by Rita Smith
Children as young as eight were still being publicly hanged in the 1850s, though more and more of these sentences were given but immediately overturned in favour of hard labour or deportation. Amazingly, it was not until as late as 1908 that a law was passed preventing a child under sixteen from being executed.
Female hangings were a great favourite with the men and they would wait with bated breath for that moment when skirts would fly up as the ladies took the final drop. Maria Manning, the murderess who was hanged side by side with her husband – a rare event – knew what was expected and in her final days painstakingly cut out and sewed new drawers for the occasion.
Whatever age or gender, the death throes of these unfortunates were met with cheers rather than horror – and horrific it must have been. It was not until William Marwood brought a more scientific approach to the job in hand – namely a calculated long drop, that death was instantaneous. Prior to this a short rope meant four to seven minutes of strangulation. And this is what the young forebears might have regularly watched in childhood fascination, though I like to think they were more interested in getting to grips with a large paper cone of hokey pokey (ice cream – “Hokey Pokey, penny a lump, this is the stuff to make you jump”), which would be a special treat on such a day out.
These child forebears would be ten or twelve years old before scaffolds were dismantled from public squares and erected behind prison walls. The last man to die under the scrutiny of the population was the Fenian Michael Barratt. He was hanged outside Newgate in May 1868 for a bomb attack in Clerkenwell that killed twelve and injured one hundred and twenty. The last woman was Frances Kidder in April the same year at Maidstone. It would be another one hundred years before the death penalty would be put on hold, though the gallows are still in place in Wandsworth Prison should it ever be brought back.
When Newgate was torn down and the Old Bailey built in the early 1900s, a diary was found dated 1881 that had once belonged to a convict by the name of Alfred Jones. Scribbled on one page, in an attempt at a rhyming couplet, was a note saying: “Goodbye Lucy dear, I am parted from you for seven long years.” Below in a different hand was written, obviously by another con with a sense of humour: “If your Lucy is like all other gals, she’ll give a few sighs and moans, but soon she’ll find amongst your pals, another Alfred Jones.”
Early family history being thin on the ground, years of birth can only be educated guesswork. The early settlers very likely had some children in arms when they first arrived in London. Then, by the very nature of things, they would have added to the size of their brood as time went on. It is a safe bet that the great-greatgrandparents of the Kray twins were born between 1850 and 1856 into the east London described above.
As Dickens said of an earlier age, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Exciting events were taking place all the time. One of the brightest points in the century was the Great Exhibition of 1851. With poverty, disease and death stalking the east London streets Britain proclaimed itself the finest nation on earth and the unchallenged leader of the industrial revolution.
A showcase exhibition hall named the Crystal Palace was erected in Hyde Park and the world was invited to see what we had to offer. Under a canopy made from a million square feet of glass, thirteen thousand exhibits of British skills and technology were displayed among water features, animal attractions of lions and tigers, tropical gardens and a circus. Blondini, the famous tightrope walker, entertained the crowds in the main foyer. Eight years later he would not only cross Niagara Falls on a thin wire, but also carry out a stove, squat in the middle and fry a pan of eggs. Rather than praise his bravery, the better quality papers of the day reported his feat as an act of extraordinary folly.
Later this vast conservatory was dismantled and moved to Sydenham Hall, south London, where it remained a popular theme park attraction until it burnt down in 1936.
The great bell of Big Ben was cast at the Whitechapel foundry at 32 Whitechapel Road, though with delays on the construction of the building it was not actually put in place for three years. An oversized clapper cracked the bell in a very short time, mirroring the fate of the famous American Liberty bell, which was cast at the same foundry.
St Katherine’s dock saw the launch of the Great Eastern steamer, which would eventually lay telegraph cables from London to North America. King’s Cross Station was built. Livingstone trudged across Africa. Florence Nightingale crept into history by tending the wounded in Crimea, and many names from the Indian Mutiny of 1857–8 would be remembered for ever as London street names.
But this was a world far removed from daily life of the average east Londoner. What they probably hailed as being worthwhile was the opening of a vast system of brick-lined sewers, linked to treatment plants and pumping stations, in 1860. At last the filth that lay in the unpaved streets would disappear overnight down modern sewers. Unfortunately, our great-great-grandparents and their children would grow up before there was a noticeable difference.
Through the 1850s, the 1860s and into the 1870s our families would be growing up in an oasis of sameness, within but not part of a changing world. When the young Lee and the young Kray chose brides to be, it is an interesting thought that one or both of the couples might have tied the knot at the Church of St James in Bethnal Green Road, for this is where Reggie and Frances would marry some ninety years later.
Church ceremonies cost money, which might have been a reason for so many couples living “over the brush” in the East End. As an encouragement against such behaviour there was always the “penny wedding” where for that sum twenty couples or so could have a collective service – the vicar at least getting slightly more than the price of one marriage, as against no work at all. Then in the face of a barrage of criticism, the “Red Church” in Bethnal Green Road, as St James’s was known, began marrying anyone for free and by this act of Christian charity helped to reduce the figures of those living in sin within the parish. So it makes sense, if only in conjecture, to think that one or all of our family might have taken advantage of this bargain to start their lives together.
The birth certificate of the twins’ grandfather James Lee places him over the river in one of the worst slum areas of south London in the year 1877. Why his father, Chritcha, had moved into an area as alien to east Londoners as a foreign country is again conjecture. He, as stated in the official document, was still applying the calling of his father and grandfather, namely drover, and it may have been that he was working the cattle droves from further south. On the other hand, he may have sunk so low financially that the only way to keep a roof over his family was to move into an area where rents were cheap. Lewis Street (now long swept away) was in a district named Colliers Rents, and as Mearns states in his Bitter Cry of Outcast London, home to convicts, thieves and prostitutes, which was no reflection on other tenants with more honest callings. For, whether east or south London, cash was the only reference needed to gain a room.
Mary Houghton, the future wife of James Charles Lee, or Jimmy as he would always be known, was born near Whitechapel in the previous year. Other than “within the sound of Bow Bells” nothing is known of where the Kray grandparents were born.
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In 1899, at the respective ages of twenty-three and twenty-four, Jimmy and Mary Ann started a family. I was privileged to spend some time with Joe, their eldest son, when he was in his ninetyseventh year, and I could not help feeling that his memories and recollections of family and an East End past allowed me to touch history.
Highly thought of by everyone in the family, Uncle Joe was a particular favourite of Reg and Ron and they both thought that I would find it an interesting experience to meet him. Prior to this, during one of my visits to Reg in Maidstone prison, he took great pains in pointing out that I shouldn’t overtire the old chap as he was getting on in years. So with this firmly in mind I arrived at his home in a block of retirement flats near Romford in Essex expecting to meet someone frail, perhaps r
ambling, perhaps forgetful. Instead, I was greeted by a tall wiry man, strong voiced and as mentally agile as someone less than half his age. I was made welcome from the moment I stepped in the door and once a cup of tea was in front of us, and unbidden from me, he launched into the favourite pastime of the old – talking about the past. From then on he only paused for breath when it was time to refuel with a midday meal that might have floored a horse.
Old Joe, as he was affectionately known to separate him from his son Joe, co-author of this book, died two years later at the age of ninety-nine, leaving behind him a legacy of strength and humour for all those who knew him. I have never forgotten the impression he made on me and here, in his own words, are the stories he told.
1. The Southpaw Cannonball
Old Joe Lee
I was born in Cadover Road, Mile End Old Town on the 12th December 1899. From what my mother told me and from what I saw when I was old enough to take things in, those days were rough old times for everybody. Funny though, it’s only when you look back that you realize how hard it was just to get by for most people, but when you’re growing up and living through it you don’t know any different so you just take every day as it comes.
When I look round my little place here, with its fitted carpets, central heating, telly in the corner and plenty to eat, I can’t help thinking that back then if we’d had just a little slice of what everybody’s got now, we’d have felt like millionaires.
For the first seven or eight years of my life I was on my own with my mother and father. I would have had an older brother, but Jimmy, as he was named – after the old man – died as a baby like a lot of kiddies did then, what with malnutrition and epidemics from bad water. Sounds harsh but I think mothers accepted that’s the way it was and just got on with it. I’m not saying they didn’t grieve – that would only be natural – but no sooner was one buried than there’d be another on the way. When she first told me about this brother of mine I was only a nipper and she said he was only a few hours old when he had convulsions and died in her arms. Years and years later, long after the pain would’ve gone away, I’d hear her telling my sisters or her grandkids that what killed him was “looking at his ugly face” and she’d nod toward my father. Couldn’t understand why people laughed when she said it.
Move around? I couldn’t begin to tell you how many different rooms we lived in. You didn’t get a whole house then, you got a room along with five or six other families, and made the best of it. I don’t know how landlords made a living because everyone was at the same game. The first day you moved into a new place you’d have to put up the full week’s rent, which could be as much as five or six shillings. The next Friday you’d keep quiet when the rent man knocked and the Friday after you’d make a dreadful excuse and promise to pay the following week. But instead of that, on the Thursday night all your bits and pieces would be slung in a barrow – I don’t suppose there was hardly enough stuff to fill it – and you’d do what they called a “moonlight” and on to the next lodging.
My dad was a van driver and I don’t suppose his wages were all that much even on a full week, so he’d always be looking to save himself a few shillings wherever he could. More than once I saw him have a fight with one landlord or another. They’d be asking for what was rightfully theirs and the old man would take exception to their tone of voice, “up them”, and we’d be packing our bags.
It’s funny when I mention to youngish people that my dad was a van driver because I can see what they’re thinking. But what I’m saying is the vans he drove were pulled by a pair of shire horses, and it was a job that took a strong man with his wits about him to keep things straight in the crowded lanes. He had both these qualities and on top of that he had a way with horses, which was just as well because a lot of times he had to sleep in the stables with them.
When we’d been kicked out of our rooms and had nowhere else to go Mum would have to swallow it and go knocking on her mother’s door. Of course the Houghtons would take us in for a short while, but no way would they entertain the old man. Mum’s family, particularly my grandfather, were a bit on the posh side and they couldn’t take to the old man’s ways and his swearing.
At that time of life mother never used a bad word, but me being a small boy used to try out what I’d heard the old man saying without realizing there was a time and a place. One of the times we’d moved in with Nanny and Grandad we were all sitting round the table having our tea when their neighbour called in. He was asked to sit down and we all carried on. But I was fascinated by this man’s wispy straggly beard and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I looked and studied and thought and the wheels were going round in my head. In the end I couldn’t contain myself and said out loud, “Mum, that man looks just like a fucking Billy goat,” looking round to see if anybody else agreed with me. Grandad’s face went as red as the table cover. He stood up, pointed to the door and said to mum “Mary Ann, take that child out of this house and don’t bring him back until he’s learned some manners”.
Going back to Dad and his horses, in days when people weren’t too particular about how an animal was treated, he looked after his like they were mates and not just something that earned his living.
One day he was delivering tea down at Hayes Wharf when his offside horse that was known as a biter, took a snap at a carman walking past. This bloke was a bit of a flash bastard from over the water and he just picked up a lump of wood and belted the horse across the head. My dad shouts, “Oi, when I get off this rig I’m going to do the same to you”. But before he could the other fella’s run round, grabbed his leg, given him a pull and Dad’s fell off the van down about five foot and bashed his face on the kerb, knocking him spark out. A load of girls and a woman who was coming out of a factory over the road because it was finishing time, see him lying there, carried him back inside, fussed around him and brought him round. I bet he loved every minute of it because he always had an eye for the ladies.
Anyway when we saw him later he had a terrible face but that didn’t stop him wanting to go and pay [hit] the bloke there and then, but my mother wouldn’t have none of it and he gave in. But he did say, “If that bastard’s there on Monday I’m going to have a fight with him”. Well he was and Dad carried out his threat and beat him dreadful. But that wasn’t enough. Every time he saw him after that he laid into him until the bloke couldn’t take no more and gave the job up. Altogether they had about ten one-sided fights.
A long time afterward I saw this fella down Borough Market working one of the stalls and even then his face was all lumps and bumps. He didn’t know who I was so I said nothing to him, but I didn’t tell the old man where he was because I knew he would go after him and I thought he’d paid handsomely enough for what he did.
All I can think is that the man had never heard about my father or else he wouldn’t have got involved. He might not have been very tall but he was wide, as hard as nails and like most blokes out of that part, he loved a good fight. It was always the way, even when I was growing up and into the days of the twins, and we all know they could have a go. Then it tailed off after the sixties when the law came down hard and you couldn’t give somebody a slap without being charged.
Back then it was different and all you had to do was bump into somebody and splash their beer or say the wrong word and fists would fly at the drop of a hat. But my father didn’t only have a row when he got upset, which he did often enough, but he went out looking for it in a semi-professional sort of way. When you spend every day of your life pulling about a couple of pair of horses that weigh getting on for a ton, getting stuck into a bloke who might weigh eighteen stone would be a piece of cake.
And that was my father. Afraid of no man and willing to take on the biggest – gloves on or bare-knuckles, for money or just pride – didn’t matter to him and he always came out on top. He had the most wicked left-hand punch you’ve ever seen. Came out of nowhere just at the right time to finish the other fella off. They gave him the nam
e of “Southpaw Cannonball” and you would’ve thought that would give the game away, what with southpaw meaning left-hand puncher, but none of the blokes that squared up to him ever took this on board until up it came and the lights went out.
Like I said, for a lot of years I was on my own in the family so I spent a lot of time with my mother, what with going here and there to the markets and all that. They talk about congestion and traffic jams in London today like it was something new but, as I recall, you could hardly cross the street for hansom cabs, carriages and vans, all horse drawn, flying up and down. If you were a rose grower then, and not many were, you’d never have gone short of a bit of fertilizer as they call it.
So what with the old man’s job and seeing all these vehicles every day, never mind train driver like kids later on, I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to climb up behind a pair of horses and get my hands on one of those lovely whips they all carried.
Reminds me of a time my mother took me to have my photograph taken. If the truth is known Nanny Houghton put the money up because they weren’t short of a few bob and we had nothing. I was all done up in a sailor suit that was very popular, and to crown it off Mum bought what they called a cup-and-saucer hat to go with it. Now, ordinary people never owned a camera so we headed for a photo place in Stean Road, the same road the twins would be born in years later. I was a bit of a case in them days and when we got in the shop I refused to wear this hat. Short of clipping me round the ear, which mother wasn’t prone to do anyway, the only way she could get me to do what she wanted was to promise to buy me something afterward. That’s all it took. Bang, the hat’s gone on my head so fast it made my ears stick out.