Inside the Firm - The Untold Story of The Krays' Reign of Terror Read Online Free Page B
Author: Tony Lambrianou
officer came to my school. His report on the whole class was, ‘No hope whatsoever.’ None of us really had a future. And when I say we were living in times of poverty, I mean poverty. The money just wasn’t there.
I was born in the middle of the Second World War, on 15 April 1942 in Bethnal Green Hospital. My Mum, Lilian, was a Geordie, born in 1912, who came from Irish stock in County Kildare. My father, Christopher, was born in Cyprus in 1899 and sold as a slave to an Arab at the age of twelve. He was taken to Egypt, but ran away a year and a half later and jumped on a ship with his sister Marie. He hit these shores when he was fourteen, one of the first Greek Cypriots to arrive in this country.
Dad made his base in London and took a job in a munitions factory in Newcastle-upon-Tyne when the First World War broke out in 1914. He later enlisted in the RAF, but remained working atthe factory. When the war was over, he returned to London and began work training as a chef, eventually building a solid career in catering. He was also a very good gambler and in 1927 he won about £12,000, which he eventually invested in two restaurants, both in Charlotte Street in central London; he bought the first one in 1938. His sister also went into business in Charlotte Street, with two dress shops and a café.
A few years before the Second World War started, my father was drafted back into the RAF. He travelled up north again to serve in the same munitions factory, which is where he met my mother, a very religious woman, a strict Catholic with a fiery temper. My eldest brother Chris was born on Christmas Day, 1938. Leon came into the world during an air raid, inside Chalk Farm tube station, in September 1940. At the time I was born, two years later, the family base was in Mornington Crescent in north-west London.
With my father in the RAF and the restaurant in business, we enjoyed a relatively good standard of living during the war years, although we were frequently shifted about. We were evacuated up to Newcastle, returned to London, and then sent off to Leicester before coming back down south for good. My father was stationed in Newcastle throughout, but we saw him often: he had quite a bit of leave, and when there was heavy bombing, they would close the factory.
In 1944 we moved to Howland Street, off Tottenham Court Road in the centre of London, near where the Telecom Tower stands today. My brother Jimmy was born on 14 April that year. The baby of the family, the fifth son, Nicky, arrived on Boxing Day, 1946. Ironically, in view of what happened later, we were all named after saints.
My earliest memories go back to the age of three. I remember visiting my grandfather, Arthur, on my mother’s side. He had a small farm in Consett, outside Newcastle, with a cow and a couple ofpigs. He had a fireplace in the house, a great big thing with an inglenook. My grandfather had his chair on one side and my grandmother had hers on the other. I sat on a stool in the actual fireplace, next to my grandfather, and I was crying because he tried to pick me up. I could never, ever stand anyone touching me apart from my mother and father. I would always scream. And that’s my only memory of my grandfather.
Certain things have always stuck in my mind to do with the war itself. Again, around the age of three, I went with my brothers to Tottenham Court Road to get the accumulator, which was used to keep the radio running, charged up. And I’ll never forget seeing a crater in the road with a bus teetering on the edge of it, and a couple of bodies lying in the street.
My mother used to grab us and whack us on to the floor when there were doodlebug attacks, and when there were air-raid warnings she would take us to the tube stations at Mornington Crescent, Camden Town or Tottenham Court Road. The house next door to us in Howland Street was bombed.
She always used to tell us about the day she was hanging out the clothes in a field in Consett while
I was born in the middle of the Second World War, on 15 April 1942 in Bethnal Green Hospital. My Mum, Lilian, was a Geordie, born in 1912, who came from Irish stock in County Kildare. My father, Christopher, was born in Cyprus in 1899 and sold as a slave to an Arab at the age of twelve. He was taken to Egypt, but ran away a year and a half later and jumped on a ship with his sister Marie. He hit these shores when he was fourteen, one of the first Greek Cypriots to arrive in this country.
Dad made his base in London and took a job in a munitions factory in Newcastle-upon-Tyne when the First World War broke out in 1914. He later enlisted in the RAF, but remained working atthe factory. When the war was over, he returned to London and began work training as a chef, eventually building a solid career in catering. He was also a very good gambler and in 1927 he won about £12,000, which he eventually invested in two restaurants, both in Charlotte Street in central London; he bought the first one in 1938. His sister also went into business in Charlotte Street, with two dress shops and a café.
A few years before the Second World War started, my father was drafted back into the RAF. He travelled up north again to serve in the same munitions factory, which is where he met my mother, a very religious woman, a strict Catholic with a fiery temper. My eldest brother Chris was born on Christmas Day, 1938. Leon came into the world during an air raid, inside Chalk Farm tube station, in September 1940. At the time I was born, two years later, the family base was in Mornington Crescent in north-west London.
With my father in the RAF and the restaurant in business, we enjoyed a relatively good standard of living during the war years, although we were frequently shifted about. We were evacuated up to Newcastle, returned to London, and then sent off to Leicester before coming back down south for good. My father was stationed in Newcastle throughout, but we saw him often: he had quite a bit of leave, and when there was heavy bombing, they would close the factory.
In 1944 we moved to Howland Street, off Tottenham Court Road in the centre of London, near where the Telecom Tower stands today. My brother Jimmy was born on 14 April that year. The baby of the family, the fifth son, Nicky, arrived on Boxing Day, 1946. Ironically, in view of what happened later, we were all named after saints.
My earliest memories go back to the age of three. I remember visiting my grandfather, Arthur, on my mother’s side. He had a small farm in Consett, outside Newcastle, with a cow and a couple ofpigs. He had a fireplace in the house, a great big thing with an inglenook. My grandfather had his chair on one side and my grandmother had hers on the other. I sat on a stool in the actual fireplace, next to my grandfather, and I was crying because he tried to pick me up. I could never, ever stand anyone touching me apart from my mother and father. I would always scream. And that’s my only memory of my grandfather.
Certain things have always stuck in my mind to do with the war itself. Again, around the age of three, I went with my brothers to Tottenham Court Road to get the accumulator, which was used to keep the radio running, charged up. And I’ll never forget seeing a crater in the road with a bus teetering on the edge of it, and a couple of bodies lying in the street.
My mother used to grab us and whack us on to the floor when there were doodlebug attacks, and when there were air-raid warnings she would take us to the tube stations at Mornington Crescent, Camden Town or Tottenham Court Road. The house next door to us in Howland Street was bombed.
She always used to tell us about the day she was hanging out the clothes in a field in Consett while
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