The turkey was a winner with mum. When I went round to see dad, he said, ‘Been in a fight, eh?’ I bought an Austin the next day and learned to drive with one hand. I took mum, Sylvia and Bill to the pub for dinner. Bill drank in The Vault all night, typical Monaghan male, while I chatted with the three women in The Lounge. But when Christmas Day came, the rare turkey roast was a delight, with singing, laughing and chatter, perfectly ending a peculiar holiday.
Joan and I lived harmoniously enough, but I wasn’t happy. She liked socialising but drinking and idle chatter bored me unless there was a deal or crumpet at the end. I stayed home. I earned an honest living, but knew riches or fulfilment wouldn’t follow. And I was haunted by my criminal past—how long would it be before the police swooped and dragged me to prison again? My bitterness and resentment spilled into our domestic scene, we had a falling-out, she left the house and three days later she wasn’t back.
I found a Hammersmith drycleaning number on one of her jackets and tracked the cleaner down. Using a ruse I got the customer’s address and knocked on a neighbour’s door. ‘Excuse me, madam, could you tell me who lives at Number 405?“I wouldn’t know who lives there! That dirty pig has all those young girls working for him!’ `A ponce?’ Is he ever!’ I was furious. I’d been worrying and she was under the wing of her pimp, giving pleasure to others, making a fool of me. When she came out I followed her to the tube station.
`What’s your game? Either we’re together or we’re not.’ She smirked like she’d done something clever and swore at me. I belted her chin, sent her down with a bleeding mouth. But my hot vengeance was unsatisfied; her disloyalty deserved more than a single smack.
I dragged her by the hair to the edge of the platform, intending to electrocute her on the live rails or throw her under a train, whichever. She grabbed a railing and held on tight, eyes bulging like a groper’s, screaming, legs threshing, attracting the attention of commuters on the opposite platform. Time to scarper - I raced up the stairs, nearly bumping into a famous fat actor.
Obviously, the police would be looking for me. I needed counsel and Brigadier Merry brokered a dignified deal. I would go to the police to tell them my side of the story.’
At the station, the police wanted to know about other crimes I’d committed in London. I told them to get lost and attend to the business at hand. I was charged with grievous bodily harm against Joan. I’d broken her tooth, and bruised her nose and chin. I pleaded Not Guilty—I always pleaded Not Guilty!
I was sent to Brixton Remand Prison. While there, I sat at a table in the hospital awaiting the routine medical examination. Etched into the wooden surface were the names of some of London’s most celebrated murderers—Neville Heath, the ex-RAF officer who brutally murdered a number of women; Haig, the acid-bath murderer; and Christie, 10 Rillington Place, the subject of a series of paintings by Brett Whiteley. All of them hanged. Food for thought.
I had no visitors. Bill tried but ex-cons weren’t permitted. I was remanded for another seven days. I looked up and Joan appeared holding a mug of tea and a piece of cake. I thought: ‘Oh dear, I’ll never get an opportunity like this again!’
So while Joan busied herself sitting down, I stared into space without blinking for a long time, causing my eyes to water. Then I turned to her with crocodile tears welling and said, ‘Oh Joan, what are you trying to do? Don’t you know I love you very much? We can go away from London together.’ Joan looked at my pained face, ‘You broke me tooth!’ With intense sincerity, ‘Darling, I’ll buy you another tooth. You don’t have to do this! Do you realise what this will do? It will separate us.’ Tears were rolling freely down my cheeks. Joan’s bottom lip trembled. ‘Well what can I do?’ I told her when she was in court to give evidence, she should appear a bit confused. No matter what they asked her, she should respond, ‘I don’t know. I can’t say. It wouldn’t be right to say.’ She was to give them no information.
At the new court session, Joan sat in the witness box. ‘Now, on [such-and-such a date] you were on the Hammersmith Platform?’
`Yes.’
`Now tell us what happened?’
Joan fidgeted and glanced nervously in my direction. I was standing in the dock, straining my body towards her, a desperate, pleading expression on my face.
`Well, I don’t really know, my mind’s gone a bit foggy.’
`Did he hit you?’
`I don’t really know, I kind of forget.’
Eventually the frustrated magistrate shouted, ‘Case dismissed!’
I gave a sigh of relief. When we went outside, Joan put her arms around me affectionately. I thought that it was just like being handcuffed again: ‘Get your running shoes on, Ces,’ I said to myself. She was dangerous; she nearly had me in jail again serving a long one. A lot of women you hit would have taken it. Later that night, she may whack you over the head with a piece of wood and yell, ‘Take that for hitting me!’ I can accept that. Better not to take any chances.
Joan told me that she was going to see her mother to tell her the results of the case. I knew how unimpressed her mother would be! I said, ‘Good, I’ll see you later at Aubrey Weiner’s Wimpy bar.’ I headed straight to see Bill. I told him, ‘That Joan, I could have had a right load of porridge because of her. If she happens to come around here, please say nothing.’
I rented a room in Queens Drive in London, keeping out of Joan’s way for a while. I’d lost the drycleaning job, but I soon found new employment shifting furniture around for Colliers. I was to see Joan twice more. I was leaving a friend’s Wimpy Bar in London two years after we parted outside court, when she walked in, holding a little boy’s hand. I tensed, predicting hostility, but she smiled warmly, introduced the boy who she was minding for a friend. We chatted, shared the happier memories, caught up on news. Joan was still single though she had several boyfriends. We parted with no hard feelings. Over 20 years passed before the next time.
Bill and I were both doing similar work, but Bill was far more entrepreneurial. One reason he enjoyed moving furniture was that it took him on regular trips to North London where he’d meet up with underworld connections and indulge in theft, sometimes using the furniture van, ideal transport and disguise for stolen goods. Bill got caught red-handed though. His punishment for theft and receiving stolen goods was three years’ in Preston.
After a boxing match one clear, pleasant evening I went to a cafe for a cup of tea. I wedged my way through the smoke and bodies to an alcove next to two girls and asked if I could sit down. I chatted up the attractive blonde teenager and escorted her home, where she lived with her parents, and sat on the front steps before we said goodnight. She giggled at my North Country accent and she had a knowing look about her, an attractive aura of sexual experience that pulled at me. She was 18, worked on a fruit stall, the Archway, for a fat rude raucous bat, and went down to Green Lane Manor House as `Joy’ to earn a bit extra on the game.
We dated. Police would often say, ‘Hello Gloria, how’s things?’ on the street. The coppers often had it off with the local toms and that suited me—being Gloria’s steady was far safer than seeing a series of women, just as a pimp is safe as long as he’s slipping the police money or a girl. It’s an underworld law.
Gloria was having upheavals at home and was happy to move in with me four weeks later. I could afford the small flat in Finsbury Park casual driving for Colliers and as part-time driving instructor for a fly-by-night company. I’d’ve been happy to marry Gloria if I wasn’t legally married to Doreen. I used Gloria as a means to an end: I wanted the companionship of a woman with whom I could have children and respectability. I had changed. I wanted to be recognised for my better qualities, not swearing, not drinking, not smoking—I hadn’t smoked for years. Not like dad and my siblings. My vocabulary had expanded. I had become instantly identifiable because I wore a beanie, a woollen cap that fits snugly over the ears, worn by the commandos at Bradford and dad when doing mechanical work.
Gloria demonstrated o
nly at the extremes. Walking through a park in autumn I started to frisk and jump to catch falling leaves. The ridiculousness of it provoked uncontrollable mirth in Gloria—she collapsed shrieking with laughter, out of control. And she would burst into tears for no apparent reason. Mostly her feelings were deeply buried, her face expressionless. She wasn’t as much fun as Doreen. She was untidy, lay in bed mornings, drank, smoked and swore, sources of irritation that caused many rows. I made her smoke outside, and get up and put the jug on before I went for a morning run. She hated me bossing her. The atmosphere became testy.
I wanted to get Gloria out of the house, where most of our bickering took place, so I got her to come to a naturist’s camp in Kent almost every weekend. The sunshine on our skin was delicious, fellow naturists were free thinkers and we swapped partners with other couples. We shared good times.
I was delighted when Gloria became pregnant. We’d argued a lot and I feared she might pack her bags. Gloria didn’t appear interested in motherhood except as a more pleasant life to working like a slave at the fruit stall for the fat bat. A baby could be just what we needed. Tracey Cecina was born at Hanley Road Hospital on 27 May 1961. Gloria had a bad time of it, not helped by a West Indian woman screaming abuse and threatening staff, and vowed never to return. Any disappointment that our firstborn wasn’t a boy evaporated when I saw Tracey. I idolised her. After her Christening I wrapped her white satin gown with lace trim in a box.
Three months after Tracey’s birth, Gloria announced she was pregnant again. I was delighted. But four months later our vinegary landlord evicted us two weeks before Christmas; he wanted the flat for his daughter—immediately. We wandered the wintery streets, Tracey in a carrycot between us, looking without success for a place to stay. Desperate, we went to Gloria’s mother. She stared at me from the door with a cold deadpan expression and I have no idea what thoughts went through Gloria’s mind as she stood expressionless on the steps. I was annoyingly persistent and Gloria and Tracey were accommodated while I searched for a flat.
Fitness was important to me. Every Sunday morning I went to a gym, like Kings Head in Islington, where I’d spar. I trained with Trinidadian Jimmy Black, The Black Flash, and we went to quite a few matches together. Jimmy taught me a lot about boxing and training. I saw exceptional trainers at work, like Danny Holland and Nat Seller, and fighters like Randy Turpin in preparation for the fight in which he beat Sugar Ray Robinson in his prime, Terry Downes, Freddie Mills, Bruce Woodcock and the game Henry Cooper. I watched them closely, their styles, defence, fitness, bodies and minds. Things Jock McAvoy said when I was a boy began to crystallise.
After workouts I often visited Jimmy at his flat in North London. I walked into a hot political discussion around the table one time. Jimmy and his mostly West Indian friends were worked up about the situation in the Congo. In 1960 the Congo became independent and unstable. Patrice Lumumba was ousted as leader in a military coup and murdered. I asked a scruffy delicate-featured white youth wearing a cap what he did for a crust. ‘I’m a musician, lad, I’m wiv a group,’ he said in a strong Liverpudlian accent. He had an off-putting intensity about him. He introduced himself. I repeated his surname with a smile—who wanted to be called John Lemon, John Right Idiot? ‘No, Lennon, with a double n,’ he said, annoyed. I didn’t like his moodiness and communistic biases, but did hear he was coming to terms with his mother’s death and often drunk or angry at that stage. It was a couple of years before Beatlemania so his face and name made little impression.
After Gloria and Tracey went to her mother’s, I went to Aubrey Weiner’s Wimpy Bar and met a North Countryman there. Ivan Love was in a pop group, the Jay Birds. He certainly looked the part: hair dyed sliver-blond, pink flares, gaudy shirt and scarf. I mentioned my accommodation problem and he offered a room in a house with his group. The Jay Birds were nice blokes and clever musicians, but no-one knew who they were and they struggled to get gigs. They needed a PR man and agent, but were in the same financial abyss as me. I said I’d do it on spec, and played the Jay Birds’ manager-publicist role with gusto, but cold calls and phone calls got us nowhere. I designed a stunt: ‘Peter Bates’ would fall off Blackfriars Bridge, Ivan would rescue him, publicity would follow.
The air was freezing on the bridge and I dreaded the water. I peeked behind me and, yes, Ivan was strolling behind as planned. I toppled over the handrail. I seemed to be airborne for ages, but the freezing wetness—and unexpected filth—hit me soon enough. I did a good drowning wretch, plenty of onlookers gathered and heroic Ivan jumped in on my head, leaving me truly dazed. The Thames water police pulled us out. The Jay Birds got publicity and significantly more work, but split up 18 months later. Years later Ivan had a car-selling business and we reminisced about the Swinging Sixties.
I eventually found a large room in Queens Drive. Gloria was attended at home by a local doctor and an Australian midwife when Dean Aubrey was born on 15 May 1962. I stayed outside the door. The birthing process frightened me, strange considering the blood I’ve seen.
Guy Laughton was born at home too, on 25 January 1964. When he was a month old I realised his tongue was attached to the bottom of his mouth, but a minor operation cleared that perfectly.
On 23 April 1965 Troy Weston was born.
A couple of months later Gloria and I married. I’d been divorced for over a year. Having children out of wedlock wasn’t a factor. I came into the world thus, and a quarter of London or Manchester likewise. But I did want something better and I craved social acceptance. I didn’t love Gloria, but I never loved any woman except dear mum, so that factor didn’t concern me. Mum was frail, and the Manchester-London 600 kilometre journey too great an undertaking. On 16 August, with no family present, in a quiet ceremony at Stoke Newington Town Hall registrary, we tied the knot.
21 A Question of Remorse
Question: What do you say to a woman with two black eyes?
Answer: Look, I’ve told you twice already…
Pub joke 1998
The birth of our daughter was a great joy, and she came into the world with ease. John was busy at the birth, this time with photography not midwifery. Naturally, my days got busier after Jinka was born. A baby, a toddler and an elderly woman, as well as a husband, though I loved them all, made for a time when the dependence of others on me reached a peak. I was holding down an office manager’s job for a busy ophthalmic surgery at Chatswood, patients 10 to 15 minutes apart, sometimes double-booked. I worked hard from 8 am to 6.00 pm, with only a short break at lunchtime. I’d come home exhausted. I still saw Ces frequently at Bumble and continued to record his life, but progress on the typescript slowed right down. Ces didn’t like anything or anybody taking a higher priority than him. He got impatient. I told him how busy I was. He looked sideways at me as if these were mere excuses and I had my priorities wrong.
Something was now bothering me about the book. By then, we had covered Ces’s adult years up to his days with Gloria. I hadn’t realised he had such a violent past. When Ces first told me his life experiences, he hadn’t gone into sordid detail, mainly speaking about humorous incidents which made John and me laugh. His dark side was emerging, and I didn’t like it, especially when women were victims. In two chapters he’d broken Dot’s nose, punched Doreen in the face, broken Joan’s jaw and tried to electrocute her. I confronted Ces about his treatment of women:
`I was always brought up to treat women as the weaker sex. If a woman hits me, I see no reason not to belt her back. It has always annoyed me the double standards that society has. If a man committed murder he would be hanged. If a woman committed a similar crime there would be a public outcry to prevent her being hanged. I feel if a woman strives for equal rights with men, she is entitled to equal punishment. I think the sentimental attitude is idiotic.’
Ces’s raw perceptions challenged my middle-class morality. His honesty was commendable, though his rationale somewhat flawed. I didn’t want to be judgmental, though it was hard; I’m one of thos
e sentimental types.
I also found it amazing that Ces could casually talk about kicking and punching people without a hint of remorse. He was full of passion and anger about his own sufferings, eloquent about them as well, but if anyone wronged him he was hellbent on revenge. But if he—or his mates, for that matter—wronged someone else he was extraordinarily matter of fact. I felt this would be detrimental to the book. Readers would be repulsed and come to dislike Ces, think him heartless. I did not think him heartless. I felt he had difficulty expressing sentiments like remorse but they were there, deep down. It was the biographer’s job to dig them up.
I went back over all the events where I felt some contrition, some emotional reaction at least, was in order.
`Ces, when you punched Dot and smashed her nose, how did you feel?’
Ces looked at me curiously, as if he did not quite understand the question or the point of asking it.
`Did you feel… remorse? Guilt?’
Then Ces started talking, giving me appropriate responses. Even when covering his tracks he couldn’t desist from throwing the blame.
`I felt bad, really bad, but what could I do? She white-anted me and I just saw red. It was her fault her nose got broken.’
Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me Page 20
