He stayed like that for a few more seconds, then slowly got to his feet. I told Reggie we had to get him to hospital and he shouted to someone to call an ambulance. When it arrived, Ronnie refused to get in. Then the police came and we all coaxed Ronnie gently, telling him it was for the best, that he was unwell and we needed to make him better. Finally he agreed to get in.
They put Ronnie in a bed with curtains round it and then, at about midnight, a doctor told us there was nothing wrong with him.
We were shell-shocked. I told the doctor what had happened in the billiard hall.
‘We’re not trying to get him certified, you know,’ I said. ‘We think the world of him. We brought him here because there’s something badly wrong.’
The doctor wouldn’t have it.
He must be developing a cunning mind,’ I said. Because you’re a doctor, he’s behaving differently.’
The doctor wasn’t impressed. But the situation was too critical for us to be fobbed off and I persisted. ‘Ronnie doesn’t even believe we’re his brothers. Just stand outside that curtain and listen.’
Somewhat reluctantly, the doctor agreed. Reggie and I went in. ‘How are you, Ron?’ I asked.
Ronnie reacted as we expected. ‘What are you two doing here?’ he said. ‘Get out!’
We pointed to small scars on our faces as proof of our identities but Ronnie said, ‘You’ve had them put on. How clever. Go on, get out – you imposters!’
Ronnie’s behaviour didn’t please us, but it did convince the listening doctor and he apologized for doubting us. He arranged for Ronnie to be admitted to St Clement’s Hospital in Mile End immediately.
For the next two weeks Ronnie was given tests and more drugs to stabilize him. The family visited him every day. He always knew Mum and half-knew the old man, but for the first week neither Reg nor I had a chance: we were still imposters. And then one day I walked in and I could tell straight away that he was all right again.
For the first time Ronnie talked about what he had been going through. It was weird: some of the time he realized the stupid things he was doing but he couldn’t stop himself; most of the time he knew I was Charlie but couldn’t help denying it.
The doctors told me that the terrifying experience in the billiard hall was a seizure and Ronnie could have gone one way or the other. If he had gone the wrong way he would never have come out of it; he would have gone mad. But he fought it and because his will-power was so strong he came through it.
The price he had to pay was immense. Drugs would be part of his life for ever: four different tablets a day, an injection once a month. Ronnie accepted it without complaint; he realized how unwell he was and he knew that the drugs kept away the paranoia and the eventual distrust that led to extreme violence.
The Ronnie Kray who came back into the world to join us in the enterprises we had built in his absence not only looked different from the one who had picked up that gun two years before. His movements were more ponderous, his speech slower, his mind numbed. He wasn’t the Ronnie we had known.
Things changed when Ronnie got involved in The Double R. He had always been the dominant twin and immediately took over. While he was away, Reggie had more or less had a free hand and made his own decisions, but now Ronnie insisted that everything had to be discussed. And even then he would always have to be right. They would argue, as they had always done, but if it came to the crunch, Ronnie would keep on and on until he got his own way. This had a bad effect on all our finances because it was Reggie who had the better business brain. Ronnie, as generous and kind-hearted as ever, preferred to give money away.
In those late fifties, lots of people were coming out of prison and word soon got around that Ronnie Kray was a soft touch. People I’d never seen before would come into the club and Ronnie would give them fifty quid out of the till. The next day it would be someone else. It never seemed to stop.
Reggie and I would get very uptight about it. We said we didn’t mind helping people, but we had to draw the line somewhere. It didn’t cut much ice with Ronnie.
‘What do you want to do – show ourselves up?’ he said. ‘People come home expecting to be given something. Do you want us to get a bad name? Do you want people to think we’re tight?’
Reggie said, ‘We’d better slow down, that’s all. We’re overdoing it.’
Ronnie wouldn’t have it. ‘You may think we are, but I don’t. It’s not going to change. That’s how it’s going to be.’
It was frustrating not being able to reason with Ronnie. I’m sure he thought there was a bottomless well of money he could dip into when he liked. And when there wasn’t any there, he’d moan about it.
One day he came in for some for himself. The till was empty. ‘Where’s the money?’ he said, all surprised.
‘You’ve given it all away.’ I told him.
‘We have to do something,’ he said impatiently. ‘We’ve got to earn some money.’
‘How can we?’ I asked, pleased to make the point. ‘You give it away as fast as we can earn it.’
But it didn’t make the slightest difference. In those days, when the average weekly wage was less than £10, our combined enterprises were bringing in around £200 a week. Ronnie continued to give away twenty, thirty and fifty pounds if he felt people needed it. Children, old people, families who were skint – Ronnie would help them all. But as usual he did it all quietly, without fuss; he didn’t want people to know. One day, however, his generosity was made public, much to Ronnie’s embarrassment.
Every Wednesday a show was put on for old people at Oxford House in Hackney. Ronnie took great delight in arranging for boxes of apples and pears to be sent over to them. This went on for several months, then one night Ronnie delivered the boxes himself. The owner of the little theatre called out, ‘I’m on the stage.’ As Ronnie walked out, the man quickly pulled back the curtains, revealing scores of old ladies and gentlemen waiting for the show to start.
He pointed to Ronnie and said, ‘I thought you’d like to know that this is the gentleman who sends the fruit.’ Then, to Ronnie’s horror, he said, ‘Let’s have three cheers for Ron!’
Ronnie blushed. He couldn’t wait to get off that stage.
If we had to pay a bill for, say, a hundred pounds, Reggie or I would put the money away. But if someone came in and Ronnie felt they needed the money, he’d give it to them without thinking about it. Then later, he’d start worrying about how the bill was going to be paid. If several people wanted help, Ronnie would go out of his way to help them all. Reggie was generous, too, but he was sensible; he wouldn’t leave us with no money for the bills. Money meant everything to Ronnie – but it also meant nothing. If he had a million pounds, he wouldn’t be happy until he’d given it all away.
His charity didn’t stop at cash handouts either. If a kid came into the billiard hall looking for a job, Ronnie would take him on, helping our old man behind the bar or cleaning the tables. We had all the staff we required but Ronnie found it hard not to help someone if he felt they needed it.
With him around, business was like a benevolent fund or welfare office and one day I told Ronnie he’d missed his vocation in life: he’d have made a fantastic welfare officer. In one respect it was true: he was capable of so much patience with people. One of our customers had a sister who was very ill in a mental hospital, and Ronnie visited her a few times. He just sat talking and listening, trying to help her.
Another customer had a sister who had become a drug addict and changed from a lovely girl into an old hag. Ronnie paid doctors a lot of money to try to help her, then bought her a hairdressing