Queen of Thieves

by Beezy Marsh

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammered. ‘It just came into my head. I don’t know why I sang that.’ I’d only gone and messed up the audition in front of Billy Sullivan. What on earth was I going to tell Alice Diamond now?

  The barman grinned: ‘But he told me to tell you, you’re hired. You can start tomorrow.’

  My mouth fell open. I looked over to the gangster, who raised his glass.

  ‘Well,’ said the barman. ‘What are you waiting for, blondie? Get yourself backstage to meet the others. If you ask nicely, one of them might sort you out with somewhere to stay.’

  The side door led down a narrow corridor to a dressing room the size of a postage stamp, where six dancing girls were crowded around a single mirror lit by a flickering light bulb.

  One of them already had a thick layer of cold cream plastered on her face and the others were taking turns dipping their fingers in it, to remove their make-up. Up close they were pasty and a few of them had rows of bed bug bites up their scrawny arms. None of them said a single word to me.

  The stripper was on her own in the corner, half-dressed, fixing her stockings to her suspender belt.

  She glanced up: ‘Well, if it ain’t the singing nun! Aren’t you late for evening prayers?’

  ‘Quite the comedian for someone who makes her living flashing her bits, ain’t you?’

  My hands clenched into fists. I’d just about had enough of today and the way I was feeling, I was ready to knock this mouthy bird into tomorrow.

  ‘Oh, give over, I’m only joking,’ said the stripper, pulling a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her blouse: ‘Smoke?’

  I shook my head and bit my lip. Now I felt foolish for being so moody.

  ‘It was just nerves made me forget what to sing, so Ave Maria was all I could come up with,’ I said. ‘First time I’ve done an audition in my life.’

  ‘You’d never know from the way you were belting them out,’ said the stripper, smoothing her skirt down over her hips. ‘I thought you were a natural.’ She offered her hand to Nell: ‘I’m Violet, but everyone here calls me Gypsy.’

  The tallest of the dancers turned, her eyes narrowing to slits: ‘That’s because you’re a bleeding Didicoy, ain’t it? Should have stayed in your caravan in Wanstead.’

  Quick as a flash, Gypsy pulled off her shoe and lobbed it right at the dancer, hitting her in the mouth, making her cry: ‘Ow! You bitch!’

  ‘Call me that again and I’ll scratch your eyes out, you daft cow,’ said Gypsy.

  The dancer made to launch herself at Gypsy, but I blocked her path.

  ‘Don’t talk to her like that, she’s my pal,’ I said, squaring up to her, trying to imagine what Alice Diamond would do at a time like this. ‘I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself ’cos then you wouldn’t be able to do that stupid dance of yours, would you?’

  The dancer stared at me for a moment, but I stood my ground and glared back.

  Gypsy threw her head back and laughed as the dancer scowled and slunk back to the dressing table mirror. Gypsy went back to tucking her skirt into her blouse and as she was pulling on her coat, she said: ‘You put her in her place good and proper. Fancy going for a cuppa and a bite to eat?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Gypsy, ‘’Cos it smells bad in here, don’t it? I think it’s those dancers with their rotten fannies.’

  That was the funniest thing I’d heard in ages and it set me off giggling. Gypsy and me linked arms and we strolled out of the dressing room, like old friends.

  British Restaurants were still doing their bit all over London, serving up meat and two veg to the nation, just as they had during the war. Gypsy took me to her local just off Shaftesbury Avenue. You could get a two-course meal for little more than a shilling but as Gypsy piled rabbit stew on to her plate, I’d pretty much lost my appetite. Yes, I’d got myself a job in Billy Sullivan’s club, but I was still miles away from finding out anything useful to Alice and The Forty Thieves and that was enough to put me off my dinner.

  ‘So,’ said Gypsy, as she shovelled in a mouthful of stew, ‘why are you up in town, Nell?’

  ‘Don’t get on with my dad, so I left after a fight,’ I said, giving my story a try-out. ‘I walked out and left my job in the sugar factory in the East End.’ It wasn’t too much a of lie, so I was convincing enough. I didn’t get on with Dad and had no intention of ever speaking to him again. ‘Thing is, I can’t go back home because things got so bad indoors…’

  ‘You can bunk up at my place, it’s above a cobblers off Drury Lane,’ said Gypsy. ‘It’s only got one bed, but we can sleep top to toe, if you don’t mind?’

  I smiled. I would have slept in a pigsty at this point, I was just grateful to have a roof over my head in this weather: ‘I don’t mind at all and can help with the rent. But what about your landlady, won’t she have something to say about it?’

  ‘Oh, she’s deaf as a post and blind as a bat and going doolally, so she probably won’t tell the difference between us,’ said Gypsy with a snort of laughter which made the couple at the next table look askance. The idea that I, with my newly platinum blonde hair, could be mistaken for the buxom brunette Gypsy was frankly ridiculous. That made me laugh out loud.

  ‘You going to eat that?’ said Gypsy, eyeing my plate of stew.

  ‘Help yourself,’ I said, watching as Gypsy consumed it with gusto.

  ‘So, what brought you to The Windsor?’ I asked, as I sipped my tea. I was trying not to be a nosy cow, but Gypsy was something special.

  ‘You mean why I do I take my clothes off for a living?’ said Gypsy, twirling a thick lock of hair around her fingers. ‘Anyone who performs is selling themselves, even those stuck up dancers who think they are better than me. Well, they ain’t. You might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, that’s my motto, and I’ve got something worth looking at. I’m a solo act, I don’t need a line of dozy cows high-kicking behind me to turn heads. You’re the same with your singing. We’re the stars. They’re the support act.’

  ‘What about your family, don’t they mind?’

  ‘Me mum ran off with a Canadian airman at the end of the war, so she don’t care. She was supposed to send for me, but she never did. And me dad, well, I don’t care if he lives or dies. He’s probably drunk in a ditch in Essex somewhere.’

  ‘Did you run away from home, then?’

  Gypsy stopped smiling and a dark look crossed her face: ‘Things got difficult when Mum left. Dad was drinking and he kept finding his way into my bedroom after the pub…’

  She stopped herself and stared into the depths of her tea. I understood, without Gypsy needing to say any more about what had happened.

  ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘You ain’t prying, it’s fine,’ said Gypsy, ‘It’s nice to have someone who’s interested in what makes me tick without judging me. So, there was a fair in Wanstead Flats every year, with travellers and gypsies, and I ran away with them one summer and never went back home.’

  ‘Did you stay with them long?’

  ‘Long enough to learn their language, didicoy, to pick up a few tricks of the trade like reading the tea leaves or telling fortunes,’ she said. ‘I tried to make a living doing that when I came to London after I left them. The winter after the war ended, they were moving on up north and I wanted to stay down south so we parted company.

  ‘Well, I can tell you Nell, it’s blooming hard making a living telling fortunes in pubs. People thought I was on the bleeding game half the time. I used to sneak into the cinema to keep warm and while I was watching the talkies for hours on end, I got the ideas for my act, from the film stars.’

  ‘Don’t you feel shy about getting your kit off?’ I’d rather be burned alive than stand in front of strangers in my birthday suit.

  Gypsy thought about it for a moment: ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘They can look at the goods, but they can’t touch and anyway, I’m saving myself for the man of my dreams.’

  ‘Who’s that then?�
�� I said.

  ‘Someone rich and good looking, who’s going to walk into the club one day and fall in love with me and treat me like a princess.’

  ‘You really think you’re going to find that kind of a fella round here?’ If I looked incredulous it is because I was.

  ‘’Course I do!’ said Gypsy, chucking a lump of sugar into her tea. ‘That’s who I’m thinking about when I strip off.’

  Gypsy’s eyes twinkled, and I could see why her parents had called her Violet because they were a stunning shade of mauve-blue when you looked at them, up close: ‘Everyone should have a dream. What’s yours, Nell?’

  My dreams were mostly of how to get rid of Alice Diamond but I wasn’t about to spill the beans on that. Besides, dreaming about pushing her off a tall building or chucking her in the river with a knife in her back made me sound mad and I was trying to make friends. Gypsy wanted a room-mate, not a deranged killer.

  But in that moment, sitting in the British Restaurant, surrounded by glum couples silently struggling to force down a jam roly-poly, I said: ‘I’m going to have so much money that I don’t need any man to take care of me.’

  Gypsy threw back her head and laughed loudly, so loudly that the couple at the next table got up and moved away in disgust.

  ‘You are properly bonkers, Nell,’ she guffawed, slapping the table so that her tea spilled out of its china cup. ‘That’ll never happen, never in a month of Sundays!’

  I smiled at Gypsy but as we were rising to leave, something inside me snapped.

  I muttered under my breath: ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ALICE

  Elephant and Castle, London, February 1947

  I watched Nell trudge across the frozen courtyard with her little suitcase in her hand when she left Queen’s Buildings to go to Soho on a little job for me. I’ve learned the hard way that it pays to make sure my girls are doing what they’re told.

  And as I was gazing out over my manor, I spied something else that piqued my interest, so I went downstairs for a closer look.

  The tallyman’s cart was pulling up by and who should happen to be perched up there by his side, but another one of those Tenison Street girls. This one’s called Iris and she’s always got bruises. Most folks say her bloke is a nutcase.

  The tallyman handed her a basket and then gave a cheery wave and flicked his whip over his old nag’s haunches to get her moving through the snow.

  I caught up with Iris as she was making her way to her tenement. The kids who were mucking around with lumps of ice as a football moved out of my way when they saw me coming. It’s always like that. Sometimes I feel like Moses and the parting of the Red Sea whenever I leave Queen’s Buildings.

  ‘That looks heavy,’ I said, pointing to her basket full of coney pelts. Fur-pulling – that’s a bloody thankless task. Girls bring the piecework home to skin the rabbits in their flats. A basket full of bunny fluff gets everywhere and there’s hardly any cash in it.

  She took one look at me and flinched.

  I know I have a reputation, but I wanted to show her I’m kind and caring at heart.

  ‘Careful you don’t slip, dearie,’ I said, linking my arm through hers.

  I smiled at her: ‘You’ll set tongues wagging riding with the tallyman like that. All the other housewives in Queen’s Buildings will think you’re getting a bit extra, if you know what I mean.’

  She bridled at that comment.

  ‘He was just helping me get home safe ’cos I’ve taken on piecework to make a few bob and this filthy weather makes it hard to get home, that’s all,’ she mumbled.

  Snowflakes as big as florins were laying thickly on the ground in front of us.

  ‘How’s things indoors?’ I said, spotting a fading bruise on her cheek.

  ‘That’s none of your business!’ she shot back at me, pulling her coat closer around her middle.

  ‘I’m just being friendly, as your neighbour,’ I soothed. ‘There’s no need to be so chippy, love.’

  She looked as if she would crumple then.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just I don’t like people prying into my business.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t go around sporting a big black eye, should you? Looks like your hubby’s being knocking the hell out of you. Am I right?’

  ‘Tommy’s a good man.’

  ‘Never said he wasn’t,’ I replied. ‘Just think he’s a bit handy with his fists, ain’t he?’

  ‘There’s no work for my Tommy,’ said Iris, stopping for a moment, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘No one wants him, on account of his moods, but he can’t help it.

  ‘Even minding the barrows over in Covent Garden’s too much for Tommy’s nerves. He nearly broke some kid’s neck the other day for giving him lip and that was the end of that. People don’t care that he’s a war hero. He’s just a nuisance to them now.’

  She sank to her knees on the cold, stone step and started to weep.

  I sat down beside her.

  ‘Us women look out for each other round here,’ I said. ‘You just have to let me know and maybe you can help us out and we can help you.’

  ‘I don’t need your help,’ she said, standing up and drying her eyes. ‘My Tommy wouldn’t hear of it either. Thanks for your concern all the same.’

  Now, I could have been offended by her giving me the bum’s rush, but it was early days with Iris. She picked up her basket of fur pelts and disappeared inside the dark stairwell up to her flat and another evening walking on eggshells with Tommy.

  Desperate women do desperate things, so I always like to know who might have their door open to me, so to speak. Even a tiny crack is enough for me to get my foot in.

  And once I’m over the threshold and involved in your life, you won’t find it easy to get rid of me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  NELL

  Soho, London, March 1947

  The gas was a blue ghost, flickering lamely on the stove as I heated the water to make a cup of tea.

  Old Ma Harris hadn’t noticed that Gypsy had a visitor lodging upstairs because we waited until she had battled her way out of the front door and through the snow to the grocer’s shop before getting up. Gypsy and me would roll out of bed late in the morning, taking turns to brave the freezing scullery to make a cuppa, before getting dressed and scurrying off to the club for breakfast.

  It was so perishing cold, all the girls were finding excuses to turn up well before their shifts. Even the mice were in early.

  Dancers were endlessly sewing on sequins or mending their costumes and we pretended to work on our routines. The ‘come on’ girls, whose job it was to persuade the punters to spend, spend, spend on watered down drink, were hanging around so long in the club they’d practically taken root. Lou, the barman, didn’t mind too much as long as we all did our best to foist something on the early customers; an over-priced greasy fry-up, a nasty little chop that passed for lunch or some watered-down beer. He gave us commission on whatever extras we could flog and never missed an opportunity to make an extra bob or two.

  Tomorrow was Saturday and I’d have to face Alice and persuade her to give me a bit more time to uncover the snitch. All the while, I kept my ears pricked for the slightest bit of gossip that could be useful but so far, apart from fellas coming in and handing over wads of cash to Billy as he sat at the bar every afternoon, I’d failed to even get a titbit of information.

  As I sighed, my breath formed a little cloud in front me. Mold bloomed up the ancient wallpaper, which was peeling where it met the cracked ceiling plaster. It was hard to say which was worse: Holloway Jail, or this. I tiptoed across the freezing tiled floor to reach the kettle, which was whistling its head off. Back in Queen’s Buildings, Alice Diamond was sitting pretty in that cosy kitchen of hers, with enough food to feed five families. It wasn’t fair that the likes of her ponced off girls like me. My eyes hardened into little pebbles of hatred as I thought about how I�
�d trusted her like a fool, and she’d betrayed me and my baby.

  The desire for revenge was a like a small fire inside me and I found myself stoking it, to remind myself why I was here, in this shit-hole, and how I was going to claw my way out and bring Alice Diamond down a peg or two.

  The water sploshed into Old Ma Harris’ teapot. I swilled the used leaves around and around before refilling the kettle to get enough warm water for a quick wash in the basin upstairs.

  Everyone smelled unwashed because everybody was these days; the reek of cheap perfume was the best most of the girls could do to cover it.

  I carried two cups of weak tea upstairs to Gypsy, who had the bedspread pulled over her head, so that just a mass of raven curls was visible, spilling out over the pillow.

  Then, I set the teacups down on the floor, beside a jam-jar full of fag butts, and reached across the bed to pull open the gingham curtains that I’d made from a tablecloth hoisted from the British Restaurant. I was quite proud of those.

  Gypsy was in awe of my daring, especially when I shoved a whole load of cutlery into my handbag for good measure, but right now, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, she was in a foul mood.

  ‘Oh, give over!’ cried Gypsy. ‘Can’t a girl sleep?’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ I said, ‘I’m not hanging about. It’s like the Artic in here.’

  I swigged the tea down in one gulp, pulled on my dress and grabbed my shoes, stepping over a pile of Gypsy’s discarded belongings. The floor was a mass of tangled stockings, lipsticks with no lids, half-empty jars of face cream and empty aspirin bottles. A greying corselette and some knickers hung forlornly over the fireguard by the empty grate and Gypsy’s dress from last night had been flung across the dressing table. The place looked as if it had been burgled and Gypsy snoozed on in the middle of the chaos, like sleeping beauty in a dosshouse.

  As I was heading down the stairs, the front door pushed itself open and Old Ma Harris stood there, squinting up at me.