Inside the Kray Family

by Rita Smith

  He went down the lane one Sunday morning and came back with one of them old blow-lamp things. He’s no sooner got in than he’s crazed to find a use for it, so he decides he’d decorate the front room. He filled it with paraffin, fired it up and there’s flames shooting out about two foot long. Now we all know that you get wallpaper off by soaking it with water – not him. “Nah, you watch, it’ll be burnt off in no time.” Next thing the curtains are alight. Mother’s gone running over to Burns’ timber yard shouting, “ Over ’ere quick, he’s fucking well set the house on fire”. Course they’ve run over and put it out. But when I see him next morning I said, “That was a bit of a do you had yesterday”. And he said, “Weren’t my fault, that bastard down the lane sold me a dodgy lamp”.

  When he wasn’t trying to earn a few bob (and that wasn’t very often) he was a keep-fit fanatic. There were always old bikes knocking about because he’d buy half a dozen old wrecks and make one or two good ones out of them. He said to me, “Come on, boy, we’ll have a ride to Southend and get a bit of fresh air”. Thirty-five miles. I was about fifteen and as strong as a man but halfway there going up Bread and Cheese Hill nearly done me in – and he’s nearly at the top.

  The First World War had only just started and I can remember seeing all these wounded soldiers in the grounds of the Palace Hotel that they’d turned into a hospital.

  We got to Southend, took three breaths and he said, “We’d best get back”. I was dreading it. I was riding a fixed-wheel bike and never gave it a thought, and as we got to the top of Cheese Hill ready to go down he said to me, “Whatever you do, don’t take . . .” But I’d already taken my feet off the pedals for a minute and on their own they was going round at a hundred miles an hour. I’d no brakes and couldn’t get on the pedals. If it was today I’d have been killed, but I didn’t come to no harm. All I prayed for was a puncture so we could have a rest but we never and I had to struggle to keep up all the way back to Bethnal Green.

  We’d only be home for five minutes and he’d want to get the gloves out and have a spar in the backyard, and he must have been nearly forty then.

  Somebody bet him ten bob that he couldn’t push a barrow to Southend so next day he’s gone and hired one from the coal shop and told the bloke he only wanted it for half a day to do a carting job – fourpence a day or something. I’m not talking about a wheelbarrow but a little flatbed with those big wheels. Well, I never thought he’d do it what with Bread and Cheese hill and all them miles, but he did. I don’t think the bloke who laid the bet thought it could be done either, because he kept well away from the old man and never did pay up.

  Only thing was, he never pushed it back. He’d had enough, I suppose, and left it where he finished up. A week or so later the man from the shop came banging on the door looking for his barrow. “Ain’t you finished with it yet, Jimmy?” “Course I have,” said the old man. “Well where is it then?” He’s said, “I dunno, last time I see it, it was on the front down at Southend”. The geezer was livid but he couldn’t say nothing because he knew the old man could be a bit fierce if he was upset.

  Funnily enough it was another time he’d just come back from Southend when he had a terrible fight with his brother. All I know is that it was something to do with their sisters but I don’t recall what. Must have been serious though because as my father was taking off his bicycle clips outside the house, Uncle Tom came marching toward him effing and blinding. One of the neighbours must have clocked what Tom was up to because she called out of an upstairs window, “Look out, Jimmy, he’s got an iron bar behind his back”. I suppose that upset Dad more than anything, so before Tom even swung this lump of iron the old man knocked him into the gutter – then he payed him unmercifully. And that was his own brother. He was knocked about so bad they thought he was dead but lucky he wasn’t. They never spoke for years afterwards. Fiery tempered my family and it’s led to a lot of trouble one way and another.

  He was a case, my Uncle Tom Lee. I remember him telling me a funny story, though he didn’t think it was at the time. This was before that fight. He was a foreman at Pool Wharf in Upper Thames Street, and he had about six blokes under him. One day this man turned up – smart looking and a good talker. There were a line of warehouses in the dock and he’s took Tom to one of them and told him that he needed to stock-take his furs that were inside, but had mislaid the padlock key.

  As a carrot he’s thrown in that if Tom could help him out of a hole, once he got inside he’d want to hire some men to help him shift some of this stuff. In those days all it took was a suit and a posh voice to get respect from the average working man – like they knew their place if you know what I mean – so Uncle Tom’s already hooked.

  On top of that was the chance to earn a couple of shillings, so he’s agreed. The man said, “While you’re getting the doors open I’ll go and get a van to put the furs in”. An hour later he came back and Tom and his six men carried out whatever he pointed at – and there was hundreds of these furs. When it was all done he put a new padlock on the door to replace the one they’d smashed off, lined all the blokes up, shook their hands and told them what a great bunch of lads they were. Tom got two pounds to share out and that was that.

  A few days later another fella comes to Tom, what with him being the foreman, and said he couldn’t seem to fit his key into what looked like a new padlock on his warehouse. Tom acted a bit vague until the police turned up, then his memory came back a bit sharpish and he had to admit that him and the other blokes had helped to rob the place.

  Nothing came of it but none of them ever lived it down. Mind you, he could be a bit slippery himself if the chance came up. There was a local mob of flash geezers who were into everything and I suppose to get themselves into favour with Pedlar Farmer, who was a British Champion boxer, they got him a load of expensive shirts. Knowing Uncle Tom lived just round the corner from Pedlar they asked him to drop them off to him. Does he? No. He says to my father, “What’s he want shirts for – he’s got loads of money?” So he flogged them and hung on to the money. This mob was after him for a long time after that and word was he could expect a right doing over, but like I said he was a bit slippery and kept out of the way.

  I think he was a bit wrong anyway because I don’t suppose Pedlar had two ha’pennies, champion or not. None of them did and my old man knew them all, what with his own boxing and fighting.

  Later on I know the twins rubbed shoulders with the likes of Joe Louis and Sonny Liston, but that was different. The boxers I’m talking about were just ordinary working blokes who made a name for themselves in the ring and the old man knew them all on the way up.

  There was Solly Mendehof, a Jewish boy who changed his name to Ted “Kid” Lewis, one of the best fighters ever to come out of the East End. I suppose he changed his name because a lot of people had feelings against the Jews. Don’t know why because half the people around those parts had a bit of Jew in them somewhere down the line.

  Jackie “Kid” Berg came out of Whitechapel and he was known all over as the “Whitechapel Whirlwind”. He could have a fight and took the world junior welterweight championship off of Mushy Callahan in 1930, I think it was. When my old man first knew him he was living with his parents over a fish shop in Whitechapel Road, and his name was Judah Bergman, but later on, like Ted he changed his name to save any problems. There was hundreds at the game from around our way – they didn’t all make champions like these two but they had a good name. Yes, these fellas would drop in for a cup of tea and it wouldn’t be long before the old man got the gloves out and we’d take turns sparring with them. Even my sisters would have a go. It was only a lark but you could say that over a time my family squared up to some of the best names in British boxing history.

  Later on it was only natural that my sister’s boys would get the gloves on because they never heard nothing else from my old man. Reg was a boxer, proper like, but Ron was a fighter and would get up to some dirty tricks if he could get away with it. W
e went to Manor Place baths over Walworth when the twins were on the card as amateurs. Ron was fighting this fella and I saw him deliberately bite him on the neck when they got in a clinch. I think I was the only one who clocked it. I said to old Charlie, “Did you see Ron sink his teeth into that other bloke?” And he got a bit annoyed and said, “My boy wouldn’t do a thing like that.” And I thought too fucking right he wouldn’t, except I saw the little bleeder do it with my own eyes. He wouldn’t have it that one of his own was breaking the rules, but if that Ronnie could find a dirty trick to help him win, then he took it every time.

  Reg was different altogether. He had a good style and was a clean fighter – in the ring anyway – and if he’d stuck at it and never got mixed up with the likes of that Bobby Ramsey and all that mob, he had the makings of getting somewhere. But Ron just flung his arms all over the place and tried to flatten the other fella with nothing but aggression. Don’t get me wrong, he was lucky most of the time and came out on top, but you can only go so far with that style – if you can call it that. What I didn’t agree with was when they were the only two left in the schoolboy finals and they had to fight each other. Three times they did it and of course neither one of them wanted to lose so they really hurt each other. I mean, they were only kids and it should never have happened.

  Looking back, it seems like every young fella was either an amateur, semi or professional boxer – that’s the way it was. Nobody had nothing and the way out was to try and follow in the steps of all those that were local heroes. They’d say, “Look at ’im. He was only a barrow boy; now look at ’im.” How else were kids with cardboard in the soles of their shoes going to better themselves? Speak to anyone of a good age and they’ll say, “Oh, my father or grandfather was a boxer”. What they don’t say is “So was everyone else’s”.

  On top of that there were fighting men who had most of their bouts on the streets. My father was one of them and about the same time so was old Jimmy Kray. A long time before him and his mob became part of this family by marriage, these two come across each other a number of times. I’m talking bare knuckles here, but he never bested my old man – not once.

  Some of these fellas got a lot of respect because they were what you called the guv’nors – tough blokes but fair with it, like Jimmy Spinks, who was related to the McLeans out of Hoxton. Then there was others like Dodger Mullins and Wassle Newman and these two were right bastards and got respect out of fear, which ain’t the same thing. Of course, we had nothing to worry about because them and others like them were always in and out of our house, though my old man did keep them at arm’s length when it came down to getting involved in their capers.

  Funny really when you think of what my sister’s boys got up to later on (and I don’t know the half of it), their grandfather, my dad, wouldn’t have no truck with them people they call gangsters now. He passed the time of day with them and mother gave them cups of tea, but that’s where it stayed.

  No end of fellas we knew ended up on the rope or doing hard labour on Dartmoor, but you didn’t take a lot of notice. One of these blokes, Nipper Osbourne, got in a fight and cut this other man’s throat from ear to ear. Five or six weeks he was on the run and one of those he spent hiding in our house. In the end I think the old man talked him into giving himself up because by then his hair’s gone white what with worrying about taking the drop – hanging that is. He was lucky and only got time but his head was all gone by the time he came out. He said to me, “They might as well have topped me ’cos I can’t take it any more”. But I said, “Well, you didn’t say that when you was hiding in our back room”.

  Nowadays when you see kids coming out of school they’re all six foot tall, even the girls, but in my day all these tough men I mentioned were about five foot seven or eight. Mind you, most of them were as wide as that as well. So when a geezer like Tommy Brown came along he stood out a bit. What with his size and his reach he was a bit tasty in the ring, but he never made champion or nothing. Still he must have had what it takes because when Tommy Farr was training to take on Max Baer he was hired as a sparring partner. Farr wasn’t an East End boy, he came out of Wales and they called him the Tonypandy Terror and he was as well. Anyway, he was paying a pound a round to his sparring partners and that was good money at the time. Only trouble was Farr’s manager, Ted Broadribb, was a bit slippery and didn’t want to part with the cash. Kept making excuses – Tommy this and Tommy’s a bit short and what have you.

  There was about four or five sparring partners, so Tommy Brown said to them, “Fuck this. We don’t fight until we get squared up.” Later on when Farr jumps in the ring Tommy’s leaning on the ropes with his coat on. When he was asked what was going on he said that he thought they was being cheated and they wouldn’t stand for it. Farr never said a word – got out of the ring, went to his dressing room and came back with a bundle of notes. He paid what was owed and a bit more. After that he paid them at the end of every day.

  I was at Devonshire Hall with Tommy Brown one afternoon when two plain-clothes detectives came into the gym. One of them said to Tommy, “Excuse me, could we have one or two rounds with you because we’re in the police boxing team and we’re training for a fight?” Tom came over to me and said, “What do you think, Joe?” Like most people in the East End I could spot the law a mile off, so I said, “I don’t see why not, but you know they’re both coppers don’t you?” He said, “They already told me, now watch me mark their card”. The biggest one climbed into the ring and squared up. Now sparring is what it says and not a world title fight, but with one punch Tommy went through his guard, broke his nose and put out his front teeth. I suppose the copper thought he didn’t need a gum shield. Of course, Tommy apologized and all that so they were never sure whether it was deliberate – but it was.

  In later years people had him down as a minder for the twins, but he never was. He idolized those boys and wanted to look after them. They called him “The Bear” because he was so big, but he was never a bully. If somebody got out of order his favourite trick was to up end them, hold them by the ankles then put his foot on their chin, gentle like, and say, “Be nice”.

  2. Mother Lee

  Old Joe Lee

  I don’t seem to have said too much about my mother and as she was the one that held everything together, like most women then, I suppose I should. Because she married my father it turned her into the black sheep of the family. Her father, John Houghton, had made something of himself and was the manager of a gum factory. Where this gum stuff came from or what it was I don’t think any of us questioned, and I still don’t know to this day, but it was hard, yellow and the lumps came in all different sizes. Out in the factory the girls sat and graded it into different batches.

  With him wearing a suit and making regular money they was better class than the Lees. Posh but not stuck-up posh. Him and his wife Ada had six children and they were Mary Ann (my mother), John, Joe, Till, Lill and Lizzie. Funny enough later on Aunt Till had twins as well, so it must have been in the family on that side.

  This side of the family came out of one of the worst parts of the East End and their background was no different from anyone else’s, but my Uncle John became what they called Royal Toastmaster to the Mayor of London. One minute he’d be standing right behind Neville Chamberlain or Winston Churchill the next, or one or another of the Royal Family at some state banquet or other. Never went to his head though. He’d do the business at one of these posh dos, rubbing shoulders with heads of state, and the next day he’d turn up at our house with the left-overs. That was one of the perks and we’d have a right old knees-up.

  One of these nights him and me were standing at the door and coming down the road we saw a bloke with an organ– the sort where you had to wind a little handle on the side, hurdy-gurdy they called them. It was quite late and I should think the fella was on his way home, but next thing my Uncle John’s called over and asked if he’d come in and give us some music. He agreed and between the three
of us we managed to squeeze this organ indoors, then away we went and all had a lovely night. Didn’t have such a thing as a record player then. Next day Uncle John would be back among the toffs again.

  When people lump all the family together as villains and gangsters – and I know that’s what they’re thinking – I feel like saying, “You’re only looking at a small part of the picture,” but I don’t.

  When Mum and Dad got together they must have been like chalk and cheese. His language could strip paint. Like I said, it was so bad his father-in-law wouldn’t have him in the house, but Mother wouldn’t even say “damn”. As time went on though she got just like him, and later on still she got worse. Don’t know what straightened him up but when they were in their eighties and the old girl was effing and blinding he’d say “Mary Ann, did you have to say that?” Didn’t stop her though. She’d just flick a duster at him and tell him to mind his own fucking business.

  Like I said, for the first six or seven years I was on my own and Mother used to talk about when she was a girl, and when we went here and there she’d be saying, “See this – see that,” and be showing me places where all kinds of things went on. She said there was beggar kids all over – hundreds of them. What happened was if the old man died or run off, the mother would keep the girls and sling the boys out to get on as best they could. If the mother died, a convent or something might take in the girls but again the boys would end up on the streets.

  Funnily enough she took in a pal of mine and he ended up living with us for years and years. We must have been about fourteen then and it’s so long ago I couldn’t begin to tell you why it come about. All I remember is that Jimmy Cornwall had no family and nowhere to stay so I took him home with me and that was that. I do believe my parents legally adopted him in the end. He was a case and a trial to my mother but it was all in fun because he did think a lot of her.