Having talked to the old villain on the phone, Eleanor Berry feels it’s time the remaining Kray twin was at large once more.
My phone rang early one morning in London, jolting me out of sleep. ‘Yes?’ I barked. My then publisher identified himself. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a discrepancy.’ He sounded like a butler breaking the news that a priceless ceramic vase had been broken. ‘A certain Reginald Kray rang up yesterday afternoon, requesting a copy of your book, Robert Maxwell As I Knew Him. One of our secretaries inadvertently gave him your home number.’ ‘I’ll let that ride,’ I said. ‘ Did she at least have a good sense to send it to him?’ ‘Yes. It was sent off to him first-class, to whatever prison he’s in at present.’
‘Why did Reggie want it?’ I asked.
‘Well, he told the secretary he liked your picture on the back cover.’
‘We’ll have to sort out this business about having my telephone number. I want you to write to him and tell him I’ve moved. Tell him to ring me and write to me at the following address, any time on a Friday morning: c/o Dr Mivart Thomas [a Harley Street consultant psychiatrist and an old pal], at 121 Harley Street, London W1 [phone number give as well].’
I knew this was the best thing to do. Mivart Thomas is a pretty accommodating man, even though he’s a Harley boy. He’s an attractive Welshman who looks a bit like Paul McCartney, only better-looking. His profile is his forte. Sadly, he has shed the not-unsensual brogue of the valleys from which he hailed and has replaced it by an educated English accent, rolling occasionally into rich upper-class vowels if he is flustered or angry.
I didn’t let him know the arrangement straight away. I allowed Reggie Kray about two weeks to finish the book, and I relied on the fact that he is a prolific maker of telephone calls. I then told Mivart Thomas of my intention of receiving Kray’s calls on his number. I said I would wait on Friday mornings in the room next to his consulting-room. Mivart was most unhappy about the arrangement. He did not approve of the fact the man had been a gangster.
One Friday, when I was there, a call came through when the proud, handsome doctor was in his consulting-room. ‘Dr Mivart Thomas here,’ he answered in his crisp, tragically Welshless accent. ‘ I wanna speak to Elayna Burreee,’ said Reggie.
'Who?’ (voice raised nervously).
‘Oh, this is Reg.’
‘Reg? Reg who?’
‘Yeah, that’s right, Reg. I wonna speak to Elayna Burreee.’
‘Oh, I say, do you mean Eleanor Berry?’
‘Yeah, that’s it. Elayna Burreee.’
‘I’ll get her.’
Mivart came in to the small sitting area adjoining his strangely couchless consulting-room. One of his patients was sweating like Niagara Falls, rocking backwards and forwards in a chair, nursing an acute anxiety state. He was hyperventilating, like a murderer going to the gallows.
‘Do kindly extinguish your cigarette,’ Mivart exclaimed furiously. ‘ That man Kray wants a word with you in my consulting-room, blast it!’
I took the old-fashioned receiver from Mivart’s hand. ‘Oh, hullo,’ I said in a sweet friendly voice. ‘You’re Reg, aren’t you? I thought you‘d ring up.’
‘Yeah, you must be Elayna Burreee.’
‘Eleanor Berry,’ I corrected as gently as I was able.
I want to make quite sure that you know who I am,’ said Reggie, ‘My full name’s Reg Kray. K-R-A-Y, that is.’
So slow and soporific was his speech that I felt as if I were having a life-long chlorpromazine injection. All the Mogadon which had ever been manufactured seemed to be filtering into my ears, throat and mouth.
‘Of course I know your full name,’ I said, for, despite his institutionalised slowness and hardly Wildean skills as a conversationalist, I could not help liking the man. I could actually see a gentle, old St Bernard dog on the other end of the line, the kind of creature which would take three-quarters of an hour to walk across a ten-foot long room.
I continued, ‘I know you because I’ve read your autobiography, Born Fighter. I’ve also read the autobiographies of your twin brother, Ronnie, and your other brother, Charlie.’
I thought it would be unwise, not to say a little tactless at this point, to mention my knowledge of Reggie’s dispatching of the infamous Jack the Hat McVitie into the next world, while the pale light of the moon shone wistfully on his blood-spattered stiletto.
There was a pause. I could tell how shy Reggie was. I was particularly anxious not to intimidate him by the sound of my deep, carrying voice.
‘You still there, Reg dear?’ I said, trying to raise my voice half an octave, and sounding as sweet and friendly as I was able.
‘Yeah.’
‘Good show. Now, Reg, I’ve got a question I’d like to put to you. You asked for my Maxwell book, didn’t you? Well, what did you think of it?’
Reggie coughed into the mouthpiece. It sounded as if he had rather a bad cough. I waited for him to stop coughing, while Mivart, who was standing by my side, made violent gesticulations, wishing me to end the conversation.
‘With respect,’ said Reggie, ‘and I repeat, with very great respect, because I know you are a lady, all you ever do is just go on and on and on and on about this bleeding bloke.’
I started to laugh nervously. ‘But Reg, dear, the whole point of the exercise was to write about Robert Maxwell all the way through the book, by very virtue of the fact that it was about him and no one else.’
'Mind if I put in another card?’ said Reg. ‘I can wait. I am at your service,’ I said and to this day I do not know whether I meant this sarcastically or kindly.
I waited. Reg certainly took his time. I wondered what would happen were he ever called upon to escape from a fire.
‘I liked your Born Fighter,’ I said. ‘I was struck by your description of a tall, white tree outside your cell in Wormwood Scrubs. Indeed, you said you were greatly cheered by its beauty as you lay on your bunk in your cell looking at it.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
I pressed on. ‘ I was sent to do a job at the Hammersmith Hospital once,' I said.
‘During my lunch-hour I walked round the outside of the prison to see if I could find the tree which had given you so much pleasure. Try as I did, I couldn’t find it.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘What kind of tree might it have been? Was it a magnolia tree? Was it a horse chestnut tree? Perhaps it was a cherry tree. I’m afraid I am ignorant about trees. What about a laburnum tree? No. That has yellow flowers. There’s a famous Russian song called "Kalinka" about a laburnum tree. Are you keen on Russian music?’
‘Never heard any.’
‘You should. It’s the most wonderful tonic.’
There was more coughing. I tried to bring the man out of himself by talking to him about his family. ‘ I liked the description in your brother Ronnie's book about the Alsatian your family used to own, which you took in turns to rub with olive oil every morning, before brushing it until it shone. I also enjoyed that film of your lives which came out in 1990, and was particularly moved by the manner in which you and Ronnie apologised to your mother when she ticked you off for shedding each other’s blood in the boxing ring.’
This poor, agonisingly shy, futureless man was unable to return my ball. I talked generally about pubs in the East End, places such as the claustrophobic Grave Maurice and The Blind Beggars. At least I was able to get him to speak again.
‘Blind Beggars. Cornell,’ he said.
He‘d said it. I hadn’t. Cornell was hardly the most amiable and charming of individuals. He was a professional sadist, and was almost more hated in the East End than Hitler. Ronnie Kray had made arrangements for Cornell to be shot dead at the bar of the Blind Beggars.
‘Cornell was an utterly dreadful man, of course,’ I ventured.
‘He was more than that, but I wouldn’t like to use bad language in the hearing of a lady,’ he said
Mivart was adamant that the conversation be terminated. His patient in the next door room with the acute anxiety state was too ill to get of his chair, so at least I wasn’t depriving Mivart of his trade.
Just before we finished speaking, Reggie said he had sent some memorabilia. I had forgotten this, and was suddenly alerted by an astounded call from Mivart.
‘This simply can’t go on!’ he shouted.
‘My consulting room is stacked from top to bottom with packages from Reggie Kray. This is a total and utter outrage. They’re all tied up in brown paper bags. Kindly come and take them away!’
I found the packages contained such things as silver Trophies, bags full of T-shirts, key rings, framed photographs, books and similar items. Somehow, this matter was resolved but I can’t remember how. Mivart and I are back on speakers.
When I re-read Born Fighter, the work of a certified religious maniac, it was a different book to the one I had read originally. The phenomenal slowness of this crushed man, still incarcerated long after the expiry of his sentence, weighed on me so heavily I felt as if I were walking through a ploughed field. There is a description of Reggie’s friends bringing a tray of tea into his cell.
The incident is as comical as it is tragic. One of his visitors suggests that grace be said and that Reggie should say it. Reggie tells his readers that he found the invitation profoundly moving, and thought for a considerable amount of time before saying grace. The slowness of thought, word and action combined suggests that the tea was so stone-cold before the grace was started that the only solution was to produce a cocktail shaker and make ice cubes out of it.
A stooped, broken mute straight from the pages of Maxim Gorki, this once hot-blooded, debonair, violent giant of the London underworld is incarcerated beyond his sentence. Though he may have committed crimes, I am one of many Londoners who feel he should be at large once more. That does not mean his being carted about in shackles to attend funerals following his copious bereavements. He should be free to walk the streets of London, the city in which he was born, like a man.
Farewell to a Warrior
Goodbye, Mr Chips....
A crowd of bystanders, some respectful, others hoodlums, had gathered under a menacing grey sky, and shuffled through damp autumn leaves.
They were lining the pavements of a side street, outside St Matthew's Church in Bethnal Green, where a hearse, behind six glossy-looking, black-plumed horses, waited. A service was about to take place. The deceased was Reggie Kray. The leaden skies and swirling leaves, conjured up the spirit of Edgar Allan Poe, even more than that of the Kray boy himself. It was a sight, which, strangely, aroused an atmosphere of morbidity and decay, combined with ennobling wellbeing.
I attended the funeral, accompanied by a woman, who, like myself, is a brilliant writer. We went to St Matthew's Church in Bethnal Green in a taxi. We stopped at The Blind Beggars pub on the way, and had a stiff drink to get us into the right mood to say "goodbye" to this multi-faceted, hero or villain, call him what you will.
Some remember him as a criminal. Although he was no saint, he had reformed and become a lovely, gentle creature who should have been freed at the expiry of his sentence.
He did me a colossal favour by ticking me off for putting Robert Maxwell stereotypes into several of my books. "All you ever do is just go on and on and on and on about this bleeding bloke!" the salt-of-the-earth, forthright Bethnal Green fellow complained.
My friend and I enjoyed ourselves in The Blind Beggars. We took it in turns to sit on the same barstool that the sadistic Cornell was sitting on, when Ronnie plugged him. I asked my friend to make shooting gestures, holding an imaginary machine gun. I tumbled off the barstool pretending to be dead. I was staggered by the behaviour of the bar staff who appeared to have absolutely no sense of humour whatever.
Many of the visitors to Reggie's funeral, had to stand outside the church in the street. I saw sweet Mrs Campbell, the fortune teller, among the crowd. She was Violet Kray's best friend. A professional, she is. She reads my palms every few weeks or so, and has always been accurate. The poor soul was so awash with sickness, exhaustion and grief, that two burly women were obliged to support her.
The service, including the prayers, was played on a loud speaker. Some people lining the pavements, behaved in an orderly and respectful manner. I am sorry to say that many of them did not.
At least eight people had failed to turn their mobile phones off. They rang frequently and sounded like an American newspaper proprietor's offices on the eve of an execution.
A woman, tastelessly dressed in a bright purple tracksuit and training shoes, was one of these reprobate culprits. Her mobile, its ring blasting along the street, was drowning the hymns with a tinny rendering of Do you ken, John Peel?
She looked about forty, although her long hair was grey and she had two front teeth missing in her upper jaw. Her voice was loud enough to break the sound barrier. Strangely, none of the bouncers crashed up to her, making threats. They did sweet F.A. They looked old, battered and sad.
Reggie had chosen the hymn, Fight the Good Fight. I think it was his favourite. The hymn was sung robustly and was quite loud, even in the street.
Then came the outrage.
"Fight the good fight with all thy might.
Christ is thy strength and Christ...."
"Do you ken John Peel with his coat so gay?...."
The woman had dropped her telephone which continued to ring repeatedly.
"Turn that f***ing bleeder, off, you slag!" bellowed a man with a Cockney accent, standing behind her.
"Language, Dave!" shouted another man, also with a Cockney accent.
The woman picked the mobile up and answered it, oblivious of the man's complaint.
Fight the good Fight, continued, but sounded no more than a series of pathetic bird-like bleats, drowned by the woman's shouts.
"I can't 'ear yer! .... Speak up! I can't f***ing 'ear yer! .... Yeah, right, mate, where the 'ell woz yer? .... I said, where woz yer? .... Yeah, I 'eard that, but woz yer wearing a condom? .... Bloody 'ell, I can't speak any louder. I'm out on the sodding Kray boy's funeral, ain't I?"
The mobile was confiscated by a woman standing next to the purple-clad trouble-maker.
This was the first thing which went wrong. The two front horses towing the hearse, outside the church, were bored. They broke away from the harness, holding the four horses behind them, and for want of a better word, pissed off. A woman in riding clothes raced after them and guided them back to the hearse, holding their bridles.
An ever-present sea of policemen patrolled the street. Wherever they went, outraged members of the crowd shouted, "We don't want the likes of you, here!"
I was particularly confused by the fact that there were two hearses, one of which was horse-drawn, and the other, the one carrying Reggie, was an ordinary one. The horse-drawn hearse was driven by a Dickensian-looking postilion. Curiously, its bier compartment, with its elm-surfaced bier-rack freshly waxed and its silver bier-pins gleaming, was empty. There was no sign of Reggie.
A second serious outrage occurred. A drunkard aged about forty, ran in front of the horses and ranted at the astounded postilion. "What have you done with the stiff, Guv'nor?" he enquired, disgracefully.
An elderly-looking bouncer shuffled towards the drunk. "Please try to show some respect," he said in a frail, feeble tone.
The prize for boorish, sickening behaviour, had to go to a vicious woman, living in a house in the street, which was surrounded by a wall about four feet high. Two cameramen got up onto it. Their cameras were pointing at the moving hearse and an array of tinted limousines behind it.
The householder rushed up to the cameramen, shouting, "Get off my wall. The man was a gangster, not a bloody national hero!"
"Could you give us a minute, please. We'll get down after the hearse has gone by," said one of the worthy, courageous cameramen, with what I thought was inappropriate courtesy.
"No such luck!" said the bitch. "I want you down, now."
I was standing about a foot away from her. I heard a woman reprimanding her in a loud, deep, husky voice, "Button your lip lady or I'll have you duffed," shouted the brave woman.
She turned to the two cameramen, and said, "You're safe to take any pictures you like. This woman can't pull a fast one, because she knows, that if she pushes you off the wall and damages your cameras or breaks your legs, I shall appear as Chief Prosecution Witness."
No matter what Reggie Kray did, the Judge, Mr Justice Melford Stevenson sentenced him, and his brother, to "at least" thirty years imprisonment. Reggie should have been released far earlier than he was, because of his charitable works.
Although his funeral service was spectacular, I felt very sad for the remainder of the day. Had Reggie not killed Jack The Hat McVitie, his enemy would have been hanged, or given a life sentence, in any event. McVitie enjoyed stabbing the unfortunates he came into contact with, and wiped his carving knives on ladies' dresses.
It would be an understatement to say that he was not a very nice man.
