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Chapter Three

My own life as I entered my twenties was going along nicely. I was earning a few quid with the old man. My boxing was fine; I was winning most of my fights and thinking seriously of turning pro.

And then I fell in love.

I was dedicated to fighting. I trained hard and nearly always went to bed early. But every sportsman needs a break some time, a chance to unwind, and one of the favourite places to do that in the East End was the Bow Civic dance hall. It was there that I met a stunning blonde who lived in nearby Poplar, the youngest of four sisters and a very talented dressmaker. She was two years younger than me and we hit it off immediately. We soon started going out seriously together.

Her name was Dorothy Moore and we felt we were destined to get married.

Mum and the old man approved of Dolly, and wedding bells rang out for us on Christmas Day 1948. Mum solved our housing problem by dismantling the gym in Vallance Road and redecorating and furnishing the room for us. We spent our honeymoon there. A week later I was in the ring at Leyton Baths, cruising to a points win in my first professional fight.

After that, I was much in demand and picked up between five and ten quid a fight. I trained hard and took everything that came my way, hoping to catch the eye of a leading promoter. The twins came to watch me fight at Hoxton, Stepney, West Ham and the famous Mile End arena, eager to pick up tips that might help them in the ring. I gained a reputation as a useful and reliable fighter, and although I didn’t have that extra touch of class that makes a champion, I was proud of my skills and my considerable local fame.

Certain necessities were still rationed, but life had more or less got back to normal after the horrors of war. We ate and slept well, and the family atmosphere Mum created for us all at Vallance Road was warm and cosy and very happy.

It seemed too good to last. And it was.

One evening in March, the old man and I came home after working in Bristol and found Mum dreadfully upset. There had been a nasty fight outside a dance hall in Mare Street, Hackney, and a boy had been badly beaten with a length of bicycle chain. The twins had been arrested. Mum couldn’t believe it; neither could the old man and I, because the twins had never once needed to use anything other than their fists to settle an argument.

The case went to the Old Bailey. The twins were innocent of the offences with which they were charged and they were rightly acquitted. But they had come face to face with that uniformed authority which they neither respected nor trusted. Just seven months later there was to be a more far-reaching and damaging confrontation.

It was a Saturday evening in October. There had been a fight near a youth club in Mansford Street, off Old Bethnal Green Road, and Police Constable Donald Bayn-ton wanted to know about it. He went up to a group of youths on a corner outside a restaurant. Picking one out, he asked if he had been involved in the fight. The boy shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

PC Baynton went up to the boy and pushed him in the stomach. The boy told him to leave him alone; he said again the fight had had nothing to do with him. The officer poked him in the stomach again.

It was a mistake. The boy was Ronnie. He didn’t like the PC’s manner one bit.

And he lashed out with a right hook to the jaw.

It wasn’t a hard blow; PC Baynton didn’t even go down. Ronnie ran off, but not very fast, and Baynton caught him. There was a brief struggle and Ronnie went quietly to Bethnal Green police station.

What happened inside that station during the next few minutes almost certainly changed Ronnie’s life for ever.

Reggie heard about the incident from one of Ronnie’s friends. Immediately, he went to the police station and waited outside. After a while, PC Baynton came out. Spotting Reggie, he grinned mockingly. ‘Oh, the other one now,’ he said. ‘I’ve just put your brother in there and given him a good hiding. He ain’t so clever now.’

Reggie sneered. ‘You won’t give me one,’ he said. Then he darted into a side street, but not too quickly.

Thinking Reggie was running away, Baynton chased after him. It was his second mistake of the evening. When he turned the corner, Reggie was waiting, and he slammed into the surprised officer’s face with a few right-and left-handers then walked away.

I was at home with Mum when someone knocked at the door and told us what had happened. When I got to the police station I couldn’t believe it. Ronnie was in a terrible state: blood all over him, his shirt ripped to pieces.

‘What the hell happened?’ I asked.

Ronnie was still defiant. His eyes hardened. ‘They got flash. A load of them came in the cell and gave me a hiding.’ He glanced over to some of them watching. ‘They all think they’re big men. If they want a row it’s ten-handed.’

I turned round on them angrily. ‘Aren’t you lot clever?’ I said sarcastically. ‘Not one of you is man enough to fight him on your own.’

‘Look, Charlie,’ one of them said in a friendly tone. ‘We don’t want any trouble – any problems.’

‘No problems!’ I yelled. ‘I’m going to cause you plenty of problems. This is diabolical, what’s happened here. You’re not getting away with beating up a sixteen-year-old kid!’

I started ranting and accused them again of being cowards. They threatened to arrest me and suggested I left. Finally I agreed but I warned them I was taking Ronnie to a doctor.

Later that evening it was bedlam at Vallance Road. Mum was crying her eyes out at the sight of Ronnie’s smashed face; Ronnie was trying to console her, saying he was all right and he hadn’t hurt the policeman anyway; the old man and I were wondering if we could take legal action. Then there was a knock at the front door. It was an inspector the old man knew from the local nick. PC Baynton was with him, looking the worse for wear. The Inspector wanted to speak to Reggie.

When I said he wasn’t in, the Inspector motioned towards Baynton. ‘Look what he’s done to him,’ he said.

‘Oh, yeah,’ I replied scornfully. ‘Come in and have a look at what your officers have done to Ronnie.’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the Inspector said.

I made them come in and see Ronnie anyway. ‘You’re dead worried because one of your men copped a right-hander,’ I said. ‘Ronnie got more than that – from half a dozen of them.’

The Inspector didn’t want to know. All he wanted was to arrest Reggie and charge him with assault. A few minutes later Reggie walked in. After a brief chat I advised him it was best for everyone if he gave himself up, and he did. But I warned the Inspector that if Reggie was so much as touched, I’d blow the whole thing wide open to the papers.

A day or so later, the old man was told the police didn’t want to make a song and dance about it unless they were forced to. The twins had to be charged because they had unquestionably assaulted a policeman, but they would be treated leniently – probably just put on probation – if I kept quiet about Ronnie’s beating. If I didn’t, the police would make it unpleasant for the whole family – starting with nicking the old man for dodging the call-up. I decided to swallow it.

A few days after their seventeenth birthday the twins appeared at Old Street in North London, accused of assault. For some reason, the magistrate, Mr Harold Sturge, praised PC Baynton’s courage in a ‘cowardly attack’. No mention, however, was made of the cowardly attack behind closed doors at Bethnal Green police station.

Not long afterwards Baynton was moved to a different area. But the PC had fuelled the twins’ resentment and distrust of uniformed authority and the legacy of his arrogance that autumn evening was to last a lifetime.

The Baynton episode did nothing to destroy the myth that was growing up around the twins. They were tough and fearless and, in the tradition of the Wild West where the ‘fastest guns’ were always the target of other sharpshooters, they became marked young men in the East End. Hard nuts from neighbouring districts came looking for them in search of fame and glory as The Kids Who Toppled The Krays. Like the police, they came mob-handed. But they never came back.

One evening Reggie walked into the house at just after ten at night. I told him Ronnie had left a message saying he was in the Coach and Horses with his friend, Pat Butler. It was nearly closing time and I said it was a bit late to go, but Reggie had a strange feeling he ought to. He left quickly. What happened when he got there became the talk of the East End for months.

Ronnie was in the saloon bar with Pat. As Reggie walked in, Ronnie said, ‘Just in time.’ He nodded to nine youths at the other end of the bar. ‘That little firm are looking for us.’

A few minutes later, the twins told Pat to make sure he stayed out of the way, then dashed out of the door, as though they were scared. But it was only a ploy to reduce the odds a little. As four of the rival gang followed them into the street, the twins doubled back into the saloon, through the public bar, taking the remaining five by surprise.

It was an almighty battle. Fists flew, chairs were thrown, tables overturned. Although the twins were outnumbered by more than two to one, they floored the whole lot. And when the other four ran back in, they knocked them out too. Amazingly, the twins came out of that scrap virtually unscathed. But one of the kids, Bill Donovan, who Ronnie had hit with a chair, was taken to hospital with a badly damaged eye.

The twins were very concerned about Bill and asked me to ring the hospital. I pretended to be a relation and asked how he was. A nurse said he was stable, but nobody knew if the eye was going to be permanently damaged. It was a worrying few days. The twins kept telling me to ring and eventually, to the twins’ relief, we learned Donovan was going to be all right.

Pat Butler told me later that he was in the street after the fight had ended and an old man had asked him who the twins were. He’d never seen anything like it; it was like a scene from a Western.

One night a few weeks later the twins were spotted going into a cafe in Commercial Road. When they came out, they found themselves facing ten members of the so-called Watney Street Gang who, it seemed, were intent on teaching them to stay in Bethnal Green. The twins did not want to risk waiting for the usual preliminaries to a punch-up; they waded into the mob, laying six of them out on the pavement. The rest, not fancying the new odds, ran off.

Incidents like this built up the legend that the twins were tough guys who went around the East End looking for people to punch. That is far-fetched and unfair. What is true is that they were tasting power for the first time. They had been accustomed to victory in the ring against one opponent but now they knew they were hard and tough and skilful enough to take on, and beat, eight or nine between them.

And they enjoyed the feeling.

The Albert Hall was packed that night, 11 December 1951. Tommy McGovern, one of my contemporaries at the Robert Browning Institute, was defending his British light-heavyweight championship. And five of the other seven bouts involved Bethnal Green fighters – including the three Kray brothers. It was the first time we had appeared on the same bill together, and it was to be the last.

In those days, a boxer had really arrived when he appeared at the Albert Hall or Harringay Arena; it had taken me eighteen victories in twenty contests. But the twins, who had turned pro in July, had made it there after just six fights – and six wins. That’s still a British boxing record.

My appearance almost never happened. I had decided to quit boxing and hadn’t been in the ring for several months. But I wanted an extra bit of money for Christmas and agreed to take on an unbeaten Aldgate welterweight called Lew Lazar for twenty-five quid.

We were the first three fights on. First, Ronnie lost to a clever boxer from King’s Cross named Bill Sliney, whom Reggie had outpointed two months before. Sliney was not too keen to continue after a first-round mauling by Ronnie, but he was persuaded to, and won a points verdict. Reggie’s cool, scientific style earned him an easy points win over Bob Manito, of Clapham, and then it was my turn.

Unfortunately, it was a night when the deafening cheers of the Bethnal Green faithful could not help me. I’d been out of action too long and my timing was haywire. My pride got me to my feet after two counts of nine in the first two rounds, but a left hook in the guts finished me in the third.

I spent some of the twenty-five quid on a white fur coat for my baby son, Gary, who had been born two days after the twins turned pro. But it was my last boxing pay-day. I never put the gloves on in public again. Neither did the twins. For the next two years they were to pit their strength against a very different opponent.

The Army.

The twins filled in their time between call-up and reporting by joining the old man and me on the knocker. But they didn’t show much enthusiasm, and it was a relief to them when they were ordered to report at the Tower of London for service with the Royal Fusiliers. They left Vallance Road early one March morning in 1952.

And were back in time for tea.

Mum asked what on earth had happened, but the twins were in a foul temper and refused to tell her. They went out and didn’t come back until the early hours when we’d all gone to bed. Later that morning, they were arrested for deserting.

They had, it transpired, reacted badly to uniformed authority once again. An NCO had shouted some orders to them. The twins didn’t like his attitude, his lack of respect, and one of them had thumped him. Then they had walked out, deciding Army life wasn’t for them.

And after an uncomfortable week’s punishment in the guardroom, they walked out again.

To me, it all seemed a terrible waste. Just four months before, they had been promising young boxers with just one minor blot on their record, for which they had been treated leniently. Now they were wanted men facing serious disciplinary action and, almost certainly, jail. I went to see them in hiding in various parts of London, and tried to persuade them to give themselves up. I told them the Forces favoured sportsmen; they could do well with their boxing talent. But it was a waste of breath, as usual. The twins were not going to serve in the Army and that was that.

They stayed on the run until early November, two weeks after their nineteenth birthday. Then one cold, snowy night Reggie suddenly turned up at Vallance Road. Mum was desperately worried for him but Reggie assured her he was all right. He stayed with her for about an hour then left. As he walked into the street, a voice called out, ‘Hello, Reg. I’m going to take you in.’ It was PC John Fisher, who knew the twins by sight.

Reggie asked him calmly to do him a favour and go away; he didn’t want a row. But PC Fisher said he couldn’t do that and lunged forward to grab him. Reggie ducked and threw a right hand. PC Fisher fell to the ground and Reggie hurried away in the snow.

It was only a matter of time. The police knew both twins were in the area and they were picked up a few hours later.

At Thames Street Court that morning the magistrate, Colonel W. E. Batt, jailed them for a month. It was the first time they had seen the inside of a prison as convicted persons.

After their sentence, a military escort took the twins to Wemyss Barracks at Canterbury, Kent, where they were court-martialled for desertion. They escaped yet again, but it was a short-lived freedom and on 12 May 1953 the twins found themselves serving nine months’ detention in the notorious military prison of Shepton Mallet in Somerset.

It was to be a tough nine months…for the Army! The prison staff at Shepton Mallet had never seen anyone like the twins before, and several sergeants were replaced because they couldn’t handle them. The twins were so uncontrollable that the Commanding Officer sought my help. He wondered why it was impossible to get through to the twins with words, why they resolved everything with violence. I tried to explain that life was like that in the East End; if anyone tried to threaten you, you hit them first. It was a world which that polite, charming CO would never understand, and he asked me to have a quiet word with the twins. I agreed to try.

The twins were unimpressed that I’d been having a cosy chat over a cup of tea with the CO; all the guards understood was a punch in the face, they said, and that was what they’d get. Nothing I tried to say cut any ice with them. They simply would not tolerate being ordered around. Tell them to do something and they’d rebel. Ask them, in a civil tone, and they would be fine. Ronnie, particularly, would rebel against a strong person, unless he had reason to respect him. There was one sergeant there they did like: he was firm but courteous, and they did what he told them.

The twins didn’t always use violence to make their point. One day a military policeman who had been giving Ronnie a hard time was standing outside the cobbler’s shop where Ronnie was working. Suddenly Ronnie rushed out, blood all over his face, screaming, ‘That’s it! I’ve done it now! It’s all over! Better get in there!’

The guard, convinced there had been a murder, dashed off to get reinforcements, but by the time they arrived everything was calm. Ronnie, who had smeared the blood over his face after cutting his hand slightly while working, was back at his bench.

‘What the hell happened here?’ demanded a senior officer.

Ronnie looked at him blankly. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. Then he looked at the embarrassed MP. ‘He must be going round the bend. Been working too hard or something.’

It is a pity that the NCO at the Tower of London rubbed the twins up the wrong way that March morning in 1952, because I’m sure they could have made something of themselves in the Army. They were fit and strong, and they would have loved the physical side; I’m sure they would have become physical training instructors in no time. They both had a lot of guts, too: once, on an assault course, Ronnie jumped from something and landed awkwardly, crashing his knee sickeningly into his chin. But he forced himself to carry on; he had unbelievable determination and hated quitting anything. They both had a gift for leadership, too, and had it been wartime I feel it would have been a very different story. They were the type who could so easily have distinguished themselves with courage in the face of extreme danger.

As it was, the twins spent what should have been the rest of their National Service giving the Shepton Mallet staff a very hard time. And when they were thrown out on to Civvy Street towards the end of 1953 each of their records bore that ugly scar: Dishonorable Discharge.

What, I wondered, were they going to do with the rest of their lives?