The Guv'nor

by Lenny McLean

  When I was number one in the kitchens dishing all the grub out, everybody had to be in full kit and all lined up neat or they couldn’t be served. Not Tony. He’d come waltzing in about seven, still in his slippers and dressing-gown, march past all the others, and sail up to the top of the queue and pick up his breakfast. They would all go crazy, muttering and giving him the eye, but they’d be looking at me at the same time. I used to say to him, ‘If I get discharged before you do, this lot are going to kill you.’ He’d just give that grin of his and say, ‘I know that, Lenny. That’s why I’ll make sure I’m right behind you when you go out the gate.’

  He was a live wire and just a funny, funny kid, not a fighter. But, for me, Borstal meant fighting, and being stuck in the chokey. Come out after two days, fight again, more chokey. I was up and down like a bride’s nightie until we were ghosted off to the seaside to Hollesley Bay Borstal on the Suffolk coast. It was miles from anywhere and, as we got nearer, I was thinking that there was no chance of me walking home from this place. Still, it was a big improvement on the Scrubs, and more like Stamford House. We weren’t in cells any more and things were much more free and easy, and having Tony as a pal made life seem a bit more like home.

  What wasn’t so cosy was the fact that we had to work, and I do mean work. The Borstal wasn’t just a nick, it was a working farm, so they could make bloody fortunes out of us.

  We were up at six and straight into the showers. Once your towel was off you made sure you kept a tight grip on your soap, which you had to buy out of your own wages if it was a decent bit of gear. You had to keep looking over your shoulder as well because if somebody had a grievance that was when they timed their move, when you were vulnerable. After your shower, it was a quick breakfast before lining up to march out to wherever you had been allocated.

  My first work party was out in the fields digging carrots. It was freezing cold and the ground was like iron. Your hands were so cold you didn’t notice the blisters until night time, then you suffered agonies. One morning I said to a screw, ‘’Ere, guv’nor, if you got yourself a machine you could dig the whole field in half an hour.’ He gave me that look straight out of the screw’s handbook, squinty eyes looking round each side of the peak on his cap. ‘McLean,’ he said ‘You are a fucking machine … keep digging.’

  I’m sure they had it in for me. I think they all used to get together in the screws’ tearoom and work out what shitty job to give me the next day. Then they came up with a blinder.

  ‘Fore party tomorrow, McLean,’ I was told. ‘Lovely,’ I thought, ‘better than digging carrots.’ I soon found out that fore party meant working with the pigs – and our little set-up was proud to own about 1,500.

  They were all in their own little cubicles and all you could see for miles was great pink backsides. The nearest I’d ever come to a pig in my life were the trotters Nan Campion used to boil up for Saturday supper. Now, all of a sudden, I’ve got acres of them making me dizzy just looking at them.

  I soon learned that a pig has two important bits. The front end, which you stick food in, and the back end that pours out twice as much as you put in the front. The front end had a nasty habit of snapping at you if you got within range. Most of the time that wasn’t a problem because guess which end McLean was in charge of. Dead right. I didn’t only shovel shit all day, barrowing it for about two miles to the pit, but I also dreamt about shovelling it at night. So my days and nights became a nightmare. I was actually pleased when one of them took a bite out of my leg and I was allowed to stay home for a week. Funny how you settle in. We used to refer to the unit as home when we were cold and tired. How do these farmers do it? They must be mad. Where there’s muck …

  While my leg was healing, they put me in the library. Nothing clever, just moving books around and bits and pieces. I’m just thinking this will do me until I’ve done my time, when they must have had another meeting and, bang, I’m out in the potato shed. This time, Tony is with me. Up until then he’d been on a nice cushy number on a shoe-making course. I told him I reckoned he’d pulled a stroke somewhere down the line to get that job and he laughed and gave me a wink.

  Sometimes we’d be picking potatoes, other times we were in this big shed grading them into different sizes. It was hard, but having Tony there made it a lot easier, because things are never as bad when you can have a laugh. At one end of the shed there was a big opening in the wall about six foot up, so when nobody was about, Tony dragged some crates over and climbed up to see what was on the other side.

  He burst out laughing and shouted down: ‘’Ere, Lenny, there’s two horses next door having a shag.’ I thought, ‘This I’ve got to see,’ but by the time I got up it was all over and the male one was standing there, blowing clouds of steam out of his nose. We both stared. The horse had an old bill about five foot long and it was practically touching the floor. ‘How would you like one like that, Lenny?’ Tony said. I shoved him off the crate and told him, ‘I have!’

  He climbed back up again and pulled out the front of his jersey, filling it up with the biggest spuds he could lay his hands on. I hope the RSPCA don’t read this, but then he lobbed these taters at the horse’s dangling old chap. Every spud he lobbed was missing by a mile, then, lucky shot, one of them caught that poor horse right on its bell-end. It went mad. It jumped up in the air, all its legs went stiff and it screamed like a woman with a mouse up her drawers. It reared up and ran round on its back legs, then started battering the walls with its feet. Lumps of boards flew everywhere, and the whole place shook. The only reason it didn’t bust its way out was because all the screws came running to see what the racket was about. They quietened the horse down and nicked us. There was no point in denying what we’d done, it was pretty bloody obvious. That bit of a giggle earned us one month’s loss of pay and loss of all privileges, but we didn’t lose any remission, so it could’ve been worse.

  Another laugh we had before Tony was moved outside, was over soap. Tony didn’t smoke, so he’d save up his wages and buy the best Palmolive soap, the one that lathers up and smells a bit tasty. Me, I’d rather have a smoke so I made do with Borstal Issue White Windsor.

  Because he was in the boot room and I was on the land, I used to finish about half an hour earlier, so I’d rush back and have a nice bath or shower and use his Palmolive.

  One night I was laying on my bed, I’ve just had a bath and I’m smelling like a poof. In came Tony and he said, ‘Len, every night I go to have a shower my soap’s shrunk by about half an inch.’

  I said, ‘It’ll soon match the size of your dick, then.’

  ‘No, Len,’ he said, ‘I’m serious. You’re using my soap, aren’t you?’

  I kept a straight face and just kept denying it. A few days later, I was having a rest after my bath and Tony came in with a few others and they were all laughing. ‘Enjoy your bath, Len?’ asked Tony.

  ‘Yes, thanks, what’s the fucking joke?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. I know you’ve been at my soap, so every night I’ve been soaking it in the piss pot. Didn’t you notice it had gone yellow?’

  Dirty bastard. I chased him all over the place threatening to punch his head in, but I wasn’t too serious. I could take a joke against myself.

  So that I could get out and about, I put my hand up and volunteered to join the Army cadets while I was inside. I suppose they thought we’d straighten ourselves out and then afterwards we’d join the Army full time. No chance. It did make a break, though, and I used to get a buzz from marching through the town on Sundays. One eye ahead, the other swivelling round looking for crumpet. It didn’t last long, like most things I had a go at. They kicked me out when I had a set-to with some lads who were taking the piss while we were marching. So I joined the gymnastics classes, where Tony was, and in no time I’d taken up the con’s favourite hobby, weight-lifting and training, and I took to it like a duck to water. So what with my temper and the toned-up muscles, I was even more of a handful than ever before.

/>   As you gradually serve your time, they move you to different blocks and houses. They’re all named after saints, so somebody had a sense of humour. We started in George House, then Patrick and finished up in Andrew, where me and Tony palled up with a very likeable kid called David Fraser. Dave was one of your own, out of a good London family, and the three of us stuck together. Like Tony he was a right comedian, always ready to get up to something for a laugh.

  David had about three days to go before he was due to be released. Me and Tony had about seven weeks. We were all in the television room and we’d just watched Dr Who or The Monkees or something, when the news came on. The first thing up on the screen was an update on what the papers were calling ‘The Richardson Torture Trials’. This trial had been going on for about six or seven weeks, and now it was all over. I can remember the exact date because it was 4 April 1967, five days before my eighteenth birthday.

  It all went quiet as this face on the telly said Charles Richardson, 25 years, Edward Richardson, 10 years, and Francis Fraser and two others, 10 years each.

  I looked over at David and he’d gone dead white and was biting his lip. Then he spotted some stupid slag smirking all over his mug. Dave picked up a chair and he was going to do the prat, but we all grabbed hold of him and told him to leave it out or he wouldn’t be going home. He was so wild we had to sit on him until he calmed down. He screamed, ‘I’ve got to do him. That’s my dad going down and that c**t thinks it’s funny.’

  I said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll iron him later.’

  The bloke who laughed had only been with us for about a week, and he didn’t know who David was, and he certainly didn’t know who I was, but he found out. He was a big bastard but he cried when we caught up with him and said he hadn’t meant any harm. We did him anyway. Ten years is nothing to make a joke about. I told Dave to keep quiet if there was any trouble or he’d lose his remission. If it came to it, I’d put my hand up and swear I was on my own.

  But there was no comeback. The mug might have said he had fallen downstairs, I don’t know. David was well pleased and on the day he went home he had four ounces of Old Holborn brought in for me. I haven’t seen him since that day, but I’ve heard about him over the years. From what I hear, he’s done his fair share behind the door. The last time was in 1984 when he was handed out a 14 for holding up the director of an airline company, with his family, in Hyde Park Gardens. So, with a bit of luck and if he’s kept his nose clean, he should be getting on with his life outside by now.

  And that was what Tony and me were looking forward to back in 1967. When you go away, it’s not just your freedom that’s put on hold, but your life and your mind. The outside world becomes sort of distant and blurry. You think about home, your family, friends and what you might be doing if you weren’t away from them all. But it’s more a dream than reality.

  I’d seen more of Mum and some of the others when I was in the Scrubs, but with Hollesley being nearly 100 miles from London, just the travelling could take all day and it cost a bomb. I always looked forward to visiting days, but when they came round I couldn’t wait for them to be over. Suddenly, there was nothing to talk about.

  Now that it was time for the release I’d thought about for the past 20 months, I started to get nervous. What struck me was the anti-climax of it all. When you’re sent down there’s a right fuss. Police, courts, no time to yourself, rushed here, rushed there and watched all the time. Come your release day, they quietly open the door and shove you out. Well, not quite. A couple of the screws did have the decency to drop us off at Ipswich Station, but that was all. No brass band, nobody out front waving us goodbye. Just a quick ‘Bugger off and don’t come back.’

  As we left Ipswich well behind and the train roared towards London, I looked out at the woods, little streams and green fields, and I thought, ‘Fuck the countryside – we’re on our way back to the East End.’

  You would have thought that once I was back in London I couldn’t wait to get home. But it wasn’t like that. We pulled in at around six o’clock, I said ta-ra to Tony, then I just wandered about for a bit. I’d forgotten the smell of the place. Not a nasty smell, in fact it probably wasn’t a smell at all, but as I breathed in I was sucking in the feel of crumbly houses, people and everything that was part of where I belonged.

  Wandering through the market where they were all packing up, it was like I’d never been away. ‘How you doing, Len?’ ‘Where you bin lately, Lenny?’ ‘’Ere, cop this bag of apples, mate.’ I don’t remember if I let on or not. Most of them must have thought I was on something, but I wasn’t, I was just drugged up on freedom and being home.

  Not long after, I’m at my house and there’s Mum. She just stood there looking at me like I was a ghost, screwing her hands in the pinny she was wearing. For a second, it was like we were strangers, then I grabbed hold of her and cuddled her to death. She’s crying and she’s laughing, both at the same time. I gave a couple of twirls, still cuddling her, and danced us both up the passage until she was screaming like a young girl. I hadn’t realised just how much I had missed her.

  Young girl she wasn’t, though. When she was making a cup of tea I looked at her and saw this little old woman. She was 38. Her face was lined, she was thin, and that lovely blonde hair was slowly turning grey. What had we done to this woman who’d never had a bad thought in her life, or done anybody any harm? I wanted to blame Jim Irwin, but I couldn’t kid myself. A lot of the wrinkles and grey hair were down to me. So I gave her a cuddle and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  I was well pleased to see Lorraine and Kruger and my little half-sister. Not that I ever thought of her as anything other than my real sister. She was six then and she followed me round and round the house showing me pictures she’d done, prattling about school, and telling me what her dad had been up to. I thought, ‘Darling, you don’t know half of what that bastard’s been up to.’ But I wouldn’t have said that to a little baby.

  Barry was gone and the house wasn’t the same without him. At 17 he’d decided enough was enough and had emigrated to Australia. It broke his heart to leave us all behind, but Irwin made life so unbearable he couldn’t take any more. He’d come down to the Borstal a few days before he went and the governor had allowed me an extended visit. He could be a hard man that governor, but give him his due, he was fair where it counted.

  We had a good talk that day, Barry and me. A lot of it was about how Jim Irwin had screwed up all our lives. Then it was time to go. Because we were both men then and very conscious of not showing our real feelings, we just shook hands and said our goodbyes. Then as he left the hall I thought, ‘Fuck it,’ went after him and gave him a good cuddle. I didn’t see him again for five years, and that was going to be a sadder time than this. He still lives in Australia, working in the water industry and doing well for himself.

  Jim Irwin kept out of the way that day, so it was a nice sort of family get-together, though I think he was in the back of all our minds. Uncle Fred came round to see me and wished me all the best, and slipped a few quid into my hand as he was going. Smashing bloke, he wouldn’t see me potless and it kept me going while I was looking round for some way to earn a few shillings.

  I reckoned Irwin was up to something, because he didn’t show up until a couple of days after I got back. It was about eleven in the morning, so there was only Mum and me there. He just walked in and stuck his arse in the armchair, not so much as a hello or kiss my bum. Not even to Mum. I thought, ‘You ignorant pig, I’d like to smash you to bits.’

  Nothing was said for ages until Mum went out of the front room. Then he looked up and said, ‘You’ve got a big lad.’ I said, ‘Yeah,’ and he leaned forward and said, ‘Don’t ever think you’re big enough to take me on because if you do, what I start with my fists I’ll finish with an iron bar.’

  It was funny in a way, that I could swallow that sort of shit indoors, yet outside I could be a violent lunatic if I was challenged or mugged off. I wasn’t frightened of I
rwin any more, so it could only have been the love and respect that I had for my mum that stopped me from hurting him and I know I was capable of doing that. I just gave him some eye and walked out of the room. Now I know I’m definitely home.

  I put Irwin out of my head and I soon got back into the swing of life again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’d never been a drinker, and where I’d been for nearly two years at the age when most kids get a taste for a jar or two, the strongest drink you could get was lemonade. Still, I was a quick learner with anything that wasn’t work, and in no time I was a regular piss-artist. What a mixture – my evil temper and alcohol. Now that I’ve got more sense I think drugs are a terrible thing. Anybody who takes them is a mug, and those bastards that deal them and make money out of kids are nothing better than slags. But, back then, we were all a bit naïve as far as drugs were concerned. There wasn’t the publicity about how bad they were. They were just a bit of a laugh. So we’d all take what they called ‘purple hearts’ then and, when we was buzzing, go round all the clubs in the West End – the Tiles, the Flamingo, Twenties, anywhere we could get a drink – pull a few birds and have a good time. We never went out looking for trouble, but being five likely lads we seemed to attract other groups who wanted to take a pop. At some of the clubs we never even got in the door. Flying high or out of our brains with drink meant we weren’t ideal customers. The doorman would pull a face and ask us to go elsewhere. We’d give him a bit of verbal, out would come the bouncers, chucking their weight about, and it would all end in a right tear-up.

  For our spending money and a bit of excitement we got into a bit of ‘after-hours window shopping’. After we’d done our rounds of the clubs on a Saturday night, we’d jump in our motors (mine was a green Mini Cooper), and tour round the high-class shops in Oxford Street or Regent Street. When we found the right pitch we’d chuck a metal milk crate straight through the glass and cream the display. We had less than a minute to do the business. The alarm would be ringing and the police would be on their way, but we didn’t give a fuck. Cashmere jumpers, fur jackets, suits, posh dresses, whatever we could rip off the dummies. One night, we couldn’t get this tasty suit off the dummy quick enough, so we flung the whole thing in the motor and drove off with its legs hanging out of the window. It looked like a kidnapping.