Читать книгу Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story - Jamie Foreman - Страница 9
ОглавлениеThree pairs of brown socks, three pairs of black socks, three pairs of long socks and three pairs of short socks; three pairs for cricket, three for football and rugby. And then there were the pants, pyjamas, shirts and short trousers.
My tearful mum and I packed all the kit into my new trunk. Christ, I thought, I really am going on the adventure of a lifetime. I was seven years old. In my head it was as if I was getting ready to embark on a journey to distant lands – India, Africa perhaps. In reality I would soon be greeted by a stern matron and even sterner headmaster at Christ’s College Preparatory School in Blackheath, South-east London. The Regency-style, flat-fronted building I turned up to might as well have been on the other side of the planet, yet ironically it was less than half-an-hour’s drive from the pub.
Where I came from, it wasn’t exactly the norm to go to a private school, but the lifestyle Mum and Dad had achieved wasn’t exactly the norm either. My older brother Gregory had gone there a couple of years before me, which made it easier for me to get in, but I’m sure a little bit of skulduggery helped secure my place. I later found out Dad knew one of the governors, and it was a case of the old ‘not what you know, but who you know’ working its magic. Still, I remember the interviews, and especially Mum and Dad speaking a bit posh and trying to make a good impression, and the memory of that always makes me smile.
Our parents wanted the best for us kids, and sending us to good schools was part of getting it. It was a case of giving us a good start so we didn’t end up going down other roads. I’d say I was sent to boarding school for my betterment, to make a man of me. I knew how loved I was and I didn’t resent Mum and Dad one bit for taking me out of my familiar environment and giving me a new direction. I understood, and I also knew that Dad saw boarding school as a way of keeping me safe from harm. He operated in a dangerous world and he didn’t want me to get caught up in it.
Christ’s College wasn’t Eton, but it was certainly run along similar lines. Structure, discipline, fraternity, self-discipline and an all-round education were the order of the day. The school, which had a long tradition dating back to the 1880s, catered for a broad range of types – from ‘old money’ to kids like me representing the emerging class of people who could suddenly afford fee-paying schools, to sons of international diplomats and the Persian aristocracy. Being surrounded by such a wide spectrum of people from different cultures taught me how to get on with just about anyone, no matter what their background. It didn’t matter who you were or where you came from: once you donned the red blazer you were all equal.
I was used to being away from my parents round Auntie Nell’s, but starting at the school was still a bit of a shock, to put it mildly. Until then I’d always done pretty much what I wanted, and suddenly I was being shown around an alien environment by an older boy with a posh accent and having rules drummed into me. And the rules were mostly things you couldn’t do, of course. I could hardly believe it when I was told bedtime was 6.30pm, when I’d been used to scampering home whenever it got dark. The endless regulations weren’t exactly music to my ears, yet over time I came to find them strangely reassuring. There’s something about boundaries that kids need and respect. It gives their lives structure. Christ’s College Prep School is where I learned that and it certainly stood me in good stead.
My propensity to adapt to different surroundings is one of my greatest strengths. I can always make the best of a bad situation, and over the years I’ve had to many times. I quickly became part of the furniture in my first year, rising to become Dormitory Captain – which meant it was my responsibility to look after the new boys – and before I knew it I was having the time of my life. There were occasional bouts of homesickness, periods that were very painful to endure, but I doubt there is anyone who has attended a boarding school and not gone through them. We were just children, after all. But your friends pulled you through, so the blues never lasted long. We all developed a great bond of mutual understanding.
Life was organised rigidly, my routine was solid, and as a result I eventually arrived at a lovely feeling of security and warmth. And as for the rules, well, some of them were there to be broken. I became pretty adept at getting up to no good, while making sure I didn’t get caught. Perhaps it’s in my genes, I don’t know, but I found my experiences on the street – or ‘street smarts’ as I call them – came in handy. It was all pretty innocent – pranks after lights out, slipping out of school at night for fish and chips (a very risky and lucrative enterprise which, if found out, would have resulted in at least a caning from a housemaster).
It was all good training in the art of subterfuge. Kids at boarding schools are just the same as kids anywhere – the moment you’re up and about in the morning, you’re thinking, What can I get away with? How can I get out of one thing and into another? It’s hardly any wonder that public schools are the breeding ground for the nation’s finest soldiers, spies and politicians.
The trouble was there was nowhere to hide if you were caught. And I didn’t always get away with it. The teachers had seen it all before, and so had the dreaded prefects, and it was these senior boys who tended to dish out a lot of the punishment. The prefects were our Gestapo and, although it was foolish to mess with them, mess with them we did. It was all part of the game. If you stepped out of line you got a beating. The slipper was their favourite. Let me tell you, there’s nothing like a size-nine gym shoe to bring a lump to the throat and a tear to the eye. But I never cried. I’d never give them the satisfaction. You had to take it with good grace – thank them even!
One day when I was about eight or nine, I must have been caught in some dastardly misdemeanour and pushed my luck with the prefects more than usual. I’d opened my big mouth in an attempt to lie my way out of it and wound them up big time. Punishment was swift and, as usual, highly imaginative. I’ll never forget my two cohorts and I being hauled into a classroom at lunchtime by three big prefects – they were only about 17, but they seemed full-grown men to us. Before we knew it, the bastards had whipped our blazers off, slipped a coat hanger into each, told us to put them back on and then hung us up on coat hooks. Brilliant! There we were, the three of us hanging side by side. To add to it, before long, half the school were pointing through the windows and laughing at us. Oh, the indignity. There was no escape. They left us there the whole of the lunch break. But eventually they came back and let us go. We took it on the chin, of course. There was nothing else you could do. I didn’t feel like I’d been abused or anything; we knew we’d done something wrong and we’d been well and truly punished for it. Simple.
The prefects could be ruthless, but when push came to shove the ethos of the school, particularly between the boarders, was ‘all for one and one for all’. If a boy needed looking after, everyone would rally around and make sure he was OK. One day I managed to impale my leg on a railing while we were all playing ‘run outs’ in a part of the school we called the ‘bombed gardens’ as it had taken a direct hit during the Second World War. I was stuck, in agony, and unable to move. Instead of panicking, all the boys organised themselves immediately. After prising me gently from the railing, they formed a human chain and passed me along. I was so small that they could toss me to one another until I arrived in the arms of a prefect, who whisked me off to the matron. I was bleeding profusely and in shock, but still able to appreciate the gentle efficiency of their actions. It was the quickest way of getting me – one of their own – to safety, and to me it perfectly sums up the wonderful sense of mutual care that permeated the school. That sense of fraternity and camaraderie has never left me and never will. Even today, it is boarding school that I dream of to calm me during times of stress.
‘Jamie’s academic achievement leaves something to be desired but his sporting abilities are a credit to the school.’ So read one of my school reports. I was so proud of the last bit. I loved all the sports at school and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more honoured than when I was named captain of the football, cricket and rugby teams. Dayboys went home to watch television all evening, but for us that was a weekend treat. Us boarders spent all our spare time in the playground squaring up to the older boys. We were super-fit and highly competitive, and sport was everything to us.
Saturday afternoons were the highlight of my week. Chaperoned by my brother Gregory and his friends, we’d head for the Lewisham Odeon or the local ABC cinema. The freedom of being let out for the day, and the magic of watching that week’s new release, was heaven. My love of movies began there. The Italian Job, 2001: A Space Odyssey, anything with John Wayne, Fantasia and of course each new James Bond – I loved them all.
You can imagine, then, my excitement when I heard that the school was putting on a play. Mr Parry and Mr Nightingale would be holding auditions for their production of Burke and Hare. The part I coveted was Jamie the Simpleton – a role I believed was written for me. The teachers didn’t disagree either! Mr Parry was a slightly nutty, red-haired, Welsh art teacher (who incidentally appeared in the Richard Burton film version of Under Milk Wood) and Mr Nightingale was a lovely New Zealander (who incidentally was the only teacher to get me caned by a headmaster for calling him by his nickname – you guessed it – Florence). Both were wonderful men who were instrumental in encouraging my love of acting. I found the experience so exhilarating and highly addictive. The play was very well received and I remember how proud my mum was of me. Apart from a brief appearance as the Cat in Peter and the Wolf at Charles Dickens Primary, this was the beginning of my burgeoning career. I’m still at it over 40 years later, so I must be doing something right.
At the end of each term, my school friends and I parted company. Other boys would return to the four corners of the world – while I would make the short journey back to family and friends in my beloved South London. The contrast between my two worlds could not have been starker. I’d shed my school uniform for civvies and leave the rigidity of rules and regulations behind. Mum and Dad would spoil me rotten – a hint of parental guilt, perhaps? – and I exploited the situation to the full. Having love and goodies heaped on me was wonderful after being away from home for so long.
Dad’s exploits allowed him and Mum to enjoy the finer things that Swinging Sixties London had to offer. I remember fantastic lunches at Simpson’s in the Strand and J. Sheekey (Dad’s favourite restaurants and still mine today), shopping trips to Harrods and Hamleys and the joys of Carnaby Street in its heyday. We went on fantastic holidays to Portugal, Morocco and once took a stunning trip around Antigua, Jamaica and Nassau in the Bahamas. Wow!
We also owned a caravan at Coghurst in Kent. My aunt Nellie and uncle John would take me down for summer holidays. I adored it. There was a large lake to row and fish in and extensive woodland to explore. Heaven. An added bonus was that most of my dad’s friends also had caravans there, which allowed me to spend time with their kids, the Everetts, Masons, Gerrards and O’Maras. To this day, Shelley, Mark and Bradley Everett remain among my closest friends. The dads would come down at weekends and it truly was a magical time.
I loved school and I loved being back at home. I am eternally grateful for having experienced the best of both of those worlds. Mixing with the ‘upperworld’ and the underworld gave me the ability to be comfortable in any strata of society, and I find I’m never overawed by the company in which I find myself.
Boarding school opened me up to another world. If Mum and Dad hadn’t given me that gift, I may have gone down a different path in life. I may have followed in my dad’s footsteps far more than I did. Who knows? I may have ended up in a similar position to my beloved father, who in 1968 was charged with the murder of Frank ‘The Mad Axeman’ Mitchell and with being an accessory in the murder of Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie.
I loved living in two worlds. But now, suddenly, my whole life was turned upside down.
