by Dan Davies
5. THE WORLD WAS COMPLETELY BLACK
Jimmy Savile’s school career was coming to an end in 1939 when, like all other schoolchildren in Leeds and other major cities across Britain, he was issued with a gas mask. It came in a small cardboard box with a length of string knotted to each end that allowed it to be worn over a shoulder or across the back.
That summer, children were given forms for their parents to sign, giving consent for evacuation in the event that war was declared. In August, as hopes for peace dimmed in mainland Europe, the Department of Education outlined the requirements for each child in the event of evacuation: one full change of clothing including an extra pair of shoes, toothbrush and towel, three St Ivel triangular cheeses, six cream crackers and two ounces of barley sugar sweets.
On 1 September, more than 18,000 children left Leeds Central Station on 51 trains. The 12-year-old Jimmy Savile was among them, heading to a temporary home with a family in Gainsborough. He would describe his time in the flat, open expanses of Lincolnshire as a widescreen experience after the leaden skies and grime of Leeds.
This rural idyll was not destined to last long. When his parents cadged a lift off a neighbour to visit their youngest in his strange new surroundings, Agnes Savile discovered that he was living in the shadow of some prominent gasometers. She decided there and then to take him home, figuring if he was going to be killed by a German bomb it might as well be in Leeds. He was back at Consort Terrace before Hitler’s Panzers had rumbled into France.
Despite what Savile later claimed about how badly Leeds suffered in the war, the city was getting off lightly in comparison to Grimsby and Hull to the east, Sheffield to the south and Manchester and Liverpool to the west. The low throb of enemy aircraft engines rarely presaged anything more serious than a few incendiary bombs that were advanced on by fire wardens wielding dustbin lids and broom handles like amateur lion tamers.
Of course this was not how Jimmy Savile remembered it. ‘There were no lights from windows, no street lights,’ he recalled wistfully at our first meeting in Leeds. ‘You got a visit from the air raid warden if there was a chink of light from any of the curtains. The whole world was completely black.’
In fact, the fledgling Jimmy Savile was faring better than most. ‘We were all in the racket business,’ he said of a period in which the city’s black market went into overdrive. He claimed to have learned much from the city’s growing Jewish population, many of whom were first-generation Jews who had fled the Third Reich. ‘They used to fascinate me,’ he said of watching the newcomers carving out their living on the markets. ‘All they knew about was being successful.’
His other fascination was the local dancehall. His parents were regulars at the Mecca Locarno ballroom situated in the County Arcade, and Savile told me about being trailed along in his Sunday best and being made to sit on the balcony while Vince and Agnes glided across the dance floor under the coloured spotlights. He said he was always intrigued by how the dancehall became a temporary escape from the rigours of life outside and how people were transformed once the music played.
The Mecca Locarno in County Arcade also afforded the young Jimmy Savile access to the more disreputable elements within society. As he memorably put it in his autobiography, he became ‘the confidant of murderers, whores, black marketeers, crooks of every trade – and often the innocent victims they preyed on’. He recounted how the body of a regular female patron was found in several plastic bags in a ditch, reflecting, ‘It was all part of the strange adult world that I never tried to understand.’1 It was here, under the lights and amid the spit and sawdust that Savile claimed to have received his formal education.
He liked to talk about how he was effectively invisible during this period in his life. ‘I was a tiny kid, about as thick as my finger. I was like a chair or a table. People used to talk in front of me because I didn’t exist. Anybody who had done anything wrong, I knew who had done it. But nobody ever asked me.’ He was, as he liked to put it, a child with big eyes, big ears and the good sense to keep his mouth shut.
While the young men of Leeds, his two older brothers included, were off at war, Jimmy Savile wangled himself a job in the dancehall as a stand-in percussionist. He accompanied the pianist who normally played with Pauline Grey and Her All-Girl Band. Finishing school at four o’clock, he ran down to the Mecca for the afternoon session, returning for a further half-hour spot in the evenings during the band’s break. He said he earned 10 shillings a week, an income he’d supplement by scavenging for cigarettes under the seats.
From an early age, he was pulled by the twin sirens of money and sex. The shortage of adult males was something he turned to his advantage; he claimed to have scored his first date at the age of twelve.2 She was about 20 and worked in the dancehall box office. He said he took her to the cinema where, in the darkness, he discovered a salient fact about the opposite sex, namely the ‘90 per cent you can’t see is just as important as the 10 per cent you can’.
Not long afterwards, Jimmy Savile lost his virginity to a young woman who, he maintained, picked him up in the dancehall. He said she asked him to take her home to Horsforth. In his autobiography, he described his feelings as ‘terror mixed with embarrassment’3 when the woman slipped her hand into his trousers before attempting to have sex with him on a train. He said she eventually succeeded in getting what she wanted in a bush at the back of her house.
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In June 1940, the evacuations from Dunkirk brought ragged columns of tired and filthy British troops to the centre of Leeds. Pouring from trains, they marched along Wellington Street to the Majestic Cinema where they were fed and able to rest up for a short time. ‘We had to go down and cop for as many as we could take to come and live with us,’ Savile told me. ‘We got two soldiers … It was totally, totally bizarre.’
Vince and Agnes stepped up their charitable endeavours as Leeds became one of the first cities to embark on a programme of civic fund-raising for the war effort. A wooden ‘cashometer’ was assembled in City Square, and during ‘War Weapons Week’ enough was collected to fund the production of 250 bombers, a source of great pride to the local population. Speeches were made and a march-past of troops took place outside the town hall.
More than 50 years later, Savile talked to me about his brothers serving in the Royal Navy and how their infrequent letters home were pored over by the family because nobody knew whether they would ever return. Vincent had been trapped during the siege of Malta, making Agnes Savile all the more proud of the message she received thanking her for the money she’d raised to help buy a bomber for the island.
‘In war living and dying is part and parcel of breathing,’ Savile explained. He talked of the dread fear of the postman coming up the front path with a telegram in his hand. Many refused to open them, he said, and asked neighbours to do it instead. ‘In the street where I lived I opened two or three telegrams,’ Savile added with a certain relish.
Even then, as a child, he talked of himself as being strangely devoid of normal human emotions: ‘I wondered why people wept during the war when their relatives had been killed. I didn’t even know what killed was. I was much more enquiring than I was affected.’
Soon after turning 14, Jimmy Savile left school and it was only thanks to his mother’s skills of persuasion that he was able to land a job as an office boy with Clarkson Brothers, an Irish company manufacturing threads used in the production of military uniforms. He started at 8.30 in the morning, finished at six and was paid 13 shillings and 9 pence a week, most of which went to his ‘Mama’ for his board and lodging. Any shortfall was comfortably made up through his dealings in the black market.
Not long afterwards, Leeds experienced its worst two days of bombing. At 9 p.m. on 14 March 1941, air raid sirens wailed around the city. Jimmy Savile and his mother were walking home along Great George Street when Luftwaffe explosives began raining down around them and they were forced to take shelter in a doorway.
A policeman sta
nding nearby was killed that night, blown clean across the road as a bomb detonated. When the raid was over, Savile claimed that he stepped out into the street and picked up a black leather glove only to find it still contained a hand. It is a morbid detail and one that Savile savoured.
Consort Terrace was fortunate to emerge unscathed from the raid, with bombs landing on houses in nearby Burley Road, Wellington Street and Hanover Square. In neighbouring Willow Street and Willow Grove, a block of eight houses was completely destroyed. One of the bombs contained a timing device that detonated two minutes after the ‘all clear’ had sounded, killing an elderly woman and seriously injuring several others. Some of those left homeless by the destruction were taken in and housed by Vince and Agnes Savile.
Jimmy Savile spoke of the war as a time of great excitement. The cinemas reopened, the BBC resumed its broadcasts of dance bands on the wireless and a wave of popular massed dances swept through the ballrooms. After successfully adapting ‘The Lambeth Walk’, Carl Heimann of the Mecca organisation introduced ‘The Siegfried Line’, which involved dancers simulating hanging out their washing on the German line. Heimann, who would go on to play a pivotal role in Jimmy Savile’s career, was regarded as the king of the dancehalls, which increasingly became focal points for the community.
The war years also represented opportunity, especially for a young man with a single-minded approach to getting what he wanted. Jimmy Savile landed a new job, this one at a large company handling vital foodstuffs such as currants, raisins and yeast. Agnes approved wholeheartedly, particularly when her son arrived home with his pockets stuffed full of produce. His passion for bike riding took him to the Yorkshire coast and Scotland for the first time, and when his four years of training with the Air Training Corps’ 168 Squadron came to an end, Savile braced himself for what he imagined would be a call-up to the RAF. Or at least that’s how he liked to tell it.
6. SPECIALIST SUBJECT: ‘JIMMY SAVILE’
I was standing at one end of Jimmy Savile’s front room in Leeds, looking at a large, wooden, free-standing unit of shelves and cabinets. It was packed with framed photographs, trophies, ornaments and boxes that looked like they contained medals and awards. We were midway through the third of our by now regular summits, meetings that would last for whole days at a time and generally involve me staying over at one of his flats.
Eighteen months after our first encounter, I had gone to interview him for Maxim magazine, this time at his flat in Scarborough. I’d ended up staying two days. Although I was still no closer to understanding what or who lay behind the familiar façade of the shell suit and the mist of white hair, the ever-present cigar and jewellery hanging from every appendage – I was now more intrigued than ever. My fascination had also become tinged with a certain, guarded affection. After spending my youth telling anyone who listened that he was evil incarnate, Jimmy Savile had succeeded in persuading me away from the belligerence of my younger self.
The room was by now thick with smoke. We had been at it for hours and I was in need of a break; he had talked me into submission – again. The phone rang.
‘Not only alive but also here … How are things with the empire? Really? … Really? … Yeah … Yeah … Yeah. How’s the baby? Have you got a date for the wedding yet? … I’ll send you a card … Weddings and funerals is not my kick … I’ll consider it … You won’t have time to be offended … You’ll go before me, that’s for sure … I’ll consider it … You’ll have to bribe me … That’s the way it is … I’m always ready for bribing … Alright then …
‘Have you seen poor old Gordon has been given the elbow by Madame Tussauds? That’s terrible, isn’t it? … Wonderful … I’ve just had the call from Downing Street this week. His missus wants to come and see me at Stoke … I said the best thing is to wait until you get to Chequers … Yes … Yes … Yes … Trouble is, he’s only a charismatic leader when he’s gone. He wasn’t a charismatic leader when he was there … The big deal is that he’s got a few quid but she earns plenty … Margaret was getting a quarter a million a lunch … Yeah … Yeah … Yeah …
‘So listen, I’ve got to go now because I’ve got a young lady here with no clothes on and she’s getting a bit cold now … She’s not doing anything with the Hoover … Bye.’
Savile put the phone down, rose from his chair and joined me at the cabinet. He was wearing a black shell suit. ‘See that there,’ he said pointing to a particularly ancient-looking black and white photograph. ‘That’s P.T. Barnum. When I first went to Granada TV it was nothing more than a series of huts, and that picture was on the wall everywhere. It was Sidney Bernstein, who owned Granada, who insisted on the picture as he didn’t want us to ever forget what sort of business we’re in.’ He explained that he got Bernstein to sign a copy of the Barnum photo in return for ‘a favour’.
A little further along was another signed photograph. It was of Savile’s hero, Winston Churchill. One of Savile’s friends later told me that the way he held his cigar was directly copied from Churchill. In 1965, Savile had queued up for hours to see the body of the great wartime leader lying in state at Westminster.
‘This one here is one of the only pictures of Winston Churchill that’s signed by him,’ he said proudly. ‘Now, his daughter Mary wanted me to do her a favour and I said, “OK, get me a signed photo of your Dad.” She said he didn’t sign anything so I said, “Tough. No favour.” She said, “Leave it with me”.’
He opened the glass door of the cabinet and removed the small, signed photograph. ‘Look what it says on the back. “Jimmy Savile. From Mary Soames. My thanks and in memory of someone we both admired.”’ He put the frame back in the cabinet and closed the door. He looked pleased with himself. ‘That’s worth a lot of money, especially in America.’
Lower down was a photograph of Vince Savile, his father. He was pictured with a bird on his arm. Savile confirmed it was taken at the one-man station in Yorkshire where he’d first met the woman who would become his wife. Then, pointing to what looked like a small coin, he said, ‘That’s my first communion medal from about a million years ago.’ Next to it was a tiny silver trophy: ‘This here is the first thing I ever won, for playing the drums in a talent contest in 1939.’
There were other more impressive trophies, too: ‘These are the bronze, silver and gold Mecca Cups. I won everything there was to win when I worked for Mecca.’
‘What’s this?’ I asked, pointing to a seven-branched, silver candelabra. ‘It’s a Menorah, a Jewish sacred object,’ he said. ‘I did the Jews a favour in London and so they got special permission from the Chief Rabbi to give me something.’ He picked it up and read the inscription: ‘Presented to Jimmy Savile Esq, in appreciation and esteem.’
When I asked him what the favour was, he barked ‘Forget that’ and moved straight to the next item. ‘This one is the Variety Club of Great Britain Show Business Personality Award, and this,’ he said, picking up what looked like a small mat, ‘is the only booby prize anyone ever won on Mastermind.’ I asked him what his specialist subject was: ‘Jimmy Savile – 1926–2008.’
Below the cabinets were two shelves crammed with boxes. He told me they contained his papal knighthood, ‘the Queen’s knighthood’ and his knighthood of Malta. Next to them was a Doctor of Law certificate and a picture of Savile with his mother and another man outside Buckingham Palace. ‘That’s when I got my OBE,’ he said. ‘That’s Joe, one of the porters I worked with for years at Leeds General Infirmary.’
From the table, he picked up the older of his two This is Your Life books. The cover was brown rather than red. Disappointingly, it was a shoddily put together album of out-of-focus pictures. ‘In those days there were no videos or anything like that so the back page is an LP of the soundtrack of the show,’ explained Savile. ‘That’s my brother Vince and that’s John. That’s the girl who used to do my hair. That’s Davy Jones out of The Monkees. That’s my sister Mary from Australia.
‘In that second one there’s a great
letter at the back,’ Savile pointed out. He settled back into his chair and waited for me to read it aloud. ‘The last time Jimmy was seen going through the gates of Downing Street he was dressed for the occasion. He was dressed in running shoes and puffing away on a cigar. He has quite the most distinctive approach to fitness training, some might even say it was a little eccentric, but then so many great Britons have had a touch of eccentricity about them and Jimmy is truly a great Briton. He is a stunning example of opportunity Britain, a dynamic example of enterprise Britain and an inspiring example of responsible Britain at Leeds General Infirmary, Stoke Mandeville and Broadmoor, to name only three institutions which have benefitted from his charity compassion. Miner, wrestler, dancehall manager, disc jockey, hospital porter, fund raiser, performer of good works, Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, Knight of the Realm, Jimmy, I and millions more salute you. God bless you.’
It was signed ‘Margaret Thatcher’.
7. THEY FELT THEY WERE IN CONTROL
Over the 10 years and more Liz MacKean worked as a general reporter on Newsnight, she became good friends with Meirion Jones. They had regularly collaborated on investigations and she says they enjoyed a ‘very healthy working relationship’ in which she tended to be ‘a balancing factor’: he was more bullish in his approach; she was more circumspect. In 2010 they won a Daniel Pearl Award for their investigation into Trafigura’s dumping of toxic waste in Africa.
Immediately after Savile’s death, and in a climate that saw his face adorning the pages of newspapers across Britain, Liz MacKean was Jones’s immediate choice as reporter on an investigation he planned to produce.
