by Linda Calvey
“Stop ’ere mate, thanks,” he said, handing a note to the man, who tipped his cap. I looked up as Mickey helped me out.
The club we’d stopped outside of was run by a mate of Mickey’s called Colin. Inside, it was dark but plush, with a DJ and a small dancefloor, as well as booths in red velvet with tables in front.
Colin greeted us warmly. “What kept you?” he smiled. “I told you to come along as soon as you came home. You’ve been out a few months now.”
“It’s great to see ya,” Mickey replied. “I wasn’t coming until I had a couple of new whistles made.”
“Ah, of course,” Colin said, turning to me. “I forgot what a peacock he was.” We all burst into laughter. “You never saw anybody with such perfect prison gear. When we were inside together, his was all pressed like he was going out.”
Mickey gave me a wink.
“Whatever you want tonight is on me,” Colin added. He called the bar tender over to put a bottle of champagne on ice for us.
“I’ll tell you exactly what I want,” said Mickey, with a mischievous look. “I want the DJ to play ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine’ by Marvin Gaye.”
“No problem,” grinned Colin. “Anything at all that you want, you just let me know.”
“That’s all I want,” Mickey nodded. “But I want it played all night.”
“You’re joking,” Colin goggled.
“No I ain’t. Or are you going back on your word?” asked Mickey, with a wry smile.
“No, of course not,” Colin replied, looking a little flustered. “Your wish is my command.”
He went over to the DJ, took the mic, and pointed to us, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a good friend of mine, Mickey Calvey. He’s just come out of the big house and I made a promise he could have anything he wanted.”
Everyone cheered.
“Well, he wants Marvin Gaye ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine’.”
They cheered again.
“The only thing is, he wants it played all night.”
“Oh, leave it out,” someone laughed.
“Sorry,” Colin chuckled, “I made a promise.”
True to Colin’s word, the record came on and we danced to it a couple of times over, then went and sat with Colin and an attractive blonde lady to have a drink. After the song had played about eight times, even Mickey gave up the joke and said he’d heard enough. The DJ was relieved to play his music for the rest of the night.
Mickey told me that Colin had got nicked a little while later. I don’t know what for, but it was part and parcel of life for people in that world.
“What about the post office around the corner from there?” one of the men said one day that summer, as they sat round our table with Mickey, poring over the map.
“Nah, there’s only one exit and we can’t risk it,” Mickey replied. He was always the anchor man, the one who made sure everyone else got out of a raid. No-one ever wanted that position, because it meant they were the last to leave, holding off security while the rest made their getaway, with sirens squealing and alarms ringing. Mickey knew he would be the easiest to catch, but he also had the respect of his peers for doing the most dangerous job of all.
“There’s a security van that collects from the supermarket there, we could do a hit in the mornin’ and be back for lunch,” one of the men added.
“Why don’t you try that one?” I said, pointing to the map of South-East London spread out among the crumbs and tea cups.
“From what I can see, there are three possible exit routes, and you can park a getaway car at two of them.” All four of them nodded and looked over it intently.
Mickey always listened to me. He wasn’t like other men, who ignored their partners or excluded them from “men’s talk”. He knew I was clever in my own way, and I caught on fast. None of it seemed real to me, it felt like a game, a dangerous one, but a game nevertheless.
“Yes, we could leave Tel there,” said one of the men, a large, shaven-headed bloke.
The men all nodded again, this time in agreement.
“Now that’s settled, another ham and pickle, anyone?” I interjected.
“Yes please, Linda, you do make a tasty sandwich,” said the bald one.
I smiled at him. Somehow, I was never afraid of these violent men who were sitting in my home. I always seemed to bring out the softer side to them.
“And don’t worry about disguises, I’ll get a few wigs and fake moustaches from Mum’s stall tomorrow,” I added, knowing I’d never tell my mum what they were for, but it was at least a small contribution to the “work” these men did for their families. I knew there was no danger of a curious stallholder asking unwanted questions. In fact, when I got the black curly wigs and black moustaches, it was quite fun watching the butch fellas all trying them on.
“Do I look like me?” A man called Terry joked as he sported his new look.
“No!” I laughed, “you look like a clown gone wrong,” I snorted.
“Look at me, Lin, how do I look?” Mickey joined in. He was wearing a red wig this time, with a fake black moustache and glasses.
“Stop, you’re makin’ me laugh, my sides hurt.” To me, they looked more comical than threatening.
When the planning was over for the afternoon, the men would drink up their tea, finish the sandwiches, stack their plates in the sink like their mothers must’ve told them to do when they were growing up, and very politely bid me goodbye, nodding at Mickey as they left.
Mickey would go out the afternoon before each job, without telling me where he was heading. I knew he was off to pick up the guns, but he never told me the address he was going to and it would be a different place every time. Then, finally, the day of the raid, after weeks of planning, they’d gather at my table, sawn-off shotguns in their bags, wigs and glasses covering their faces. They’d be jittery and hyperactive, desperate to get out the door, and yet they all had a little ritual to go through before leaving. Mickey would religiously take off every piece of his jewellery in order, the two rings he always wore and a gold ingot necklace, and place them on the table. Without the jewellery, he’d be less easy to identify. Each man did something similar to make himself less conspicuous. I’d pace up and down all day, waiting for them to return. The raids were a success, over and over again, and enormous piles of notes were tipped onto my kitchen table.
Timing was everything. Even a minute too soon or too late could mean the difference between missing the van, or losing the right moment to raid, landing £10,000 or nothing at all. They all knew they couldn’t raid until the cash was in the hands of the security guards. Then they would have seconds to mobilise as the loot was being carried to the van. Missing those vital seconds meant disaster – weeks of planning could be lost, possibly forever. Once the money was locked inside the van, all bets were off, and the robbery lost. And it would be madness to try again without weeks more of meticulous planning and organising.
“I’d like a child, Mickey,” I said, a short while after we’d moved into the flat.
“Look, Lin, you realise what I am, my lifestyle. I don’t think I should have children. I’m a crook. I could be here today, and be put away tomorrow.”
I looked at the man I loved. “I want us to have a baby, Mickey. I know what you are, and I know how hard your life was as a child. But we could give our baby so much more.”
Mickey had told me that his early life was poor. Growing up, he didn’t have a lot. His dad was a docker and his working life was fraught with danger, as well as being unpredictable and low-earning. He had had a much harder upbringing than I did. He used to make racing cars out of veg boxes and pram wheels. They had nothing. One time, while in the makeshift car, he got run over by a horse and cart. He went home and his dad went mad because he’d lost a shoe.
Mickey had looked at his dad, and saw a life of toil
and hardship ahead of him. He swore not to end up like that. I understood why he’d done it. He wanted more out of life, and these were the days before social mobility, before people could work their way up, excel at school or go to university no matter where they’d been born.
In those days, if you were poor, you stayed poor. Mickey and his pals decided the only way they could change that was by seizing what wasn’t theirs with both hands. So that’s what he did. And I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to bring a child into the world, but I was adamant. I wanted a baby, and that was that. I fell pregnant quickly.
A few months before I was due, Mickey and his friends were messing about after a few drinks one Saturday afternoon, when they picked up a discarded Hilti nail gun and started shooting it at the floorboards and walls. We had builders in at the time to redecorate the flat, which is why they’d been left lying around at the weekend. I was heavily pregnant, and stayed out of their way, but within minutes there came a loud BANG-BANG-BANG on the front door.
“Are you maniacs?” came the shout from the hallway. “Who’s firing bullets through the floor? One came through a washing machine and almost hit my customer!”
“Quick, stage exit!” Mickey shouted, gesturing to his pals to leave by the back door.
“What the…?” I began to answer.
“Sort it out, Lin, we’re off!” And with that, they left.
I waddled over to the door and opened it to find our landlord, spitting blood. There was only one thing to do: I burst into tears. The sight of my round belly and my running mascara silenced the man, who was a one-armed Irish bloke in his fifties.
“Don’t go upsetting yourself darlin’. Don’t tell me it was you firing them bullets?” he said, looking alarmed as I continued to weep loudly.
“No, it weren’t me. I’m so sorry, it was my Mickey. Him and his mates had a few drinks and got silly with the Hilti gun. There weren’t no bullets.”
“I’ve had a few drinks and done silly stuff myself. I can see you’re pregnant so I won’t report you, love, but you’ll ’ave to either buy the place or move out, because I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”
With that, he was gone.
Mickey didn’t want to buy the flat, so we decided to move out. But then, eight months into my pregnancy, something happened that put an abrupt stop to our plans, and gave me a stark reminder of what I was risking by bringing a child into this life of ours.
Mickey and the boys had gone out on a big raid they’d been planning for weeks, and I was waiting at home, pacing round and round the flat. After hours of nervously finding little jobs to distract myself with, I sat down in front of the telly to watch the news.
I froze when I heard the top story.
An attempted armed robbery had failed in the East End of London. Suspects had been arrested, and I knew instantly that my Mickey was one of them. He’d been gone too long and I had known something wasn’t right.
Mickey was sent up to Southend, and pleaded not guilty. It was the first time I saw him stand in the dock. He looked just as cocky, just as confident as ever – he even threw me a wink, even though we knew he’d never get off. He’d been charged with Robbery and Conspiracy to Rob, though only the Robbery charge stuck.
My Mickey was sent down. I was devastated, though it wasn’t a surprise. I’d met him when he was fresh out of an eight-year stretch, and I wasn’t so naive as to think he’d never get caught. But it still hurt to know he’d have to suffer prison, and I’d have to bring our baby into the world without him there.
A tear slid down my face as the sentence was read out. I cradled my big belly, our child kicking inside me. Mickey looked at me one last time before the guard he was handcuffed to led him down from the dock and into the holding cells below. He would be taken to Wandsworth Prison that evening.
“I love you,” I mouthed to him.
The high life was over – for now. I whispered to my baby that I would take care of him or her, that I would keep them safe until Daddy came home, feeling like my heart would break.
“Come on, Linda, let’s get you home, and look after that baby inside you, eh,” Mum said. She’d come with me to court, and rather than look for a flat, it had been decided that I’d move back home with her until the baby was born.
Chapter 5
Handcuffs and Wedding Bells
1970-78
Shortly after Mickey went away, I developed toxaemia, or pre-eclampsia as it’s now known. I’d gone for a routine check-up with the nurse, carrying some frozen peas I’d picked up at the shops.
The matron ran some tests and gave me a look of concern.
“You’ll have to stay in, your blood pressure is high, you’re very ill and it might hurt the baby,” she brusquely informed me in her starched white apron and blue uniform.
“I can’t stay in now. I need to get these peas to my mum before they melt!” I wailed. I couldn’t go wasting money on food that would spoil.
The nurse looked at me. She knew Mickey was in jail and money was tight, so she reluctantly agreed to let me go home, hand the peas over and come straight back in.
“You must come straight back in though, Linda. You might die, and your baby might die, if you don’t.”
“The baby might die…?” I said.
“Yes Mrs Calvey, though I’m sure it’ll be ok if you go straight home and come straight back. We need to keep an eye on you both from now on.”
I’d given my name as “Mrs Calvey” to appear respectable. Eyebrows were raised in those days if you were an unmarried mum. I took the peas home, explained to Mum that I had something called toxaemia, which she hadn’t heard of either, and then walked back to the hospital. It is astonishing to me today how careless I was of my health that day.
I arrived back at Mile End Hospital in Bancroft Road after dropping the peas off and packing a few essentials I’d need – or so I thought. Into my small suitcase went my make-up bag, my hairpiece and rollers, and a few flimsy nighties in shades of pale pink and peach.
I was told I had to have the baby in the next 48 hours. The baby hadn’t been due for another month.
“Alright, I’ll have her on August the first, that’s got a good ring to it,” I said, naively, thinking the baby would just pop out and I’d be resting in my fancy nightwear reading a magazine before I knew it.
They started me off with injections to induce the birth at 11am the next day, and I’d got myself all made up and ready with two plaits in my hair, thinking it would be easy.
How wrong I was.
“Ahhhhh, what’s goin’ on?” I yelled, my voice echoing through the labour ward. “Oh my God!”
“It’s alright, Mrs Calvey, the baby’s coming. Now just keep breathing like we showed you… in, out, in, out, yes that’s it, good girl,” the matron said.
There was a flurry of activity around me as I was moved in my bed into a birthing room.
Another contraction hit. I felt like I was losing my mind. The pain was excruciating.
“I want my mum!”
“It’s ok, Mrs Calvey, the baby’s almost here. One more push and it’ll be born. Are you ready? Good girl, now PUSH.”
I did as I was told. In a rush of blood, my baby daughter was born.
“She’s so quiet. Why isn’t she cryin’?” I tried to lift myself up on my elbows but found my body was so weak I could hardly move.
“Come on, little one.” I heard the matron’s voice. The room started to swim.
Then I saw a sight. My baby girl was being held upside down by her feet, her head dangling upside down. Then the matron slapped her.
“Don’t do that!” I cried, bursting into tears.
Then the baby let out a cry that filled the room.
“She’s alive. Thank God, thank God,” I wept, holding my arms out to her.
“Sorry, Mrs Calvey. She has to go
into an incubator. She’s very small and may need help breathing.”
I nodded, desperate to hold my child, but trusting the matron. It was desperately difficult not to be able to cradle my first child straight away, but I told myself that they would take good care of her and that I’d at least be able to go and see her to feed her every day.
Over the course of the next two weeks while I was kept in hospital, a steady stream of Mickey’s pals came to visit me. At the time, the only man allowed at your bedside was your husband.
So, sure enough, a few days after the birth, the nurse came to see me and said, “Linda, your husband’s here.”
I didn’t bat an eyelid, knowing full well it couldn’t be Mickey, so I said, “Thanks, yes, show him in.”
“Alright, Linda,” said the beefy looking man with a thick neck and wide, stocky build, as he stood, nervously, at the end of my bed. He looked totally out of place in the clean, ordered environment of the maternity ward, surrounded by pregnant ladies and new mums.
“Hello Fred, it’s good to see you. Did Mickey ask you to come?” I asked.
“Yes, he got a message to me, and a few of the fellas around ’ere. He wants us to make sure you’re bein’ looked after.” Fred, who looked increasingly uncomfortable, gazed around the ward, taking in the pristine clean floors and beds with starched sheets and baby cots. There were bunches of yellow flowers given to the newly delivered mums, and a general air of peace and order. I had to fight not to giggle at the sight of him.
“It’s good of you to come, tell my Mickey that I appreciate him lookin’ out for me even when he’s away.”
“These are for you, Linda.” Fred handed me a small bunch of pink dahlias.
“That’s very kind of you, thank you. Matron, could we please have a vase for these?” I called out to the nurse who was passing.
“Well, I’ll be off then, Linda. You take care of yerself and that baby of yours. I’ll get a message to Mickey and let him know you’re alright in ’ere.” With that, Fred departed, and I could finally burst into fits of laughter, thinking of that tough, hard man, cowed under the serene hand of the matron and her disciplined hospital ward.
