Читать книгу Freddie Foreman - The Godfather of British Crime - Freddie Foreman - Страница 7

I was born on Sheepcote Lane on Saturday, 5 March 1932. Every part of London had one street where villains came from, and in our area it was Sheepcote Lane. I was an unexpected arrival, the youngest of five brothers – the last thing my mother wanted was another boy! I was unwanted, but loved. My father was from Irish stock and my mother from a middle-class London family. Father’s family was huge. There were 13 children: six sisters and seven brothers. My father was christened Herbert Albert Foreman, but his brothers called him Sonny. Confusingly, my mother called him Alf; he called her Lou, short for Louise.

Number 22 Sheepcote Lane was a terraced house, two-up and two-down. You stepped from the street straight into the front room. The kitchen was at the back with an outside lavatory and two bedrooms upstairs. We five brothers shared one bedroom.

The week’s highlights came on a Saturday night. Poor as they were, the family would hold legendary parties after the pubs had closed. As kids, we weren’t allowed inside the pubs, but we’d linger about and wait for the action that usually began after the last drinks had been served.

We were rarely let down. Differences of opinion and heated exchanges would always arise, leading to the eagerly awaited spectacle of a bare-knuckle fight. This would take place on the street outside The Flag pub and every now and then my father would be one of the combatants.

My brothers would let me watch others fight and hoist me on to a window ledge outside the pub, from where I would get a glimpse of the fighters’ heads and shoulders as they threw punch after punch. If they fell to the ground and rolled about, someone would take the part of referee and break them up so they could shape up and start again. The drunken crowd would form a circle, shouting and encouraging their respective mates into action, oblivious to the blood and sweat that sprayed in their direction.

There was a lot of drunkenness around in those days – and snuff-taking was also popular with older people at the time. My grandmother, and others of her generation, would take it on a regular basis, like people do coke today, and you could identify the snuff-takers by the brown stains under their noses and on their smudged handkerchiefs. From a little boy’s point of view it was disgusting – especially when the old girl tried to kiss you!

Some parties at our house would turn out much the same way as the pub evenings – beginning with a song and dance and ending in a fight. Two of my father’s sisters were on the boards at the Upper Brixton Empire and part of their repertoire included clog dancing and singing popular tunes around the piano. Lizzie Mayne, my aunt, was a lively entertainer. Her special number was ‘There’s a Blue Ridge Round My Heart, Virginia’, which my father, a little worse for drink, would follow with a rendition of ‘Are We to Part Like This, Dear?’, which he sang to my mother.

We kids used to sit on the stairs and enjoy the mixed procession of people including boxers, market traders, vendors and musicians wandering in and out of our tiny house. Musicians were always welcome and from time to time, just for the crack, the Salvation Army band would be invited to play. Huge wooden firkins of beer would arrive on willing shoulders as well as quart bottles of brown ale, four to a crate. Later, to help soak up the alcohol, big doorstep sandwiches filled with cheese and mustard pickle and large jars of pickled onions would appear and be wolfed down. As the evening wore on and my old man became more spirited, he would disappear to the pigeon loft in the back garden with a crate of ale and two or three of his favoured cronies. They would sit there telling each other stories until one of the wives dragged them out to join the party.

The loft had been built by my brother Wally, the second eldest, and it still holds poignant memories for me today. A big tomcat once got in there and slaughtered all Wally’s prized pigeons. Some time later, my mother heard a horrendous commotion in the garden and ran outside in a panic. Wally had caught the offending cat, swung it around in circles by its tail and projected it across three neighbouring gardens, never to be seen again.

With the reduced pigeon population, the loft became a useful watering hole for my father and his friends. But having drunk all their liquor, they’d return to the house and the fighting would begin. The old man’s regular opponent was his brother-in-law, Johnny Wicker, who was as tough and as game as he was.

The pair would be at it hammer and tongs, battering the daylights out of one another with bare fists. They were constantly brawling and had fought each other so often that their contests had become a game of one-upmanship: win one, lose one, call it a draw, it went on and on, party after party. They never got fed up with bashing each other. I did not enjoy these spectacles, seeing my father bloodied and hurt. Those times were violent and very physical – proving one’s manhood in those days was an essential part of survival.

I never discovered whether my father spent time in a civilian jail. If he did, we were never told, although there were certainly periods when he was not around. In those days, judges or stipendiary magistrates didn’t give long sentences. You’d get two to three months for assault and battery, or for beating up the police – which was done on a regular basis. The coppers were quite into it themselves and would return for a ‘straightener’ scrap.

Hitting a police officer was considered acceptable. Talking to one was not, even if you had the misfortune of being a relative. My mother’s brother, Ted White, who ended up being Chief Constable of Durham, would drop in to see my mother if he was on a job in London. But, on the rare occasion that he visited us, my father refused to acknowledge his presence, let alone speak to him. He’d put on his hat and coat and walk out of the house. No self-respecting citizen of Sheepcote Lane would ever be seen in the company of a policeman.

My father’s hatred of authority was universal and led to a spell inside a military prison before I was born. Like my four brothers, he too had fought for King and Country, joining the army at 17. Previously, he’d been apprenticed as a blacksmith, but, when his arm was shattered by German shrapnel in the Battle of the Somme, it put an end to his blacksmith career. He returned to Aldershot, where he fell foul of a sergeant major. The sergeant poked him with his stick and my father, a young man with lots of spirit, lost his rag and whacked him with the butt of his rifle. Rather than face a court martial, he made his getaway by stealing a bicycle and cycling all the way home to London.

They eventually caught him in the bar at the Super Palace Casino, Clapham, and there was a hell of a fight. He was battered and unceremoniously dragged down to one of the military police wagons and then off to the nick.

After a further period in barracks, he was sent back into action, though not to the front line. His injuries at the Somme prevented him from using a rifle and he was packed off with a pistol to Ireland as part of the peacekeeping force. My father was of good Irish stock, so this didn’t sit well with him at all, as you can imagine – but he had little choice.

I take after him. I can’t stand being told what to do by people who abuse authority and that has got me into trouble over the years. While in custody all I have ever demanded is that which anyone else is entitled to: to be treated fairly and with civility and to be spoken to like a human being.

My old man used to say, ‘A little civility costs nothing’, and those words have stuck with me throughout my life. As a young child, I can remember he once took me for a special treat to a café, where he bought me a meat pudding and two veg. He couldn’t afford one for himself and, by the time my food was served, it was quite late and they began clearing up. As I got stuck into my meal, this guy came around and started sweeping up. Dust went everywhere. Then he began putting chairs on tables, ignoring the fact that I was a customer. My father asked him to stop, but the geezer either ignored him or made a rude comment. That was too much. My father looked menacingly at him and said, ‘Put that fucking broom down and wait for my kid to finish his meal.’ At this point I was getting embarrassed and trying to eat my food as quickly as possible because, knowing the old man, it looked like being a right fight any second now. But the man took my father’s threat seriously and stopped clearing up.

My father wasn’t a man who would take liberties, nor did he expect them to be taken. He never laid a finger on any of us five boys, although the threat was always there. Mum would give you a clump, but not viciously. And never around the head. When she got the hump with you, you’d run for the coat rack and cover yourself with the heavy khaki greatcoat from WWI. She’d then get down and smack your legs, the only exposed area she could find.

In those days, we were so poor that in winter us boys would huddle together in bed sharing the greatcoat and a couple of blankets for warmth. Gas stoves were still a luxury and there was no electricity in the house.

I was the youngest brother, and there was a considerable gap between our ages. Herbie was older by 12 years, Wally by 10, George by eight and Bert by five. Herbie was the only one to have the luxury of a single bed to himself, but he shared the same small bare room with the rest of us.

We made do with gas-fired mantel lamps above the fireplace. They would spit and splutter, occasionally making gentle popping sounds and throwing moving shadows on to the wall. Huddled together around the cooking range, toasting bread while listening to favourite programmes on our pride and joy, one crystal set radio – happy memories!

If you were the youngest, bath time could be a dirty affair. The ritual cleansing took place on Friday nights, when the tin bath was carried in from the yard and set up in the kitchen. The older boys jumped in first, so I always ended up in a tepid bath with scum floating on top – not such happy memories!

Our toilet was in the yard next to the big wooden coal bunker. Years later, after they had demolished the house, we discovered railway sleepers in the foundations. The house had probably been built on a disused railway track. In front of our place was a brick railway embankment leading to the Southern Railways trucks and wagons, which were shunted and left above some stables. Locals in Sheepcote Lane would break into these on a regular basis and nick saleable goods. Throwing caution to the wind, they would then pitch a stall and sell the goods on their front doorstep.

Nice cars were a target for us local urchins. We’d jump on to the running boards for a game and honk their horns in innocent fun. This was our street and we didn’t like outsiders. They’d interfere with our football and cricket and another game called bridge where as many boys as possible would leapfrog on your back and cling on until you collapsed under their combined weight. If nothing else, the game built up your strength.

My immediate family were amazed that I developed strong bones and a strong physical presence, because as a very young boy I was sent to a nursery suffering from malnutrition. I had rickets, so they put me in callipers to keep my legs straight and fed me all this cod-liver oil, malt and egg custard. A nurse would go around to everyone with a big spoonful of enriched vitamin mixture, which you had to take and lick clean.

As poor as my parents were, they would not have anyone say I was undernourished; they did everything to make sure I got enough to eat and exercised my little muscles. Mum used to have a mangle which, with great effort, I turned in order to squeeze dry her washing, and she’d say, ‘My, you’re a strong little boy, Freddie,’ as I swung on the handle and struggled to pull it round. She used to go to Shaftesbury Welcome, a church hall run by a charity, where they’d sing a few hymns and say some prayers. On their way out, the mothers would get a quarter of tea, a pound of sugar and a packet of biscuits. It was a hard life.

Living at Sheepcote Lane was like being part of a permanent fairground. Horse-drawn carts would constantly rumble past our house, scattering chickens as they went. Street traders came with candy floss and choc-ices. The knife sharpener would loudly announce himself and out you would run with all your mother’s knives.

Another horse-and-cart man with a small hand-driven carousel would play music as you sat in tiny wooden seats and rode slowly around a central glass dome with two figures, like a wedding couple inside. The kids loved it.

Billy goats chased us children down the lane, and every now and again you’d see policemen grappling with men resisting arrest. The muffin man would come by regularly, with trays of muffins on his head. But the most exotic attraction was ‘the coloured man’ – Prince Monalulu, who was coal black and an expert on the horses. The street was fascinated by him. Barefooted children followed him down the road, a mystery Pied Piper from foreign lands. ‘Aah got a horse,’ he’d begin and then write out little betting slips and give a rundown of horses he claimed would win races.

That would tickle my grandmother. She was a terrible gambler. She’d have betting slips in every available vase. ‘Just for reference,’ she’d say. Granny Foreman was born Stacy Flynn, of good Irish stock. She was a real scrapper, and would regularly fight with her neighbours on Saturday nights after leaving The Flag pub.

Almost everything imaginable was offered for sale in our street. From goats’ milk to stolen motorbikes, huge blocks of salt, accumulators for radios – if you were lucky enough to own one – and vinegar by the pint. As a kid, you were amazed and fascinated at the polished brass of the gypsy caravans at the bottom of the road. Those caravans were spotlessly clean inside and out.

Sometimes, for a treat, you’d be sent with a tray to the local butcher and return with specially cooked pease pudding and faggots with saveloys on the side. It was a lovely meal consisting of mashed peas made into a thick paste with brains, herbs and saveloys. You can still get it today in Bermondsey. Other than that, we’d eat a lot of bread pudding. Meat was a luxury for Sundays only and for afters my favourite was rhubarb and custard; we’d fight over who licked clean the custard basin.

Our heroes were the faces on cards given away with cigarettes. They were usually boxers like Welshman Tommy Farr (British and Empire champion), the German Walter Neusel, Ben Foord (South African champion) and Jack Doyle (Irish champion). We’d swap these with other kids as you would swap stamps. I remember listening to the Tommy Farr/Joe Louis fight in America in August 1937, when I was five. I still vividly remember us being gathered around our crystal set and excitedly awaiting the verdict. We all felt that Tommy Farr had won on points but it was a home-town decision.

All the entertainment was in pubs and you might be lucky enough to see singers and vaudeville acts at the Grand, Clapham Junction and the Princess Head in Battersea (where the army had nicked my old man). The famous blind jazz pianist George Shearing lived in Alfred Street, near The Flag pub, and used to walk past our house with his mother on the way to school for the blind.

Although we were Church of England, my father never believed in religion. He had a strict code of morals that he stuck to all his life, though. He was a proud man who would not accept charity: if he was down to his last penny, he’d stay out of the pub rather than accept drinks he couldn’t afford.

At home, he would never curse, and moral issues were spelled out in black and white. You would never steal from neighbours or your own, or from people as badly off as yourself. And a cardinal rule was that you never trusted a policeman or told them anything. I stuck to that code throughout my career as a villain. My targets were always large financial organisations or stores. I never broke into houses or mugged people. In spite of the poverty in our road, doors were left open because most people respected these unwritten rules – unlike today.

My biggest treat during those early years was to persuade my mum to allow my brother Bert to take me to a Bela Lugosi film. For weeks afterwards I paid a terrible price for this indulgence by having nightmares about zombies.

As one of the older boys, Herbie was always going to the pawn shop with something of my father’s and then retrieving it a week or so later. The old man’s suit used to get hocked as regular as clockwork. One day a woman stopped Herbie and asked him a favour. She asked him to buy her five Woodbine cigarettes, giving him the money. ‘That shopkeeper doesn’t like me,’ she said. ‘I’ll hold your brown-paper parcel,’ she continued, pointing to the suit tied up with string. When he came out of the shop with the cigarettes, however, there was no woman and no parcel. She’d done a runner with the suit!

Looking back on it, I realise how impoverished my parents were in those times. Thankfully, that era came to an end when us boys were old enough to work. From then on, we started to live reasonably well.

Herbie used to work at the Eccentric Club in Ryder Street, St James. He started off as a lift boy, and graduated to the billiard room as billiard marker. He got Wally a job replacing him on the lifts, while George worked at Whitehall Court, an exclusive apartment block on the Embankment next to the National Liberal Club.

Many famous names used the flats at Whitehall Court during the week, before returning to their country bases at weekends. Among them were George Bernard Shaw, Mr John Dewar (of the whisky family), Sir David Llewellyn and Sir Ernest Tate from the Tate and Lyle sugar family. Sir Ernest was a mean old boy and George, whose wages were then 10 shillings a week, was never tipped by him for shepherding his girlfriends into the lift up to his apartment. Most of the other gents were always generous to the hired help. Lord Wakefield, from Wakefield Oil, used to give half-crown tips every week – enormous money for those times – and John Dewar generously arranged for a whole lamb, turkeys, boxes of shortcakes and hampers to be delivered at Christmastime, along with a white £5 note. What a good old man he was. Always smiling – even though he only had one leg…

One day my father took me to a boxing match at Blackfriars Ring, near The Cut on the south bank of the Thames, to see ‘Kid Chocolat’ fight (there weren’t many black fighters in those days, and he was very famous). At around the same time, just before the war started, my brother Herbie was doing a bit of amateur boxing himself. There were pictures of him in the local newspaper when ’Erbie and Albert Bessel fought to raise money for the International Brigade, who were fighting against Franco in Spain in 1937. The Germans backed Franco with Stuker bombers and arms for Franco’s fascist army. It was a rehearsal for them before they started invading Europe. Kid Bessel from Bristol used to come and stay at our house and they’d frequently go down to Blackfriars Ring to watch the big fights and they’d tell me all about them. I had been fascinated by the sport from an early age, when I had watched the bare-knuckle contests outside The Flag pub.