by Barbara Tate
Slightly further along, and opening out from Coventry Street, was the fabulous Leicester Square, surrounded by all the great cinemas – the Ritz, Empire, Warner, Odeon and Leicester Square theatres, where premieres were regularly held. The great stars arrived in limousines while the excited, surging crowds were restrained by lines of policemen. In those days, television sets were still incredibly rare, and so the cinema was the land of dreams and its stars were held in near-godlike regard.
Outside these cinemas on ordinary days there were always long queues of people waiting to go in, and it was, I should think, about the most lucrative place in London for buskers. Musicians, escapologists and all sorts of novelty acts performed in the middle of the busy road, and the traffic had to skirt them carefully. In the midst of all this was the central square, like an oasis, full of trees. When dusk fell, starlings from all over London came to roost.
At the junction with Charing Cross Road, opposite Wyndham’s Theatre, Soho’s final boundary was reached, and this road was a real delight to me. There were book-shops on either side, nearly all of them with trestle tables outside stacked with second-hand books, and you had to almost fight for a place to look at them. In those days, the greatest of these were Zwemmer’s and Foyles. The latter also had the most enormous second-hand department inside – almost a whole floor. It was here that I most loved to browse whilst surreptitiously eating my sandwiches.
Shaftesbury Avenue cut this stretch of the road at Cambridge Circus, which was alive with its flotilla of fruit and shellfish stalls and hot chestnut braziers. Further along were the Tatler News Theatre, the Phoenix Theatre and the Astoria Cinema and Ballroom – always emblazoned with colourful hand-painted posters. The busy St Giles’ Circus at the top of Charing Cross Road marked my reunion with Oxford Street and my wandering would be over for another day.
Those lunch hours were the happiest part of my day, but I worked hard at my painting job, getting little pay rises here and there, though these left me no better off, as they always went straight to my grandmother. Not that that mattered to me very much, as I’d never had the opportunity to develop a desire for clothes or cosmetics (I was not allowed to wear make-up of any kind – even face powder – and my face had that permanent shine that I’m sure only Sunlight soap can give), though I would have liked to have bought some paints.
The next two years passed slowly. I was given more and more responsibility at work and gained a slight degree of self-assurance. My life at home, though, had become increasingly impossible and my grandmother more and more demanding. She had reached the conclusion that the only way in which I could repay all her charity was by becoming her support in her old age. Had she been a kind, loving person, I would have naturally and willingly fallen into that role; but as it was, I felt nervous and caged. I was only allowed out one evening a week – Friday – on the express understanding that I went to the pictures and nowhere else.
So it was that the day after I reached the longed-for age of twenty-one – the day I legally became an adult – I made all my possessions up into two parcels and, with my grandmother’s curses following me, left her house, completely alone in the world.
Two
I made my way up stairs covered with cracked and brittle linoleum to the room I had rented several days earlier in west London and let myself in with the key that had been hanging like a talisman around my neck. It was June, and I’d worn my thick winter coat to save packing it, so I felt hot and sick. I dumped everything on the narrow iron bed and gazed around me with pleasure.
Anyone who could have gazed with pleasure at that particular room must have been in a pretty parlous state. It was filthy and barely functional. Apart from the bed, it contained an ancient chest of drawers, a mirror hanging from a nail above it, a small battered table and two wooden chairs. A wardrobe had been achieved by curtaining off a corner of the room in the same fabric that covered the windows – blackout material that was grey with dust. There was also an enormous, ancient gas fire, a single ring for cooking and an ominous-looking meter. That was all, except for what stood on the table: a thick china cup and saucer, two plates, a battered kettle, a large ewer of chipped white enamel and a few assorted items of cheap metal cutlery.
I was overjoyed. For the first time in my life I had a home that I had a right to be in. I had paid the rent; I had the key. For me, those four drab, dun-coloured walls spelt peace and independence. I had had to ask for an advance on my wages to pay the two weeks’ rent. This left me with exactly three pounds in my purse to last me for the next ten days. Even this fact was not allowed to dampen my spirits.
I tried the top drawer of the chest. One of its white china knobs fell off, but the drawer opened in a lopsided sort of way. It contained a slice of toasted cheese, resting bleakly in the centre. That might come in handy, I thought, if I was living on bread and water until the next payday. The other drawers revealed nothing but crumbs and, in the bottom one, a mousetrap.
I thought about freshening up but there was no running water, hence the enamel jug. To get water, I had to go downstairs and out into the back yard, then in through another door and into a small scullery, where there was a tap. The toilet was thereabouts too. No time for all that now, I thought. It was eight thirty a.m. and I was due at work by nine. I ran a comb through my hair in front of the filthy mirror, then ripped open one of my parcels and found a cardigan. I grabbed my handbag and, carefully locking the door behind me, shot off to work.
The firm had expanded a lot, and now, instead of the original two, there were twenty-eight girl painters, of whom I was head. Meantime, the original owners had sold out to a man who did nothing but wander around tapping his teeth with a pencil and asking silly questions. He called me his ‘kingpin’ – and it was no exaggeration. I supervised all the other girls, sorted out the orders and kept an eye on the packers; I mixed the paints and worked out the wages; I did my share of the painting; I created new designs and I did a hundred and one other things. For this I was paid five pounds – a pound a week more than the other girls – and I had the doubtful privilege of hiring and firing.
During that first day of freedom, although to all appearances I was my usual composed self, inside I was dancing with joy. I had never in my life been so happy, and was making all sorts of plans for that crummy little room. At lunchtime, daringly, I spent some of my three pounds on soap, disinfectant, a scrubbing brush and a bowl.
In the afternoon, I asked my boss if I could have a few of the plentiful supply of rags we kept for cleaning our brushes. He told me to help myself and, with a twinkle in his eye that I was too naïve to interpret, said that he would have to come up sometime to take a look at this famous room of mine.
The following week, my boss decided that an evening’s stocktaking should take place. While we were engaged in this, the merry twinkle in his eye turned verbal, and he intimated that a little more than coffee and a chat wouldn’t come amiss at the end of the evening. To explain, perhaps I should say that in those days, 1948-ish, it was very unusual for a girl to leave home before marriage. To do so for any other reason, I found, meant that people assumed you were fast, and out for a bit of fun. Anyway, that’s the way my boss chose to see it, and though I naturally took up the time-honoured stag-at-bay stance, he was undaunted and even turned up at my bed-sitter the following Saturday to ask if I’d thought it over.
I got rid of him as pleasantly as possible, but inside I was raging. There I was, practically running his business for him, and on top of that, he wanted me as his . . . the word ‘doxy’ sprang to my mind (I was reading Georgian literature at the time). On the heels of my anger came the fear that I might lose my job if I kept saying no to him, and then where would I be? After not too much thought, I realised I needed an evening job. I had already worked out that on my wages I was going to be able to do little more than scrape by, and that to save up to prettify the room or to buy my own paints would take years. If I could get a second job, I would be able to buy things for the fla
t as well as the art materials I wanted, and best of all, it would be a backup if I got sacked.
A few days later, during my lunch break, I saw a news-agent pinning new advertisement cards in his glass-fronted display case. Almost instantly, my eye lighted on one that read:
Bright girl needed for evening work in small club.
No previous experience necessary.
This was followed by a phone number. It seemed the very thing: I reckoned I was fairly bright, and I certainly had no previous experience. I copied the telephone number and rushed to the nearest underground station, where there was a phone box. I dialled and a man’s voice answered. I explained what I had rung about.
‘When can you come and see me?’ the voice asked.
‘Well, I finish work at five.’ I told him where I worked.
‘If you took a taxi, you could be here in five minutes,’ he said. He gave me the name and address of the club, which I jotted down. ‘When you get here, ask for Jim. See you!’ and he put the phone down.
I was in a fever of nerves all afternoon. At five o’clock, I tentatively applied the powder and pale lipstick that so far I’d only had the nerve to experiment with in the privacy of my little room.
It was the first taxi I had ever been in, and once I’d given the address, I sat perched uneasily on the edge of the seat, hoping very much that something would come of the interview. We were travelling along Oxford Street when the cab suddenly turned. I hadn’t had a chance to find out exactly where the club was, but I realised I was actually being driven into Soho. I was paralysed. The taxi made a few tortuous turns through those mysterious streets and finally stopped. When I got out and paid the driver, I found that my knees were shaking.
I’m what you would call a ‘brave coward’, so when the cab had driven away, I firmly told my knees to behave and reread the bit of paper with the address and name of the club on it. Sure enough, painted on a small board just where I was standing were the words The Mousehole. Beyond stretched a long, narrow passage, lit by one heavily shaded bulb. At the end, I found a staircase leading down, above which was another board – also reading The Mousehole – this time with an arrow pointing downwards. I giggled nervously: there was nowhere else you could go but down.
I went through a bamboo curtain at the bottom and was immediately in a pleasant, very dimly lit room. There was a bar at one end and a man in a white jacket moving around behind it against a glitter of glasses and bottles. Except for this, and two men who were sitting at a table near the middle, the room was empty. The men’s conversation was interrupted by the clicking noise the curtain made as I pushed it aside, and the barman gave me an enquiring look.
‘I was told to ask for Jim,’ I said.
‘That’s him, over there,’ he answered laconically, nodding in the direction of the two men.
I thanked him and went towards them. I got a similar enquiring look from one, so I guessed he must be Jim. I said that I had phoned about the job at lunchtime.
‘Wages fifteen bob a night and your cab fare home – that’s if you don’t live too far off.’
‘No, not far,’ I assured him.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Barbara.’
‘That’s a nice name. You ready to start?’
‘What, now?’ I gasped.
‘As good a time as any!’
I turned, feeling slightly dazed by the speed of it all. He broke into a grin.
‘Ronnie there’ – he motioned towards the barman – ‘will fix you up with an apron. Oh, and by the way,’ he added, ‘no need to come till six after tonight.’
Never again would I have such a quick interview. I murmured my thanks and went to the bar. Without seeming to be bothered whether I heard or not, the man sitting with Jim remarked, ‘Bit different from your usual type, isn’t she?’
I heard Jim reply, ‘Might be a change to have a bit of class.’
That surprised me too; I’d never thought of myself as having what could be termed ‘class’. I began to feel a bit more confident.
Ronnie gave me a friendly smile and handed me an apron. He was a dapper little man with a thin, bird-like face and could have been any age between forty and sixty.
‘Ever done this work before?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied nervously. I didn’t dare tell him that I’d never even been inside a pub before, and that my grandmother considered anything stronger than cider shandy to be devil’s brew.
‘Not to worry, ducks,’ he said kindly, as I tied on the apron. ‘It’s mostly just collecting glasses and ashtrays and things like that, and washing them – and being friendly with people. You’ll be all right. When I get a minute here and there, I’ll show you what to do about drinks.’ He paused and studied my face as I watched him gravely. ‘Cheer up, love, it may never happen!’
I laughed and, all at once, felt much more at ease.
‘S’better,’ he said approvingly. ‘Now cop hold of this cloth and get cracking with them glasses.’
Later on, the club became crowded and noisy, and we were all kept busy. I could quite see why they needed someone to deal with the glasses. I passed the evening in a sort of dream, now and again recalling with amazement that at last I was actually in Soho. It seemed incredible. After everything I’d been told, I was surprised to find that everyone here seemed warm and friendly and I didn’t feel wicked at all: just happy.
Jim had asked a cab driver who’d been in for a drink to come and pick me up at the end of the evening. He arrived soon after the final customer had left. I hurriedly washed a few last things and took off my apron.
Jim complimented me with what appeared to be genuine satisfaction.
‘You’ve done very well, love. See you tomorrow then?’
‘Thanks,’ I replied, and calling good night to Ronnie, I followed the driver up the stairs.
At the front doorway, with the security of the club left behind me, I took a quick glance up and down the dark street. There was no doubt Soho could be a frightening place – although for no reason I could actually specify. There was a slight breeze that carried pieces of litter before it. Here and there I saw solitary, aimless figures in the dim lamplight. It was very quiet – not the quietness of peace, but rather that of waiting and listening. I would never have had the courage to find my way out of here on foot, and was more than glad that only a few paces away was the faintly glowing refuge of the taxi.
‘All aboard the Skylark!’ came the cheery voice of the cabby, and I hurried across to get in.
Soho is not a large place, and it wasn’t long before we reached the brightly lit streets I was familiar with. All the same, I couldn’t dispel my impression that the place we’d left behind was brooding and sinister, and that anything could happen there at any time. And what were those human-looking bundles huddled in some of the doorways we’d flashed past?
Now that we were covering ground that I recognised, I discovered just how weary I really was, and settled back on to the comfortable seat. At the same time, I realised I was absolutely ravenous and I couldn’t wait to get home.
Suddenly I recalled the memory of Uncle Henry’s dining in Soho and smiled to myself. Dining indeed ! I was working there!
Three
At the end of a month at The Mousehole, I had benefited in several ways. My money worries were over, my room was much more comfortable and I’d lost about a stone in weight from all the running around.
My fears about losing my position at the studio had not materialised, but my boss had become curt and sometimes downright unpleasant. I longed to find a way of leaving. Ronnie suggested I should chuck the daytime job, go on the dole and take things a bit easier. But having been brought up to regard receiving dole as tantamount to ‘going on the parish’, I refused his advice. My early reluctance to accept charity had not lessened with the passing years.
Life was exhausting. My alarm would rouse me from my few hours of sleep at seven thirty, when I had to get ready to rush to work. We
painted without pause, even during our tea break. I would only have time for a sandwich at the end of the day before dashing off to the club. I was never home before midnight, by which time I barely had the energy to wind the alarm. By midnight on Fridays, my energy was beginning to flag somewhat. Fortunately the studio was closed at weekends, giving me the chance to keep my little room spick and span, but the club stayed open, so work still beckoned in the evening.
I often wished I liked alcohol, as it certainly seemed to have an invigorating effect on the customers at the club. I was often treated to a drink, and changed my choice each time in my hunt for one that did not taste like medicine. I ran the gamut without success, and eventually reverted to lemonade, but in a small glass, trusting that to an onlooker it would pass for gin and tonic.
I was soon quite enjoying my evening work. As more faces became familiar, I could join in with the quips and jokes. The women were brilliantly blonde, wore ankle-strapped shoes, loose bracelets and pretended to be dumb, which was very much the in thing at the time. Their men were the pencil-moustachioed, two-tone-shoed, chalk-stripe-suited sort, with cheap rings and cufflinks. These ‘wide boys’ or ‘spivs’ comprised most of our membership. Their conversation was always about racing, betting systems and where scarce commodities could be obtained on the black market. They were all showy, noisy and self-assured – but they were kind.
