by Judy Nunn
He arrived at the weatherboard cottage on the dot of two. It was a pretty house, situated in an area that was home to master mariners and shipwrights and their families, and to seamen and shipping agents and others who worked in the shipbuilders’ yards and on the wharves. Modest and respectable like most of the other houses, it was certainly not an abode one would associate with a prostitute. Which no doubt pleases her churchgoing prick of a benefactor, Mick thought cynically, and of course the back lane offering discreet access would serve the hypocritical bastard’s needs to perfection. It was probably the sole reason he’d bought the place.
Mick had thought of nothing but Red for the past two days, and already he was jealous of the faceless, nameless man who held special rights over her. The clients at Trafalgar didn’t bother him at all, but the benefactor was an entirely different matter. The benefactor had personal access to Eileen Hilditch.
She was waiting for him. Without a word she whisked him inside and led him straight through to the bedroom, which rather surprised him, although he made no complaint. She was wearing a simple shift, and she undressed quickly and efficiently without any form of tease. Realising she expected him to follow suit, he obliged and before he knew it they were on the bed making love. Except we’re not making love, Mick thought, even as he felt his body respond to her every movement. She was working on him like she had at Trafalgar. She was a whore doing a job. He tried to slow down, to take control and give her some enjoyment, but she was clearly not in pursuit of her own pleasure. The experience ended as it had before, only this time when she twisted herself free she took him in her mouth instead of spilling him over her breasts.
Again, while he lay recovering himself, she rose and crossed to the wash basin and jug, which sat on the dresser in the corner. He watched as she poured herself a glass of water. She rinsed her mouth, then filled the basin and washed herself with a flannel. Every action was automatic. Her post-coital routine was obviously as regular here with her benefactor as it was with her clients at Trafalgar.
‘Are you going to wash me now?’ he asked.
‘If you’d like,’ she said carelessly.
‘I wouldn’t.’ He sat up on the bed.
‘The kettle’s warm.’ She started to get dressed. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’
‘No, don’t.’
She seemed surprised. ‘You don’t want any tea?’
‘No, I mean don’t get dressed. Not yet. Come and sit with me, Eileen. Let’s talk.’
Her look plainly said they could have talked over a cup of tea as she’d intended, but she joined him anyway, and they sat naked side by side, their backs resting against the wall.
Mick would like to have played the scene a little more conventionally. He would like to have lain with her in his arms, her head on his shoulder as if they were lovers, but he knew better than to suggest anything so intimate. There had been no personal pleasure for her in the act, he was sure. He wondered if there ever had been.
‘You don’t really enjoy sex do you?’ He half expected her to take offence at the question, but she didn’t.
‘I don’t mind it.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t think about it: why should I? I’m a whore. Sex is work.’
‘I know whores who enjoy their work.’
‘Really?’ She raised an eyebrow mockingly. ‘And how would you know? I thought you never paid for it.’
‘I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I’ve never slept with a whore.’ He thought of Evie and the other working girls he’d known. ‘The whores I’ve been with seem to enjoy sex.’
‘Did it ever occur to you they might be pretending?’
‘Of course not,’ he replied with a touch of indignation. ‘I can tell if a woman’s pretending.’
‘Can you?’ She was genuinely amused. ‘Well, well, I am impressed. Can you really now, fancy that.’
‘Yes. Yes I can,’ he said firmly, although he was aware he sounded more self-defensive than confident. In only seconds she’d managed to thoroughly undermine him.
‘Perhaps the whores you’ve bedded really did enjoy themselves, Mick, you’re a pretty dashing fellow when all’s said and done.’ She winked encouragingly, which only served to make him feel further patronised. ‘But as for me, I don’t fuck for fun.’
They’d been Ma’s words exactly, he remembered. Red doesn’t fuck for fun, Mick. He could hear Ma’s voice now, just as he fancied he could hear her saying, See? I told you so.
‘If a man wants to share something personal,’ Red continued matter-of-factly, ‘he can look to his wife or his sweetheart. My job is to give good value for money and that’s just what I do.’
Mick was starting to wonder whether perhaps he might have missed something. ‘So I’m supposed to be paying for today then, am I?’ he asked.
‘Of course not. You’re here at my invitation. You’re a friend, not a client.’
‘In that case I don’t understand.’ He gestured at their nakedness and at the bedroom and all it signified. ‘If you don’t fuck for fun, why this?’
‘Because you’re a friend who’s a man and men like to fuck and I thought we’d get this part of the proceedings over and done with first.’
‘Ah.’ He remained bewildered. The remark didn’t clarify the situation, and it had a distinctly unflattering ring.
She realised that yet again she’d punctured his ego, but she was unbothered. ‘Come along now, Mick, admit it,’ she said practically, ‘you wouldn’t be interested in being my friend if a fuck wasn’t part of the bargain would you?’
‘Well . . .’ He didn’t know what to say. She was very confronting.
‘Of course you wouldn’t, and why should you? But I’ll tell you something for nothing.’ She looked him directly in the eye with an honesty that was undeniable. Hard, and at times ruthless as she could be, Red was invariably truthful. ‘A whore’s life can be lonely. Whores only have other whores for friends. Men use us and women judge us, and that’s just the way it is. You’re different. You’re a rogue, but you don’t look down on working women and I like you for that. Besides, as we agreed, we’re two of a kind. I’d value your friendship if you cared to offer it.’
He was lost in the green-gold-hazel, whatever-colour-they-were fox eyes and he knew from that moment he was gone. Friendship, he told himself, is a definite start. He could work on the rest. In the meantime, he’d play the game her way.
‘Consider me your friend, Eileen,’ he said. Then he added with a cocky smile, ‘So now the fuck’s out of the way, how about that cup of tea?’
In the cosy kitchen, over tea and a lemon sponge cake that she’d bought from the bakery that very morning on her way home from church, they discussed her benefactor. Not in any detail of course – Mick knew better than to seek the man’s identity – but he was keen to discover what level of intimacy his arch-rival had achieved.
‘What does he think about your clients at Trafalgar? Is he jealous?’ he asked casually.
‘Not a bit,’ she replied, ‘he knows they mean nothing.’
Mick could identify with that.
‘In fact he feels safe when I’m at Trafalgar. He doesn’t like me being out and about during the day though – if he had his way I’d never leave the cottage. I’m a virtual prisoner here throughout the week. He never lets me know when he’s going to call, and of course I’m expected to be here when he does. Whores are not supposed to have a life of their own, certainly not whores as well kept as I am.’
So that explains why I’ve so rarely seen her in the streets, Mick thought. He’d wondered.
‘He’s terrified that if I’m free to socialise I might meet the man of my dreams and decide to settle down to a life of domestic bliss,’ she said caustically.
‘That’s always possible isn’t it?’
‘Oh get away with you, Mick.’ She gave a derisive snort and helped herself to another slice of cake. ‘Can you just imagine me bringing up a parcel of brats on a pauper’s pay? I hardly think so. And a rich man wouldn’t take me for
a wife, I’m damaged goods. No, no, my benefactor has nothing to fear, so long as he keeps providing me with the finer things in life.’ She took a huge bite of cake. ‘And I make sure he does, believe me,’ she said through a mouthful of lemon sponge, ‘I never want for the finest. He’s generous, I’ll give him that.’
‘Perhaps he really loves you.’
Red was aware that Mick was fishing for information, but she didn’t mind in the least. She hadn’t talked so freely with anyone except Ma and she was finding the experience exhilarating.
‘Of course he doesn’t love me. I’m like a drug to him, that’s all. He’s addicted. He can’t get enough of me and he doesn’t want to lose me, so he’s willing to pay.’
The way she spoke of her benefactor with contempt rather than gratitude pleased Mick. Only one further question played on his mind.
‘Does he call you Eileen?’
‘Never. I’m Red to him, always Red. He likes me for the whore that I am. He wouldn’t even know that I have another name, and he wouldn’t be interested if I told him.’
The serious intent of Mick’s query was not lost on her, however. ‘No-one except Ma calls me Eileen,’ she said, ‘and even then only when we’re alone. Certainly no man calls me Eileen. I’m Red to everyone but you, Mick.’
That fact put the seal on their friendship.
It was only as he walked home in the early dusk that Mick realised he’d completely forgotten afternoon tea at the Powells. And he further realised that, as Sundays now belonged to Eileen, afternoon tea with the Powells had become a thing of the past. In just several hours, his life had changed irrevocably.
CHAPTER NINE
‘So when do we get to meet her?’ Doris demanded.
‘Well . . .’ Mick’s reply was hesitant. ‘It’s a little premature . . .’
‘Now, now Doris, don’t hound the poor fellow,’ Jefferson interrupted, chiding his wife good-naturedly. ‘You heard what he said: they’ve only just met, and she’s shy.’
‘But it’s such a shame he can only see her on Sundays.’ True to form Doris remained persistent. ‘You must bring her to afternoon tea, Michael.’
‘I hardly think a young courting couple would welcome the company of two rowdy children, my dear.’ Jefferson insisted upon having the final say. ‘We look forward to meeting your young lady when you feel the time is right, Michael.’ He put an affectionate arm around his wife. ‘Meanwhile, Doris and I are very happy for you.’
‘We most certainly are,’ Doris agreed, aware that she may have sounded just a little bit bossy.
Mick had kept his excuse to the Powells as simple and as vague as possible. The young lady he’d met had family commitments, he’d told them, which allowed only Sunday afternoons for their courtship. Jefferson of course had been far too tasteful to enquire after any further detail.
Over the ensuing weeks, there were times when Mick wondered why he’d chosen to invent a courtship. He could have been visiting a sick friend on Sundays, or any number of fabrications that sprang to mind – he was a very adept liar. Why a courtship, of all things? Could it have been wishful thinking on his part? Did he perhaps secretly long to make Eileen Hilditch his wife? He could not for one minute envisage her living in the fisherman’s cottage, doing his housework and raising his children: such an outcome was unimaginable. But then he was finding life without Eileen equally unimaginable as the days between each Sunday became progressively more drab and tedious.
Mick was obsessed with Eileen and the challenge she presented. He told himself that it was simply a case of ego and that if he could conquer her sexually he’d be able to get her out of his system. But he wasn’t actually sure he wanted to get her out of his system. He didn’t know whether he loved her or not, but of one thing he was certain. He wanted her to love him, and he would not rest until she did.
There were times when he felt he was making definite progress. She no longer treated him as she would a client, and on occasions he could sense her relax and enjoy the sheer sensuality of their coupling. But always, as the final moment neared, she took control and it became a battle between them, a battle it seemed he could not win. Until the afternoon when for some strange reason he suddenly decided he’d had enough.
She was meeting his every thrust, urging him on to his climax and, as it approached, he knew any moment she would twist her body to one side and free herself. This time things would be different, he decided, and burying himself deep inside her he grasped her hips and locked her into position, allowing her no freedom of movement.
‘You bastard,’ she hissed, feeling herself pinioned beneath him. She struggled, but to no avail and seconds later he was spent.
‘Bastard,’ she said. She pushed him off her and rose from the bed. ‘Bastard,’ she said as she crossed to the dresser. She put the basin on the floor and filled it with water from the jug. ‘Bastard,’ she said as she squatted over the basin and started washing herself. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ she kept saying as she desperately tried to wash him out of her.
He felt guilty watching her frantic ministrations. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said inadequately.
‘You’re sorry! Oh well, that’s all right then, isn’t it? You’re sorry makes everything better.’ She kept washing, trying to force the water up inside her. ‘You’re sorry means I don’t have to worry about being landed with a bastard child. You’re sorry means I don’t have to have be butchered by some filthy old cow who might kill or maim me in the process. Thanks very much, Mick: I’m glad you’re sorry.’
‘I’d marry you if you were with child.’ As the words sprang out, Mick wondered whether perhaps that’s why he’d done what he’d done. He’d thought it had been the need for sexual domination, but perhaps there had been another force driving him. He of all men knew and respected a whore’s fears; he would not normally threaten a working girl’s existence in such a way.
Eileen was equally suspicious of his motives. ‘Is that why you did it?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’ It was possibly the most honest admission Mick O’Callaghan had ever made and something in Eileen recognised that fact.
She stood and pulled on her shift.
‘Whores always keep a close check on their monthly cycle,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m due in three weeks, give or take a few days.’ She picked up his clothes and flung them at him. ‘Come back in a month, Mick, and I’ll tell you whether or not you’ve ruined my life.’
*
As things turned out he was safe. They both were.
‘But don’t ever try it again,’ she warned him. ‘Don’t try it for whatever reason, Mick. It wouldn’t pay off anyway. I’d never settle with a poor man.’
He hadn’t thought of himself as a poor man. He’d thought of himself as a successful man, a man who made a good regular wage and had a job with a title. He was the Manager of the Powell Ferry-Boat Service no less. But that obviously meant nothing to a woman like Red, who was accustomed to the trappings of true wealth.
She’d joke about it at times. ‘What a pity you’re not rich, Mick,’ she’d say as she paraded before him in a new lace-trimmed bonnet or a gown of the latest fashion, which her benefactor had provided in order to keep her happy that particular week. ‘If you could offer me all this, I’d be yours. We’re a good pair, you and me.’
They were a good pair. She made him laugh with her wicked stories about Trafalgar and her clients. She’d act out scenarios, strutting peacock-like before him, puffing away at an imaginary cigar – she was very funny. The references to the men she slept with never bothered him, but mentions of her benefactor could become galling.
‘And that shite,’ he said gesturing at the pretty new gown with the wide pagoda sleeves that she was twirling at him, ‘that shite makes it worth being a prisoner, does it?’ Occasionally he bit back. ‘I’d take freedom before satin and lace myself.’
‘This shite,’ she archly corrected him, ‘is a measure of my value. I’m the best whore in town,
and this shite is proof of it.’
‘Why do you have to keep calling yourself a whore?’ he burst out, exasperated. Along with the comments about his so-called poverty, it was another ongoing allusion that annoyed him.
‘Because that’s what I am.’
‘Not with me. You’re Eileen with me, for God’s sake. When we’re together you’re Eileen, you’re not Red.’
‘Whatever the name, it doesn’t stop me being a whore.’ She remained unperturbed by his outburst. ‘I know exactly who and what I am, Mick. When it comes to a case of identity you’re the one with the problem. You really don’t know who you are or what you want to be, do you?’
This time she was intentionally goading him, and he could have fought back as he often did – theirs was a volatile relationship. But he didn’t bother because he knew she was right. The pride he’d taken in his position with the Powell Ferry-Boat Service was a thing of the past, and he no longer fantasised about a life of respectability and a wife and a family like Jefferson’s. She’s absolutely right, he thought, I don’t know who I am or what I want to be. But he knew what he wanted out of life, of that much he was certain. He wanted Eileen Hilditch, and he wanted her all to himself. And for that he needed money.
‘Amy, this is Michael O’Callaghan, the manager of our ferry-boat service.’ Doris made the introductions. ‘Michael, this is Miss Amy Stanford.’
‘How do you do, Mr O’Callaghan?’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Stanford.’
He recognised her immediately. Amy Stanford was a well-known and well-loved figure around Wapping. Teacher to underprivileged children, distributer of goods to the poor, she’d been pointed out to him in the street on a number of occasions, as had her father, Silas. Mick had taken little notice of either at the time: they’re just do-gooders, he’d thought.
‘I’m a great admirer of your father and his good works,’ he said. ‘The society serves an immensely important purpose.’
There was no specific ulterior motive in Mick’s flattery. His behaviour was totally instinctive. He always sought to make a favourable impression upon those of a higher social status, and his charm automatically came into play when he was in the company of women.
