by Victor Gregg
She said that, despite the misfortune with my dad, my mum was lucky to have not one but three lovely children. When Maisie let herself go like this, as she did on several occasions, it always ended in tears which she tried to hide, but couldn’t.
Was there any difference between our mum and Maisie? I think there was.
Maisie could command attention. Even the hulking great porters buckled when she had a go at them for not doing things as she saw wanted doing. Mum could never have been as forceful as that, but, if it came down to what was right and what was wrong, they were as alike as two peas in a pod.
I told Maisie about Peggy, how we had been born and bred in the same streets and how she fancied me and how she had gone off with this stupid ginger-haired sod who I was sure was going to start beating her up, and when that happened I would have to go charging in and rescue her. I could never have told my mum these things. Maisie sat in her chair by the desk, with her hands over the old Valor heater, and listened silently until, at some break in my meanderings, she would try to sort things out for me. ‘You have to understand, Victor, that a woman has different feelings to a man.’ Then she would go on and on, just like my mum and gran. What is it about women? Sometimes after these sessions with Maisie I used to ride my bike round to the street where Peggy lived. I didn’t see her so I rode round again hoping that if we did bump into each other we could have a chat, just to see how things are going. I’d make certain she was OK and not being beaten by the ginger-haired sod. But we never did meet. Maisie once told me that I would probably miss Peggy all my life because she was my first love, and, ‘Man or woman, it makes no difference, we’re all the same. You never forget that first introduction to the great mystery of life.’
Back in the market the talk was all about what was going on in Germany. Meetings were held on street corners which the police tried to break up. I think that was because there was such a large Jewish community in the market: they were more aware of the danger of what might happen if Hitler was allowed to carry on unrestrained.
I was coming home after an enjoyable evening playing in the café with Ron, which we now did on a regular basis (my music gear was a permanent fixture in Ron’s bedroom), when I bumped into Roscoe and two of his mates. I didn’t know them but if they were mates of Roscoe they must have been OK. We all agreed that a fistful of fish and chips was a good idea, so off we headed to the fish shop in Kenton Street.
We arrived to find the place surrounded by the local fuzz who were loading half a dozen screaming girls into a Black Maria. We learnt that three new girls had tried to operate on the patch of three of the regulars who, naturally, took offence and started a fight.
Roscoe’s mate Billy sussed it all out in a flash. ‘Someone’s trying to muscle in, some gang probably. Who’s running this lot ’ere?’ I wasn’t certain but guessed it must be the Somers Town lot. ‘That’s Charlie Donahue,’ pipes up Dusty, Roscoe’s other mate, who lived in Ossulton Street, right next to Somers Town goods station. We all knew that this meant trouble we’d be better off out of. The problem was we all lived in the vicinity, and I lived right opposite the girls’ patch and was known as a wide boy. Not that I personally took part in criminal activities, but I did associate with the lads whose big brothers were running the gangs. They were into protection rackets, burglary and, of course, prostitution, which is where these girls came into the picture. Roscoe and I and his two mates knew all the characters involved, and, more importantly, they knew us.
The following Saturday, Roscoe was sitting in the usual café in Gray’s Inn Road, along with his usual retinue of Al Capone lookalikes, when they were called to order by a couple of smartly dressed cutthroats who suggested they all take a walk to the café in the Caledonian Road so they could have a discussion that might be to everyone’s advantage. What wasn’t said was that refusal was not an option.
It turned out that Dusty had spread the news around that he had seen the girls being put away. The lot who controlled the girls wanted to know more. When Roscoe met them in the other café they asked him who else was involved. Who’s this other bloke? Vic? Who’s he? What they really wanted to know was who had run the newcomers on to their patch. They were worried that it might turn out to be the Sabinis from Millman Street. Someone chancing their arm could be sorted out with a couple of broken bones, no problem. But if it was the Sabinis that was a different matter. They asked us what we could find out and said to tell the local girls to behave themselves; tell them everything was being ‘sorted’.
Afterwards Roscoe dispatched Billy to get me to have a ‘meet’ with the Somers Town lot to discuss the problems. This was serious stuff. Up to this point we had all steered clear of the courts and now here we were, standing on the brink of, and getting involved in, what could easily turn out to be a vicious gang war.
As far as I was concerned it was nothing to do with us; let them sort out their own troubles. Dusty, who obviously knew a bit more about the mob involved, butted in: ‘All very well for you, Vic, but we’re with Roscoe and his old man is in a dodgy line of business. You don’t think he’s doing that without paying his dues? You ought to know the score by now!’ I looked across at Roscoe, ‘’E’s right, Vic, we all ’ave to pay our dues. You know the score, works both ways. Nobody interferes wiv our little business, if they ask us to do a favour it’s expected we give it the nod.’ I still had no idea just what Roscoe’s dad did to earn a crust. Then Dusty interrupted: ‘Best we go see what they want, ain’t no ’arm in that, see what they want and what’s in it for us.’ We all agreed and left it to Dusty to make the arrangements, after which we shuffled off down the Cross to get a tram up to the Angel and spend the rest of the afternoon in Harry’s gym.
Two days later and the four of us are sitting in a café down in Somers Town Market, with some of the heavies from the Somers Town mob. Dusty knows everyone there, the other three of us are just sitting listening to the chat, and thinking that there’s some real hard stuff in here. It was agreed that the Sabinis were trying it on but further proof was needed. They wanted us to get some evidence. Roscoe and Billy gave me a look. I knew what they’re thinking: I lived on top of the scene. I piped up that it should be simple: put a tag on the ponce and see where he handed over the dosh. If it was Millman Street then it was the Sabinis. The heavies in the café gave me the hard look. I continued that it was going to cost a few oncers. ‘’Ow much?’ ‘A fiver should cover it.’ One of the gang handed me three one pound notes which he peeled off from a roll done up with an elastic band. We’d get the rest after we’d come up with the goods on the girls. This was their way of telling me that they were in charge and to make sure I knew my place in the scheme of things. I kept my cool and headed for the door, followed by my three mates.
When we were back on familiar territory I told the others not to worry. I told them I’d get a couple of the kids in the street to follow the girls’ ponce: we should have results in a couple of days, then that was it, all over, done and dusted. The other three agreed. ‘Thought you were going to chicken out, Vic,’ said Billy. ‘’E’s not a mate of mine for nuffink,’ said Roscoe. Billy didn’t know how near the truth he was. I certainly had very nasty feelings about this little job and I knew that finding out who the intruders were would not be the end of it.
I knew enough about the strength of these gangs to understand that, in order to stand up to the Sabinis, the other gangs, who were usually at each other’s throats, would have to come together. The other thing was that the only real potential allies with the necessary grunt were the Hoxton lot, and I was the only one of our little gang who was on speaking terms with them, and that was because of my past employer, Abe.
A couple of weeks later we’d supplied the info that it was indeed the Sabinis who were muscling in and they weren’t hanging about. A new café had opened on Battle Bridge, the very heart of King’s Cross, and it was common knowledge that Sabini money had supplied the down payment, added to which four new girls were operating in Argyl
e Square, which was a small, quite sedate square considering the neighbourhood that surrounded it. Argyle Square was also the territory of the Islington lot. It was now just over a month since the Sabinis had started extending their territory. The Somers Town lot were going round in circles trying to conjure up enough support to engage the enemy but had made little progress. Then something happened
It was Dusty who came knocking on Roscoe’s door. The gang from the Angel had intervened. The ponce who was running the four girls in Argyle Square was now resting in the Royal Free Hospital, just down the road. The girls had been given a warning: ‘Don’t come back, or else.’ The threat was accompanied by a bit of razor waving and the girls were terrified. Having done over the ponce, four of the gang, armed with pick-axe handles, went to the café on Battle Bridge, tied up two Sabini hustlers who happened to be in the café at the time, told the rest of the customers to scarper and then locked the door and started on the café’s interior with some gusto. Having satisfied themselves that there was nothing more to smash up, they left.
The whole of the criminal fraternity from King’s Cross right up to the Angel held its breath waiting for the next instalment, while the police kept their distance.
What the mob from the Angel had done to the Sabinis and their property, and the fact that there had been no retaliation, did not go unnoticed by the Somers Town lot. The girls in Bernard Street, where the female brawl had kicked it all off, got word to me via the fish and chip shop owner that two of the Sabinis’ ponces, ‘latinos’ as they called them, had been done over and that the invading new girls had gone for good. The Somers Town lot who ran these dozen or so girls in Bernard Street had taken over where the Angel mob had left off and the Sabinis could do nothing about it: not enough troops on the ground to cover their ambitions, that’s what it amounted to.
Peace reigned once again.
The Sabinis had one more try to establish their rule on King’s Cross turf. They had the café done up again and installed a couple of their seasoned warriors to run it. It didn’t work. Roscoe and Billy were approached because it was known that I was with Rozzie and I had access to the Hoxton Mob. The Somers Town mob wanted the Hoxton Boys to force the Sabinis out of the Battle Bridge restaurant so that the whole matter could be sorted out and brought to an end without too much bloodshed.
All I had to do was have a little chat with the Hoxton lads in Dean Street, where they hung out, explain the problem, then pass the answers back to Billy who would pass them on to the bruisers in Somers Town. Roscoe wanted to know if I needed any backup with the Hoxton lot: ‘Best on me own, Roz, they don’t know you.’
The following afternoon I went to Dean Street, to the den where the Hoxton wide boys hung out. I wasn’t worried because I wasn’t a threat and I was hoping to meet up with my old cronie Bernie Legget, a Hoxton Mob member who had earned his spurs in gangland by going down for eighteen months even though he was completely innocent. He could have grassed and saved himself but he chose to do the time. By so doing he raised himself up several notches in the esteem of the gang. Bernie was ‘in’ and Bernie was a mate of mine.
The notorious Hoxton Mob controlled the central London and West End crime scene, protection rackets, prostitution, illegal betting, the lot, as well as which they received dues from a lot of kerbside second-hand car dealers. In return the gang offered immunity from the competition and any other villain who wanted to poach the work. This was the way all the big gangs, including the Sabinis, operated. They also had a lot of the fuzz in their pockets, bunging them nice little – and sometimes not so little – handouts.
The exterior of the small nightclub which the Hoxton boys used as their office was hidden from view by a scruffy builder’s hoarding which also hid the steps that led down to the club.
The interior of the club was like all the illegal drinking and gambling dens that had sprung up all over Soho area – dark, plush and smoky. They were very profitable for the gangs that ran them. These gangs always knew if they were going to be raided and when the police arrived all that happened was that a few of the heavies were carted off and given a fine which the gang would pay. That was it: justice done and everyone satisfied.
First it turned out that my old mate Bernie was still residing at His Majesty’s pleasure but would be out in a couple of months. I was in trouble: I didn’t know anyone there. Then one of the lads looked up from a card school: ‘Watcha, Vic, haven’t seen you around for a bit.’ That’s it, I’ve made contact. The lad who remembered me took me into a small room where a clutch of villains were discussing some future escapade. ‘What’s your business, mate?’ I told them about the girls who were planted in Bernard Street and Argyle Square and about the lads smashing up the Sabinis’ restaurant. ‘Yeah, but we know all about that caper. What you ’ere for and what’s your role in all this?’
I’m starting to feel uneasy but I press on and explain that I’m only the messenger. Tell them that the request is for them to tread on the Sabinis’ toes for a couple of weeks while the lads at the Cross and up the Angel sort things out and put paid to the territorial ambitions of the spaghetti eaters. Then one of the gang puts a pint of Whitbread’s Best in front of me and I know that the danger is over. While I’m supping up the pint the rest of the group argue the points for and against the proposed alliance.
Eventually they come up with an answer. ‘OK, we’ll tread on their toes, as you put it, we’ll keep them occupied, but the hard stuff is your lot’s affair and tell them they’re lucky. We know that some of you are in deep with the Yids.’ With that ultimatum I knew that I’d done what I’d come for, so it was off as quick as I could out of this den of violence and iniquity. Once up on level ground I took a couple of deep breaths and made my way back to the more civilised world of Ron’s café. The gangs would sort it out among themselves. No more bother for us four mates.
One Saturday the four of us decided to visit the new Palais de Danse at Finsbury. Roscoe and Sammy were keen to eye up the latest talent. Billy was starry-eyed over a new piece of skirt he had discovered and said he would have to drag her along with us. None of us wanted our evening spoilt by the tantrums of the other sex but in deference to Billy we agreed she could tag along so long as he kept her under control. Our casual dismissal of the female treasure he now considered to be his property got Billy’s juices up but in the end, and muttering to himself, he agreed to ‘Keep ’er in ’and’.
So three of us turned up at the Finsbury Park Palais. In no time at all, Roz, who’s done up like a prize turkey, is skating around the highly polished floor with the local talent in tow, one at a time, of course. Sammy and me slipped off to the bar where we started supping up and keeping our ears open for the latest news: who’s done a handy turn, who’s gone down for a session, and, more importantly, what’s coming next. The main topic of conversation was the fate of the Sabinis. Billy finally put in an appearance with his bit of skirt and was whisked straight on to the floor before he could so much as say hello to his three mates. Sammy shook his head in despair: ‘There yer are, Vic, that’s Billy’s lot, ’e’s ’ad it.’ I had to agree. A year ago there would have been about six, seven or eight of us at these Saturday evening dos; now we were down to four. If this Elsie got her way with poor Billy then we’d be reduced to three. The world was falling apart.
The Finsbury Park Palais de Danse was almost opposite the posh new Astoria Cinema. This area from the Nag’s Head to Finsbury Park was outside our manor and was an area noted for its hard nuts. We had no friends in this place and suddenly all hell broke loose. Billy’s rolling on the floor having been put there by a bruiser who is defending his girl from an onslaught from Billy’s bit of skirt. It turned out that Elsie had objected to the other girl getting a bit too close to her Billy. The home-side girl had retaliated with some help from her friends. We dashed over to help Billy, and as we had no allies to help us it finished up with the four of us getting a real going over from the greater force of the local layabouts. Only Roscoe
got away without a scratch. That was the last time we paid a visit to that Palais de Danse. After that, Billy and his girl were thicker than ever.
35
Talking Family
The next bit of trouble to come my way happened when I was woken from my afternoon nap by the sound of my sister Emmy crying. Mum was talking to her in the front room (I was sleeping in the kitchen). I heard Mum ask Emmy: ‘Did they do anything to you?’ ‘They were touching me all over’, and then another burst of tears.
‘What’s happening, Mum?’ I asked. ‘It’s those boys in Herbrand Street, they been messing about with Emmy and her friend.’ By this time I’ve got my coat on and I’m on my way to see if I can round up Roscoe and a couple of our mates. I got to his front door which, as usual, was open to the world, being one of those front doors which was short of a hinge. ‘Roscoe, I’ve got a problem.’ I told him the story. ‘You know as well as me that if I show my face single-’anded round in Herbrand Street I’m on to a loser. As long as I’ve got some backing I can sort it out.’ ‘Gi’us a second, Vic, be right wiv yer. Two of us should be enough, I fink.’
My mate Roscoe looked the business. He never seemed to do any work and yet he’d got the latest gear in overcoats. This one came nearly down to his ankles and the shoulders were padded, making him look much broader than he really was. So we took a short stroll to Herbrand Street. This street was situated less than a hundred yards from Woburn Place; it was on the real outer borders of the devils den that lay on the eastern side of Judd Street. The young tearaway who’d been molesting my Emmy lived with his mum and dad and his big brother in rooms in the Peabody Buildings that occupied a long stretch of the street. I also knew that the little sod’s older brother, a real hard nut, had just come out of Brixton. This didn’t worry us; if things got nasty, so be it.
