The A & R was the place all the chaps used to congregate, and I’ll never forget the moment we arrived that afternoon. Dad and Uncle Mick had always been close, but Mick had been put away before Dad in the sixties, so they hadn’t seen each other in a very long time. At first they didn’t say a word, but simply looked at each other. You could tell how close they were from the way they stopped still. They’d been through so much together, and there was so much love between them. Like brothers, really.
In those days men in our world always greeted each other by shaking hands. It was the old-fashioned way. Men hugging is a relatively recent convention, but back then a firm handshake sufficed. Most of the time, anyway. On this occasion, after a few more seconds of standing there, Uncle Mick broke the silence and stretched his arms out. ‘I don’t give a fuck what they’ll say,’ he boomed, and gave Dad a hug and a kiss. Seeing the reunion of those two great men was a beautiful moment.
The club was quiet at first, but, as word got around, more and more people showed up to celebrate and pay their respects to Dad. By early evening the place was packed. I knew a fair few of the friends and family in the room, but there were many more faces I didn’t recognise. After all, I had been just ten when Dad had gone away, and back then I only had vague notions about the world he was moving in. Now I was an adult, witnessing hundreds of men congregating in my father’s name – major robbers and chaps, a Who’s Who of the London scene – and it was a real eye-opener. In his absence, I’d heard many a conversation about what a major player Dad was, and now I was witnessing it for myself. What a spectacle – it really made you square your shoulders and stick your chin out with pride.
It was a strange and wonderful afternoon. In some ways I felt as if nothing had changed – Dad was with us, surrounded by those he loved, and making plans – but in other ways it was as if everything had changed. I was no longer a little boy running around the pub being kissed by the women. Now I was an adult and suddenly I felt a part of everything. The chaps treated me as one of their own, and I had a tremendous sense that I belonged in an adult world I had nothing but respect for. The question was: how would Dad react to me doing adult things he disapproved of? I would find out that very afternoon.
Dad had always been a non-smoker, but while he’d been away I’d taken up the habit. Mum knew it, Ronnie Knight too, but Dad didn’t have a clue. It was the only secret I’d ever kept from him. Not wanting to upset him, I’d gone the whole afternoon without a cigarette, and I was gasping for one. Ronnie clocked me squirming and kindly brought the subject up with Dad.
‘Fred, I think there’s something Jamie wants to tell you, and not being honest with you is getting to him.’
Dad was all ears.
‘I’ve got to tell you, Dad,’ I said, a touch nervous. ‘I smoke and I’m dying for a cigarette.’
Dad was hardly pleased – what sort of father would be? – yet he didn’t get angry or lay down the law.
‘Standing there not having one must have been killing you,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m not happy, but go on then.’
Dad had always been fair and, small as it may seem, that moment confirmed nothing was going to change on that front now he was home. I had grown up, and Dad fully accepted it. He wasn’t holding on to the idea of the boy I’d been the last time he was free, and the nature of that little exchange was a blueprint for the way our relationship would continue. We were both men now.
Day became night, and the gathering turned into a true London occasion filled with music, laughter and singing. I didn’t let Dad out of my sight, and stood by his side nearly every moment of that joyous reunion. Now I had him back, I didn’t want to let him go for a second.
At one point I relaxed a little, stood back from Dad’s group and watched him work the room. It felt almost unreal to have him back again, to see him smiling and talking as if the past seven years were merely a bad dream he’d forgotten instantly. Those years haven’t changed him one iota, I thought. They hadn’t broken him one bit.
We had a proper good drink with all the right people. As the night went on, there were groups of men huddled around each other, Dad included, their conversation hushed. They say business and pleasure don’t mix, but on this night that didn’t apply. There was business to be done, meets to be planned. Arrangements were being made. Lumps of cash were already exchanging hands. My dad was ready to go back to work with his firm. Freddie Foreman was already back in business.
The man of the house was home, but, when we woke up the following morning, Dad was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where’s Daddy?’ I said to Mum when I got downstairs. Before she had a chance to shrug her shoulders, our answer walked through the front door.
‘Help me get some things in from the car, Jamie,’ said Dad with a grin.
I gladly obliged. Just hearing something so mundane was music to my ears. Being there to help my dad at home felt wonderful. The next thing I knew we were hauling in bags and boxes filled with a ton of gorgeous food. I’d done a similar thing for Mum while Dad was away, but this was different – Dad had really gone to town and bought every goody a family could hope for. Enough to last for weeks.
It turned out that, when he’d woken up, Dad had gone to the fridge and the cupboards and found them pretty bare, and I think that moment had hit him hard. It symbolised how much we’d sacrificed while he was away. Even though we were living in a beautiful house with beautiful furniture – all the outward trappings of wealth – there hadn’t been an awful lot of money in the purse for living. A lovely place to live doesn’t mean a lot if the cupboards are nearly empty.
Mum and I had always put a brave face on during visits, and never let Dad know about our dire financial worries – there was no value in making him feel worse about a situation he couldn’t help. Besides, Dad had always done everything he could for us even when he was inside. I vividly remember one visit not long after he had been moved to the Scrubs. We had barely sat down when Dad told Mum to take his hand. She reached across the table, her eyes darting towards the guards. I surreptitiously clocked what he put in her hand before it disappeared into her handbag. It was 50 quid. ‘I’ll give you the same every visit, and someone will be in touch. He’ll be dropping more round to you,’ he told her.
How had Dad got his hands on that kind of money in prison? I wondered. What was he up to? What had he set up? He must have read my mind, for he looked at me and winked. ‘I’m back in London now,’ he said, as if it was all that needed saying, as if the walls that had incarcerated him were inconsequential. Mum and I went for a spag on the way home and, when I asked her how he got the money, she just looked at me and smiled. ‘Ask no questions, get told no lies. That’s your dad. That’s what he’s like. I gave up asking questions a long time ago.’
Sure, we’d survived, but those bags stuffed with food were Dad’s way of saying the difficult days were over. He’d found it hard to deal with how much we’d sacrificed, and his reaction was so touching. An unspoken acknowledgement of our pain and a thank you for having gone through it with dignity. Nothing was ever lost on Dad, and even now that tender moment brings a tear to my eye.
It was a joy to have Dad home, and a sense of profound relief at having my father where he belonged stayed with me for days. It might sound odd, but I still feel that relief now. When someone has been absent from your life for so long, when life has felt wrong for so long, every day feels like a blessing from the moment things are right again. Even during testing moments, you cast your mind back to how bad life has been, thank your lucky stars it all turned out OK and stop moaning before you start. It’s an attitude I’ve applied to other areas of life, especially acting. It always winds me up when I hear actors moaning while they’re working. A common complaint is ‘I’m so bored sitting around on set all day’, and hearing it from an actor drives me mad. I just want to tell them to think about all the years they’ve been lying on the sofa waiting for the phone to ring, the dozy fools.
DAD AND ME
Now I
had my father back, I didn’t want to let him go. There was so much lost time to make up for, and I wanted to be with him constantly. And I knew the feeling was mutual. Still, I knew Dad needed to earn a living and, knowing where his way of life had landed him before, I was nervous about the prospect of him going back to work. One night, just after he was back, Dad and I had a conversation and our feelings came out.
‘I’m so proud of you, Jamie,’ said Dad. ‘You’ve been so brave for so long, and you’ve looked after your mother. You’ve been the man of the house, and now it’s time for you to enjoy yourself.’
Kind, moving words.
‘I know things have been hard,’ he continued. ‘But I’ll soon have a bit of work lined up. We’ll be back on top in no time, you’ll see.’
Don’t say that, I thought. Dad was being so considerate to me and it was really appreciated, but the mention of ‘jobs’ made my heart sink. I’d just got him home, and I couldn’t bear the idea of my dear father getting done for something and being taken away from us again. I didn’t need to speak – my face must have said it all. I’ll never forget what he said next.
‘Jamie, I know what you’re thinking, but, if I don’t go back to work, they win. They would have beaten me, and no one beats me. I’ve had seven years taken from me, and I know it’s been hard on you all. But I need you to understand that I have to show them I’m still the man I was.’
I understood. For Dad, going back to work was a matter of necessity. He belonged to a certain part of society – a world that had defined him his entire life – and leaving it would have been like waving goodbye to his identity. For good or for bad, he would always be the man he was, and Dad’s words made me realise that it was a matter of self-esteem and pride. Asking my father to change his ways would have been like asking for a new dad, and I loved him exactly as he was. Just as he had been supportive of whatever I wanted to do – he loved the fact I was building an acting career for myself – I would have to accept and support the choices he made. Were it not for him, I would never have had so many opportunities given me in the first place. You can’t ask someone to change without compromising your relationship, and I’d rather have died than done that. At the end of the day, family is about accepting each other for who you all are, and it was the least I could do for my father.
What’s more, accepting Dad’s choices was made easier because I understood the appeal of the underworld. I loved my fledgling career as an actor and everything that went with it, but I also found my dad’s lifestyle seductive and exciting. Depending where you are in the hierarchy of the criminal world, it can be a fascinating, dangerous and thrilling feeling. When you’re in the basement, it’s an unpleasant, seedy place, but experience it at the top echelons and there’s an undeniable buzz that’s hard to beat. There’s intrigue, money, drama, danger and power – elements that, good or bad, make you feel truly alive – and I must admit I liked being on the periphery of something that most people never experience close up. I’ll make no excuses for that.
Dad never wanted me to follow in his footsteps, and I had no intention of doing so. I was beginning to make a name for myself acting, and had started to nick some nice jobs on children’s TV. But, as I’ve said, Dad and I were desperate to be together as much as possible, so it ended up that whenever I wasn’t working we would spend time together. Being with him meant being in his environment, and it suited me just fine. I’d already dipped my toe in parts of London’s underworld, and the prospect of wading in a little further didn’t bother me one bit. In fact, I loved being by my father’s side. It was the adventure – and education – of a lifetime.
Dad had to rebuild his life. Apart from the house, all of his assets – the pub, various betting shops and other properties – had been sold before or while he served his time. It’s fair to say that before he went away he was a very wealthy man, but the cost of hiring the best legal minds doesn’t come cheap. After so many years away, he had to go back to grass roots. He was out and he was hungry.
Dad cast his net wide. He reassembled all of his old contacts, and with Fred back in circulation it wasn’t long before he was being offered ‘business’ – the odd share in a club or a pub in an unsavoury part of town where his name would ensure there was no trouble. And friends who were having trouble in reclaiming money owed, who for one reason or another didn’t want to go to the authorities, would come to him, and he would see what he could do. He always seemed to be able to work something out in exchange for a nice ‘drink’ out of what he got back for them. And then, most importantly of all to him, there was his preferred line of work out on the pavement. I can’t go into details here, but, suffice it to say, Dad didn’t waste much time in proving to himself he still had what it takes to be a fine money-getter.
As often as I could, I was there to drive my father wherever he needed to be. I wouldn’t be burned off. The only times he’d leave me behind was for my own good. To keep me out of danger. If Dad was going on a meet where having my face on show would implicate me unnecessarily, he’d make sure I was out of the picture. But, wherever we went, my eyes kept opening wider – the flavour of Dad’s world I’d had before was nothing compared with what I witnessed in this period. Day after day, it never ceased to amaze me how many people Dad met with and how many places we’d get around. There was never a pattern. In one day alone I might drive Dad to a meet at an Eton Square mansion, or an apartment in Regent’s Park covered in Picasso paintings, then to a smoky little drinking club, then to a beautiful restaurant and on to a spieler before a meeting in an East End pub. Constantly Dad met with an incredible diversity of people. From important high-society gents to men whose lives were played out in the murkiest corners of the underworld, I was introduced first hand to a London of contrasts I’d so far only scraped the surface of.
Every meeting was a different bit of business, but most of the time I had little idea of the details. You’ve all heard the phrase ‘I’m just the driver’ – well, nine times out of ten it applied to me. While Dad loved having me with him, there was no way he wanted to drag his son into anything incriminating. With me, and anyone else in his firm, Dad operated on a strictly need-to-know basis. Many times I’d wait in the car, but, on any meets I did get to sit in on, I learned to keep my ears shut and act as if I wasn’t there. It goes without saying that whatever I knew about Dad’s business I never passed on.
Dad was a smooth operator, always in total control. As we drove around I could always sense him thinking about where we had been and where we were going next. At first he would always remind me not to tell the next person where we’d come from or what we’d been up to. To arrive at a meeting and even say the area of London we’d travelled from was taboo. If I had to make a phone call I wasn’t to use names: it was never ‘Hello, it’s Jamie, Fred’s on his way’ but simply ‘We’re on our way’ and down with the receiver. I learned the importance of keeping my mouth shut about everything, and it soon became second nature.
One of Dad’s favourite meeting spots was known as ‘bacon sandwiches’, my Auntie Nanette’s place in Kennington Road, so called because the first thing Auntie Nanette – or ‘Nanny’ as we called her – said when you walked in was: ‘Fancy a bacon sandwich?’ The chaps loved to congregate there, and meets at Nanny’s were often a good chance for Dad to have a proper catch-up with one of the firm he’d been keeping a low public profile with. I’ll never forget my feeling of surprise when we turned up at Nanny’s one day and sitting there was a bloke I’d noticed in the pub the night before. He’d been sitting in the corner while I had been drinking with Dad, but they might as well have been strangers – they hadn’t even acknowledged each other. Now the same fellow was drinking a cup of tea, eating a doorstep sandwich and asking us how our night went. Then he and Dad got down to business. I was always thrilled at the amount of subterfuge in Dad’s world: you never knew who was linked to whom, or when you were going to have your assumptions challenged.
Dad had connections that opened d
oors and earned you favours everywhere. His name even had its uses among the police, and I learned this in a rather amusing way. I drove around in a Hillman, a lovely little motor that I’d put in my mum’s name as I didn’t have a licence. One day the police pulled me over and held me up because I couldn’t produce the right documents. Worried about getting Mum into trouble, I gave the name of a bloke I knew from the Borough. He’d passed his test, so my thinking was I could go down the station later on and use his licence. Little did I know they were going to nick me there and then. I ended up spending Friday night in Manor Place Police Station, off Walworth Road, roasting in a cell while everyone else was out and about. They kept asking me to repeat my name, and I kept sticking up the false one. In the meantime, they sent some officers round to my mate’s address and, lo and behold, he’d just got back from the pub, gone to the door with a kebab in his hand and answered to the name I’d given the police. ‘Thank you very much. Sorry to bother you,’ said the police before making their way back to the station.
Before I knew it, my cell door swung open and three very angry police officers and an irate desk sergeant were leaning over me, fists clenched. ‘You lying little fucker,’ said the sergeant. ‘If you’re who you say you are, then you’re at home with a kebab!’
The jig was up. I was gutted. It was time to come clean.
‘All right,’ I sighed, ‘my name is Jamie Foreman.’
Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story Page 10
