An East End Life: My Story

Introduction

On the set of EastEnders one afternoon in early 2009, some of the younger cast members and I were chatting over lunch, when Lacey Turner asked me how I’d got into showbusiness. So I told them about the time I stood trial at the Old Bailey, which is where my acting story really begins. When I’d finished, someone said You should write a book Derek! This wasn’t the first time I’d heard that said, so when it was suggested seriously to me a few weeks later, that I should write my autobiography, I have to confess to being more than a little embarrassed by the idea. After all, why would anyone want to know about my life? To me, there didn’t seem much that was outstanding – I hadn’t climbed Everest or been around the world in a hot air balloon, so what was so interesting about me that would captivate a reading audience?

Initially, I said I would think about it over the following week. I was told to write a few things down, starting with my early youth, and see how I felt. This I did. Once I got going, I began by reminiscing about the early years, growing up in London’s East End. Before I knew it, I’d written about two pages of scribblings, but hadn’t got further than my fifth birthday! Then the thought occurred to me, since life in the East End of my childhood days was so very different from that of other walks of life, that it might be interesting to other people.

As I delved deeper and deeper, I began to feel quite proud of myself – looking back to the dreary housing; lack of proper amenities; little money and hardly any luxuries, I realised that the ‘the boy done good’ - I’d managed to build an altogether better life for myself through a lot of hard work, true grit and determination; coupled with an in-built sense of worth, terrific good humour and the ability not to take myself too seriously.

Over the last 10 years, with the ever increasing popularity of EastEnders, I had started to build quite a fan base, and I got to thinking about the huge leap from my early upbringing to my present lifestyle. It all started to make sense. Was it possible that I could open a lot of people’s minds to the opportunities that are out there, and which they might have felt were unavailable to them? There was my answer. My thoughts kept returning to my early youth. Then, of course, there was no stopping me. I couldn’t stem the flow now, not until it was all down on paper!

So, I hope you enjoy my story and don’t think me too arrogant in wanting to put my colourful life, albeit tinged with some shaded grey, into words.

CHAPTER ONE

Evacuation

It was a bitterly cold, murky-grey, late November day. 1940: the year of the Blitz. This was the start of a mass exodus of women and children from London, but more especially, the East End, which had taken the full brunt of Hitler’s merciless bombardment.

Earliest memories of my childhood are based around World War Two, the most significant being evacuation, so this would seem a good place to start my story.

I can picture myself now, even after so many years have passed, as the dreaded day came to fruition. Feeling sad and forlorn as I stood in the middle of the platform, my whole body shivered uncontrollably from top to bottom. A mixture of cold and fright no doubt. With my prominent, knobbly knees protruding beneath a pair of over-sized, hand-me-down flannel shorts, I must have looked every inch a child of the times.

Just one more tiny, faceless statistic amid hordes of equally nondescript citizens, gathered like tiny ants beneath the vast expanse of austere space which marked out a defining territory between the roof and platform of Paddington Station. Another skinny little seven year old.

That morning, I’d been reduced to slitting my shoes in order to make more room. My toes had been pushed, agonizingly, to their limit. There was hardly a child in sight who wouldn’t have stirred the emotions of all who observed these harrowing scenes of evacuation.

The meagre ration books hardly afforded our parents the luxury of keeping up with their growing offspring. It didn’t matter though, because we were all in the same boat. A uniform so to speak, distinguishing the hoi polloi from the upper classes.

Warm, steamy vapours floated in front of my face from quickened, nervous breath. A droplet formed precariously on the tip of my nose. I tried to reach it with my tongue but gave up and wiped it on the back of my hand instead. Not a friend in sight; I scoured the crowd for a recognisable face. No luck - I was on my own, except for Mum.

An uncertain destiny lay ahead.

There was a sinking, chewed-up feeling in the pit of my stomach. Surely my heartbeat was audible. Could Mum hear? It was pounding away under the Fair Isle sweater that Nan had knitted for my seventh birthday earlier that year. Certainly I could hear it. Gripping Mum’s gloved hand tightly, I clenched my teeth in a pitiful attempt not to cry, still hoping somehow that I could will her into taking me home when the time came. I nuzzled my face into her hand to sniff the leather.

Knee ’igh to a grass’opper, Mum used to describe me to people.

A dog-end caught my eye and I tried, unsuccessfully, to roll it over with my shoe. Stop fidge’ing! Mum had snapped. Jus’ stan’ still - won’ be long now. She smiled down guiltily, sorry for her short-tempered outburst. Everyone was on edge.

I was born in Bow, east London, on April 11 1933. Within the sound of Bow Bells. Therefore, I am a true, bona fide East Ender. That same year, Hitler came into power and ‘Hyperion’ won The Derby. Both events would prove to be significant. The latter only becoming apparent later on, when gambling became a dark force in my life.

Christened Derek William Rapp, I remained an only child for Bill and Christina, who were a devoted couple. Although they were poor, I was brought up in a secure and loving environment. Even though I was proud of my roots and my parents, I still spent most of my youth wishing I could escape from my ties with the East End. I think I’d seen too many films about how the other half lived and always hankered after things I didn’t have. Mainly material things, like a large house with a swimming pool; sports cars, nice clothes and that sort of thing.

Dad had a really open and kind face with a strong, masculine jawline and bright, sparkling blue eyes. He was quite tall and powerfully built, with exceptionally strong arms, from years of working as a docker. Everybody loved my Dad, and people used to tell me what a great bloke he was all through my childhood. For all this though, it wasn’t a good idea to cross swords with him because he could turn very quickly. He had the same deep streak of violence in him that is inbred in east London men. Mum, on the other hand was tiny – about five feet two inches. She had pretty features and thick, curly, dark brown hair which she wore fairly short. Her eyes were a very expressive dark brown, and could tell you what was going on in her head with one short glance. I always knew if she was cross with me by her eyes, whereas Dad’s gave nothing away. Most of my chastising would come from Mum. In common with the times, men felt it was the mother’s job to bring up the children when it came to daily do’s and don’ts. My punishment came in the form of several hidings, usually using her slipper or a belt when I’d done something seriously naughty, or a slap for minor disobediences. She was always very fair, and throughout my life she made no bones about telling me if she thought I was wrong, and the other person right, in any form of dispute. On the other hand, if anyone did anything bad towards me, she’d let them suffer the full brunt of her wrath verbally, and if more serious action was required, she’d let Dad deal with it.

There was something about the East End though, for all its bleakness and austerity that gave a real sense of belonging. Locals were referred to affectionately as the salt of the earth by other Londoners because they respected them for their hard labour, staunch loyalty to one another and unpretentious behaviour. Well known for its history of unlawful pursuits, the East End of pre-war years was ruled from within, by a handful of rival gangs who saw to it that order was maintained through a series of unwritten laws that everyone understood and obeyed. Theft from their own kind was rare and outlawed by most self-respecting villains. It was these codes that have shaped my thoughts and actions throughout my life.

Dad had shown me precisely how to use the gas mask, neatly housed in a square, cardboard box, which now hung carelessly over the left shoulder of my navy-blue Mackintosh. I loved the distinctive smell of the lining.

From out of nowhere, a deafening, thundering rumble stunned the crowd into silence as the steam-train rolled into view. Great puffs of smoke engulfed the domed space as the familiar, sickly-sweet clouds, choked their way into my lungs. This calmed me for a moment as I remembered the times I’d hung over the railway bridge with Dad, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Flying Scotsman as it whizzed below, full speed to Edinburgh. The pavement used to shudder under my feet, as if hit by a mini-earthquake. In its wake, a vortex of bulbous, nebula cloud would envelop me as I struggled to find Dad through the haze.

The train came to a slow, piercing halt, with a final screech of breaks, just inches short of the buffer.

Please Mum! I don’ wanna go, I don’ wanna go! Sobbing violently, I had tried to free myself and run away. Mum just squeezed harder. With a tiny canvas suitcase tucked under her arm and into her ribcage in a vice-like grip, she grabbed my sleeve for extra security with her free hand. Nudging forward, we jostled, inch by inch, towards the compartment doors.

At this point, I heard Mum let out a yelp as one of the metal corner-pieces of her case cut into her right breast painfully. Perhaps she felt too numb to care. She said nothing.

Women of all ages and sizes clung onto their few, miserable possessions, held close to their bosoms, whilst still managing to hang on to their charges. They assumed, in a strange way, the role of prisoners-of-war, as they poured, snake-like, into the elongated carriages. How long this enforced exile would last, none of us knew.

Dad! Dad! - I wan’ me Dad! I bellowed, at the top of my voice, until I was hoarse.

Pangs of fear continued to rage through my body and my steps faltered. My legs almost gave way, but I managed to clamber up into the gloomy carriage. It stank of stale tobacco and sweat. Mum found herself a seat and patted her bare knee to indicate where I should sit.

On either side sat two voluptuously over-weight women. It was going to be a long journey, so they offered to roll up their coats and make me a seat on top of their cases, which formed a neat line between themselves and the passengers opposite. Perched on the edge of the strongest one, facing Mum, I asked, Where are we goin’ Ma?

To the coun’ry, son. ’Ereford. She tried to sound calm and reassuring as she explained what would happen at the other end. Scared and alone she was none too sure of what to expect, but at that age I can be forgiven for not knowing any of this. Mum had received only the briefest instruction from one of the officials who’d informed her that we’d be living with a designated family who would meet us at the station. That was as much as he knew himself.

Green fields spread for miles, as far as the eye could see. This was a new experience for me. The unfamiliar sights held my thoughts captive for most of the journey. What was the countryside, after all, to a city boy like me? In my imagination I’d conjured up visions of weirdly dressed yokels with bits of straw sticking out of their hair, just as I’d seen in photos. Muck-spreaders we called them at school.

The only one still awake, I day-dreamed to my heart’s content. The women were swaying from side to side in rhythm with the carriages’ roll and it made me laugh out loud. Probably weary from emotional exhaustion, they slept for most of the three hours it took to get to our destination.

Over there! An official pointed in our direction as we stood on the platform. A friendly-looking couple smiled and stepped forward anxiously, pushing their way through the crowd towards Mum and me. Is it just the two of ’ee? enquired the woman. Yes, came a faltering reply.

The house was welcoming enough, and although nothing untoward happened during my stay there, I hated everything about the place. I detested the rural atmosphere, the smell of silage and compost, as well as the classmates who used funny dialogue I didn’t understand, failing in my innocence, to realise that they probably had the same trouble with my cockney accent. They were the foreigners - not me. I don’t remember the couple’s names but they had two children; a boy about the same age as me and a girl of about 12 or 13. Mum got a job in a factory in Hereford and I went to the local school with the boy, but he was never friendly towards me. Not once did he let me share any of his toys at home, and, bearing in mind children who were evacuated couldn’t take any away with them, I thought him a mean and nasty boy. At school, he used to encourage his friends to gang up on me, bullying me and calling me, Mummy’s boy! Several times I ran away from school during the day, and hung around the town until it was time to catch the bus home with Mum, who met me at the bus stop every day.

At the house, I had tantrums and screamed a lot, out of frustration I suppose. I used my temper as a means of releasing my pent-up anger. I told Mum I’d rather put up with the bombs than stay here. After just a few months, I made such a fuss and created enough of a hullabaloo to warrant a speedy return home. Mum agreed with me because I don’t think she was happy at all either, although she would have hidden this from me at the time. Many years later, she confessed to me that we only stayed there as long as we did for my sake, and she hadn’t needed much persuasion from me to return home. Apart from anything, she missed Dad, and couldn’t wait to write to him with the good news to say we’d be back soon. Dad met us at the station and I was so happy to see him that I sobbed tears of joy as he scooped me up into his arms. Needless to say, we never kept in touch with that family. We were glad and relieved to be back in familiar surroundings.

The war was never far away and when the sirens sounded, I’d snuggle up in a make-shift sleeping bag, nestling under one of Dad’s huge, powerful biceps. Just the three of us. Myself, Mum and Dad, huddled together against the rear tin wall of our Anderson shelter which had been placed at the bottom of the garden in Loxley Street. The house had two storeys, a basement, an outside lavvy, but no bathroom. Instead, a tin bath hung on a long hook in the kitchen, next to the fire.

Lit only by a tiny candle, placed carefully in a corner near the entrance, the shelter had become a comforting second home. As soon as our eyes became accustomed to the dark, Mum would snuff it out. Nothing should be wasted. I could never enjoy candle-light again because of this association, and loathe the smell of candles to this day.

’Ere son. Chop suey an’ noodles. Dad would chuck a brown paper bag at me.

Before proper Chinese take-away had been introduced, small cafes littered the West India Dock Road, close-by the docks, run by Chinese immigrants for the benefit of Oriental seamen. It wasn’t long though, before the local workforce developed a taste for the new food.

Dad was a fireman and on duty every night at the fire station, but on rare occasions, if there was a lull in the bombing, he’d sneak back home, just minutes away, for a quick bite with the family. When I’d eaten my new, favourite food, Dad would settle me down by re-living the day’s events. It was the nearest thing to a bed-time story.

So-and-so’s house had been bombed out; a child had been rescued from a blazing shop; but by far the best stories were the ones about people who’d been found alive, beneath piles of rubble. In my eyes, my Dad was, undoubtedly, the bravest fireman alive. In fact, later he received the British Empire Medal for his outstanding bravery in the Fire Service.

On those nights the sirens sounded, all around we heard chitter-chatter and clanging tin cups, as shared flasks of tea passed among the gatherings. Gradually, I’d drift off to sleep until the ‘all clear’ sounded.

Before the war, Dad had grafted long and hard as a docker until joining up for the Fire Service. It was a sad and sorry sight to see his territory taking such a hammering. He tried not to dwell on it and focused, instead, on the job in hand. Sometimes, on Saturdays, he’d take me down to the dockside to see the huge cargo ships. If the coast was clear, we’d sneak below, into the hold and along to the engine room.

Being an only child I was used to getting my own way and friends learnt quickly that when I wanted to play the ‘German’ during our war games, there wouldn’t be any arguments. By not having siblings, I had missed out on learning the art of sharing and used to wish, with all my heart, that I might have a brother to play with one day. Throughout my childhood I was lonely. My Mother’s younger sister, Aunt Gladdie, was only five years older than me, so I looked upon her as the sister I never had. Gladdie lived with my grandparents still, just around the corner in Endive Place, so we would get together now and again. Mainly, we’d play games in the street outside my house and she was terrific fun to be with. During the latter part of the war, our favourite scam was to pinch woollens from her Mum’s bedroom drawers, and even off the neighbours’ washing lines, to sell to the rag and bone man. Wool was at a premium during the war so we got a few coppers for them, which we’d spend on going to the cinema.

Every summer we would go on a family holiday, either to Ramsgate or Camber Sands, for one week. There’d be Mum, Dad and me, with Dolly and George and later their son, known to all as Young Georgie, plus any other children who could come. Usually Gladdie would tag along because her parents were working. We’d spend every day on the beach, making sandcastles or burying each other up to our necks in the sand. In the evenings, the men would go for a pint maybe, to one of the local pubs, while the women stayed behind playing games with us in the guests’ lounge. There was never much money to