The phone rang. It was Dad. ‘I’ve been charged with the Marks thing,’ he said to Mum. ‘You’d better get me a brief…’
The ‘Marks thing’ was about Ginger Marks, an East End face who had disappeared in 1965. Little did we know, but the police had been working the Marks case while Dad was doing his ten for McVitie, and now, just as he was about to get out, they wanted to charge my father with his murder.
The way they cornered Dad was pretty low. He was in the laundry one day when a couple of screws told him he had a visit, even though it wasn’t visiting day. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Not long before, Dad’s father had been ill and Dad had been given a compassionate day release to see him. The screws had surprised him then, and now they were back. Dad immediately accepted the visit, worried there was some more bad news about his family. He was taken into a room and instantly recognised the two men sitting there. Two police officers, Chalk and Troon. They said they wanted to talk about Ginger.
This was no visit: it was an interrogation. Dad had been set up and he wasn’t having any of it. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to any of you,’ he said. ‘Now let me out of here before I smash the door down.’
The screws realised Dad wasn’t mucking about, and took him back to the wing. Soon afterwards he was taken to Arbour Square Police Station in Stepney for questioning, but his only answer to whatever they came at him with was: ‘No comment.’ Next came the formal murder charge. Three of Dad’s friends and associates were also accused of being involved: Alf Gerrard, Jerry Callaghan and Ronnie Everett.
It was a terrifying situation. Just when we were about to get Dad back, there was a chance he would be snatched away from us again. Mum must have been even more worried than me, because she knew the full extent of Dad’s involvement with Ginger Marks. I didn’t know the details back then, but now I’m at liberty to tell what went down between my dad’s firm and Ginger.
It was a family matter that began in 1964. Ginger Marks was a close friend of a safe-blower called Jimmy Evans – a nasty bastard obsessed with guns and violence, and a jealous maniac to boot. My dad’s brother George had an affair with Pat Evans, Evans’s wife. Pat was scared of her husband, and fell deeply in love with George. They used to meet secretly at a flat in Stepney, but nevertheless Evans grew highly suspicious and found out what was happening. He vowed to track down my uncle George and kill him.
After a failed attempt by Evans to shoot George at the Stepney flat – George was outside and talking to several people, so Evans bottled it – he got hold of a sawn-off shotgun and decided to do the job at George’s marital home. Evans wanted an accomplice, and that’s where Ginger Marks came in.
Another of their associates, David Norman, drove Evans and Marks to Uncle George’s flat in Lambeth Walk. It was dark, and, having removed the lightbulb from George’s landing, the two men went to work. Marks knocked on the door while Evans waited out of sight. George answered, and Marks pretended he had the wrong address before going away. They’d established my uncle was in. Now it was Evans’s turn.
A second knock on the door. As it opened, Evans stepped forwards and blasted George point-blank in the groin with both barrels of the sawn-off. The impact sent him flying to the back of the hallway. George would have died if it hadn’t been for a Polish neighbour who heard the blast and phoned an ambulance. It took several operations to fix him. Dear George narrowly escaped a leg amputation, and in the end was left with one testicle and a big chunk out of his leg.
Dad rushed to the hospital and was angered and devastated by what had happened. The brothers had always been so close, and seeing George lying at death’s door made Dad hungry for one thing: revenge. He leaned down and whispered in George’s ear. ‘Give me a name,’ demanded Dad.
‘Ginger Marks and Jimmy Evans.’
Dad was the only person George said a word to. There was no way he was going to grass to the police, even on someone who’d tried to kill him. It’s the way of the underworld. The underworld metes out its own justice, its own retribution, and it was up to Dad to make sure the job got done. It wasn’t long before he received a tip-off that gave him his chance.
Evans was set to rob a jeweller’s in Bethnal Green, and Marks would be with him along with three others. The date was set for 2 January 1965. All Dad had to do was wait. The night came. With Alfie driving, they followed Evans’s crew to the jeweller’s, then sat it out until the moment was right. The opportunity came when Evans and Marks walked past Dad’s car. Alfie rolled out and drove up behind them slowly.
Dad wound down his window and called Marks’s name. As Ginger stopped and turned, Dad emptied his .38 revolver. Ginger went down straight away, but Evans acted quickly and used Ginger’s body as a shield until he had the chance to make a run for it. Alfie gave chase, but Evans got away.
What happened didn’t stop him coming back, though. A couple of days later, Evans and his firm returned to the scene of the crime to attempt the jewellery robbery again. Stupid bastard – he was the key witness to a murder inquiry, for fuck’s sake. Little did he know it but he was under constant surveillance. Surprise, surprise, he and his crew got nicked.
Dad’s firm were all questioned about Ginger’s murder, but what they didn’t know was that Evans had already snitched, naming Dad, Alfie, Jerry Callaghan and Ronnie as culprits. But the police hadn’t enough evidence to arrest them. For one thing, they didn’t have a body. But they all knew that Evans was scared. After all, he knew Freddie Foreman still wanted him dead. His fear sent him into self-preservation mode. The more public Evans made himself, the less likely anyone would be to touch him. He was happy to be featured in newspaper articles about the Marks murder: I’ve seen the photos of him pointing out bullet holes in the walls.
After being overheard boasting about it, Evans twice went to court accused of shooting my uncle George and possessing a firearm (which had been found in his home). He was acquitted both times. This might have had something to do with my uncle never agreeing to testify against Evans, but my dad suspected Evans got off because he was cooperating with the police, possibly over the Marks murder.
The police had their suspicions about Dad’s involvement with Marks, but others were suspected too, and Dad never got nicked for it. Three years later, in 1968, Dad was arrested for Mitchell and McVitie and given his ten years.
In 1972, Evans was charged with the murder of William Fernie, a Scottish carpenter. The bloke had nothing to do with the underworld: he was doing nothing more than mucking about with a few mates, surrounding the car of Evans’s common-law wife, Anick Webb. For this, Evans decided to stab Fernie and he died instantly. He beat the murder charge but got seven years for manslaughter in 1973. While Evans was on remand, the police asked him further questions about the Marks affair, and my dad is convinced that this was the time he struck a concrete deal with them. We all are. Maybe it’s a coincidence that Evans served only three of his seven years and happened to be the key witness in the Ginger Marks inquiry, but somehow I doubt it.
Evans is a grass and he’ll die a grass. It’s thanks to him – and only him – that my uncle George nearly died, and that my dad was suddenly facing a trial that could rob him of his freedom for life. Evans was prepared to sacrifice the liberty of other men to save his own skin, and it’s disgusting, pure and simple.
I was devastated when Mum told me that Dad had been charged. The dark clouds were back again. All the optimism I’d had about him getting out vanished and I was left with a feeling of pure dread. I was old enough to know what a life sentence meant – 15 years minimum. How the fuck was I – how the fuck were any of us – going to cope with that? That we might lose Dad again felt like the sickest joke in the world.
But I didn’t go to pieces. None of us did. The news of the charge and the impending trial took a terrible toll on us, but we held it together. Sitting around depressed has no value in such a situation. There are times when you have to keep going; you have to fight tooth and nail against the demons in your head and keep moving forward. I was older now. I’d been through this before, and now I’d do it again, and do it better.
I’d be lying if I said my dad being accused of murder didn’t bother me. It did, but only at first. After all, I had never heard of Ginger Marks, and didn’t understand what had occurred. But once everything was explained to me and I understood why my father had taken a certain course of action, I can honestly say I had no conscience to wrestle with. If that sounds bad, so be it. I knew that Dad did what he did for a reason, and a good reason at that. My father is my father, and I know he has never – and would never – take unjustified action against another man. That’s why I would stand by my dad no matter what.
Dad was moved from the Scrubs to Wandsworth, and we went to visit him at the first opportunity. There he was with that same old wink and a smile.
‘It’s all a get-up,’ he said. ‘We’ll beat this, don’t you worry. They haven’t got anything.’
Knowing what he knew, Dad must have been sick with worry, but he didn’t let on for a second. As always, he was a pillar of strength in front of me and Mum. Even so, there were things we needed to discuss. The cogs for building his defence needed to be set in motion, but we couldn’t say a thing thanks to two screws noting down every word we said.
‘Is this how it’s going to be?’ said Dad, looking at the screws.
‘’Fraid so, Fred. This is what we’ve been told to do.’
‘Well, fuck this then.’
Dad turned to us. ‘Listen, don’t bother coming back here. I’ve only got a few more months and then they’re going to move me to Brixton on remand. We’ll get proper open visits there, so let’s save it till then, eh?’
Mum agreed; me too. Desperate as I was to see Dad and help in any way, being glared at by a bunch of nosy screws made it impossible. We said our goodbyes and left. Anyway, there was plenty to be done on the outside. The machine went to work, as it had done for Dad’s previous trials.
The committal came around – a hearing to decide whether the case went to trial or not. It was my first time in court and I’ll never forget what it felt like seeing Dad and his firm entering the room. Alfie, Ronnie and Jerry walked in and stood in the dock, and then my dad was brought in, handcuffed to two of the biggest screws you’ve ever seen. Dad flashed us a smile as he sat down in front of the three chaps. So strong, so relaxed: Dad’s demeanour was formidable. The accused all nodded to each other as proceedings began.
Chalk and Troon, the two coppers who had interviewed Dad in Wormwood Scrubs, got up to say their bit first. Referring to their interview notes, the officers began by asserting that, when questioned about Ginger Marks and Jimmy Evans, my father had called Evans a ‘git’ and said, ‘One of these days I’ll shut him up for good.’ This was supposed to prove a link between Dad and Ginger.
Now, people from my father’s world may use many strong words, but ‘git’ is not one of them! It’s such a police word – the kind of thing you hear on telly – and I’ve never heard it used by anyone from my neck of the woods. The idea that Dad would have used ‘git’ in reference to a bloke who’d just grassed him up is laughable, let alone saying that he’d ‘shut someone up for good’ to two policemen. As soon as the cozzers opened their mouths, it was obvious to anyone who knew my dad that their evidence was unconvincing. But there was nothing we could do about it. Not yet, anyway.
Evans stood up and said a few words.
Another witness was brought in. His name was Smith, and Evans had solicited him to give evidence against Dad. He took the stand, and what happened next blew me away. Just before the hearing I’d been introduced to a bloke named Harry, who was there with us. He’d looked very pumped up but I thought nothing of it as we took our seats in the gallery. It wasn’t until the prosecutor, Mr Matthews, began to question Smith that the penny dropped. Smith kept looking towards the gallery, his eyes directed at Harry. Every time Smith looked up, I saw Harry slowly shaking his head. It turned out that Harry was Smith’s brother. Harry was a friend of my dad’s, and it was just like the scene in The Godfather when they bring the old boy from Sicily over. Needless to say, Smith reneged on his statement. So, right away we’d managed to cut one bit of evidence off at the knees. He was a good man, Harry. We are still close to his family, God rest his soul.
With one witness down I felt a glimmer of hope that the case might not go to trial. Wishful thinking, really. The judge committed my dad, Alf, Ronnie and Jerry to trial several months down the line at the Old Bailey. Shattering news.
I looked at Dad as he was led towards the door and prayed there would be a way out of this. He still looked calm and collected, but suddenly everything changed. As Dad was about to pass Chalk and Troon, he yanked at his handcuffs and lurched forwards, bringing the two screws with him until he was level with the two policemen. He was wild with rage.
‘You fucking satisfied now?’ he yelled. ‘Fitting us up, you no-good fucking cunts.’
The rest of the chaps had a go too. Alfie verballed the life out of them, screaming every name under the sun; Ronnie said his piece; and, last but not least, Jerry Callaghan spat in the faces of the shaken, terrified coppers.
It was an incredible scene – my dad’s firm were doing things you just don’t do to the police. I had never seen anything like it. They never took a backward step with anyone. What a firm!
Ten months, I thought. Ten months until my father defends himself in the trial of a lifetime. When we’d thought he was going to come out early, ten months seemed nothing. Now, with the worry that he might be given a life sentence, it felt like an age away. There would be dark days ahead, but there was nothing for it but to push on through and do everything possible to help Dad out of this.
My dad was a big scalp for the police to have. We knew how badly they wanted their pound of flesh, and that the prosecution would try every trick in the book to get it. Dad’s defence would need to be equally clever, and watching the chaps and the lawyers build it was a lesson in pulling out all the stops. We didn’t know exactly what evidence they had, so inducing doubt in the jury was the aim. What possible reason would Freddie Foreman have to do such a thing to a man he never knew? What proof was there he wasn’t alive? Where was the body? Why was Jimmy Evans making accusations against my father, when Evans himself was a convicted felon, a dishonourable human being?
When Dad’s sentence was up, he was moved from the draconian Wandsworth Prison back to Brixton, where he joined Alfie, Ronnie and Jerry, who were already there on remand. Brixton was where it had all begun, all those years earlier. It must have been a terrible feeling for Dad to find himself back where he’d started. What strength it must have taken to dig deep, to say to himself, ‘Right, I’m going to beat this. I’m not going to crack. I’m going to fight.’
And fight they did. From their cells they put together a killer defence. Ingeniously, Dad organised one of the chaps on the outside to break into Jimmy Evans’s home and obtain a letter Evans had written to his girlfriend. Evans had been on remand when he wrote the letter and it contained an admission that made it pretty clear what the bastard was up to: ‘I have sold my soul to the devil to be with you.’ By the devil he meant the police, and that one sentence just about said it all. Copies were made and tucked away safely until the time came for the letter to be produced in court, and Jimmy the grass was none the wiser.
Now Dad was in Brixton we were able to visit without being spied on the whole time. Most days the chaps had a visit from one of the wives, who’d bring them food to keep their spirits up. In those days prisoners on remand were allowed to have their own food brought in – you were allowed to retain a lot more dignity. During the week the wives would cook nice healthy food for their husbands and friends, but on Sundays it was my turn. It gave the wives a break, and seeing as we only lived in Dulwich, a 15-minute drive away, it was no problem for me to do the cooking and drop it in for the chaps. On my day they got what they really loved – hearty stodge like steak, eggs, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, beans and chips. They told me it was their favourite meal of the week. I’d get up at the crack of dawn to prepare whatever meals the chaps had ordered. Once I’d crammed as much as I could on their tin plates, I covered each meal with an upside-down plate and wrapped it in a knotted tea towel to keep everything warm. The funny thing was that it didn’t matter how I presented the food, because when I turned up with it the screws invariably opened up every meal, scraped it on to a new plate and poked it about to check I wasn’t bringing anything else in. Understandable, I suppose – a skeleton key smuggled in among the baked beans might have come in handy.
I loved helping out with those meals, but a thousand hot dinners couldn’t change the fact that Dad was in danger, and the pressure took its toll on all of us. It’s a private pain that you deal with as best you can. You think you’re better off without anyone knowing. You think other people don’t understand, nor do you want them to. But everyone found out, of course, because from the moment Dad was charged the story had been all over the papers. Nothing surprising about that – such a high-profile case is a licence to print money as far as the ‘red tops’ are concerned – but Dad being splashed across the front pages gave me another headache to deal with: my new friends at Conti’s.
Since the incident at the school gates, my classmates had some idea who Dad was, that his was a name not to be trifled with, but it ended there. There was no reason for them to dwell on where their mate Jamie came from, and life went on uneventfully. But, once the news broke, all of my new mates suddenly knew a whole lot more about Dad, what he’d been up to in the past and what he was being accused of now. Not for one second have I ever been ashamed of my father or my background, but I did worry that what was being said – much of it twisted and untrue – would shock people into thinking twice about the Jamie they thought they knew. After all, I was mixing with a lot of people who had no understanding of the world I came from, and naturally I didn’t want them to judge my father, my family or me from what they read in the newspapers.
Did the new people in my life demonise me and my family? Did they turn their backs on me? Quite the opposite. It turned out I didn’t need to worry about a thing. For a start, I was at stage school, and should have realised that students at stage school are there out of a love for one thing – drama! I was overwhelmed by how supportive everyone was, not least the girls, who were very protective of me. If there was anything about that terrible period that you could call good, it was the ‘sympathy’ I received from some of those girls – and I won’t mention any names!
Looking back, I think one of the reasons people treated me so kindly during that awful time was because I had only ever conducted myself well. I was always kind and gracious at Conti’s – and elsewhere besides – and earned a lot of respect and goodwill from those I was close to. So when the merde hit the fan, there was nothing terrible about me anyone could reflect on and say, ‘Ah, now we understand why he’s that way’ – I hope not anyway. In the months leading up to my father’s trial, the kindness of others provided an occasional, brief oasis of relief from all the angst and misery. And I learned a lesson there – while people can’t always understand what you’re going through, they can offer solace, a sympathetic ear and sometimes a shoulder to cry on. Whatever happens in life, we’re not meant to be alone in this world.
Summer drew to a close and as the nights grew darker the trial loomed ever closer. After what seemed like an age, November 1975 came, and with it began the trial at the Old Bailey, a building that to me seemed designed to put the fear of God into any mortal. I’ll never forget the feeling of walking through its marble halls and hoping against hope that the prosecution weren’t going to pull something out of the bag that would send Dad down. As things stood, we had a hunch that most of the evidence against Dad might be a little flimsy. Still, a supposed eyewitness was an extreme cause for concern.
Jimmy Evans was up as the first witness for cross-examination. The prosecution fed him all the right questions to ensure he blurted out every last detail about Ginger’s murder and, true to the nature of a grass, he added a wealth of outrageous exaggeration to his testimony. Listening to him lying his arse off was enough to make you sick with rage. I’m sure Dad was boiling up inside, but he didn’t show it. Instead he did something very clever. Right the way through Evans’s little performance, Dad put on a much better one of his own. At perfectly timed moments, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders in disbelief or let out a despairing tut – nothing over the top, nothing that would upset the judge, just enough for the jury to observe him and think twice about what they were listening to.
Dad was fighting for his life using every possible tactic, and acting was one of them. The theatricality of the scene, the subtle way Dad played the jury, was as good as anything I’d seen at the National. In a TV interview years later, Terry Wogan asked me if there was any acting in my family and I said, ‘Yes, my father in the dock at the Old Bailey!’ Terry liked that and laughed uproariously.
Next, Evans had to answer to the great Lewis Hawser QC, who was leading the defence team, an impressive array of the top defence QCs in the country. First off, Hawser made short work of squeezing Evans into admitting he had lied under oath during his own trial and at a divorce hearing. As you can imagine, this went down a treat with the jury, and wound Evans up no end.
Then it was time for the trump card: Evans’s ‘sold my soul’ letter to his girlfriend. When the letter was produced, Hawser asked Evans if he would read out the damning passage. You could almost feel the blood draining from Evans’s face – he was apoplectic with rage. ‘How did you get that letter?’ he screamed.
‘Are you all right, Mr Evans?’ asked Hawser. ‘Would you like a glass of water? Clerk, would you hand Mr Evans a glass of water, please.’
‘I don’t want a glass of fucking water. I want to know where you got the letter. Those men did it. I swear on my life.’
It was very interesting watching a man known for his wild temper coming unglued, and better still when he suddenly lost it completely and tore up the letter. When it came to looking totally unreliable, Evans was doing an excellent job. All we had to do was sit back and watch.
Hawser probably could have left it there, but he came back for more. A tall man with an air of real gravitas about him, his deep, powerful voice and calm way of expressing himself reminded me of seeing Laurence Olivier at work. Here was a master in action, and his next question was perfectly timed to make sure Evans kept up the good work of looking like the unsavoury wretch he is. Aware of Evans’s obsession with guns, he asked him to talk about the firearms used in the case.
Evans fell for it hook, line and sinker. Going well beyond the call of duty, he rabbited on uninterrupted about his fixation with weapons until the jury looked positively worried. Talk about – excuse the pun – shooting yourself in the foot. By the time he shut up, it was obvious to everyone that, at best, Evans had a few screws loose. No further questions, your honour.
By no means were we popping corks, but we definitely had a feeling that things weren’t looking good for the prosecution. I remember allowing myself to dream that Dad was going to beat this, but all I could do was wait.
After several more days of legal toing and froing, it was time for the Chalk and Troon Show to begin in Court Number One. I don’t want to sound flippant about a matter that was so serious – a feeling of dread never left me all the way through the trial – but, looking back, what happened when the police officers took the stand was pretty farcical. This result was once again down to Lewis Hawser, who was ready to deliver another crushing blow to the prosecution.
Hawser cross-examined Detective Sergeant Troon about the ‘questionnaires’ he and Chalk had given to Jerry Callaghan and Alfie Gerrard when they were arrested for Ginger Marks’s murder: were both men interviewed on the same day? Yes. Was the date and time of interview written at the top of each man’s questionnaire? Yes. Did the interviews take place on 8 January 1975? Yes. Fine. Calm and polite, Hawser asked Troon if he had his police diary with him. He did. Were the dates and times of the interviews noted in said diary? Indeed they were. How soon after the interviews? Half an hour.
Now came the thunderbolt. In the light of his answers Troon was asked to explain why the questionnaires were dated 6 January when the date of the interview was 8 January.
Silence.
Hawser repeated the question.
More silence.
The tension in the courtroom was indescribable. Troon was totally stumped. It was obvious to judge and jury that they were looking at two very misleading, and very embarrassed, coppers.
No more questions.
The prosecution had brought a totally flawed case. They hadn’t been able to prepare a good case because, quite simply, they didn’t have one. Once Chalk and Troon stood down there was an electricity in the court that made me start to believe proceedings were really breaking down. Papers shuffled, lawyers whispered and murmured, and there was a disturbed air in the room, a subdued commotion. Things were not going to plan. Nothing was turning out as the authorities had hoped.
After a few minutes, Judge Donaldson sent the jury to wait outside so that the lawyers could argue among themselves. In the ensuing debate, I didn’t understand half of the legal terms – it was like watching a play without understanding the words – but from body language alone I could tell something crucial was going down. Halfway through, I noticed Dad and Alfie looking at each other and nodding very slowly, almost gravely, at what was being said. As usual, they had poker faces, but a tiny glimmer in their eyes told me they knew something I didn’t and that, whatever they knew, it was good.
Eventually, the lawyers fell silent and the judge asked for the jury to be called back in. He had something to say. Due to the way the evidence had been presented, and due to the lack of substantial evidence, he told the jury he had no alternative other than to direct them to find the men not guilty.
Not guilty. Not guilty!
At that moment they sounded like the most beautiful words in the world. Pure, overwhelming elation shot through me. We’d won. My dear, beloved father was free.
I’ll never forget that dreamlike moment. The relief on everyone’s faces said it all. I took Mum’s hand – we didn’t need to say a word – and together we gazed down at Dad, who beamed back at us. It was over, and I felt like my whole body was smiling.
We were magnanimous in victory, as was Dad. Justice had been done, but there was no screaming or shouting from the gallery, no cheering or jumping for joy. Rubbing people’s noses in it wasn’t the way we did things. After giving us a quiet thumbs up, Dad graciously bid farewell to the prosecution lawyers, thanked his team, Judge Donaldson and, last but not least, the jury.
For all those years, I had visited Dad in prison, and I was so used to the pain of watching him being led away from me that, even though he had won, I felt the usual – habitual – pang of sadness and loss as he was led out of court. My brain hadn’t yet rewired itself to believe that my father was free. Images of those horrible visits to Leicester flashed through my mind, and for just a couple of seconds I was gripped by a strange fear that he still wasn’t coming back to us, that they’d find a way to hold on to him. Christ, I thought, the things we’ve been through. I took one more look at the courtroom, turned my back and walked out.
I noticed Chalk and Troon as I descended the grand old stairs of the Old Bailey. They were standing in the hall like a couple of lemons, all sheepish and embarrassed, and I had to really fight the urge to front up to them. I wanted to laugh in their faces, spit in their eyes. Fuck you! I thought. Fuck both of you. I wanted to say it to them, but I didn’t. I wasn’t brought up that way. When I caught their eyes, I just nodded politely and smiled.
Outside, the press were on us like vultures. Cameras snapped and journalists crammed around us hoping for comment. Giving them a soundbite was the last thing on our minds, especially since the papers had never given us an easy ride in the past. I did my best to protect Mum from them as we waited for Dad to emerge from the building.
Everyone congratulated one another on the pavement, and I remember my mother’s hand shaking with emotion. I can’t speak for her, but there was a worry in the back of my mind: the last time Dad had beaten a murder rap – the Frank Mitchell case – he’d immediately been charged with the McVitie job. Although I knew there was paperwork to be dealt with before Dad could be released, a part of me dreaded they would be sticking something else on him while we stood there waiting. No one knows what goes on behind closed doors, and I wouldn’t be satisfied until the doors of the Old Bailey opened and my dad walked out of them.
We waited and waited. Then, all of a sudden, someone let out a cry.
‘Here he is!’
Everyone spun round and, sure enough, there he was. Freddie Foreman. My father.
Dad looked fantastic in his navy-blue Savile Row suit. Needless to say, he was very happy, but Dad has never been a flamboyant man, and as he took his first steps of freedom there was a dignity to him that I will never forget. He was able to carry himself with such quiet composure, each step taking him further away from the injustice and suffering of all those years, each stride bringing him closer to his loved ones.
And then we were in his arms, together again, the way it was meant to be. I can’t tell you how good – how right – that moment felt. I began to tremble as he held me tight. For a few seconds it was as if nothing else existed or mattered. It was as if an anvil had been lifted from my shoulders. It’s strange, but, when you have carried a huge amount of stress for so many years, it’s not until it has been lifted that you truly realise what a toll it has taken on you.
‘Hello, Fred, I’m from the Sunday People…’ brought the situation sharply back into focus. There we were trying to enjoy a moment of fresh air together for the first time in nearly a decade, and some hack was trying to get a story. Dad turned his head in the direction of the voice and, just as the journo was about to ask a question, cut him short.
‘Oh yes, I remember you,’ said Dad very quietly, the smile disappearing from his face. Alf was at his shoulder, growling. I don’t know what Dad remembered, but it can’t have been good, for he fixed his eyes on the reporter and gave him the look of all looks. In an instant, the man’s face turned ashen and he shrivelled into the background. Then, as if a switch had been flicked, Dad was all smiles again. Even in those moments of heightened emotion, of triumph, he wasn’t letting anything, or anyone, get past him. Freddie Foreman was back, and it was glorious.
Finally it was time to enjoy ourselves. We all jumped in taxis and headed over to the A & R Club. I was already well acquainted with the place, having delivered numerous ‘messages’ to and from Mick Regan, while my dad was being held on remand. I’ll never forget a visit to Brixton one day when Dad told me to deliver a message. It was the first time I had felt useful and important and trusted. Little did I know it wouldn’t be the last time the firm used my help; nor could I have guessed where that responsibility would eventually lead me.
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.