your men copped a right-hander,’ I said. ‘Ronnie got more than that – from half a dozen of them.’
The Inspector didn’t want to know. All he wanted was to arrest Reggie and charge him with assault. A few minutes later Reggie walked in. After a brief chat I advised him it was best for everyone if he gave himself up, and he did. But I warned the Inspector that if Reggie was so much as touched, I’d blow the whole thing wide open to the papers.
A day or so later, the old man was told the police didn’t want to make a song and dance about it unless they were forced to. The twins had to be charged because they had unquestionably assaulted a policeman, but they would be treated leniently – probably just put on probation – if I kept quiet about Ronnie’s beating. If I didn’t, the police would make it unpleasant for the whole family – starting with nicking the old man for dodging the call-up. I decided to swallow it.
A few days after their seventeenth birthday the twins appeared at Old Street in North London, accused of assault. For some reason, the magistrate, Mr Harold Sturge, praised PC Baynton’s courage in a ‘cowardly attack’. No mention, however, was made of the cowardly attack behind closed doors at Bethnal Green police station.
Not long afterwards Baynton was moved to a different area. But the PC had fuelled the twins’ resentment and distrust of uniformed authority and the legacy of his arrogance that autumn evening was to last a lifetime.
The Baynton episode did nothing to destroy the myth that was growing up around the twins. They were tough and fearless and, in the tradition of the Wild West where the ‘fastest guns’ were always the target of other sharpshooters, they became marked young men in the East End. Hard nuts from neighbouring districts came looking for them in search of fame and glory as The Kids Who Toppled The Krays. Like the police, they came mob-handed. But they never came back.
One evening Reggie walked into the house at just after ten at night. I told him Ronnie had left a message saying he was in the Coach and Horses with his friend, Pat Butler. It was nearly closing time and I said it was a bit late to go, but Reggie had a strange feeling he ought to. He left quickly. What happened when he got there became the talk of the East End for months.
Ronnie was in the saloon bar with Pat. As Reggie walked in, Ronnie said, ‘Just in time.’ He nodded to nine youths at the other end of the bar. ‘That little firm are looking for us.’
A few minutes later, the twins told Pat to make sure he stayed out of the way, then dashed out of the door, as though they were scared. But it was only a ploy to reduce the odds a little. As four of the rival gang followed them into the street, the twins doubled back into the saloon, through the public bar, taking the remaining five by surprise.
It was an almighty battle. Fists flew, chairs were thrown, tables overturned. Although the twins were outnumbered by more than two to one, they floored the whole lot. And when the other four ran back in, they knocked them out too. Amazingly, the twins came out of that scrap virtually unscathed. But one of the kids, Bill Donovan, who Ronnie had hit with a chair, was taken to hospital with a badly damaged eye.
The twins were very concerned about Bill and asked me to ring the hospital. I pretended to be a relation and asked how he was. A nurse said he was stable, but nobody knew if the eye was going to be permanently damaged. It was a worrying few days. The twins kept telling me to ring and eventually, to the twins’ relief, we learned Donovan was going to be all right.
Pat Butler told me later that he was in the street after the fight had ended and an old man had asked him who the twins were. He’d never seen anything like it; it was like a scene from a Western.
One night a few weeks later the twins were spotted going into a cafe in Commercial Road. When they came out, they found themselves facing ten members of the so-called Watney Street Gang who, it seemed, were intent on teaching them to stay in Bethnal Green. The twins did not want to risk waiting for the usual preliminaries to a punch-up; they waded into the mob, laying six of them out on the pavement. The rest, not fancying the new odds, ran off.
Incidents like this built up the legend that the twins were tough guys who went around the East End looking for people to punch. That is far-fetched and unfair. What is true is that they were tasting power for the first time. They had been accustomed to victory in the ring against one opponent but now they knew they were hard and tough and skilful enough to take on, and beat, eight or nine between them.
And they enjoyed the feeling.
The Albert Hall was packed that night, 11 December 1951. Tommy McGovern, one of my contemporaries at the Robert Browning Institute, was defending his British light-heavyweight championship. And five of the other seven bouts involved Bethnal Green fighters – including the three Kray brothers. It was the first time we had appeared on the same bill together, and it was to be the last.
In those days, a boxer had really arrived when he appeared at the Albert Hall or Harringay Arena; it had taken me eighteen victories in twenty contests. But the twins, who had turned pro in July, had made it there after just six fights – and six wins. That’s still a British boxing record.
My appearance almost never happened. I had decided to quit boxing and hadn’t been in the ring for several months. But I wanted an extra bit of money for Christmas and agreed to take on an unbeaten Aldgate welterweight called Lew Lazar for twenty-five quid.
We were the first three fights on. First, Ronnie lost to a clever boxer from King’s Cross named Bill Sliney, whom Reggie had outpointed two months before. Sliney was not too keen to continue after a first-round mauling by Ronnie, but he was persuaded to, and won a points verdict. Reggie’s cool, scientific style earned him an easy points win over Bob Manito, of Clapham, and then it was my turn.
Unfortunately, it was a night when the deafening cheers of the Bethnal Green faithful could not help me. I’d been out of action too long and my timing was haywire. My pride got me to my feet after two counts of nine in the first two rounds, but a left hook in the guts finished me in the third.
I spent some of the twenty-five quid on a white fur coat for my baby son, Gary, who had been born two days after the twins turned pro. But it was my last boxing pay-day. I never put the gloves on in public again. Neither did the twins. For the next two years they were to pit their strength against a very different opponent.
The Army.
The twins filled in their time between call-up and reporting by joining the old man and me on the knocker. But they didn’t show much enthusiasm, and it was a relief to them when they were ordered to report at the Tower of London for service with the Royal Fusiliers. They left Vallance Road early one March morning in 1952.
And were back in time for tea.
Mum asked what on earth had happened, but the twins were in a foul temper and refused to tell her. They went out and didn’t come back until the early hours when we’d all gone to bed. Later that morning, they were arrested for deserting.
They had, it transpired, reacted badly to uniformed authority once again. An NCO had shouted some orders to them. The twins didn’t like his attitude, his lack of respect, and one of them had thumped him. Then they had walked out, deciding Army life wasn’t for them.
And after an uncomfortable week’s punishment in the guardroom, they walked out again.
To me, it all seemed a terrible waste. Just four months before, they had been promising young boxers with just one minor blot on their record, for which they had been treated leniently. Now they were wanted men facing serious disciplinary action and, almost certainly, jail. I went to see them in hiding in various parts of London, and tried to persuade them to give themselves up. I told them the Forces favoured sportsmen; they could do well with their boxing talent. But it was a waste of breath, as usual. The twins were not going to serve in the Army and that was that.
They stayed on the run until early November, two weeks after their nineteenth birthday. Then one cold, snowy night Reggie suddenly turned up at Vallance Road. Mum was desperately worried for him but Reggie assured her he was