by Sam Michaels
‘What you doing, Ethel?’ Charlotte asked again, louder this time.
Then Molly’s worst fear was recognised as the curtain between the rooms flew open, and she saw the outline of her dad standing there.
‘What the fuck is going on in here?’
‘Nothing… nothing, Dad, sorry,’ Molly answered.
Ethel had dropped to her knees by the side of the bed and was cowering under the window. Charlotte had pulled her thin blanket up to her chin.
‘Has she pissed the fucking bed again?’ her father roared.
‘Mike, Mike… come back to bed. I’ll sort this out,’ her mother urged as she appeared behind him.
‘She has, ain’t she? The dirty fucking cow!’
Molly stood rooted to the spot as she saw her father reach round and grab the back of her mother’s neck. He yanked her forward with such force that she landed on all fours between the bed and the cot, just inches away from Molly’s feet. Then Molly saw her dad kick at her mum’s behind, and her mother cried out in obvious pain.
‘Get it cleaned up, woman. I’m warning you, if she does this one more fucking time she’s out!’
Ethel whimpered in the corner, and Molly instinctively stood blocking her protectively.
‘She won’t, I promise,’ her mother said.
Her father grunted, then pulled the curtain back across the room. She was about to sigh with relief but then the curtain whipped across again and she saw her father launch the contents of his piss bucket directly at them.
‘And you can get that cleaned up too,’ he yelled.
Molly stood in shock as her dad’s dark urine dripped from her hair. She heard his bedsprings creak, and hoped he’d go back to sleep, but the room was beginning to light up in response to the rising sun.
‘Go, Molly, you’ll be late for work,’ her mother said in a hushed voice as she climbed to her feet.
‘But…’
‘No buts, just go. We’ll be all right; leave this to me. You don’t want to give him another excuse to kick off.’
Molly nodded. Her mother was right. Though her father had never done an honest day’s work in his life, he’d go mad if she was late for her job in the match-making factory. It would be just another excuse for him to use her mum as a punchbag.
She grabbed her coat from off the bed, thankful it was dry, and Ethel handed her a crotched turban-styled hat. She’d have liked to change her clothes and run her head under the only tap in the house, but that would mean going through her dad’s room to the shared scullery. With her father already in a foul mood, she thought better of it.
‘Be a good girl today,’ she whispered to Ethel, kissing her lightly on her cheek. She could taste her sister’s salty tears and was again reminded of how much she hated their father. Then, she tiptoed from the room and out of the front door.
The sun hadn’t long been up, but the streets were already bustling with people on their way to work, or some heading home after night shifts. The cool morning air was bracing, and as Molly buttoned her coat, she noticed the smell of the urine. If she was to get to the factory before her shift started, she’d have to run all the way. At least there was running hot water in the ladies’ cloakroom, and she could rinse out her skirts and hair.
*
Monday mornings were Joan’s favourite time of the week. It was the only day the brothel was closed, and though she detested housework all the women would muck in and give the house a good going-through.
As Joan wrapped her dressing gown round herself, she heard Carol’s footsteps overhead, then Vi humming as she dashed across the upstairs landing to the bathroom, followed by Annie shouting out to Vi, telling her not to be too long. Hilda had replaced Beth, but she was as quiet as a mouse, and though it had been six years, the women still weren’t sure if they trusted her or not. They’d all be down soon, and then they would enjoy a chat over a cup of tea and bread with dripping. Joan licked her lips. There was always a bit of dripping left after the Sunday dinner – she made sure of that.
Joan quickly dressed but didn’t bother to do her face up with make-up. There was no need as there’d be no punters today. She opened the curtains and squinted against the bright, morning sun. It felt warm for December. Christmas was only a couple of weeks away, but it didn’t feel very seasonable in the brothel. Norman always banned any show of festivity. He said he didn’t want the customers reminded of home and their kids.
As Joan went to turn away from the window, she caught a glimpse of Norman’s car coming down the street heading towards the house. She suddenly panicked. He wasn’t due to visit until Thursday, and she hadn’t yet finished preparing the books. Then her mind raced. She wondered what reason would bring him to call so early in the morning.
As the car parked up, Joan hurriedly applied some lipstick, and rubbed some on her cheeks to give her a bit of colour. She was on the better side of fifty-five now, and hardly ever saw direct sunlight. Her high cheekbones were prominent, but her pale, wrinkled skin and drawn thin face gave her a skeletal appearance.
Joan emerged from her room as Hefty opened the front door. His huge frame almost blocked the doorway, but Joan could see that he was alone, and sighed with relief.
‘What are you doing here at this ridiculous hour?’
‘I need a word… in private,’ Hefty answered, shifting his bulk from one foot to the other.
‘You’d better come to my room then,’ Joan said. She could see he looked uncomfortable, and assumed he was seeking girlfriend advice again. ‘So, who is she this time?’
‘No, Joan, it ain’t about a bird.’
‘What then? Don’t tell me you want me to sew your bleedin’ buttons on your shirts again? I ain’t got time to sod about, Hefty.’
‘No, nothing like that. It’s about Billy.’
‘Billy… Norman’s boy? What about him?’ Joan asked, curling her lips in distaste. She’d never liked the lad. Years of working with men had given her a good nose for sussing the bad ones, and she’d known instantly that there was something very wrong with Billy Wilcox.
‘It’s a bit delicate, but Mike Mipple told me that Billy is running his own girls.’
‘Oh, Hefty, you big lump of a fool. Don’t believe a word that comes out of Mike’s mouth. We ain’t seen hide nor hair of him for years, not since he blabbed to Norman about what Beth had told him. Don’t get me wrong, the man did the right thing, albeit for a good back-hander, but he’s been out to get Norman ’cos he didn’t get paid what he thought was due to him. I heard he went to the Maynards and offered to sell Norman up the river. The Maynards told him where to go, but I’ll bet he’s just trying to stir up shit again.’
Hefty sat down on Joan’s chaise longue and shook his head. ‘Nah, it’s true. I checked it out for myself. Billy’s got himself a little set-up in a house off Queenstown Road. He’s got two foreign bits in there. I ain’t sure, but Mike reckons they’re from Belgium or Russia, but he said they ain’t half on the young side. To be honest, I ain’t even convinced they’re you know… proper grown-ups.’
‘Are you absolutely sure about this, Hefty?’
‘As sure as today is Monday. I sat outside yesterday and watched. He’s got his mate on the door and judging from the number of blokes I saw coming and going, I think he’s got himself a good little earner. I watched for most of the day, and Billy turned up. He didn’t stay long, but when he came out, he looked pretty fucking chuffed with himself. What do I do, Joan? Should I tell Norman?’
Joan flopped onto the edge of her bed. Her head was reeling. If Hefty had got this correct, then it all made sense. Business had dropped off a bit lately, and Vi had said she’d heard there were some new Russian girls working the area. No-one gave a toss about the street girls, but another brothel in the same town was direct competition and Joan knew Norman would see it as a threat. As much as Joan disliked Billy, she was struggling to believe that he’d knowingly stitch up his own father.
‘Joan, what do you think I should d
o?’ Hefty asked again.
‘I’m not sure. I don’t know if Norman will thank you for telling him. Let’s face it, he thinks the sun shines out of his boy’s arse.’
‘But he don’t, Joan, he doesn’t think that at all. He lets people believe that’s how he feels, but he knows Billy is a sly bastard. He’s told me so himself.’
‘Really? In that case, you’ve got to tell him. If he finds out from someone else and discovers you already knew but didn’t tell him, he won’t be none too pleased.’
‘That’s what I thought. Fuck it, I ain’t looking forward to this,’ Hefty said, pushing himself to his feet. ‘Thanks, Joan. I’ll see you Thursday… I hope.’
Joan saw Hefty out, then went through to the kitchen. Carol, Vi, Anne and Hilda all turned to look at her.
‘Well, what was that all about?’ Carol asked.
‘Nothing. Just Hefty wanting advice about his non-existent love life again,’ Joan answered. The outcome to this was not going to be good, and Joan decided the fewer who knew about it, the better.
*
George felt frustrated. She hadn’t left the house all weekend as she’d convinced herself people would look at her and would know what had happened. Now she realised that was impossible and with her mind set on paying back the policemen, she felt a renewed vigour. Her father was still sleeping off his hangover, and her gran was busy baking a Christmas cake and mince pies. Oppo had managed to charm Mr Kavanagh into giving him back his job, so he wasn’t around either. The quiet suited her – it gave her time to think clearly.
Molly had called in yesterday to check on her, but George had made excuses about feeling tired, so her friend hadn’t stayed long. She’d felt awful lying to Molly and had been desperate to tell her the truth, but the words hadn’t come.
‘Do you want to come and lick the bowl?’ she heard her gran call from the kitchen.
‘No thanks, I’m not seven years old any more.’ She laughed, trying to sound unaffected, then added, ‘I’m going out for a walk. I’ll see you later, Gran.’
Minutes later, as George wandered aimlessly, she found herself passing Mr Peterson’s shop. She was surprised to find it open, and saw the man’s wife behind the counter. She guessed the woman couldn’t afford to lose the business. George put her head down and hurried past. She knew she was innocent, but she was also aware of the culprit and felt guilty harbouring the secret. Her dad had warned her to keep quiet about it, and George agreed she would, but it didn’t feel right, and she hated Billy Wilcox all the more.
It was lunchtime; the streets were busy with workers spewing from the local factories. Everyone seemed to be in such a rush, worrying about completing their business before it was time to go back to work. George stood still for a moment and leaned her head back to look at the fluffy clouds overhead. Smoke belched from the surrounding chimneys, and as she took a deep breath, she could smell the unmistakable pungent aroma of heavy industry. The bricks of the buildings were blackened with soot, as were the kids who played outside with snotty noses and dirty, scuffed knees. Her gran was right, Battersea was a stinking town, but it was home.
George continued her stroll, one moment grateful to be free without a death sentence hanging over her, the next depressed and consumed with hatred. She focused her thoughts on the three policemen. She was so intent on planning the perfect justice, that she hadn’t realised she was on Billy Wilcox’s street.
She was about to turn round and walk the other way, but then noticed a group of young men a few hundred yards in front of her. They’d formed a circle, and George guessed there was some poor victim in the middle being bullied. She thought about ignoring it and knew she shouldn’t get involved, but for reasons she couldn’t explain to herself, she walked towards them. As she drew closer, she recognised Malc and Sid along with a few of Billy’s gang, then to her dismay, she realised they were surrounding Molly!
George quickened her pace to defend her friend. She knew Molly wouldn’t stand a chance against these thugs.
‘Oi, you lot, leave her alone,’ she shouted as she charged towards them.
The gang stepped aside, and George could see Molly was distraught and in tears.
‘Look who it is,’ a short bloke with a face that looked as though it had melted said, ‘George Garrett, the only bloke in Battersea with tits!’
The young men laughed, and George could feel her cheeks flushing. She was about to snipe back at the man, telling him she knew his face wasn’t burnt in the trenches, like he claimed it was. She knew the truth, that Billy Wilcox had blow-torched him for having the bottle to backchat him. The flame had ensured he never did again. Before George could say anything, Malc spoke next.
‘Piss off, George. You ain’t welcome round here.’ Then he turned his attention back to Molly. ‘That she-man, whatever it is, ain’t gonna help you, Miss pissy pants.’
Molly shot her a look and George could see her friend was terrified and noticed the urine stains on her dishevelled skirt.
‘Why are you still standing there? I told you to piss off, you dickless fucking wonder,’ Malc said aggressively.
George saw red. The reference to her anatomy made her feel as if she was back in the police cell again and she had so much pent-up anger. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ she said through gritted teeth and in a blind fury, ran at him with her fists thrashing.
He didn’t seem prepared, and George managed to punch him square on the nose. Blood instantly began to spurt from his face, and the shock appeared to stop him retaliating. The one with the scarred face came at George, but she spotted him from the corner of her eye and spun and lumped him in the mouth. His lip split, but he came back at her. The boxing lessons served George well. She was quick, light on her feet and gave him a left hook to the side of his head, then a strong right-hand upper-cut, which connected hard under his chin and knocked him off balance. He retreated, but Sid lashed out at her. She noticed something glint in the sun, and realised he had a small knife. He waved it furiously in front of her, but George laughed.
‘You wanker,’ she smirked, ‘four of you against the dickless wonder, and still you need to be tooled up. Go on, fuck off, the lot of you. If I ever see you come near Molly again, I’ll have you all, one by one.’
The men exchanged looks with each other, then Malc spoke. ‘Come on, it ain’t worth it.’
‘Make sure Billy hears about this,’ George called as the lads sloped off. Then she turned her attention to Molly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thanks, George. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t have come along.’
‘Good job I did! You know Billy and his gang are just bullies. If I got any one of them alone, they’d shit themselves.’
‘Yeah, I know, but they’ve been picking on everyone in this street for as long as I can remember. You would have thought they’d have grown up by now. Course, it doesn’t help that Ethel wets the bed and I have to share with her. To top it all, me dad emptied his bucket on us too. I was on my way home to get changed,’ Molly said, indicating her soiled skirt.
‘Tell you what, I’ll walk you back to your house, then I’ll make sure you get back to work without being bothered.’
‘Thanks, George, I’d really appreciate that, but ain’t you got nothing better to do?’
‘Not really. Now that I’m as tall as him, my dad ain’t so keen on taking me out with him any more. He reckons he can do the jobs quicker without me.’
‘I suppose that ain’t a bad thing, especially as you’ve already been arrested.’
George’s stomached flipped at the mention of the arrest and she felt her jaw tighten.
‘Are you all right? I know you said you was tired yesterday, but you don’t seem yourself,’ Molly asked.
No, George wasn’t all right. The memory of the abuse ate away at her day and night. The only thing that stopped the painful recollections was the idea of paying back the policemen for what they’d done. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she ans
wered, and immediately regretted sounding so curt.
‘You’re not, are you? I’ve known you a long time, and I know when something isn’t right.’
George bit her bottom lip and began to twist her mother’s wedding ring.
‘I’m your best friend, you can tell me anything,’ Molly offered. ‘A problem shared and all that.’
George felt tears beginning to prick her eyes and looked around before pulling Molly down a narrow alley, hoping that she hadn’t been seen crying.
‘Oh, George, what is it? What’s got you so upset? I’ve never seen you like this before.’
George took a long, deep breath and tried to compose herself. She looked at Molly’s concerned face, then blurted, ‘The coppers did terrible things to me, awful, disgusting things. I’ll kill them, Molly, I swear I will.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They… they, erm… oh God, I can’t bring meself to say… They held me down and hurt me… with a truncheon… in my backside.’ As George revealed the horrors of her experience, she felt her legs go weak and fell to her knees. ‘It hurt so much, I thought they were going to kill me,’ she sobbed.
Molly crouched down and wrapped her arms round George as her body was racked with tears.
‘Oh, George, that’s despicable. No wonder you’re so upset. Have you told your gran or your dad?’
George shot her head round to look at her friend. Her eyes glistened and were panicked. ‘No, please, Molly, you must never tell a soul. I’m so ashamed, I couldn’t stand for anyone else to know.’
‘It’s all right, I won’t say anything, but this wasn’t your fault. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s them bloody coppers who should be ashamed of themselves. They’re supposed to look after us, not do things like… that!’
‘Yeah, well, I’ll never trust another one for as long as I live. Anyway, so now you know but I’d appreciate it if we didn’t talk about it again.’ It had momentarily felt good to unburden herself of the terrible secret, but as George pulled herself together, she once again felt humiliated.
