Foreigners Page 13

  THE COMEBACK ROAD

  The comeback road is hard and long

  The boys I'll meet will be hard and strong,

  But my patience is good,

  And my willpower strong.

  I'll hear the bell

  Which means time to go

  But I'll do my best, and I'll have a go

  Cause I've got someone to back me.

  The manager I've got

  Is the one for me

  As I know he'll stick

  In a real rough sea.

  They say I've finished

  But I'll prove 'em wrong

  And I'll have a go

  Cause my patience, willpower, and heart are strong.

  If I make the grade,

  On that one big day

  We can look at them all

  With a laugh and say,

  We've done our best

  For the game we love

  Now there's no more kicks

  And that's real good.

  So we'll leave this game

  Which was hard and cruel

  Then down at the show, on a ringside stool

  We'll watch the next man, just one more fool.

  The money that Turpin was earning driving around looking for old cars and engines, and then cutting up the debris for George Middleton in his scrapyard, was barely enough to support Gwen and their growing family. Already there were two daughters, and Gwen was pregnant with a third child. Turpin was also finding it difficult to deal with the humiliation of such a public fall from grace. On 15 February, 1959, the New York Times ran a story entitled 'Turpin: A Story of Riches to Rags'. It reported that, 'Today, the one-time world champion, who earned more than $500,000, is a junk man. He drives about little Leamington Spa in an old truck picking up scraps of iron, derelict motors and hunks of metal nobody else wants. He takes the collection to the junkyard, batters it and sells the scrap. Turpin, now thirty, does not own the sledgehammer, the truck or the business. But once he was paid $200,000 for a single fight. In those days Turpin wore Savile Row suits and bench-made shoes. Today he wears grubby work clothes. At the peak of his career, he traveled around Europe and America living in the best hotels. Usually he had a few hangers-on. Now his home is a small house on a backstreet of an unlovely section of Leamington.'

  Being a relatively fit coloured man, who was still a household name in England, there was one profession that would welcome Turpin with open arms – the burlesque of wrestling. The bouts were fixed, often crudely so, and the fighters divided into 'good' and 'bad', heroes and villains, with the coloured wrestlers – who fought under pseudonyms such as 'Johnny Kwango' or 'Masambula' – little more than novelty ring-fodder to be thrown around for the comic entertainment of the masses. Turpin began to travel around the country and 'fight' for cash payments which averaged about twenty-five pounds per bout. The money was not great, but the risk of injury was, and Turpin soon began to pick up leg and back injuries, which only added to the ignominy of his present situation and began to depress him even further. By the early sixties, the former world boxing champion began to develop a reputation in wrestling circles for being late, or sometimes forgetting about engagements altogether, and there were rumours that he had started to drink. Friends and family began to notice that his speech was sometimes slurred, and that he was beginning to display a number of signs that he might be growing 'punchy' from his many years in the boxing ring. However, given Turpin's current difficulties, his income as a wrestler was important to him and so, despite his own reservations and his evident discomfort, he persisted with the charade knowing that at some level at least these fight people were 'his people', and wrestling was certainly preferable to making pennies labouring in George Middleton's scrapyard.

  Turpin continued to be hounded by the Inland Revenue for taxes that were payable on money that the authorities claimed he had earned at the height of his boxing career. In July 1962 he was formally declared bankrupt with assets of £1,204 and liabilities owing to the taxman of £17,126. This was a sum that had already been considerably reduced from a figure nearer to £100,000 by the tenacity of Max Mitchell, Turpin's accountant. Mitchell had detailed the unorthodox accounting procedures of the promoter Mr Jack Solomons, and he had drawn the Inland Revenue's attention to the fact that his client had assumed that income tax was being paid by his promoter and his manager. Furthermore, the sums that the Inland Revenue claimed had been paid to Turpin were, according to Mitchell, nowhere near the amounts that Turpin actually received. While Mitchell could not deny that Turpin had made a series of spectacularly bad investments, including the property at Great Orme (which, following an unpleasant split with Leslie Salts, had now been purchased by the Llandudno Urban Council at a loss to Turpin), he pleaded that the Inland Revenue should take into consideration the fact that Turpin was both naïve and somewhat innocent. For instance, everybody knew that Leslie Salts was a con-man, and Turpin was the last to realise that the staff at the Great Orme complex, including John Beston, his brotherin-law, were 'on the take'. In fact, Turpin's belated discovery that Joan's husband had been swindling him prompted him to break the man's nose. Part of Max Mitchell's plea to the Inland Revenue contained the following statement: 'As time goes on, the punching power of a boxer is enfeebled the longer he pursues his profession. His brain through constant pummelling becomes bemused. His eyes are affected. Deafness overtakes him. And in effect he is lucky if in the prime of his manhood he doesn't turn into a two-legged vegetable.'

  Aside from bad investments and questionable payment practices, it was apparent that the main reason for Turpin's financial hardship was his propensity, at the height of his earning powers, to give away his money to people who were almost complete strangers. He helped those who claimed that they wished to start taxi companies, or buy pubs, or pay off their mortgages; almost any hard-luck story might well be concluded by a soft-hearted Turpin putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out a bundle of cash. But despite his almost reckless generosity, a part of Turpin remained practical, and after his bankruptcy hearings, Turpin, together with a few friends, began to search out those who had 'borrowed' money from him. He threatened more than one man in an attempt to retrieve his cash, but while some fearfully agreed to reimburse him with a weekly payment, most claimed that they had either lost the money, or it had been stolen from them. Somewhat bitterly, Turpin reflected, 'It cost me bleeding money every time I shook hands with somebody, didn't it?' Keen not to compound his present circumstances by ending up in jail on assault charges, there was little that Turpin could do beyond threaten, but by the mid-sixties most people were no longer in awe of the 'Leamington Licker'.

  Back in 1959, Turpin had bought a run-down café in Russell Street, Leamington Spa, called Harold's Transport Café. The place was in a terrible condition, and most people could not understand why Turpin would want to invest in such a low-class, and decidedly unglamorous, business. However, they knew enough about Turpin to know that whatever reservations they might have about this venture would be ignored by him. What made Turpin's acquisition all the more puzzling, and illogical, was the fact that the property had already been condemned for demolition to make way for a car park. Obviously there was no long-term future to this purchase, but Turpin nevertheless went ahead. He renamed the café for his loyal wife, Gwen, and his mother joined the new Mrs Turpin, the two of them working behind the counter serving mixed grills, bacon sandwiches and mugs of tea to lorry drivers and labourers, while upstairs there was a room to rent out should anybody require lodgings. Although his mother was by now almost blind, she enjoyed the work, but her son soon grew to despise Gwen's Transport Café. The income dribbled in as loose change, and the money did absolutely nothing to alleviate his debts, while the customers were often rude, abrasive, and had stopped by merely in the hope of achieving a glimpse of the once famous fighter who had now fallen on hard times. There were those who wished to arm-wrestle him, or even challenge him to mix it up in a fight, but Turpin generally made hi
s excuses and withdrew to the family's small flat above the café where he would read one of his comic books. The half-dozen plain tables were seldom full, but at least the place kept Gwen and Mrs Turpin busy. Sadly, Turpin's mother aside, the rest of his family did not feel welcome in the café. Their relationship with Gwen was, at best, cool, and should any of her husband's brothers or sisters wander in then it was more than likely that Gwen would charge them for their cup of tea. She sensed that as an 'outsider' from Wales they somehow held her responsible for taking Randy away from his close-knit family, but to her way of thinking they were, at the height of his fame, as happy as anybody else to accept his money and exploit his success. She felt that now, when he had little left, they should be made to pay like everybody else. On the wall of their transport café, Randy and Gwen hung a sign which read: 'That which seldom comes back to him who waits is the money he lends to friends.'

  Between his wrestling, the meagre income from the café, and labouring, Turpin managed to earn a living in the early sixties, but he continually worried about his mounting debts and his unpaid bills. He was also tormented with concern about the effect that his predicament was having upon Gwen and his daughters, who formed the loving centre of his life. He worked hard to hide his distress from them, and he was largely successful in maintaining the image of a trouble-free, happy, loving father and husband. However, his anxiety over his debts was compounded by the frustration of knowing that he had foolishly allowed others to take advantage of his generous nature and, to some extent, the present situation was entirely one of his own making. Turpin was well aware of the fact that he was hardly the first boxer to fall into financial hardship once his career had concluded. He knew that his own hero, Joe Louis, was struggling with similar problems in the United States, and that he too had taken up wrestling as a way of paying his bills. Joe Louis' wife, Rose, once commented that 'watching Joe Louis wrestle is just the same as watching the president of the United States wash dishes,' to which her husband replied, 'Well, it ain't stealing.' But these problems were not confined to the United States, for back in Britain there were countless examples of once well-known boxers who were now destitute. However, no British boxer had ever risen to the financial and professional heights of a Randolph Turpin, so his fall from grace was spectacular for others to witness, and for Turpin it was excruciatingly painful to endure. In a state of desperation he made two brief, and somewhat embarrassing, returns to the ring, winning a sixth-round knockout over Eddie Marcano at Wisbech, Norfolk, in March 1963, and then a second-round knockout in Malta in January 1964 over Charles Seguna, but neither opponent could really box, and Turpin collected mere loose change for a fee. Both fights were an exercise in humiliation, but at least Turpin finally acknowledged that he could never again fight seriously, for his eyesight had deteriorated to the point where it would be utter folly to fight even an exhibition bout.

  In December 1965, Turpin was invited to New York, with all expenses paid, to be part of the extravagant celebrations at Madison Square Garden marking the retirement of the five-time middleweight champion Sugar Ray Robinson. Together with Carl 'Bobo' Olsen, Jake La Motta, Carmen Basilio, and Gene Fullmer, the other men who Robinson had beaten to claim his five titles, Turpin had the opportunity to enjoy one final night in the spotlight. A photograph of Turpin in the ring with the other fighters that evening tells its own story. While everyone gazes at Robinson, Turpin's face is frozen in a half-smile and he stares into the middle distance. His mind is elsewhere, perhaps wondering why he is even present, and he stands awkwardly to one side as though not really a part of this celebration of boxing history. This is particularly ironic given the fact that Robinson made no secret of his admiration for Turpin the man and the boxer, and went to great lengths to make sure that his old adversary would be present on this special occasion. Later that evening, Turpin joined Sugar Ray Robinson and the other dignitaries, including the mayor of New York City, John Lindsay, and a young Muhammad Ali, at a sit-down dinner at the famous Mamma Leone's restaurant on West 48th Street. This would be Turpin's last glimpse of the glamour and celebrity that a decade earlier had been an integral part of his life.

  Late in 1965, a now financially desperate Turpin wrote to Jack Solomons and asked the promoter to help him sell his cherished Lonsdale belt. Turpin hoped that the belt, plus his other trophies, might raise somewhere in the region of £10,000, but Solomons was either unable or unwilling to help. Early in 1966, Turpin turned to another promoter, Alex Griffiths, and he begged Griffiths to help him sell his Lonsdale belt, but although Griffiths tried to attract interested buyers nothing ever came of this effort. The sense of anxiety was palpable in Turpin's actions, and photographs of the former fighter from this period show a man who has visibly aged and whose face is tramlined with streaks of worry. Some thirteen years earlier, in May 1953 as he prepared for the Charles Humez title eliminator fight, the London Illustrated News had run an extensive feature on Randolph Turpin and the opening of his Great Orme complex. It began, 'When Randolph Turpin ducks under the ropes at London's White City stadium on 9 June, he will be the first big-business man to fight for a world title . . . The all too frequent story of the ex-champion who dies in poverty, or falls on hard times, is not likely to be applied to Turpin.' Sometime in the spring of 1966, Turpin changed his mind about selling his Lonsdale belt and his boxing trophies, and in a letter to his wife he wrote, 'They are yours. As long as you keep them, you have a part of me. Don't ever sell them.' Those around Turpin, including Gwen, could see a quiet desperation beginning to descend upon the 'Leamington Licker' as he withdrew into introspective silence.

  At Randolph Turpin's funeral, the Revd Eugene Haselden spoke loudly and passionately about what he believed was the principal contributory factor to the death of this man who, only a few years earlier, was Britain's most celebrated sporting hero. 'At the height of his career,' he began, 'Randolph was surrounded by those who regarded themselves as friends and well-wishers. But he was deserted by many as he lost his position and money. The fickleness of his friends and the incompetent advice must have weighed so heavily upon him that he was forced to desperation. Randolph was a simple man, a naïve man and he needed friends to protect him from the spongers. To our shame he was let down. The tragedy is not his failure alone, but the failure of the whole society.' At the conclusion of this blunt and unapologetic sermon there was silence inside Leamington Spa's Holy Trinity Church. The newspaper reports claimed that there were nearly 2,000 people present, but the truth is there were maybe 500 people inside the church. However, as the mourners began to spill out into the weak light of this gloomy day their numbers were augmented by passers-by, and by those who had decided to brave the rain and just come and pay their respects. Turpin's grief-stricken family were present, including young Randolph, his son from his first marriage, and many of the friends with whom he had grown up in Leamington Spa made an appearance. The promoter Jack Solomons sent neither words of condolence nor a note of apology for missing the funeral. Shockingly, nobody from the British Boxing Board of Control in London made the trip to the Midlands as one might have reasonably expected for a holder of a Lonsdale belt, and a former British, European, and World boxing champion.

  Some time after the interment the Warwickshire coroner, Mr S. Tibbets, concluded his findings by suggesting that Randolph Turpin appeared to have been an impulsive and generous man who had given away a large part of his earnings in the ring, and in some way this had led to the present tragedy. Turpin's one-time business partner, Leslie Salts, went further, describing Turpin as 'intelligent in some respects but childish in others. You can tell people what is the best for them,' he said, 'but they don't always take notice.' This, of course, was somewhat ironic coming from a man who made a handsome profit from Turpin, and who had enjoyed the most successful and lucrative years of his life because of the efforts of the now deceased boxer. The coroner read aloud part of a note that Turpin had written and left pinned to a bedroom door before his death. In the note, Turpi
n made it clear that he felt that he was 'having to carry the can for money owing to the Inland Revenue'. He continued and insisted that his mind was clear and not disturbed. As it transpired, the verdict of the Coroners' Court agreed that this was most likely the case. The entry on the death certificate of Randolph Turpin records that the cause of death was as a result of:

  Gunshot wounds of the heart

  Self-inflicted (Suicide)

  On 14 May, 1966, three days before Turpin's death, yet another letter from the Inland Revenue had arrived at the transport café in Leamington Spa, this one claiming £200 that was due as a result of non-payment of tax on the income from some of Turpin's wrestling engagements. The latest demand seemed unnecessarily harsh to Turpin and this news, together with the increasing likelihood that the local council was about to exercise the compulsory purchase order on the café, and thereby render Turpin and his wife and four daughters homeless, caused the former fighter to slip into an even deeper trough of depression. By now Gwen was used to enduring her husband's moods so she knew that there was little that she could do beyond wait and hope that his anxiety might soon subside. Three days later, on 17 May, Turpin was working in the café with his wife. After lunch the two older daughters, eleven-year-old Gwyneth and nine-year-old Annette, went back to school, while Turpin went upstairs to check on four-year-old Charmaine, who was suffering from a cold. After a few moments Turpin came back down and told his wife that the child was sleeping, and then he went back upstairs. Their youngest daughter, Carmen, who was almost two years old, followed her father. Shortly after 2:30 p.m. a curious Gwen went upstairs to check that everything was fine. She saw her husband on the floor between some packing cases and the bed, and she noticed bloodstains on the blanket. Her motionless husband looked as though he had tumbled from the bed, and her daughter, Carmen, was sitting on the floor beside her father, but the crying child was surrounded by a pool of blood. Gwen snatched up Carmen and ran with the child to Warneford Hospital where the authorities informed her that her daughter had been shot. Back at the café neighbours had already called the police, but the word on the street was that Turpin had shot himself twice with a .22 calibre revolver, once to the left side of the head and then fatally in the heart. He had used the same weapon to shoot his youngest daughter twice, and one bullet was lodged near Carmen's brain and the other had punctured her lung. Their local hero was dead, and his youngest daughter was fighting for her life.