Fighting to the Death Read online

  There were plenty of old characters on my manor when I was growing up. They were mainly Jack-the-lad types but they’d always help you out if you were in a spot and I learned a lot from them. They weren’t necessarily villains but they were always there if you had any bother. Back then if you wanted a cup of sugar, or a lot more besides, you could always knock on someone’s door. Everyone liked to stop and have a chat in the street. People’s front doors were nearly always left open.

  There was a corner shop near us called Clayton’s that sold just about everything from ice lollies to baked beans. You could always get things on tick at old man Clayton’s place. He had the tastiest sliced ham straight off the bone. It melted in your mouth. I was always in and out of the shop doing errands for my mum.

  Old Mr Clayton was a real gent. He knew all the kids’ names as well as the adults’. He’d first opened the shop during the last war and I suppose most of the business back then must have been through ration vouchers and stuff like that. By the time I was growing up on the manor, Mr Clayton was in his seventies but still as sharp as a tack. He was such a decent person he’d never tell a customer they owed money on tick in front of anyone else. Instead, he’d stop kids like me in the street ever so casually and say, ‘Tell your mum I need to see her.’ He was always giving me handfuls of sweets, especially if mum had just paid her bill.

  When I went on my first day to St James’s Infant School, aged five, I had to be dragged screaming from our house because I didn’t want to leave home. My two brothers didn’t seem to find it so tough, but I had a real problem getting along with other kids. I was a loner and I’ve stayed that way ever since. It’s stupid when I think back on it now, but I just didn’t want to go to school at all.

  About the only thing I did learn in infant school was that it didn’t matter what colour a person’s skin was – if you liked ‘em that was all that counted. I found myself sitting in a class with black, brown, yellow – you name it – and I judged them all the same. Pretty quick I got close to two black kids called Alex and Fraser. Later, I realised that the reason I got on so well with black people was that they knew what it was like to be the outsiders – and that’s how I’ve felt all my life.

  Compared to many of my mates back in those days, I was lucky really. At least there was a good atmosphere in the house when my mum was home. We all got on well and she taught me the importance of respecting other people – not to get in their face and cause aggro.

  It has to be said we ware something of an accident-prone family. My baby sis, Lee, broke her arm in a playground, brother Ian got run over by a milk float but lived to tall the tale, and there were countless household scraps, but nothing any worse than what other families suffered.

  I suppose the TV was my very best friend during much of my childhood. My favourite programme was The Sweeney. I loved losing myself in all that cops-and-robbers action. I’d be glued to the sat for hours on end. Naturally, round where I came from, it was the robbers who were our heroes. I also loved Tom and Jerry. I used to get really close to the telly and watch it on my own. Sometimes I’d talk back to some of the characters on the box. They seemed a lot nicer than many of the people I came across.

  Then my mum went and ruined it all by making me and my brothers join the local cub pack. She thought it’d be good for us to get out and about. But being a bit of a loner, I didn’t react well to any form of discipline. Worse still, a lot of the other kids were snotty towards us because we couldn’t afford the full cub kit.

  The only good time we ever had was when we want on a weekend camping trip to the Lake District. But then my brother John fell in the water from a canoe and I had to dive in and rescue him. I felt really proud to have saved him. But when we got back to London the cub master didn’t even bother saying goodbye to us, which made me feel that none of them really cared.

  The last straw came when an older cub took a nasty dislike to me and fired pot-shots at me with an air-rifle when I walked out of the scout hall one day. I got three pellets in my backside. I naturally made out I was close to death so that Mum would let me quit the cubs: it worked a treat. I was much happier back on my own.

  From about the age of seven my best mate was a kid called Jason Neill, the son of a well-known local ducker and diver called Ron Neill. I suppose I was dead jealous of Jason because his dad was around most of the time and was always handing out tenners and fivers to us kids. That was a hell of a lot of money to a poverty-stricken nipper like me. Ron Neill seemed to have money spilling out of every pocket.

  The Neills lived in a much bigger house than anyone else I knew. Jason and I got up to so much mischief together that they had to separate us in class. He was essentially a shy kind of kid like me, but with more money. Jason had a really expensive pushbike, which made me green with envy every time I saw it.

  Nearby Wanstead Flats provided a perfect retreat – a brilliant haven for boys like me and Jason. We’d take our toy pistols with us and have imaginary fights. We pretended we were soldiers trained to the peak of our ability. We were often out until after dark on the Flats, which is something no parent would allow these days. Jason and I even took specially prepared ‘survival kits’, consisting of a bar of chocolate and a soggy cheese sandwich.

  We loved laying small traps hidden under a covering of leaves so that anyone who walked over it would be caught by a piece of string and then mud would flick at them. Jason loved digging holes so deep that anyone walking along the pathway would lose their footing and crash to the ground. We used to hide in nearby trees and laugh our heads off watching them.

  Eventually Jason and me made our own secret treehouse, in amongst the woods of the Flats. It was a three-pronged platform built between three massive oak trees. We’d sit in that treehouse for hours watching the traffic flow past a hundred yards away. We were both obsessed by cars back in those days. Jason’s dad had a brand new, flashy Toyota. But Jason said what he really wanted was an Aston Martin, just like James Bond. I kept quiet about the fact my mum couldn’t even afford a Ford Escort. As the cars drove past we had a competition to see who could name the make of car the fastest. We knew all the different models, even down to the engine sizes. ‘I knew a 2000E Cortina from a 1600 just by the sound of the engine.

  One day Jason and me spotted the handlebars of a motorbike in the main pond on the Flats. We pulled the bike out of the water to find it was virtually brand new. Obviously someone had nicked it and then dumped it. We spent hours trying to kick-start it and then gave up and pushed it back into the pond for good measure.

  At the same time each Saturday, dozens of model airplane and boat operators would swarm onto the Flats. My mates and me used to rub mud on our faces and pretend we were on special patrol through the woods. Then we’d settle ourselves in the treehouse and have a right laugh watching the planes crashing into the woods nearby. We’d run over to where they’d crashed, and start winding up the owners as they knelt over their broken model planes, saying, ‘That’s a rubbish plane that one. You should go for something dearer next time.’ They’d get really cheesed off.

  One time me and Jason found an old air gun in a cupboard in his house and lugged it onto the Flats to take pot-shots at the model airplanes. The idea was to pretend they were Nazi bombers coming over to destroy our homes just like the real things had done in the East End thirty years earlier. It was only when Jason pulled the airgun out of a bag that we realised it might be a real shooter. It seemed heavy enough and it smelt of oil and grease. It turned out to have just two bullets in it and we shot them into a tree nearby. I nearly fell over when it came to my turn. We were bloody lucky no-one was hurt. I’ve never forgotten the terror I felt shooting that weapon. Then we sneaked it back into the cupboard at Jason’s house just before the old man came back. Years later I realised he was probably holding on to that shooter for some blagger to use in a robbery.

  The following weekend we stuck to more simple games such as laying obstacles on the runway used to land the model ai
rplanes. That caused a right load of chaos and we nearly got our ears clipped when one owner spotted us running from the scene: but if we’d used that real shooter on the model aeroplanes, God knows what would have happened.

  Jason and me used to hold pretend trial biking competitions on Wanstead Flats. All it really involved was jumping over ditches on our bikes but we both always ended up coming home covered in cuts and bruises. One day Jason and I were out playing on the Flats when he told me his mum and dad were always fighting. It’s a bit twisted to admit it, but that made me feel better. So I wasn’t the only one with fucked-up parents.

  A few days later I called at Jason’s and a stranger answered the front door and said that Jason and his mum had gone away and wouldn’t be coming back. I was very upset. How could he just take off without saying a word? What sort of friend did that?

  Not long afterwards, his dad Ron came barging his way into our house asking me if I knew where Jason and his mum had gone. I said I hadn’t got a clue, which was true. ‘You lying to me, son?’ he asked sternly. I shook my head so furiously it almost came off its hinges. Then my mum chipped in, ‘Of course he’s telling the truth.’ It was only then I realised they’d scarpered to get away from Ron. It turned out Ron had whacked his wife and then got so violent she’d decided to do a permanent runner.

  Here we were living in a hovel with barely the money to pay the bills but at least we weren’t on the run from a psycho dad. And you know what? Ron Neill never did find Jason or his mum and he ended up drinking himself to death just a few months later. They reckon he also died of a broken heart.

  My mum often had music on in our flat. She loved all that sixties stuff like Ray Charles, The Temptations and most of the Motown artists of the day. Not surprisingly, I ended up being a big Stevie Wonder fan. Every weekend Mum had the record player on full blast all day, even during Sunday lunch. That’s when my dad would retreat to the local boozer and stay there for most of the day while we tucked into sausages and roast potatoes.

  In those days, Mum and Dad had a boozy party about once a month with their mates. It was the only time they seemed happy together. We were allowed to stay up late and often we’d nick a few peanuts, crisps and those miniature sausages on sticks, and sneak them into our bedroom. Our parents were the life and soul of those parties – thinking of those evenings brings back happy memories.

  Then one day Dad announced he’d been offered some building work up north in Yorkshire and we’d all have to move up there pronto. The old man claimed it was much cheaper to live there. But within a couple of months he’d lost his job so we all trooped back down south with nowhere to live and ended up in a homeless hostel. Then my dad went and did a runner.

  For about two weeks Mum, my brothers and me lived in that crummy hostel not knowing where our next square meal was coming from. I remember one night I was woken up by a strange scratching noise. Then something brushed my toes. It was a big, fat grey rat. I jumped out of my skin. I’ve never liked rodents since.

  Mum and us three kids were huddled in that hostel all alone and very desperate. Then Dad came trooping back one day as if nothing had happened and announced he’d got us an upstairs council flat in Station Road, Forest Gate. It felt like Buckingham Palace after that hostel. But with two bedrooms it was a tight squeeze, to say the least.

  But the old man’s happy-go-lucky mood didn’t last long. One night – I was about eight at the time – me and my brothers were tucked up in bed when Mum and Dad started one of their regular shouting matches. I lay there trembling as the yelling got louder and louder. John and Ian were fast asleep on the bottom bunk bed, but I couldn’t get any shuteye because of the noise. Suddenly, I heard something break. It sounded like a vase or a bit of crockery. Anyhow, I leapt down to the floor from the top bunk and headed over to the door.

  ‘Come here, you fuckin’ bitch!’

  My dad sounded completely out of control. I ran down the corridor and got to the top of the stairs. My tiny little mum came dashing out of the lounge. The old man was on her tail, towering over her.

  They hadn’t spotted me. That’s when my dad lifted his arm as if he was about to whack my mum. He seemed like a giant to me back then. He was six feet one and fit as a fiddle, and Mum seemed so small up against him. I puffed up my chest and shouted at the top of my voice: ‘Leave her alone!’ The old man was so shocked his arm stopped in mid air. Tears were rolling down my mum’s puffy, reddened cheeks.

  I flew down the stairs and stood right between them. But then they started ranting and raving at each other again. My mum reached up over me and slapped my dad right across the face. He didn’t respond but simply turned around and walked towards the bedroom. The flat went deathly quiet. A few moments later he emerged from the bedroom with a sports bag in his hand.

  I followed my mum around the house as she shouted and screamed at him. In a way, I suppose I’d decided she needed protection. But, on reflection, she did go a bit over the top at him.

  Then my older bruv John appeared and began begging my dad not to go, John and younger bruv Ian were in floods of tears and both hung onto Dad’s trouser legs as he headed down the corridor towards the front door.

  ‘I’ve gotta go, boys, I’ve had enough,’ he told them while glancing back at my mum standing, hands on hips, watching him from the kitchen doorway. I stood back and observed the scene. Of course I was sad but I was more worried about my mum at the time.

  The truth is my mum and dad had never really got on. These days they’re reasonable friends. You’ve gotta remember Dad was still young, with lots of kids. The pressure must have been unbearable in many ways. A few days later he came round to tell us exactly what had happened and why he’d left, but it didn’t make it any easier to handle.

  At least Dad never laid another finger on Mum. She told me later that he was so shocked by my appearance that night, it made him stop and think about what had been going on between them. That’s when he’d decided it was time to call it a day. But you know what? I’m not proud of what I did because sometimes I think that if I’d kept out of it, he’d still be my fulltime dad to this day.

  Back then the old man was still struggling to get employment as a plumber, so he started working the doors at some right dodgy clubs in the East End. No doubt he was up to mischief, earning a bob or two from ducking and diving. And there’s no denying he had a temper on him, but he was no worse than most dads round where I lived. The nastiest thing he ever did to me was when I got a bit lippy with him and he hauled me up by my ankles and started slapping my backside. It didn’t half hurt. But then I’d deserved it for being a pain in the neck, like most kids.

  It’s a shame I don’t have better memories of Dad. They are summed up by the time he came to visit me when I had my tonsils out in hospital. I must have been eight going on nine and the old man gave me an Action Man as a get-well present. Bloody thing was obviously second-hand because a few minutes after he’d left the hospital the head snapped off. I was so upset I cried myself to sleep that night.

  But thankfully my dad never went for me or my brothers and sister Lee, who was born just after my dad walked out. It was him and my mum who had the punch-ups. After they split, he’d come round once or twice a month and take us all out for a day trip to places like the Tower of London. He tried his hardest, but he never really said much and I can’t honestly say he ever gave me one real word of advice the whole time I was a kid, which isn’t saying much, is it?

  Meanwhile, me and my mates in Forest Gate started getting up to our own brand of mischief. We’d pop over the wall of the local boozer, the Angel, nick a few empty beer and pop bottles and then bring them back into the pub’s off-licence to claim the value of the empties. We used to get sixpence a go, which was very useful dough for an eight-year-old, I can tell you.

  Then Mum and us kids got transferred by the council to a virtually new house just around the corner from our flat, even nearer to the vast green pastures of Wanstead Flats. It was really posh compa
red to what we were used to and my house-proud mum always kept it clean. But none of that stopped me and my brothers from causing havoc in the neighbourhood.

  One day we almost got pinched by the local law after nicking some of Mum’s stockings and putting them over our heads, grabbing a couple of toy guns and pretending to stick up the local newsagent. The owner, Mr Patel, blew his top when he realised it was a prank by a bunch of kids. We were only saved because Mum wandered in for a packet of Silk Cut just after we’d got caught. She gave us a right tongue-lashing following that little escapade.

  After my dad went walkabout, a few ‘new dads’ appeared on the horizon so my brothers and sister (Lee was only a baby then) spent a lot of our time over on Wanstead Flats. Our experience of Dad had not exactly made us very keen on any grown men entering the household. We saw them as a threat to our happiness.

  Wanstead Flats was like an escape hatch for me and my brothers. We called it the countryside, even though it was only a couple of streets from home. It seemed like another world. Lots of green grass, a pond and huge, tall trees where we could shelter from the rain. It was paradise, really. I don’t know how we’d have survived life at that time without the Flats.

  Back at home, Mum held down at least two jobs to keep the family together, cleaning offices in the day and working behind the bars of local pubs in the evenings. Sometimes we had a baby-sitter but most of the time we fended for ourselves. Yet despite Mum’s absences, we still lived in a loving home. I never felt abandoned, nor did my brothers or sister. We were gritty survivors. It was us against the world and we were going to win.

  At one stage back then, we were so skint that we literally didn’t even have a tin of beans in the kitchen cupboard. They were pretty desperate times. In those days Mum regularly visited the local loan shark who played a vital role in our survival. He even sometimes helped my mum carry her shopping back to our house because he lived nearby.