King's Cross Kid

by Victor Gregg

  ‘Can a duck swim? Of course I can ride a bike.’ The man handed me two one pound notes. ‘That will see you through to next Monday.’ Then he gave me an address in Denmark Street. ‘Be there at nine on Monday and we’ll have a chat’, and with that he was up and away. ‘Do you know who he is?’ I asked Ron. ‘I don’t know him except he’s one of our regulars.’ That was it then. I’d got money in my pocket and a job to start the following week. My worries were over. Then somebody shouted, ‘Come on, you two kids, give us a tune.’ Ron and I obliged with ‘Honeysuckle Rose’. When we’d finished all and sundry gave us a good clap but nobody thought of passing the hat round, so we broke all the rules by giving our services for free.

  On Monday morning I walked round to a ground-floor-shop-cum-office in Denmark Street. I’d found out the man’s name was Abe Marks. He told me he made his money running errands for local businesses. ‘I’ll get a call and you go round and deliver what’s wanted. Remember, we guarantee speed, we’re the quickest postal service in the city. The most important part of this job is that you deliver to the person named and no one else. Do the job, don’t poke yer nose in what don’t concern yer, and you get fifty bob a week. Usually five days a week but you never know when you may be needed, the bike’s out the back, and Mrs Barnes comes in twice a week to sort things out. She’s nothing to do with you.’

  I made off out the back to find a fairly new bike with a small front wheel to allow for the long box that was fixed to the front of the machine. I pumped the tyres up board-hard, trimmed the brakes, adjusted the saddle and then I was ready to start earning my fifty bob, an enormous wage for a lad not yet seventeen.

  At first I spent my time charging round central London delivering small parcels, mail that couldn’t wait for the morrow, rolls of blueprints and plans to building sites, that sort of thing. I was doing everything that the couriers who dash round London today on motorcycles do, but I was years ahead of my time. Abe gave me my orders for the day and then he’d say: ‘I’ll be off then, son. Got some business to settle. If I’m not back when you’re finished you can buzz off home.’ The job was that cushy.

  Of all the people I have worked for Abe Marks was the most colourful. His normal dress was a shabby pair of nondescript trousers held up by a pair of extra-wide braces and a belt that slipped down below his sagging belly. He always wore a bow tie: perhaps he thought it was in keeping with the bohemian lifestyle of Soho. On his feet he usually wore a pair of worn-out carpet slippers. He only dressed a bit more smartly when he had to go and visit one of his clients. He didn’t normally wear a hat and his bald patch made him look like an egg. He had a perpetual grin which seemed to cut his face in half. Abe was a character with a capital C.

  I never discovered why my predecessor had left Abe’s employment, but after a bit I realised that working for Abe carried a certain amount of risk.

  I had discovered that one of Abe’s most profitable sidelines was getting rid of stolen property that the usual fences wouldn’t touch. This sort of stolen stuff was taken round to Abe who passed it to me, making sure that he never actually touched it so there were no fingerprints on it. Then he would say, ‘Take this little lot round to Connie in Kirby Street.’ Kirby Street ran parallel to Hatton Garden and Farringdon Road. Connie the jeweller would melt down the gold, reshape the stones and sell the results in Hatton Garden. I then went and got the cash, and after everybody had had their cut, including the nutters who had stolen the stuff in the first place, Abe would pocket the rest. There were gangs involved and if you upset them they could play it rough.

  Once on one of these errands, loaded with incriminating evidence, I biked out of Hatton Garden, and in my usual mad manner belted along St Cross Street and crashed into a car parked on the corner of Kirby Street. The driver wound down his window and shouted, ‘You’ll kill yerself going around like that, sonny boy.’ As soon as I heard the words ‘sonny boy’ I realised that it was the law sitting in the car so I didn’t do the drop but went straight back to Abe. ‘OK, Vic, do it later, they won’t sit there all day.’ Abe was right.

  The week after I started with Abe Marks, Ron suggested that maybe we could earn ourselves a bit of pocket money by playing the theatre queues. I immediately agreed and off we went. We played the usual Grappelli stuff that we knew so well and at first things went quite smoothly until one day outside the Lyric Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue we were accosted by a couple of smart-looking men who wanted to know who we thought we were working pitches without permission. One of them was twisting a knuckle-duster around his hand. Ron didn’t seem to understand the drill, but I knew. ‘Come on, Ron, it’s time to scarper. Sorry, mate,’ I said to one of the heavies, ‘we didn’t know.’ And so ended our brief excursion into the kerbside entertainment business.

  About five or six weeks later Abe called me in from the backyard where I was doing something to the bike. ‘Got a special for you today, Vic. Remember what I told you when you first came, deliver to who you’re told and no one else, if the person isn’t there then bring the package back, got it?’ I nodded. ‘Good.’ He told me to go to a café in Windmill Street (just off the Dilly). ‘Ask for Sid. He’ll give you a package and an address, you’ve got fifteen minutes to get to the café, don’t forget, no one but . . .’ With that I was sent on my way.

  Sid was chewing on a fag waiting outside the café when I arrived. ‘Know what you got to do, son?’ ‘Yep, good as done,’ I answered. ‘Cheeky sod, ain’t yer?’ said Sid. I was to meet this man who would be waiting outside the Dominion Cinema at St Giles Circus. ‘He’s a big bloke, short back and sides, wiv a brown coat. Can’t be missed, just call him uncle.’

  I met up with the man Sid had described and handed over the dosh. I had no doubt that there were pound notes in the package. He gave a grunt and then he was on his way. I took one look at his shoes: I could tell a copper in a blackout. When I got back to Denmark Street, Abe asked if everything had gone OK. ‘No problems.’ I was beginning to have my doubts about Abe. He was a real fixer, no question. Forget the cover, the letters and suchlike, Abe’s true role in life was fencing stolen property for the local villains and organising the payment of dropsy to those in power who could do the arresting, in other words the police.

  A new gang was now beginning to make its presence felt in the manor. The Yiddishers, as they were called, were already established in the East End, Bethnal Green, Shoreditch and the like, and had risen to prominence because of their hostility to Mosley’s Blackshirts. I was certain that Roscoe had asked for their support in our little do in Sidmouth Street. If I was right, it meant that Roscoe was obliged to them and was expected to return the favour, if and when asked, no matter what – that’s the way things worked.

  To top it off, I realised that Abe was heavily involved with one of the most vicious mobs of the time, the Elephant Boys, a gang who wielded a big stick on the streets of south London. Abe carried on touting his wares without a care in the world. When I mentioned this to Roscoe he just shrugged. ‘Silly sod’s supposed to know it all, ain’t ’e? ’E’s some sort of go-between, is ’e? A fixer like you said, Vic? Bound to get nobbled or cut. If I were you I’d scarper out of it. Forget about the dosh, you can always fiddle a bob or two.’ That was Roscoe’s reasoning and I couldn’t have agreed more. Getting a fistful of dosh for doing some character ‘a good turn’ was one thing; getting a cutthroat razor flashing about in front of your face was a different kettle of fish.

  I thought maybe I’d stay for a few more weeks, see what happened.

  One day Abe called me into the little cubby-hole he called his office; broom cupboard more like. He had a telephone fixed up and a couple of writing pads and pinned to the walls he had two huge maps of central London and the docks down by Silvertown. He pulled out a stool from under the table. ‘Got a special little job I want yer to ’elp me out wiv.’

  31

  A Bit of Prestige

  What Abe was trying to tell me, while at the same time not giving too much
away, was that the Sabinis were trying to enlist the help of the Hoxton Boys and the Yiddishers in an alliance against the common enemy, the Elephant Boys. These were some of the strongest gangs in London.

  The Elephant Boys came from the other side of the river, somewhere west of the Elephant and Castle, and were the biggest name in the south. The Sabinis approached Abe to see if he could set up a meeting. These rival gangs hated each other. The whole of Soho knew that the Elephant Boys were testing the water and as a preliminary had set up a group of girls to work along the Oxford Street end of Greek Street, right on the Hoxton Boys’ patch. By this time Abe knew that I had sussed out his wheeling and dealing and as I was now delivering the handouts to half of West End Central – the Savile Row cops, that is – he must have felt that I was to be trusted. In my mates’ eyes I was now acquiring prestige, but the danger of this notoriety was that if Abe overstepped the mark, and it was thought that he wasn’t showing due respect, he would get done over and probably me with him. For all his cunning it seemed to me that he was completely unaware of the danger. These gangs had no qualms whatever about inflicting injury on their enemies. They were experts in the use of cutthroat razors and would use these fearful instruments at the slightest provocation.

  I was by now so sure of my ability to keep out of real trouble that, in spite of the difference in our ages, I never felt overawed by Abe. When he had finished telling me everything, I said: ‘Abe, don’t tell me any more. I was raised with the Hoxton Boys, I know all about the Sabinis, and what I’ve heard about this Elephant mob is enough to give anyone nightmares for life. Don’t even consider me taking any part in whatever escapade you’re planning. Leave me out, I’ll work until the end of the week then I’m off. If you’ve got your head screwed on properly then you’ll give up any idea of working with that lot. If you work for one of them you’ll become an enemy of the others. You’ll finish up being cut up at the very least.’ Then Abe said, ‘What you mean by saying you used to work wiv the Hoxton lot?’ ‘As a kid, I used to run errands for them, I know all about them. I tumbled what you’re up to in the first three weeks. What you’re thinking about, Abe, is dodgy, lay off it.’ I added: ‘Another thing, Abe, you’re a Jewboy, you should understand that the Yiddishers will never get into a deal wiv the Hoxton lot seeing that the Hoxton lot are all in sympathy wiv Mosley. Fink about it, Abe.’

  So the best paying boss I ever had slipped into history, too. About six weeks after I finished with Abe, I was in the restaurant with Ron and I happened to ask him if Abe still came in. ‘You mean the Jewboy you was working for?’ ‘Yeh.’ ‘We heard he got picked up. ’E’s doing three months in Wandsworth, aiding and abetting, no big deal.’

  I found time to go round to the West End nick where I learnt that Abe had indeed come to their notice and, yes, it was true, he was doing three months in Wandsworth. I wanted to see him so I went to the prison to arrange a date. I got a collection up for him and bought some fags and baccy, along with a few other goodies. It was really great to see the look of happiness and joy when he was marched in and spotted me with the goodies. ‘You’re the only visitor I’ve had,’ said Abe. ‘You’re some smart kid. I should have listened.’ It appeared that in deciding that he was indeed treading ‘in deep shit’ he had told the Hoxton Boys that he wanted out and the gang’s answer was to stitch him up. They gave Abe a nice little earner of a dodgy job and then let out a word to one of their contacts at Savile Row nick. In a wink Abe was picked up with the incriminating goods, charged and sent down. To the Hoxton Boys’ way of thinking no harm had been done to Abe; they’d just given him a gentle reminder that in future when they said jump, he jumped. I don’t think Abe took it all that hard. When he came out he continued doing the deliveries and such, kept everybody happy, earned nice money but he had learnt his lesson: always know your place.

  Things were looking up for our little family. Working for Abe, I’d been able to give our mum another thirty bob a week, Brother John was still working his way into the high-class grocery business, sister Emmy was coming up for eleven and our mum was getting worried about the boys she was knocking around with. To cap it all the Ministry of Defence, or whatever they were called then, was ordering hats by the thousands and all the milliners and hat-makers were hard at it to fill the sudden demand. Mum was earning a bomb, but she earned it the hard way, even bringing home work to finish off in the evening. Granddad got tired of hearing Mum’s old treadle sewing machine thumping away so he bought her an electric motor and our Uncle Frank, who was clever at that sort of thing, fixed it to the Singer. So things could have been worse, but I had to find some more gainful employment.

  32

  Horror Job

  My next job was so bad that even writing about it makes me want to throw up. Via the employment exchange, I was hired as an apprentice machine minder in a small factory. I was told that in a couple of years, when I finished the apprenticeship, I would be earning wages beyond my wildest dreams. The price I had to pay was that for the next two years I had to work for rock-bottom money. I even had to sign a form agreeing that I was bound to the firm for a period of not less than twenty-four months. My mum and granddad were very pleased. ‘Good, learn a trade, set you up for life.’ By the time of my seventeenth birthday in October I had had enough of the steady job. If I remember, it was around midweek. I just switched off the lathe, went up to the office and told them that I would be absent from now on, or words to that effect. The foreman came in and demanded that I get back to work. I just walked out of the door and that was that.

  Next morning I realised that they still had my cards and that I had signed on for two years. What I hadn’t reckoned on was the attitude of the labour exchange in Penton Street. When I went up to sign on I was told in no uncertain terms that I had put myself out of work. Result: no dole, find another job on your own, you get no money from us.

  I’d show ’em. Get another job? Simple: I’d done it before, I could do it again.

  Part Three

  33

  Covent Garden and Maisie

  About a week later, skint and without a penny to my name, I was standing on the corner of Long Acre and Endell Street at nine in the morning taking in the hustle and bustle of Covent Garden Market. With all the noise, the shouts of the shopkeepers hiring the barrow boys to collect the produce from the general dealers and cart it round to the stalls in the market for them, it was bedlam. Then I spotted a bloke struggling on his own, shifting sacks of potatoes from the outside of his shop to stack them up inside. I walked over. ‘Need any ’elp, mister?’

  ‘Course ’e needs ’elp.’

  The voice that answered my enquiry came from a woman about the same age as the bloke. The man stopped what he was doing and gave me the once-over. ‘Can yer lift these sacks of spuds?’ I heaved one on to my shoulder. ‘Where yer want it?’ Before the man could answer the woman interrupted. She gave me my orders as if we had been lifelong friends. ‘Everything outside has to come in, keep the piles separate, the tats by that wall, the soft fruit over there. Anything that’s going rotten you sweep into the gutter.’ I looked at the man I had offered to help. ‘That’s the wife, son,’ he said, ‘she’s the boss, if you can do it then get cracking.’ The woman was seated at a large roll-top desk in the corner of the shop, lit by a 160-watt bulb under a huge enamel shade that hung about a foot above her head. By her side there was an old, round Valor oil stove which she would occasionally put her hands over to keep her fingers warm. It was the only warm spot in the entire shop. Her name was Maisie and her old man was called Sammy.

  Maisie was always on the phone, which never stopped ringing. With the phone in one hand and a pencil in the other, she wrote the orders down on a piece of paper and then impaled them on a long spike embedded in the wall by her side. As soon as Sammy had got the orders ready from the last lot of phone calls he would grab a handful of new orders from the spike. It was non-stop stuff. At least it kept us warm. There was no way that either me or Sammy would fe
el the cold while we were going at this speed.

  I set to with a will and inside ten minutes I was aching in parts of my body that I didn’t know existed. ‘Take a blow, son, the world ain’t gonna end today.’ By the time all the goods were stacked inside the shop it was getting on for eleven. ‘Sammy, you go round and have yer breakfast and put the boy’s name on the slate. We’ll finish clearing up.’ ‘Wot’s yer name, son?’ I told her. ‘Don’t forget, Sammy, ’is name is Victor.’ Sammy took off his apron, put on a scruffy jacket and disappeared into the crowd outside.

  ‘What we do now, Victor, is sweep the pavement, lock up the shutters and that’s it until tomorrow.’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘What, you mean you’re finished for the day?’ ‘Of course,’ said Maisie, ‘but we’ve been here since three this morning, that’s when the really ’ard work starts. When Sammy gets back you go round to Bernie’s in Floral Street and have a good breakfast. Don’t worry, it’s paid for, fill yer plate up, you’ve earned it, and after that come back ’ere and we’ll all ’ave a little natter. That’s if you’re interested in a job.’ With that she threw a big heavy broom at me and pointed to the door. ‘The pavement, Vicky boy.’

  When Sammy returned he sent me off to Bernie’s, which turned out to be a typical market café: all the windows steamed up from the inside, an overpowering aroma of steamed and boiled food combined with the smell of a thousand fags, pipes and small cigars, plus the clatter of plates and cutlery and the non-stop chatter that was part and parcel of any working men’s café.