by Anna King
‘’Night, Sadie,’ Molly replied sleepily. ‘God bless.’
Leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar, Sadie made herself a light supper, her mind whirling round in circles, wondering what to do for the best.
She’d already lost two nights’ work, and while the rest had been very nice she wasn’t going to earn any money sitting on her backside. Yet if she was to be honest with herself, these past 48 hours had been the happiest time of her life. For those short two days she had been able to pretend she was a normal, respectable woman and she realised she was in danger of taking that fantasy one step further and begin to think of herself as a mother. It was a dream she had harboured for over 20 years, but Sadie was nothing if not practical. She was a whore, a 38-year-old whore who had no desire for a permanent man in her life. Also, unlike many in her profession, she had never fallen pregnant, thus saving her from risking her life at the hands of the many back street abortionists that worked the East End.
Her inability to conceive may well have been due to being forced to go on the game at the tender age of 12, urged on by her own mother, a blowsy, gin-soaked tart who had thought nothing of setting her only daughter on the sordid and often dangerous road of prostitution.
Brought up in a cramped, dirty bedsit where Bertha North had entertained her clients, Sadie had grown up watching different men come and go at all hours of the day and night. She had heard the groans and squeaking of the double bed from her straw-filled pallet tucked away into the furthest corner of the room. Sadie had never thought to question her mother when she had brought home her daughter’s first client, for Sadie had never known any other way of life. Yet from that first, brutal encounter something inside Sadie had died. The only way she could survive in her new world was to build a protective barrier around her mind to block out the loathsome men that used her for their own pleasure without a thought for her as a person. And with each new punter her heart had hardened, until she was incapable of feeling any emotion.
Even when her mother had died from a venereal disease at the relatively young age of 36, Sadie hadn’t shed a single tear. She had paid for the cheapest funeral she could find, and, before the coffin lid had been nailed down, Sadie had looked down dispassionately at the bloated, ravaged face that could easily have been taken for a woman in her late fifties. Sadie had sworn then she would never end her days as a tuppenny whore.
With her mother gone, Sadie was left alone with no real friends or family to turn to. She had never known who her father was; then again, neither had her mother. From that day Sadie had started to make plans for her future. With steely determination she had promised herself that she would retire the day she turned 40, for she knew only too well that once a prostitute reached that landmark, it was a slippery slope into middle age then a sharp skid towards the grave. Sadie had seen too many old tarts, like her dead mother, desperately touting for trade, their looks gone, their bodies diseased, all alone in the world with only a gin bottle for company. With military precision she had estimated it would take that long to build up her growing nest egg, allowing herself a comfortable lifestyle until she was ready to embark on a new life.
Oh, she’d had it all mapped out. Her ultimate goal was to one day be able to set up a little business of her own. The precise nature of that business had yet to be decided, which was why she forced herself out onto the streets every night, desperate to earn as much money as she could before she reached 40, only two years away. Once her flat had been made into a home, every spare shilling she earned had been put into the bank for safe keeping and to earn interest. There was something else she’d promised herself, and that was to take herself out to the most expensive restaurant she could find and order the dearest meal on the menu. In short she planned to spoil herself rotten. Those plans and dreams had kept her going, kept her sane in her lowest, darkest hours, and God only knew there had been plenty of those. But her greatest pleasure would be the day she bundled up all the cheap, tarty clothes that had been her trademark for so many years and donate them to the Salvation Army. What that holy organisation would do with the obvious cast-off clothing of a prostitute was anyone’s guess, for Sadie would be long gone before the bulky parcel was opened. Oh, yes, Sadie North had had her future well planned.
Then she had met Molly. And when, on the walk home that night, she had felt the small hand clasp hers so trustingly, it was as if a chisel had pierced a hole in the armour she had built around herself for so long. And the longer she spent with the sweet-natured girl, the wider the chink in her armour was spreading. Staring towards the open bedroom door Sadie felt her eyes misting over, and the shock of experiencing the first real emotion she could remember brought her sitting bolt upright. She had imagined she was no longer capable of such feelings, but a person would have to be made of stone not to be affected by the loving child. And though Sadie had tried her hardest to remain impervious to the little girl’s innocent charm she now had to admit that, despite her best efforts, Molly had already wormed herself into Sadie’s heart. And the longer Molly stayed, the harder it would be to give her up. And Sadie had had enough pain and let downs in her life; she wasn’t going to allow herself to be hurt anymore. First thing in the morning she was going to go to all the markets in the East End, and start asking questions. Market traders were a close-knit community; it shouldn’t be too hard to track down Molly’s brother – if he was still alive.
Hardening her defences once more, Sadie headed for the bedroom, undressed and, careful not to disturb the sleeping child, climbed into the double bed.
Then the small form turned over, snuggling against Sadie’s voluptuous body and Sadie was lost. The feel of the warm body cuddling against her brought tears to Sadie’s eyes, and this time she let them fall. There was something else Sadie had never experienced, and that was any form of genuine warmth and love.
She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But for now she was going to cherish this precious moment, hold onto it for as long as possible, sadly acknowledging that tonight might be the last chance she would ever have to hold a child’s warm body, innocent and trusting, next to hers.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Please, Johnny, yer can’t go off and leave me on me own. You know what will ’appen when yer’ve gone. I’ve already had me window smashed in. If you go it’ll be me face next.’
Constable John Smith shook his head tiredly. ‘I’m sorry Agnes, but I can’t stop here forever. I’ve already stayed too long as it is.’
Buttoning up his tunic the kindly policeman looked with genuine pity at the pathetic figure reeking of brandy, but what more could he do? Fixing his helmet firmly in place, he thought quietly before saying warily, ‘Look, how about asking young Ellen if you can stay with her and Arthur… just until you get yourself sorted.’
Agnes’ jaw dropped in amazement, then, her eyes hardening she spat out, ‘Yer ’aving a laugh ain’t yer?’ A bitter sound erupted from her lips. ‘Yer really think Arthur Mitson would offer to take me in when he’s been trying to get rid of me for years? Nah! He’d laugh in me face and enjoy doing it.’
Taking his leave, PC Smith replied sympathetically, ‘Maybe Arthur would, but Ellen wouldn’t. She’s a nice young woman, and she did offer to help if she could.’
Seeing the hope slowly enter her eyes, the uniformed man quickly pressed home his suggestion. ‘Look, what if I come to the bakery with you? Arthur might be a bit more amiable with me alongside you. In fact, how about me having a word with him first, eh? And with Ellen siding with me, I can’t see Arthur refusing, not with both of us pleading your case. You know what he’s like, strength of character has never been Arthur’s strongest point, has it? Poor old sod.’
Agnes’ lips curled in disgust. ‘Bleeding gutless, that’s what Arthur’s trouble is, always ’as been.’ Rolling her eyes she added spitefully, ‘Gawd help us. I must ’ave been blind all those years. If…’
Tired and impatient to get home to his long-suffering wife, John Smith interrupted Agnes
’ deliberate ploy to keep him talking. For a few brief moments he had considered inviting Agnes to stay at his modest house for the night. Horrified the thought had even crossed his mind John Smith rubbed his chin in agitation. His Sarah, wife of 30 years this coming August, was one of the sweetest-natured women he had ever known, but she was no mug. Giving up his spare time to help Agnes was one thing, bringing the said woman home with him was another matter entirely. Adopting a more professional manner he said crisply, ‘Get your coat, and put a few bits in a bag for the night. If Arthur does dig his heels in, I’ll find you somewhere else to stay, I promise.’
Knowing John’s word was always good, Agnes was soon dressed for the outdoors, a shopping bag containing her nightwear clutched tightly in her hand.
Thinking it more prudent to leave by the back door, the constable was caught off-guard as a chunk of brick sailed by his ear, hitting Agnes on the back of her covered head, causing her to cry out in pain. John swiftly put his bulk in front of the crying, terrified woman, his sharp eyes peering into the failing light, and focused on two shadowy figures lurking in the alley opposite.
‘Get yourself off home before I run you in for disturbing the peace,’ his authoritative voice boomed out into the silence of the night.
Then came the sound of running footsteps, and a sneering voice called out defiantly, ‘Yer can’t ’ave the bobbies looking after yer forever, yer wicked old bitch. We’ll get yer. You’re gonna get what’s coming to yer.’
Cursing beneath his breath, the constable could only watch helplessly as the would-be assailants ran off, their taunting threats still ringing in his ears. Taking a deep gulp of air he turned to the trembling woman hiding behind him and said brusquely, ‘Come on, old girl. Let’s get you to Arthur and Ellen’s place before anyone else decides to take the law into their own hands.’
Cowering behind the safety of the broad, reassuring figure, Agnes tentatively reached out and caught hold of the policeman’s arm, holding her breath, as if fearful of rejection, and when, after a few seconds, a heavy, warm hand covered hers, she let out a shuddering sigh of relief. A silence settled on the incongruous couple as they walked the short journey to their destination.
* * *
In the sitting room above the bakery, Arthur, his fleshy face sweating with anxiety, could still see the contempt in Ted Parker’s eyes, still feel the tremor that had rippled through his body as he had gazed into those hard, cold eyes. A shudder racked him as the memory returned to haunt him. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Ellen had spoken up for him: he was her husband after all. But no. Instead of performing her wifely duties she had sided with Ted Parker. Fresh beads of sweat broke out on his brow as he looked down at the dwindling remains of whisky in the cut crystal glass. Downing the last of the drink he rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered over to the sideboard, pouring another glass from the depleted decanter. Returning to his armchair he slumped down into the comfortable cushions, spilling some of the alcohol onto the carpet, but Arthur was too drunk to notice. The one thing he had feared most had come to pass. He was going to lose Ellen.
If he was honest with himself the change in Ellen had been going on for some time. And he could almost pinpoint the time Ellen had begun to change. It had been when that brat Micky had first come knocking on the door. Because of him, Ellen had forged a friendship with Ted Parker in order to get the boy a job. From that moment on, Ellen had begun to grow further and further away from him. So when she had suggested going on holiday, Arthur, at first, worried about his business, had hesitated, mainly out of habit.
But it hadn’t taken him long to realise that a holiday might be his only chance to put their ailing marriage back on familiar ground. And for a short time the impromptu holiday by the sea seemed to have worked. Then the telegram had arrived, and Ellen had insisted she must return home that very day, her abrupt decision making it perfectly clear where her loyalties lay. And, as if he hadn’t been humiliated enough in front of their new-found friends, the Bradleys, he’d had to endure a confrontation with Ted Parker in his own home.
Tears of self-pity pricked his eyes. Why was this happening to him?
Suddenly he was jerked back to the present by a hammering on the back door. Shuffling over to the slightly open window, he peered down, squinting to make out the figures standing below.
‘Ellen, is that you?’ he slurred, hopefully.
‘Open up, Arthur, it’s me, John Smith. I’ve got Agnes with me. Come on, man, I haven’t got all night.’
The amount of alcohol Arthur had consumed had left him confused and disorientated. Not a big drinker by nature, Arthur was totally unprepared for the transformation he felt within himself. Filled with dutch courage he sauntered down the stairs, his expression set, determined that this time he would take control of the situation. Halfway down he tripped, grabbed the handrail to stop his fall, then, pulling himself up to his full height, he threw open the door and said, in what he hoped was a manly tone, ‘Well, what d’you want?’
Hearing the aggressive note in Arthur’s usually placid voice, PC Smith hid a smile at Arthur’s obvious attempt to be assertive. The constable gave a cough to cover his mirth before answering, ‘Come on Arthur, let us in before the neighbours come out to see what’s going on.’
Reluctantly Arthur gestured them in, trying to keep up the charade of masculinity. Unfortunately the weak-willed man couldn’t quite pull it off. Faced with an officer of the law, albeit a man he had known for years, Arthur soon crumpled under the stern gaze. He heard himself agreeing to let Agnes stay until Ellen got home, noting with self-disgust the look of sympathy that crossed John Smith’s face, a look that only served to remind Arthur how he appeared to the outside world. A bleeding mug! That’s how people saw him, and usually they would be right. But not this time. Oh, no! There was no way Agnes Handly was going to get the better of him. If she thought she was going to spend the night under his roof, then she was going to be sorely disappointed. No sooner had the back door slammed behind the uniformed man, than the fixed smile dropped from Arthur’s face, leaving in its stead the fury that was bubbling inside him. With eyes almost bulging out of his head, Arthur turned on Agnes, who had flopped gratefully into one of the armchairs placed either side of the fireplace. Grinding his teeth in anger he growled, ‘Don’t get yourself too comfortable, you ugly old cow.’
And Agnes, who for the first time that day had just begun to relax, heard the raw hatred in Arthur’s voice and immediately the fear came surging back.
Arthur saw the look and his chest swelled with renewed confidence. ‘You can look surprised. You didn’t think I was really going to welcome you back into this house with open arms, did you? ’Cos if you did, then you’re even more stupid than I thought you were.’
Agnes remained where she was, her eyes hardening as she realised that the blustering facade Arthur had presented to the constable was merely the result of too much whisky. She should have known better. Like everything Arthur tried to do, getting drunk only made him appear more pathetic than he normally did. His newly-found courage would disappear as soon as the drink wore off. Until then she wasn’t moving. Grimly churning inside, Agnes remained quiet as the maddened man raged on.
‘Bleeding hell, I always knew you were desperate for a man. You proved that when you carried on hanging around my neck when I made it perfectly obvious I wasn’t interested in you anymore. But I kept you on here out of the goodness of my heart, when what I should have done was to send you packing. But I didn’t think even somebody like you would be that desperate that you’d hand over a little girl to a pervert just to keep him interested in you.’
As Arthur’s cruel words continued to beat inside her head, Agnes, her knuckles white, gripped the side of the armchair as she slowly raised herself to her feet, her lips settling into a tight grim line. Taking one step towards him she kept her voice low, but there was no disguising the menace in her tone.
‘Yer bloody hypocrite. ‘Ow you can stand there and
preach when you’re no better yerself. For two years I’ve ’ad to put up with the thought of you in bed with a mere child. ’Cos that’s all she was when yer married ’er. All that putting on a front as the respectable businessman to make excuses for marrying a poor little orphan out of the goodness of your ’eart just to cover up your true colours. You think that everyone round these parts was thinking what a kind man you was, when all the time they’ve been sniggering behind your back. And yer’ve got the nerve ter call me names. All right, what I did was a terrible thing ter do. But as God is my witness, I didn’t know what that man was like. If I had, I’d’ve turned him over to the nearest copper. ’Cos yer wrong, Arthur. I’d never see a child hurt, never, and if you think I would, then yer never really knew me – just like I never really knew you. Or maybe I did, and wouldn’t believe it. People are like that, yer know. They can be very blind to a person’s faults, especially when they’re in love. And I did love you, Arthur. Now I see yer was just a dirty old man, and yer still are.’
Advancing on the startled man Agnes continued her barrage of abuse, her fears forgotten. Arthur backed away, his face reddening as Agnes went on relentlessly, her voice dripping with scorn. Shocked into silence, Arthur could only stand mute, shocked at the venom in her voice.
‘When I think of her living here before yer married her. Carrying on all the time. Did yer think no one knew?’ Arthur blanched as the true meaning of her words began to pierce through his fuddled mind. Oblivious of his distress Agnes hissed, ‘How old was she when yer first fancied her? Seven? Eight? Or do you like ’em younger? All those years you was playing the dutiful friend, when all the time you was only going round there just to get yer ’ands on the kid.’
