Fred

By John Haynes

The book consists of seven true short stories in which my cousin Fred, along with my brother Frank, played a dominant part. I would hope that the reader gathers up Freds character as he or she reads the seven stories. Fred made a lot of enemies in his lifetime, the most venomous being himself.

Fred left the army in the early fifties during a period of austerity and very quickly discovered that jobs were scarce and there was no post military assistance, as there is today, in employment seeking. Fred served seven years in Palestine, Egypt and other areas in the Middle East and was then simply demobilized to join the job queues without being provided with any trade, training or guidance in how to find work. Fred very quickly gave up the vain search for employment and sought to befriend the gangster community who he regarded as successful when he saw them drive big shiny black limousines and frequent clubs in the West End of London- some of which they owned. They formed a liking for him. He had film star looks, was charming and when he sang he sang with emphasis on the words which took on a meaning and the women adored him. Sadly all these plusses were counter balanced to zero by his inability to hold or control his drinking. He found himself on the receiving end of some horrific sickening attacks of a physical nature none of which brought about a rethink of his drinking habits.

Freds assets of looks, charm, authoritative voice, singing voice and natural presence were all negated by his weakness- drink. In self- destruct mode, he converted his assets into dust and I, on numerous occasions, stood there helpless and unable to stop him.

When I reached seventeen to eighteen years of age he took me on as his protg with the intention of teaching me what life was all about and the stories that make up this book are just a few examples of the lessons and my development under Freds tuition. Our campus was East London and my tuition fees were paid in every kind of hurt imaginable and his inimitable style of dividing the spoils ensured that my tuition fees were also paid in cash.

Despite his well documented faults, a day spent with Fred could be funny because he failed to realise how outrageous he was. Also amusing was his inability and refusal to accept a setback and my efforts to include this part of his character in the stories is intentional and I trust will enable the reader to appreciate the humour in an otherwise tragic story.

I have resisted the temptation to fictionalise in search of ironic or anecdotal conclusions but have allowed the individual stories to end factually.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Oct 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465366474

John Haynes

John Haynes was born in East London in 1939 and became acquainted with some extremely interesting people before deciding in his mid thirties to make use of an education acquired at one of the most prestigious Grammar schools, Parmiter Foundation. He worked for a well known merchant bank until 1989 since when he spent fifteen years as a company director and still runs his own business today. He has taken a decision to write of the escapades of his friends, relatives and himself during his early adult life in a poor area of London because the violence and criminal activities can have a humorous aspect.

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Copyright © 2011 by John Haynes.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011918146

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-6646-7

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-6645-0

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4771-1613-5

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This book was printed in the United States of America.

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CONTENTS

Foreword

The Tailor of Whitechapel

Percussion, Concussion

Va Va Bedroom!

Coeur De Lion

Two White Coats

A Funeral and Two Weddings

Pumps Away

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my late brother Frank.

Foreword

A chronological account of the life of Frederick Maurice Dallison would place an obligation upon the writer to produce chapters and accounts of individual escapades in the specific order in which they occurred. This is not a story of the life of Fred but a selected number of stories in the life of Fred.

The reader can be assured that the accuracy and truisms of each story can be relied upon despite there being no guarantee that Fred’s unique adventures, in the form of short stories, are told in the sequence of occurrence. The reader will hastily realise that Fred and the writer are related and will therefore understand the use of first person gender in some of the chapters and stories. It follows that where the writer was not present or involved, the third person gender is appropriate.

Fred’s ability, or lack of it, to be truthful puts at risk the veracity of his own accounts of events which contribute to some of the stories; however, the consequences of his actions and misdeeds will leave the reader in no doubt as to whether or not Fred was being truthful.

A number of the participating characters are notorious men whose names may be altered, especially if they are still alive—an aspiration to remain so has forced this decision upon the writer. Notwithstanding this decision, the erudite reader can and will make certain assumptions, which will, in all probability, be correct.

The chapters and stories are heavily laden with humour, greed, violence, bad language, and drunkenness, but the purpose is accuracy. The reader will develop an understanding that although Fred created victims, he himself was a victim. He never understood this.

The writer seeks not to portray Fred as a bad, or good, man. The reader will form his/her own opinion, but in certain situations, he will attract the undeserved sympathy of the reader.

The Daily Mail columnist Richard Littlejohn often uses the phrase ‘You could not write that’ when referring to a story that, albeit true, is outrageous or incredible. These adjectives and several others would apply to the stories of Fred, and the following represents the writer’s humble attempt to prove Mr Littlejohn wrong.

Fred died in 2005 after a five-year battle with Parkinson’s disease. The chapel in the City of London Cemetery erupted with laughter as several of his nephews and other relatives retold their experiences involving him. Even the vicar abandoned an attempt to solemnise the proceedings and squeezed on to the crowded pews in uncontrollable laughter. Fred remained silent.

The Tailor of Whitechapel

I could hear Fred’s voice emanating from the kitchen. The voice was deep, rich, and quite often tuneful. He had had the opportunity earlier in life to sing professionally, but due to the lack of dedication, commitment, and parental encouragement, it simply did not happen for him. Lesser talented people progressed in the entertainment business, becoming television and recording stars. However, they all had one major advantage—they were not Fred.

I pulled the bedclothes up a little to cover my ears with two main purposes in mind: primarily, to protect myself from another of his unsuccessful, often incriminating, and most certainly devious money-making ideas; and secondly, in a vain attempt to clear my head of a hangover, the result of a full day and night drinking with him. On hearing Fred in conversation with my mother Edith (Eeed) in the kitchen, I knew for certain that another day of arguing, possibly fighting, underhand dealing, escaping, and mostly drinking was unavoidable. The only things that prevented my contemplation of suicide was that I would be amused at numerous times throughout the coming day and the bastard owed me money.

My head clearing a little seemed to coincide with Fred’s voice getting louder as he sang from the kitchen, without piano brass or strings, ‘Love is lovelier, the second time around!’ This was his non-subtle way of reminding me of his success the night before in the singing competition at the Rising Sun in Bethnal Green Road. He had won ten pounds, first prize, something that my hangover had caused me to forget. He had sung that very song, which merited an enthusiastic response from a drunken audience, comprised of East End characters nearly all on probation, bail, or a suspended sentence.

‘Is that lazy bastard Johnny still in bed, Eeed?’ were the words roared by Fred, which finally extricated my being from the comforting womb of the bed. I entered the kitchen, my appearance resembling a perforated corpse discovered in an East End local authority recycling depot, to find him finely groomed seated at the table. His thick wavy hair shining and brushed back, clad in a well-starched, ironed shirt, clean shaven, and his Burt Lancaster teeth flashing in my blurry eyes, he presented himself all fired up and ready for another exciting and gainful day. It was the role I was to play in his plans for this bright new day which brought about my apprehension-bordering fear.

In fairness to Fred, I was usually cast in a supporting role, which might involve driving, though sometimes in a getaway capacity, lookout or ‘accidentally’ tripping an irate pursuer keen to rejoin his money or valuables from which he had been separated by Fred. My veracity urges me to admit to an acceptance of involvement at this approximate level, but I would hesitate before accepting any leading role offered by him. Leading roles in any schemes arranged by Fred usually transpired into a less than friendly brush with some not very nice people or, indeed, a possible short, or otherwise, stay at the house of correction.

It would be totally wrong not to credit him with certain qualities—at least what I considered to be admirable at the time. He drank heavily, usually at some other poor soul’s expense, whilst lacking the ability to behave at an acceptable standard when drunk. His drinking frequently took him through three stages—charming leading on to argumentative developing rather rapidly into a terminal case of threatening violence. The latter of these stages occasionally led to him suffering severe violent consequences which would have made most men seriously reconsider their behaviour patterns, not Fred.

Fred was educated enough to cleverly conceal a total lack of education. He knew how to lure conversational participants on to subjects of his choice, for example, horse and dog racing, illicit turf accounting, legal aid, the procurement of illegal car tax discs, and so on. Fred was frighteningly knowledgeable on these subjects. He used charm and an authoritative voice to disguise a total lack of academia.

He was also an extremely smart man, as were all the East End ‘faces’ around that time, the late fifties and early sixties. The availability of suits ‘off the peg’ was limited to beanpole-fitting, skinny, near-death concentration camp veterans with thirty-six-inch inside legs. Normal people were forced to have suits made to measure. It was this non-existence of acceptable ready-made suits that gave rise to the sprouting up of tailors in every part of Bethnal Green, Stepney, Aldgate, and surrounding areas. They were all Jewish-run establishments and frequented by the so-called faces who must have felt an obligation upon themselves to wear a smartly cut three-piece mohair suit when called upon to assassinate a foe or even perhaps a colleague.

Fred dressed immaculately, was always well groomed and appeared to have money. He did have money, the salient question being the identification of that