Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story

by Foreman, Jamie

  So far, so good. By now part of me was enjoying playing the part of a Frenchman at leisure – or a British agent on a mission. I know it may sound silly, but thinking like that really helped me. It kept me sharp.

  I began to relax a little when the train glided into motion and slowly pulled out of the station. Looking out of the window, I said goodbye to the Paris I’d had no time to take in. An overwhelming feeling hit me as the train snaked further through the suburbs. Hunger. I hadn’t eaten since that bacon and eggs on the boat, and that lot hadn’t stayed down long. Cigarettes and nerves had kept me going, and only now did I realise I was running on empty. It was time to refuel.

  Entering the dining carriage was like stepping on to a film set – it was a beautiful little car filled with people puffing plumes of blue Gauloise smoke, drinking red wine and coffee, animatedly talking and eating what the French do best – Steak Frites. All the cuts were laid out for customers to pick from, and I didn’t waste any time in choosing a perfect-looking steak and handing it to a chef.

  I took a seat, sipped my glass of red and gazed out of the window. The lush French countryside opened up all around as the train rattled along. Every second I was further away from home, yet closer to where I wanted to be. I’m doing all right, I thought. I’d refined the plan a little, sure. But I’d got this far. All in all I felt the situation couldn’t get much better. I soon discovered I was wrong when I laid eyes on a lovely-looking French girl and realised she had her eyes flirtatiously locked on me. A beautiful girl to pass the time with – fantastic. It doesn’t get better than that.

  She was a petite brunette with a lovely round mouth and big, doll-like eyes. We made eyes at each other and exchanged a few words of broken French and English. A very pleasant distraction, our flirtation kept me busy all the way to the French–Spanish border, high in the Pyrenees. But arriving at a place where my plan might be thwarted brought me right back down to earth.

  It was the middle of the night. The train hissed, whirred, then fell silent. I disembarked into the freezing mountain air and huddled along the platform. Only the sound of shuffling feet broke the silence as I stood in line for French passport control. I clutched my passport and prayed. There was no reason why I should be stopped, but once again my irrational fears kicked in. The Foremans hadn’t been too lucky with Customs of late. ‘What if…?’ said that demon in my head.

  As it turned out, the Customs men were only on the lookout for migrant workers trying to sneak into France illegally. Presumably I didn’t fit the migrant bill looks-wise, for as I passed through the officers waved me on with a mere glance at my passport. It was the same story on the Spanish side. A nice stroke of luck. I’d moved from France to Spain without my name being noted on any document, and it felt good. Looking back, getting the train was probably an even smarter move than taking a plane – you didn’t need your name on the ticket for rail travel. To all intents and purposes, I’d disappeared off the radar.

  I’d come from a British winter, but even I wasn’t prepared for the frigid cold of the Spanish mountains at night. Stomping my feet and hugging myself for warmth, I waited on another platform for my next train. The French girl was standing nearby and I kept my eye on her as I lit another cigarette. Noticing me puffing away, an American student approached and asked if I had a spare cigarette. I gave him a whole packet out of a carton I’d bought, and we got talking. Nodding towards a group of kids further down the platform, he told me they were all heading to the south of Spain for the winter. ‘What you up to, man?’ he enquired casually.

  ‘Oh, just bumming around for a bit,’ I said. It was obvious these friendly young kids weren’t in cahoots with MI5, but I had to stay on my guard.

  ‘Well, why don’t you come and spend Christmas with us? We’ve got a beautiful house on the beach just outside Malaga.’

  I looked over to the group of students. Among them were a couple of very tasty-looking girls who weren’t shy about throwing me some gorgeous smiles – it wasn’t hard to picture myself enjoying Christmas on the beach with that lot. I thanked the bloke for his offer, saying I might well join them. I scribbled down the address, knowing I would never use it. Then I looked over at the girls again. If only, I thought. If only.

  The train that pulled into the station was worlds apart from the sleek TGV number I’d sped through France on. A rickety little thing made mostly of wood, it looked like something from the Wild West. Everyone was freezing, and couldn’t wait to board the train. The doors opened and within seconds the previously sedate crowd became a bunch of desperadoes. It was bedlam with all the pushing and shoving. I was aghast to see people actually fighting to get on a train.

  I spotted the little French girl struggling in the middle of it all. She was being jostled out of the way by grown men. Well, I wasn’t having any of that. I barged my way over to her, wrapped her in my arms and hurled her up on to the train. I threw my case up to her and jumped on. We were safe.

  So much for escaping the cold – the seating compartments were like ice. It turned out the heating system was knackered, and much to everyone’s irritation the guards soon came round and slung us all off the train. After all that effort, we were back where we started. The crazy thing was the same train pulled up at the platform half an hour later. Another scrum ensued, but this time I minded the girl from the off. Once seated back in the same compartment, we realised the heating hadn’t been fixed at all. You’ve got to love the Spanish. It’s funny now, but we weren’t laughing then.

  Still, the lack of heat wasn’t all bad – before I knew it the girl had snuggled up and put her head on my shoulder. I covered us with my jacket and gave her a protective cuddle as the train heaved out of the station. We had a bit of a kiss when the lights were eventually turned out for the night, and at one point we slipped off for a bit more privacy. It came as a very welcome interlude after all the stress I’d been through. Merci, Mam’selle. Being on the run, having a brief encounter with a gorgeous French girl and falling into a deep sleep on a train plunging ever deeper into the heart of Spain – it was like I was living in a novel. Pure romance and adventure.

  There’s nothing like sleeping through the night and waking to find you’re somewhere else, still on the move. As I came to, the first thing I noticed was the heat. It was baking. A wonderful contrast to the biting cold of the mountain air. Looking out of the window, my eyes met with the barren dryness of Spain’s northern plains. A far cry from the Pyrenees, the flat landscape spread out as far as the eye could see. I threw off my jacket and opened the window. I was in the middle of nowhere. I’ll never forget the feeling of that hot, dry air on my face and the sense that with every moment I was drawing nearer to safety.

  Gently, I shook my little French friend awake and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. She rubbed her sleepy eyes and we smiled at each other. It was time for breakfast. The buffet car was a true antiquity. Wood-panelled walls and banquettes. I almost expected to come under attack from redskins riding alongside the train shooting arrows at us. I let mademoiselle take the reins when it came to ordering and soon we were tucking into bread, jam, croissants and black coffee – a truly continental way to begin the day. I watched as she dipped a croissant into her coffee. I’d never seen that before, but gave it a go. Delicious. I still do that to this day.

  All good things come to an end – or at least they had to in my circumstances. When the train pulled into Madrid, I knew it was time for goodbyes. Funnily enough, I discovered the girl was on her way to meet her boyfriend – those French girls, eh! – but we exchanged addresses anyway and parted company. It had been short but sweet. As I lugged my suitcase off to the taxi rank, I knew our paths would never cross again.

  When I ran into trouble in Paris, I managed to find an alternative to flying. Now, in Madrid, I was too far from the coast to find another mode of transport to Tenerife. This time it was a flight or nothing. It was the festive season, and my heart sank when I realised the place was rammed with Spaniards jettin
g off for Christmas. Weaving my way through the midday deluge, I prayed I’d be able to get on a plane and complete the final leg of my journey.

  No such luck. All flights were fully booked. Fuck. All I could do was put my name (false, of course) down for a standby seat, sit down and wait. Four flights departed for Tenerife without me, the last one taking off early evening. I wasn’t happy, to put it mildly. There was nothing for it, I’d have to stay the night and try again in the morning. Double fuck.

  It turned out I was in for a long night. I was anxious enough, but might have got a few hours’ sleep in my chair were it not for a gang of dodgy-looking gitanos – gypsies – lurking around the airport. I’d clocked them early on and it was obvious they were eyeing up all the suitcases in the hope of an easy touch. Watching them prowl around, I was convinced I’d wake up without my luggage if I dozed off, so I didn’t sleep a wink. Those gitanos gave me the evil eye all night. Finally, I’d had enough. Risking bringing attention to myself, I caught the leader’s eye and made it perfectly clear that if they fancied their chances they should come and have a try. They must have appreciated my cojones, for the leader nodded and smiled. From then on they left me alone. Still, I remained awake. By daybreak I was deranged with tiredness and so irritable I was ready to explode.

  The first flight was 8am, and in my mind I was getting on that plane no matter what. When the desk opened I was right at the front, ready to tell the booking steward what was what. ‘I’ve been waiting here since yesterday lunchtime,’ I shouted, ‘and it’s my turn to leave.’ Having been passed over in favour of some Spaniards earlier, I’d had enough. Finally, I got a seat. I boarded the plane and as soon as I sat down I fell asleep, exhausted.

  An hour later I emerged into the sweltering heat of San Antonio Airport. I’d made it. A flight from London would have got me there in a couple of hours, while my adventure had taken just over two days. I pulled out the hidden piece of paper the chaps had given me, dialled the number and was told to head to a certain bar in Los Cristianos. I hailed a cab. As we bounced along the road, it struck me that there were only a couple of people in the world who knew my whereabouts. I’d disappeared. Mission accomplished.

  What a magnificent and slightly surreal moment it was when I walked into the bar, looked around and spotted my mum, sister and Dad. As always, there was the beaming smile, the arms spread wide. Same old Fred, taking his surroundings in his stride. ‘We’ve been so worried about you. What took you so long?’ I couldn’t begin to tell them. I was just so relieved to have made it. I’d recount my story later. What I needed right then was a very large drink.

  We had a good drink. Suddenly, it was as if the past few days hadn’t happened. I sat back and basked in the wonderful moment – my family back together. I passed Dad some money he was owed, along with some messages from the chaps, and eventually asked him what had been happening.

  The flat answer was ‘not much’. Back in the seventies Los Cristianos was only a tiny resort – more of a glorified fishing village really – and there wasn’t much to do there. You didn’t see many English people. Most of the tourists were Germans and Swedes, and that’s precisely why Dad chose it as a place to lay low. The Brits tended to congregate a few miles away at Playa de Las Americas, and that suited us fine.

  Dad had rented a lovely apartment overlooking the beach. It was a good spot, but not quite big enough – I had to sleep on the sofa most of the time, which became irritating. Still, it was nicely out of the way and we were under no obligation to do anything. Life resembled being on holiday, but we all had to keep a bit of an alert on the whole time. I arrived just before Christmas, and it was bizarre and lovely having our Christmas lunch on a terrace in the blazing heat.

  Being at leisure abroad for an extended period may sound quite exciting, but having to keep a low profile in a foreign country is one of the most boring things in the world. Trust me. Granted, lounging about on a beach is a good deal better than getting nicked and being banged up, but psychologically you’re still somewhere you don’t want to be. Knowing you have to be there turns it into a strange sort of prison sentence.

  Being away put pressure on us as a family, Dad in particular. Once again he was very conscious of living on limited money now he’d cut loose from business in London – though we regularly received Dad’s share of the pool-table money thanks to Teddy Dennis. We all had our moments of frustration, so now and again a row would flare up, but we never lost sight of how lucky we were to be together as a family. It could have been a hundred times worse if the chaps hadn’t acted fast and whisked Dad away, and we’ll be forever grateful to those wonderful, canny individuals. True friends.

  There wasn’t much to occupy us, and nothing I could do to change that. I missed acting hugely and remember feeling totally starved creatively. Unable to pursue my first passion, I did the next best thing: I read. I sat on the beach and devoured any book I could get my hands on. I can hardly remember all the books I read, but I remember ploughing through all of Stephen King’s novels. The Shining completely blew me away. I remember visualising Jack Nicholson as the protagonist, so it was no surprise when he was cast in Kubrick’s amazing film version. I also discovered the joy of John le Carré’s work. It was in Tenerife that I really fell in love with his wonderfully vivid prose, the depth of his characters and the amazing structure of his novels. To this day he’s my favourite author. Some of his early work may have suffered from being over-described, but since Tinker, Tailor his writing just glides. In my humble opinion he’s only got better over the years. He’s also matured well – the sign of a true artist. I like to think I’ve done the same with my acting. My favourite novel is A Perfect Spy, probably because of the parallels with my own childhood (a father in prison, a child at boarding school). Not that I would ever commit treason – that would be as bad as grassing.

  It was rare to hear an English voice in Los Cristianos, and we all got by in the pidgin Spanish we’d acquired, mostly from the television. Our favourite programme was Los Angeles de Charlie – I’ll leave you to work that one out. Dad was constantly in touch with the chaps back home, but the word was always the same: ‘wait’. We were better off where we were. The weeks seemed interminable and passed mostly without incident. That changed suddenly one day when we all headed down to the beach as usual.

  ‘Freddie!’ came a voice. A very loud, London voice.

  We all stopped dead in our tracks, and I’ll never forget the way Dad’s eyes widened as he turned with a nervous grimace. Was this it? Was the game up? We’d all been so careful for months, surely the cops weren’t on us now.

  My heart raced as we turned, but I let out a sigh of relief when I saw who’d called out. It was good old Billy Backhouse, husband to Kathy, Ronnie Oliffe’s sister. In the past I had been out drinking with their two sons, Danny and Tony. ‘Billy!’ Dad shouted back, but not quite so loudly. ‘Good to see you.’ And it was. They were on holiday with their friends Bernie and Rose, and to us they were from decent stock, as good as family. It wasn’t ideal we’d been spotted, but what better people to have seen us.

  After four months with no one but each other to really talk to, it was a novel event to be talking to people we shared a background with. I’m sure Dad would have preferred it if nobody ever saw us, but even he was happy once he realised our chance encounter was with such staunch friends. It was a proper break from the norm, as if a pressure valve had just been opened.

  Billy Backhouse had a reputation for being a bit of a prankster, and that day he didn’t waste any time living up to it. Back home he was a docker but he also did a lot of work for charity and loved dressing up to raise money. Billy also enjoyed putting on a costume just for laughs, and he and his wife Kathy had a hilarious little routine they did on the beach. Kathy went into the sea for a swim, while Billy nipped off to get changed. Minutes later you saw him marching down the beach, braying and growling in a Frankenstein costume and making all the kids scream with delight. Then he’d wade into the
sea and haul Kathy out while the whole beach looked on. Nobody knew it was his wife, and she’d scream for help in his arms before cracking a big smile and giving Frankenstein a hug.

  We all fell about laughing as Billy stomped back up to our spot in the sand. Bernie had a music box, and switched it on loud before Frankenstein and his maiden began to dance. It was a class act, and people loved the performance. The only trouble was tons of holiday-makers got their cameras out and began snapping away. Ever since arriving, Dad had told us to make sure we had our faces covered or heads turned whenever pictures were being taken, and we’d got pretty sharp at keeping away from other people’s lenses. You never knew who was going to see those photos – believe it or not, I know people who’ve been on the run and got nicked as a result of a copper looking at a pal’s holiday snaps. It wasn’t hard to look the other way in bars and restaurants, but being on a beach surrounded by people was a different story. We had no choice but to duck our heads towards the sand and wait until it was all over. We used to laugh at the thought of people looking at their photos and always seeing this family with their backs turned.

  We couldn’t have bumped into better people to cheer us up. Billy and Kathy stayed for two weeks and, knowing they’d never say a word about it back home, we had lunch with them every day. During those times I really felt like we were on holiday and almost managed to forget why we were holed up in Tenerife. It was heaven to have other people to talk to, and that fortnight broke up the monotony of everything. I know that it was a real tonic for my mum to have Kathy and Rose to talk to. Women do need other women to share their thoughts and frustrations with. I couldn’t have been happier seeing her deep in conversation with the girls, laughing and unloading the stress she was undoubtedly under.

  A very strange thing happened during our stay. One night Danielle woke up in the middle of the night and went to the bathroom. For some reason she felt compelled to pull the shower curtain open, and what she saw next was truly astonishing. An apparition of a man was standing in the bathtub. It was Dukey. The shock of it made Danielle jump, but a strange calm soon descended on her. Suddenly she wasn’t scared, and knew she wasn’t in danger: Dukey had a big smile on his face that reassured her all was well. She stared, stunned and mesmerised, hardly able to believe her eyes. But there was more. Moments later Dukey began to speak.