by Linda Calvey
“You awake, babe?” He whispered.
“You know I can’t sleep till you’re home,” I said, rolling onto my side.
“There’s nothin’ to worry about. I’m always extra careful these days,” he said, as he drew the covers over us and we moved together.
The next morning, I opened the curtains and almost fainted with shock. My garden was filled with exotic plants, huge palm trees and colourful flowers.
“What the hell have you been up to?” I laughed, in utter astonishment. Mickey propped himself up on his pillow, yawning and smiling. “I told you I’d get you a garden, didn’t I, babe.”
“But they’ll all die! They’re tropical. It looks like Kew Gardens out there.” It was hilarious. More so when he began to look so crestfallen as they inevitably started to die off.
At the time, I thought it was quite a romantic gesture – and it was so like my Mickey to get me whatever I wanted. It was that desire in him to look after me, which I absolutely adored.
In our new house, though, I missed my family. I was homesick, and so I found a house in Pembroke Road in Walthamstow that would suit my needs better. It was an absolute tip, but I knew we could make it nice and so I told Mickey it was a done deal: we were moving.
Mickey refused point-blank to go, but I told him I would be going anyway. We didn’t usually argue, but we certainly did over that. And so the next day that Mickey went out to “work”, I moved us over to Walthamstow while he was out. Mickey had to phone my mum to ask where her “cranky daughter” was now living, as he didn’t even have the address! He soon got over it, as he knew how stubborn I could be once I’d set my heart on something.
Tough, scary-looking men soon started meeting round my kitchen table again to plan robberies. One of the new men at my table was called Charlie Lowe. Mickey had introduced us, and I knew instantly I didn’t like him – and more importantly, didn’t trust him.
Charlie Lowe was a big, handsome, well-dressed man, an outgoing character who was popular with the boys and the ladies. One night when he, Mickey and I were out together, I told him another friend of mine was going up to court, and that I was worried he’d be going away.
Charlie eyed me carefully. “As long as he’s well prepared, Linda, he’ll be fine. It’s every man for himself when you’re up there.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” Blaggers who got caught together always stuck together in court – you had to know you could trust the people you worked with not to grass you up.
“You know what I mean,” Charlie answered. “Once you’re in the dock, it’s dog eat dog.”
My stomach turned, and from that moment, I was convinced Charlie was a grass. I told Mickey that I’d got a bad feeling about him – I even said it in front of Charlie himself.
“I’m sorry, Mickey, I don’t trust him,” I said one day when they were planning a job together at ours. Charlie was standing next to Mickey, leaning against my kitchen cabinet.
“I’m one hundred per cent, darlin’,” he replied, smiling a crooked smile at me.
I looked at him for a moment, taking the measure of him. “No, Mickey, he’s a wrong’un.”
Mickey looked at his new pal, giving him an embarrassed smile. He obviously thought I was being totally out of order.
“My wife always speaks her mind, don’t mind her.”
“I do speak my mind, and I’m tellin’ you, Mickey, there’s somethin’ not right about him,” I said, before stalking off. I trusted my instincts, and later that night, I confronted my husband about what had taken place in my kitchen, and the conversation I’d had with Charlie.
“He’s not to be trusted. You know I have a gut feelin’ about these things. Why won’t you listen to me?” It was rare for us to fight. This was one of those times.
“He’s solid, I trust him and that’s all that matters,” Mickey had said, before slamming the door on me. There was nothing I could do but accept my husband’s judgement.
Alongside Charlie was John, a key man – he could open any lock and disable alarms – and they all started doing jobs together. One day Mickey took me to a large furniture superstore and told me to pick out everything I wanted for the house. Thinking it was a joke, I pointed at the most expensive suite.
“That’s lovely.”
Mickey walked up and drew a white cross on the back in chalk.
“Go on,” he said.
“That’s gorgeous,” I pointed to a table lamp, “and so’s this,” I said, holding up an Indian silk bedspread.
The game went on like this for an hour. Everything that I chose, Mickey marked with a chalk cross.
That Saturday night, Mickey and the lads went out. At around 9.30pm there was a knock at my door. I opened it.
“What’s all this?” I exclaimed. John was holding the lamp and the bedspread.
“Where d’ya want these, love?”
I stared back at him, realising what they’d done. Everything I’d chosen was now mine.
“Oh my God, quick, put them in the bedroom! No-one’s seen you, have they?” I stuck my head out of my doorway. It was a nice road lined with Victorian terraced houses, each with a little back garden and trees out front. We were in darkness: the only moving shapes were my husband and his men, as they unloaded a large van emblazoned with the name of the furniture company they’d visited.
I was taken aback. Their usual method was to steal a van or a getaway car in advance of a job: they’d change the number plates and wait for weeks before going out in it, as they had to be sure the police wouldn’t be out looking for the stolen vehicle. But now here they were with the furniture company’s own van.
“How did you all do it?” I laughed over cups of tea once they’d finished unloading.
“Well,” Mickey began, “John got us into the store, turned off the alarm, opened the back, and we simply loaded everything you wanted into one of their own vans. That way it didn’t look like a stolen one.
“We took the van back, put the alarm back on and locked it all back up. Can you imagine how confused the store manager will be arriving tomorrow morning to find his store empty but no sign of a break-in!” With that, they all collapsed into laughter. It was a clever move, I had to give them that.
A few months later, a knock on my door revealed the police. They took everything away, and Mickey and his pals were arrested again.
I had been right. Charlie was a supergrass. He’d told the Old Bill everything, about every robbery, big or small, that the group had undertaken together. There was honour amongst thieves, though. Mickey’s friends decided to take the rap for the big robberies, as they were bang to rights. They denied my husband’s involvement, though – and so, somehow, he walked free.
But the Charlie Lowe episode had made me more nervous than ever. And when Mickey started talking about doing “one final job”, something that would earn enough for us to buy a place in Spain and live like royalty, I couldn’t conceal the bad feeling that was taking root in the pit of my stomach.
It started when a man called Ronnie turned up on our doorstep. It was a Saturday night, and I was still wearing my blue silk dressing gown, but had done my hair and put my make-up on for a night out with Mickey.
“Get that, will ya?” Mickey shouted from the shower.
I went and opened the door. There was a man wearing a tracksuit, jogging on the spot on my doorstep.
“Hello, can I help you?” I said.
The man turned to me, and stopped moving instantly. He looked me up and down, and I suddenly felt a little self-conscious. I wrapped my bedroom gown tighter around me.
He held my gaze and there was a long pause before he spoke. “It’s Ron to see Mickey, hope I’m not disturbin’ ya?”
The man had brown hair, a square jaw and a flinty expression in his eyes. I had the feeling this was a man not to mess with, though I
didn’t have a clue who he was.
“Not at all.” I recovered my poise quickly. “Mickey’s in the shower, but I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“Don’t disturb him.” Ron had a low, quiet voice. “Tell him I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
I stared after him as he jogged away, wondering who on earth I’d just met.
“Oh, that was Ron,” said Mickey, towelling his hair dry and wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts as he walked through to the kitchen.
“Cover yerself up!” I laughed in mock horror, as I looked at him, admiringly.
“Like what you see, do ya?” he joked back, making me blush a little.
“Yes, I do, Mickey, you know I do,” I said archly.
“So what did Ron say?”
I told him Ron would be back, and asked Mickey what his business was with him. I knew Ron was different from the usual crooks Mickey worked with. He had a reserved demeanour that exuded power. He didn’t joke or flirt with me, as Mickey’s pals always did – instead he’d been business-like, even though I’d met him so briefly.
“You workin’ with him, then?” I said, dabbing my nose with expensive face powder.
“Yeah, that’s the boss. He says he’s givin’ a job as a trial run. If it works out then I’ll be in with a shot at the big time. This could be the last one, Lin, we could be made up after this. All I need is one big job and I could crack it, I’ll never ’ave to work again. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it, love?”
With that, he had sidled up to me, putting his arms around my waist.
“I’ve only just got dressed, Mickey, stop that or you’ll ruin my lipstick,” I said, breathless. I didn’t want him to stop.
As promised, Ron returned on Monday morning.
“Come in, Mickey’s ready for you. Can I make you some breakfast? I’m doin’ Mickey some eggs on toast,” I said politely to him.
“Only if ya don’t mind, thank you.”
His blue eyes watched me as I busied around the kitchen. I was aware of his eyes boring into the back of me, but tried to ignore it. Perhaps he was taking my measure, deciding if I was trustworthy or not? From what Mickey had said, he was a big time crook, so being distrustful came with the territory. But I couldn’t help feeling that this man spelled trouble for us, and that Mickey’s determination to hit the big time would have consequences.
Chapter 6
Bad Feeling
December 1978
“What are you doin’, babe?” I asked Mickey as he sat, tipping shotgun pellets out onto the kitchen table until the cartridges were empty.
“Well, I’m goin’ to stuff some wadding in the cartridges and seal them with candle wax,” Mickey replied, carrying on with his work, cleaning and checking his shotgun in preparation for the raid.
The kids were watching television in the lounge, and thankfully hadn’t seen what their father was up to only yards away from them. Melanie was eight years old and Neil was four, both very young and impressionable, and laughing raucously at Tom and Jerry cartoons. I’d taken Melanie to prison to see her dad when Mickey had been banged up before, but afterwards she’d gone into school and told her teacher she’d “gone to see Daddy and been tickled by a policeman”, which, of course, meant she’d been searched. At the time, I was mortified, and as Mickey was almost at the end of his sentence, I didn’t take her back. I went alone after that. In marrying a blagger, though, I knew I was condemned to a life lived like this, in fear of him being caught, with possible jail sentences to get through, though I never once thought of leaving him. Mickey and I were soulmates – it was as simple as that – and the way I saw it was that I’d made my bed and had to lie in it.
“What on earth are you doin’ that for?” I replied, standing with my back to the cabinets blowing on a hot cup of tea.
“Because, my angel, there will be women and children out today, and if I go ‘bang’ it’ll just be a bit of fluff that comes out. It’ll make a noise and that’ll do the job.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Listen, Lin, I really hope I don’t ’ave to pull the trigger but if I do, I won’t hurt a soul.” He looked up at me, his brown eyes twinkling. At that, I shrugged. It sounded like common sense to me, despite how strange he looked, sitting there in our domestic setting with weapons scattered everywhere and bullets discarded on the floor.
“Alright, babe, you’re out today then?” I asked, putting my tea down to start the washing up in the sink.
“Yeah, though I really don’t want to go. I’ve never gone on the same job three times, it’s a bad omen.” I couldn’t help but agree.
Mickey, with his pals, had tried the same robbery of a Caters supermarket security van twice already, each time on a Saturday morning in Eltham. They’d missed the van both times.
“Perhaps it isn’t meant to be?” I asked, but Mickey shook his head.
“I’m in too deep with this one, Lin. This one is a trial for a much bigger job, working for much more important people. I’ve committed to it and I can’t say no.”
“But missing the same job twice already is really unlucky. Can’t you do a different job for these people?” I reasoned, but Mickey was having none of it.
His face changed. A shadow passed over his features, and he looked scared, or so I thought.
“It isn’t like that. You don’t just pick and choose your jobs. No, I’ve got to do it. I can’t let them down, I have no choice.”
With that, he put his head down and carried on stuffing the cotton wool. I didn’t dare ask who “they” were. I knew he wouldn’t tell me anyway. I’d never heard of Mickey working for someone else before, and my hackles rose. Something didn’t feel right. I also knew that Mickey was dead set on going out, so all I could do was reassure him that everything would be ok, and in a few short weeks we’d have the best Christmas ever.
There was something else that had made me superstitious about today’s job. The day before, after Mickey had been round to collect the shotguns and brought them home, four-year-old Neil had found one of them and picked it up. Neil had gone racing out into Pembroke Road, waving the gun, shouting “bang, bang!”. The first I heard of it was a neighbour who knocked on my door.
“Neil’s out there with a gun, you need to do somethin’! Quick!” she exclaimed. She’d been out washing down her front step when Neil appeared, brandishing the weaponry.
“Oh my God, MICKEY! Come down ’ere. Neil’s got one of your guns!” I screamed up the stairs.
I’ve never seen a man move as fast as Mickey did that moment. He threw himself down the stairs three at a time, and legged it into the road. Seconds later the sound of Neil wailing loudly announced their return. Mickey’s face was bright red. He dragged our son into the house by his left arm, so I immediately leapt over and freed Neil, enfolding him in a hug.
“It’s alright, darlin’, you weren’t to know that was Daddy’s thing and not yours to play with,” I crooned, rocking my devastated son back and to. I motioned to Mickey to take the bloody gun and hide it before he brought the Old Bill down on our heads.
That had felt like a bad start to today’s venture. It was the first time the children had got directly caught up in their father’s exploits, and somehow it suddenly made his “profession” seem real to me in a way it hadn’t before. Later that night, as Mickey slept next to me, I lay awake, thinking back on the day’s events. It was the first time I’d had doubts about our lifestyle, and I didn’t like the feeling. I didn’t want to look at the stark reality – I wanted to carry on, not asking any questions, and enjoying the money when it came. Until then, it had only really been Mickey who suffered the consequences of his actions, but that night I saw it affected us all, and I didn’t know how to stop it. Those doubts had kept me sleepless until the early hours, so by the time Mickey was emptying out his guns the next day, I was already feeling anxious and on edge.
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Must be the lack of sleep, I reassured myself, as I tried to keep upbeat for his sake. Mickey will be fine, he’s always fine, whatever happens out there…
“Alright, darlin’. Do you want anythin’ to eat before you go? It’s cold out there, so make sure you wrap up warm.” I busied myself making him a fried egg sandwich. I couldn’t bear the thought of him going out, feeling the way he was, without any food inside him. I could see Mickey was going to go whether I approved or not, so all I could do was look after him a bit before he took the plunge.
At 10am he went up to our bedroom. I followed him, feeling jittery myself, and somehow unable to let him out of my sight. I watched as he donned a curly black wig from Mum’s stall. Mickey could get away with wearing a wig that colour, because he looked Turkish or Greek with his dark skin. He put on his black anorak, and pulled the hood over the fake hair because he didn’t want the children to get upset or worried by the sight of him in that daft wig, and he looked at me.
“I’m goin’, Linda. I promise I’ll be back and we’ll go out and celebrate. Be ready for 7pm, Jerry and his new girlfriend are comin’ round and we’ll go out for some drinks.”
“Alright, Mickey, I’ll be ready. I’ll have a roast ready for you at 5.30pm, don’t forget,” I called after him as he walked slowly back down the stairs. “Do a chicken,” he said. Roast chicken was his favourite.
“Alright, babe.” I replied, following him downstairs and glancing at his fingers to see if he had forgotten his rings, but he’d already taken off his jewellery. He had a new necklace – a gold dolphin on a chain from a recent trip to Malta – which had been the last piece to come off and be placed in a drawer in the kitchen.
Our Malta trip had been a blast. Mickey paid a cab driver to drive us round for the whole week we were there. When we passed the prison, Melanie, who had just turned seven, pointed at it and said, “Oh Daddy, look, that’s your house.” I could’ve died with embarrassment. The taxi driver replied, “Your daddy can’t live there, that’s for naughty people.” Mickey changed the subject very swiftly, but later, when it was just the two of us, we couldn’t help but laugh. Aside from that small blip, that holiday made me feel we were a normal, proper family doing normal, proper things, enjoying time together in the sunshine. But now we were back to this reality: Mickey sneaking out so he didn’t upset the children, me worried all day in case he got nicked again, and – I won’t deny it – anticipation of a big financial windfall. It was a strange and heady mix, and not one experienced by many ordinary housewives.
