, we might not gain our place next to the family. I need not have worried. There were so many people around the grave, but they all kept a respectful distance as Reg first laid flowers on his mother’s and father’s graves, and then his wife’s. He paused a little longer there, his face full of sorrow and regret.

  Just then I felt a hand on my shoulder, it was Dave Courtney looking less flustered than he was earlier outside the funeral parlour. He asked me to look after Charlie for the rest of the day and make sure he wasn’t hassled by anyone. I told him I’d be honoured.

  We made our way to where the family had gathered directly behind Charlie and Reg. There was a tremendous feeling of grief … then looking around I began to wonder. It seemed a lot of people were there out of curiosity or to somehow enhance their status from their association. There were “tourists” – people just there to be part of it all – staring at Reg all the time, studying his face for reactions and to witness the London gangland boss cry. As the vicar read the last rites and Ron’s body was finally laid to rest the cameras flashed en masse for the last time. Ron Kray was the centre of the world’s attention again, even in death. He would have loved it. Reg threw the first piece of soil down on to the coffin and then arose, and then, one by one, we all did the same. Reg then turned, embracing Charlie,
shook hands with Freddie Foreman and then out of the blue turned around to me and said, “Thanks for coming, Steve.” He stretched out his hand and I grabbed it. This time it was my grip that was the strongest. Reg was finally drained of all energy. “I’ll be in touch, Reg,” I said. With that he was led away, pausing to say some more goodbyes.

  As Reg left I stared in disbelief at people, who will remain nameless, photographing the activities at the graveside. A number of people whom I used to respect lost it that day. After one last glance at Ron’s grave, we all returned to our limo. All of the wreaths lined the pathway to the grave, hundreds of them, and we paused to read as many as we could. We finally found our wreath, lying alongside Reg’s. To me it symbolized how close I had become to the Kray family and was glad to see it was still next to Reg’s.

  The driver had been told our destination … the Guv’nor’s public house was the venue of the wake. Without the lovely Georgina, our journey seemed to be quicker and we arrived at the wake within twenty minutes. There were already quite a few people in there, and I could see that it was soon going to be packed out. It was a typical London boozer – dim, cramped, but with wet beer and good conversation. Already there were people such as Frankie Fraser, Freddie Foreman, Charlie and his son Gary, Tony Lambrianou, Dave Courtney and, of course, Lenny McLean.