The Guv'nor

by Lenny McLean

  Another time, me and a mate turned over a high-class store in the West End. We got a load of good gear out of the window, mostly suits and posh dresses. After we stashed the stuff, we arranged to meet young Barry who always got us good money without aggravation for anything we asked him to move. We cut him in on a percentage so he wasn’t doing us any favours. Barry got there first, then I turned up but my mate didn’t show. After about two hours sitting there waiting, Barry said to me, ‘That prat ain’t going to show, so why don’t I flog the stuff and we’ll cut it up between us two?’

  ‘What did you say?’ I said.

  ‘We’ll cut up the money and fuck him.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘fuck you,’ and I belted him straight in the mouth, breaking his jaw. That’s all he got out of the job because me and my mate shared the split. What a slag, he’d rob his own.

  Nicking the stuff was the easy part, but we didn’t see any dough until it was flogged off. That Barry could piss off as far as I was concerned, so anything tasty we had was passed on to Tommy the Talker. We were quite busy and shifting a fair bit of gear, so if Tom ever got a bit loaded up we would slip round Hoxton or Roman market and do a few deals for ourselves. We were making good money and spending it like water, so come the weekend we’d start grafting all over again.

  Back in 1968, the clubs didn’t turn out until about four or half-past, so by the time we’d done some work and tucked away the night’s takings in a little lock-up we used as a slaughter, it was well into the next day.

  This particular Sunday, it seemed like I’d only just closed my eyes, when I got such a bang on the head I thought the ceiling had come in on me. It hadn’t, it was Jim Irwin and he was shouting, ‘Three o’clock, you lazy bastard, and still in your pit. This ain’t a fucking hotel,’ and he was bringing his fist up to give me some more.

  I’ve bashed up half the bouncers in the West End and this bastard’s whacking me like I’m six years old. I chucked the covers back, shot out of bed just in my Y-fronts and I’m like a fucking madman. The look on his face, in that second before I smashed it, will stay with me until the day I die. It was like traffic lights changing. Anger, surprise and, I’d like to think, fear. He fell backwards against the door and I swung another to his head but before it connected he slumped to the floor and I split the door panel instead.

  If the bedroom hadn’t been so cramped and I’d had more room to move I would definitely have seriously hurt him. As it was, Mum had heard the commotion, run up the stairs and pushed her way in. Irwin came to when she touched his face. I think for a second she thought I’d killed him. But he shoved her out the way, got up and staggered out holding his mouth. Mum put her arm round my shoulder. She didn’t say anything, just gave me a squeeze to calm me down. I was still shaking with rage. I wanted to finish him off.

  I said, ‘Mum, that is the last time he ever lays hands on me or you or any of the others, because I’m ready and I’ll fucking kill him.’

  She said, ‘Len, I don’t blame you for hitting him, he’s had it coming, but please, son, for my sake, don’t hurt him any more.’

  What could I do? That slag had battered me since I was five. I had given him a bit of a slap and the woman I respect more than life itself was asking me to leave him out. No contest.

  But after I got dressed I went downstairs and into the kitchen where he was dabbing his nose with a flannel. He looked up and said, ‘You made a big mistake just now, boy.’

  ‘No, you c**t, you made the mistake,’ I replied, ‘and if I didn’t love that woman through there so much I’d be biting your face off right now.’

  He just said, ‘Fuck you,’ and pushed past me. I wish I could say that I battered him until he screamed for mercy and swore he was sorry for what he’d done, but that’s just for films. Real life is never so black and white.

  I liked to imagine that after our little disagreement Jim Irwin was nervous of being around me. When I was indoors he was out. When I was out, back in he’d go. It might have been coincidence. I felt sorry for Mum stuck in the middle. All of us kids hated the very sight of him, but what did we know of adult relationships? There had to be some sort of spark between them because with three of us bringing in some money she didn’t need to depend on his charity. At about that time, he started working up north, in the rag trade, having got himself into the business of making bed-quilts in a little factory. He was away for most of the week, so I started to suspect that he was test-driving the quilts with the bird he was in partnership with but I wouldn’t upset Mum by saying so.

  Time crept on and the lads and I were getting older and wiser. We started going our separate ways, mixing with different people and giving up what we had begun to see were juvenile pranks. Most of our stunts were good capers, but we were at an age when we could be looking at serious bird for what was really schoolboy mucking about.

  About then we all chose the various paths we were going to go down. Some decided that the straight road was the way to go. They’d had a good run so now was the time to settle down. Others took up some serious villainy on their own, or teamed up with some of the well established local firms. Me, I didn’t make any decision one way or the other. I would take it as it came.

  My reputation as a fighter was gradually spreading further and further. If a bit of aggression was needed for frighteners on a job, or a bit of business, my name would be put forward. People knew I wasn’t just another thick-headed thug, but somebody who could be trusted to use his nut for thinking as well as breaking jaws. I never did favours, though. If they wanted me on the firm, I had to be well paid.

  Life wasn’t all about fighting and getting pissed up, though. I did have plans in other directions. Don’t get the idea that because I’m always out with the lads and talking about me and the boys that I haven’t got any time for girls. I’d had my share of birds, but what with the strained atmosphere at home and violence wherever we went, girlfriends didn’t last too long. Then, one night, I was in the Standard in Kingsland Road having a drink and a talk with the governor’s son, Sid. The door opened and in walked this little angel, and Lenny took a knockout.

  She was a tiny little thing, about 17, blonde hair, beautiful face, and a tiny bum that would’ve fitted into one of my hands. I can even remember what she was wearing and I bet not many blokes could say that about their wife looking back nearly 30 years. She had a beige suit on, red shoes and a red handbag.

  Me and Sid both eyed this little dream up and down, and I said, ‘You know what they say about girls who wear red shoes.’

  He said, ‘You mean red hats, don’t you?’

  I straightened my tie and said, ‘Oh, bollocks, who cares? I’m going to give her a pull anyway.’

  When the girlfriend she was with went out to the ladies’ room, I slipped over and gave her a bit of the McLean charm. I said, ‘What’s your name, darling?’ and she said, ‘Valerie, and yours is Lenny McLean.’ I was well chuffed that she knew me but I didn’t let on, just gave her my film star look and said, ‘Why don’t you park your mate up and let me take you up West?’ She gave me one of those looks that birds like to put on and told me, ‘I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t leave her on her own and, anyway, I might be seeing my boyfriend in here later on.’ I sussed she was giving me a story. I could see by the look in her eyes that she was more interested than she was letting on, so I just gave a shrug, dead casual, and said, ‘Well, I’ll be in here next Saturday, meet me then if you change your mind and I’ll buy you a drink.’

  I couldn’t believe how I acted all the next week. I was like a lovesick kid, mooning about and counting the days until Saturday. There was no guarantee that she’d show, but it couldn’t hurt to consider the possibilities.

  Come Saturday, I was suited and booted and in the Standard at opening time. I never took my eyes off the door for the next hour. Then it opened and in she came, on her own, and even better looking than I’d remembered from a week ago. Her first words after we said hello were, ‘Are you going to behav
e yourself if I go out with you?’ I pretended to be shocked. ‘Don’t worry, babe,’ I said, ‘I’ll keep my hands in my pockets all night.’

  She giggled at that. ‘No, I don’t mean that, but I’ve been hearing all about you. Everybody says you’re always fighting.’

  ‘Me, fighting, never. Just you tell me who said that and I’ll belt them.’ She giggled again and I knew I’d cracked it.

  I took her to the Royal in Tottenham, and we had a great time. She said she’d like me to take her out again and after I left her that night I went home clicking my heels together, well pleased. I told Mum all about this beautiful girl I’d met and I must have gone over the top a bit because she laughed and said, ‘You’re in love, son.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I said, ‘that stuff ain’t for me.’ She just stood looking at me with a little smile on her face. Then we both burst out laughing. She was dead right. She’d spotted what I hadn’t really thought about, but now that I did, I had to admit, yes, I was in love and it was a nice feeling.

  I said, ‘Mum, don’t say nothing to Jim. You know him, he’ll try and dig me out and I’ll have to unload him.’

  ‘I won’t, son. But one night, when he’s not around, bring Valerie home for tea, I’d like to meet her.’

  Val and me went everywhere together, pictures, clubs and pubs, and day trips to Margate or Southend. I took her home to Mum and they got on like a house on fire, and, naturally, then Val’s parents want to meet the fella who’s taking up all their daughter’s time. I suppose it must have been about two months after I met her that she said, ‘My Dad suggested that as we are going to be very late home Saturday night, it would be all right if you stopped over, then they could meet you.’

  So that’s what I did. We had a really good night out and it was early Sunday morning before we got back to Val’s house and we had to creep about a bit because her mum and dad were in bed. I got my head down in the spare room and fell asleep telling myself that I had to make a good impression on these people. Now I don’t know what Val had said about me or how she had described the sort of bloke I was, but when I rolled downstairs next morning at about ten o’clock, the look on her parents’ faces said that I wasn’t quite what they’d expected.

  What you’ve got to understand is that she came from a straight family – good people. Then out of the blue their little girl has brought home this big lump of a bloke, and he’s sitting there eating toast, drinking tea and babbling on about life in Borstal. I was nervous, I suppose. I wanted to impress the parents of this lovely girl, and every time I opened my gob something stupid popped out. The room seemed to grow colder and colder, and if I wasn’t so young, full of myself, and blind, I’d have noticed that Val’s mum and dad were becoming less friendly and more po-faced with every word I said.

  Val had disappeared by now. The strain was too much. She told me after that she’d sat on the stairs listening, biting her fingernails and praying for me to shut up. After a bit she dived in, grabbed hold of me and dragged me out. I can’t say her parents blew kisses from the door.

  It was the first time she had taken me to meet her people and show me off and I had blown it. Anyway, she didn’t want to go home for a while so we had a bit of a walk and ended up in the park. Being kids, all we’d done so far was have a good time and plenty of laughs, we hadn’t really got round to sitting down and finding out about each other. So we sat and talked. It turned out she was one of the Smiths out of Bethnal Green, a really well known family which has been in the rag trade for years and years. Good people, good money-getters, and always have been. She told me her dad had died when he was only 23. Her mum had remarried, so, like me, she had a stepfather.

  Because of my experiences, I jumped straight in. ‘Bet your stepdad’s a proper bastard.’

  She looked shocked and a bit puzzled. ‘No, he’s not, Len, he’s a nice man, a proper dad.’

  I felt stupid for opening my mouth.

  ‘What made you say a horrible thing like that?’ she said, so I told her about Jim Irwin. She could hardly believe what I was telling her, but, in time, she’d see for herself that I wasn’t exaggerating.

  After a little kiss and cuddle, Val told me I’d better not come round to the house for a bit. And so it didn’t make things hard for her, I kept out the way. It wasn’t easy but I kept myself busy with a few little jobs. Weeks later, I bumped into her in the market and arranged to take her to a party at the weekend. She said that she’d had a lot of stick indoors, but it had quietened down, so she didn’t think going out with me again would be a problem.

  We enjoyed the party and I took her home. I was just giving her a kiss on the doorstep, when the door opened and she was dragged back inside by her mum. One of her high heels broke off and she started to cry. I said, ‘’Ere, I’ve brought a Chinese supper for all of us.’ Her mum just screamed out, ‘Bugger off … we don’t want you round here.’ I shouted, ‘Well fuck you, then,’ and slung two carrier bags of grub right at her. Then the old man stuck his head out of the front room and I yelled, ‘Don’t you start or I’ll belt you.’ I stepped back, picked up some flowerpots and smashed all the front windows.

  In the meantime, somebody’s called the police. I think it was the bloke who lived opposite, but I can’t really blame whoever grassed me. Old Bill came mob-handed, but I’d cooled off by then, so I just put my hands up and quietly got in the van. Sitting in Old Street nick gave me a bit of time to consider the 12 months I’d get for assault and criminal damage. What a total arsehole I was. At 19 years old, I should have known better. But an hour later I was back out on the streets. Those ordinary, straight people had told Old Bill to forget it.

  I’m not proud of what I did. I was right out of order. Now that I’m older I’ve picked up those double standards I mentioned earlier. I’ve mixed with some rare people all my life. I’ve made good friends with people I met in Borstal and prison, and palled up with villains who have made headlines all over the world. But if some kid, like I used to be, turned up on my doorstep with his heart in his hand for my young daughter, I’d boot his arse down the road. If he came back, I’d fucking murder him.

  So my lovely Val’s parents didn’t want to know me for a very long time, but she, bless her heart, loved me, and suffered earache from both sides so we could be together. It’s strange how life repeats itself. She had to suffer like my mum – stuck in the middle. Still, whether they liked it or not, me and Val courted for about 12 or 14 months. I was 20, Val was 18, and when we decided to get married, Mum was well pleased. I suppose she thought it would settle me down.

  I wish now that I’d given Val a proper wedding. You know, church, fancy clothes, posh do afterwards – it’s a girl’s dream, isn’t it? But the best I could manage at the time was the business at Mare Street Registry Office over Hackney way, and a bit of a knees-up at Mum’s place.

  We found a place to live in George’s Square, round the back of Old Street. We rented two rooms in a little terraced house. I don’t know about rooms, they were more like cupboards, and they were in a right state. I couldn’t decorate and I was no handy man, so I went to see Uncle Fred Campion. That diamond of a man spent weeks and a load of his own money on doing the place up, and all he took for wages was a kiss off Val. When he’d done, it was like a little doll’s house, and there was just me and Val, and she was my whole world.

  Bloody hell, we hadn’t been tucked up in our little love nest for a week when she said, ‘Len, I want you to get a proper job.’

  I said, ‘Doll, for you I’d fly to the moon.’

  ‘Len, just go to work, that’ll be enough.’

  So I got myself fixed up in a clothes factory in Kirton Grove, not far from home. Money wasn’t all that, but I soon gave myself extras. My job was to pack parcels of clothes, mail-order stuff, women’s coats, dresses, jumpers, all kinds. Last thing at night, I’d have to load up the van and take them down the post office, but before I got there I’d made a little detour and off-load half of them at home. Val w
ould unpack them again, burn the packaging and flog the clothes all over the place. Nice little fiddle.

  As soon as complaints came in about people not getting what they’d ordered, Lenny was looking for another job. I couldn’t believe it, I stepped straight into the same sort of number in another clothes place in north London. But this was even better. The boss was an absolute prat because he asked if I minded working at night on my own. Talk about sticking the cat in with the budgie, it was fucking magic. I didn’t even have to hump the clothes around, just dropped them out of the window to my mate and he carted them away in his van. Job didn’t last long, though – I can’t think why – so I was back to ducking and diving for a bit.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I mentioned my reputation as a fighter had spread beyond Hoxton. Well, I got a call one day from a guy in Woodford. He said, ‘Lenny, I want you to do a favour for a pal of mine. His name’s Dougie.’

  ‘I don’t do favours,’ I said, ‘but as long as I get well paid I’ll go ahead and see him.’

  It turned out that Dougie had just picked up a big council contract. There were loads of flats to be painted and decorated, which meant he had to employ a lot of men. What he wanted me for was to mind him in case any of the blokes decided to take a pop at him when he wouldn’t pay them for, in his opinion, rough work.

  It seemed fair enough at the time because I know that building workers can get a bit stroppy if things don’t go their way. What I didn’t realise was that Dougie was a right bastard. The reason he wanted me around was so that he could screw the painters out of wages they’d worked bloody hard for. These were family men grafting to feed their kids, and I didn’t feel happy about my role. We’d go round the sites with the wages and Dougie would be telling different blokes, ‘I’m not paying you for this … not paying you for that.’ They didn’t like it, but they’d look at him, then look at me standing behind him, and just swallow it.