But, as usual, Ronnie wasn’t too interested in what I had to say. In sport, it’s good to have some nerves, it gets you keyed up, helps you perform well. But Ronnie didn’t have any nerves. He didn’t care.
When the bell sounded the gypsy almost ran from his corner and then started swinging at Ronnie with both hands. Ronnie looked totally shocked. He was battered about the head and forced back against the ropes taking massive lefts and rights to the head.
The gypsy’s brothers, sitting near me, grinned. ‘That’s it. It’s all over,’ they said triumphantly.
Suddenly Ronnie found his breath. He started ducking out of the way of the gypsy’s punches, then got in a few of his own. The gypsy’s onslaught stopped. It was all Ronnie needed; he was in, smashing rights and lefts into the face and body as though he was possessed. It was quite devastating.
I knew the signs, and turned to the brothers. ‘Yeah. You’re right. It is all over.’
Less than a minute later the gyspy was being counted out.
I think Ronnie was secretly annoyed with himself for being caught cold because in the communal dressing room afterwards, he acted out of character. He overheard the gypsy moaning to his brothers about being caught unawares. It would never happen again, he said.
Before I could stop him, Ronnie had walked over to them. ‘Stop making excuses,’ he told the gypsy quietly. ‘If you want, I’ll do it again. I’ll catch you unawares again.’
I stepped in and took Ronnie away. But that was him all over: he always believed that what was done was done and there was no point whingeing or trying to change it. Reggie would always be prepared to discuss matters, but Ronnie was withdrawn and would say, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ And he was always right: there would be no argument, no discussion, no possible compromise.
Once, as boys, the twins were due to box at Leyton Baths, and Ronnie did not turn up. Reggie and I waited for him at home, but in the end had to leave without him. We were worried about his safety, naturally, and about the inquiry that would be launched by the boxing board: it was bad news not to turn up for a bout.
A few minutes after we got back home, Ronnie walked in with a school pal, Pat Butler.
‘Where the hell were you?’ I wanted to know.
‘I had to go somewhere with Pat,’ was all Ronnie replied.
‘You know you could lose your licence.’ I was livid.
‘I don’t care,’ Ronnie said. ‘Pat was in trouble with some people.’
‘You’re out of order, Ronnie. You should never not turn up for a fight.’
But Ronnie just shrugged. ‘I don’t care about not turning up. This was more important to me.’
Then Reggie chimed in. ‘You could have helped Pat out tomorrow.’
‘No,’ Ronnie said, quietly but forcibly. ‘It had to be done tonight.’
Reggie and I continued to argue with him, but Ronnie just said, ‘Anyway I had to do it and it’s done now. I’m not apologizing.’
We pointed out that Mum had stayed at home because she was worried about him. Ronnie was sorry he’d caused her to miss the fight, but otherwise he couldn’t care less.
The twins seemed unaffected by their local Press coverage and the local fame that went with it. They still went to school regularly, didn’t throw their weight around and were never loud-mouthed, like some kids in the neighbourhood. If anything, they were quiet and modest and always respectful. Someone who saw this side of their character was the Reverend Hetherington, vicar of St James the Great, in Bethnal Green Road. The church youth club, which the twins belonged to, ran jumble sales and other fund-raising functions, and they were always keen to help set up stalls and so on. The twins admired the vicar and went out of their way to oblige him whenever he wanted a favour. He liked them too, and always spoke well of them. That friendship was to last a lifetime.
One night, the vicar was standing in the doorway of the vestry when the twins walked up.
‘Can we do anything for you, Father?’ Ronnie asked.
Mr Hetherington was a heavy smoker and had a cigarette going at the time. He drew on it. ‘No, I don’t think so, Ronald.’ he said. ‘But it’s very kind of you to ask. Thank you.’
He asked them one or two questions about what they were doing with themselves and was generally as pleasant and friendly as usual. Then he said good-night and went into his vestry.
Half an hour later he felt in his cassock for his cigarettes and was amazed to find an extra packet. The twins had bought the cigarettes for him. But they knew he would not have accepted them had they offered. So they slipped the packet into one of his pockets without him knowing.
Later, I learned that Mr Hetherington said no when the twins asked if he wanted anything because he always wondered: ‘What on earth are they going to do to get it!’
That immediate post-war period in the East End was a happy time. Life was getting back to normal after the horrors of the Blitz, and the family atmosphere Mum created at Vallance Road was warm and cosy and very secure.
As boys, the twins were very disciplined about their boxing. They went to bed early, ate well and regularly, and were almost fanatical about their fitness; they were always pounding the streets early in the morning.
Just after their fourteenth birthdays, however, the twins started to change. For the worse. Suddenly they started staying out late and neglecting their morning roadwork. They became very secretive about where they were going, what they were doing, who they were seeing. Mum was very concerned but she bit her tongue. She put it down to their age: they were probably going through that ‘growing up’ stage and she didn’t want to appear a moaner. But then I discovered the twins were calling in at Aunt Rose’s house late at night to clean themselves up before coming home.
The reason for their secrecy was suddenly very clear. They had been fighting in the street and knew that Mum would give them hell if she found out.
The East End had been relatively free of violence during the war and the couple of years after it. But now that the wartime controls were being relaxed, teenagers roamed the streets looking for excitement. It was, perhaps, inevitable that the twins, tough, utterly fearless and locally famous, would be involved, and with their flair for leadership it was hardly surprising that they were out in front when the battles began.
An incident that stands out involved a Jewish shopowner, aged about seventy who made a point of coming round to our house to say how wonderful the twins were. Apparently they were walking home one night when they saw some boys smash the old man’s shop window and help themselves to some of his goods. As they ran off, the twins chased them – not to have them arrested, but to give them a good hiding and to get back what they had stolen. They didn’t catch them, but the thieves never came back. The shopowner was very grateful to the twins, but it was nothing to them; they were always eager to help someone in trouble. Once Ronnie pawned a gold ring for a couple of quid to help a kid out. Another time he came home with no shoes. When Mum asked where they were, he said, ‘I’ve just given them to a poor kid who didn’t have any.’
They could not stand bullies, especially if our family was involved. When they were fifteen they heard that the old man had been slagged off by a crowd of young blokes in a pub. The old man and some friends were having a singsong when the crowd started taking the mickey out of them.
‘Leave us alone,’ the old man said. ‘We’re enjoying ourselves.’
‘Who are you, you old bastard?’ one of the youths replied, and he