by Barbara Tate
Looking up, I saw that all the buildings were three or four storeys high and the windows blind and grey, with many panes broken and replaced by cardboard. High above me was a narrow strip of sky, and if any sun ever penetrated this noisome little lane, its light would have been fleeting.
On one side were small shops with grimy windows, while the buildings opposite had railings in front where, looking down, you could see open basement areas full of refuse. Pigeons were everywhere, adding to the squalor. They were on every parapet and window ledge: a dirty, dishevelled, sinister little lot, covering everything with giant white droppings. Some were pottering about on the ground, scuffling amongst the debris. They somehow reminded me of the people I passed. Many of those I saw were lounging against the empty shops or railings, one old lady was rummaging in a dustbin, and in a doorway, another was seemingly taking an afternoon nap with all her worldly possessions in bundles beside her.
I nearly turned back, but just then, glancing down into one of the basements, I saw such a pretty sight. Framed inside a sparkling, clean open window, hung with spotless lace curtains, a white-haired old lady was sitting knitting. Above her was a cage in which a canary sang merrily, and on her window ledge were two sleek old cats: one washing while the other snoozed. There were many potted plants on the steps leading down to her door, as well as others hanging from nails everywhere.
Mae’s place is probably nice too, I thought. Some people just choose to live in unusual places.
Looking around, I saw that I had almost reached the end of the alleyway and must have missed the house I wanted. I turned around and retraced my steps a little way until I found it.
By now, I was having not just second but third thoughts. I shuddered as I took a step through the open street door into the hallway. The long, dark bare boards stretched ahead covered with almost as much debris as there was in the alleyway outside, and it smelled just as bad. The grubby wallpaper hung in strips and the exposed plaster was covered with scrawls and graffiti. At the far end I could see a split and broken staircase turning in a dogleg and disappearing from sight. Beyond that – what? I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know. Just then, I heard a low voice in my ear:
‘Looking for someone, my dear?’
A man had sidled up to me and was blocking the doorway. On his face was the look my boss had worn a few weeks ago. I didn’t know quite how to get rid of him without being rude, but I knew that look well enough to know the difficulties that could ensue. I muttered, ‘I’m all right, thank you,’ and self-consciously traversed the passage, praying that he wouldn’t follow. At the bend in the stairs, I stole a glance back and was relieved to see that although he hadn’t gone, he had remained standing in the doorway. I carried on until I reached the first-floor landing, where a boarded-up window was lit by a very dim naked electric light bulb. There were two doors, secured by massive padlocks. The rubbish began to thin out as I climbed the next flight, possibly because a small lidless dustbin was handily placed on the next turn in the stairs.
The second-floor landing was much like the first, but the dirt had been swept over the top step, where it lay in an untidy ridge. The window here was not boarded up, and light struggled through panes that were covered in transparent paper, ornamented to look like stained glass: no doubt to afford some privacy from the buildings to the rear. The doors here were not padlocked; the one to my left was ajar, and fixed to it with four drawing pins was a piece of cardboard bearing the name ‘Mae’ written in nail varnish.
I knocked.
‘Come on in, love,’ I heard Mae’s voice call. I pushed the door and went in.
Along a short hallway and through a second open door ahead, I found her sitting on a divan bed and pulling on a pair of stockings. She looked up and grinned at me.
‘Hallo, lovey! So you got here! I wondered if you would.’
Me too, I thought. Out loud I said, ‘Hello – yes, it wasn’t too difficult.’
‘Now what about a nice cup of tea and I’ll show you everything before we start.’
Start what? I thought, following her back into the hall and into a tiny kitchen. I still had the idea that being a maid involved some sort of domestic work.
From what I could judge, the entire flat had once been a single large room, one corner of which had been partitioned to make the small entrance hall and kitchen and creating an L-shaped bedroom. In contrast to the staircase I’d just braved, this little flatlet was a paradise, though compared with anyone else’s idea of a home, it wasn’t much. The block must have been built about a century ago and Mae’s bit was in need of a little care. The hall and kitchen had been painted in cream and fitted with brown linoleum. Opposite the kitchen door stood a low, old-fashioned unit with two drawers above and a cupboard below. On top of this was the big brother of the gas ring in my bed-sitter: a double one. On it, an aluminium kettle was just beginning to sing. Mae was chatting away, showing me where things were kept, as she prepared the tea.
At the end of the kitchen, in line with the outer door, was a window overlooking the backs of surrounding buildings. It provided no sight of the sky: just white-splodged bricks, water pipes and, of course, a row of the same vile-looking pigeons lining every window ledge. Below the window was a deep chipped stone sink full of dirty crockery, from which Mae produced a teapot. I would have liked to have washed it, but was too late. She put it on the small enamel draining board and wiped some grease off the lid with one of the dirty tea towels that were strewn everywhere. She seemed oblivious to the matchsticks and cigarette ends covering the floor, and added another butt to them after absent-mindedly attempting to put it in the overflowing bucket underneath the sink. The two chairs were piled high with clothes and the walls were splashed with grease and dirty water. I rescued two cups and saucers from the sink and washed them. Mae was still chattering:
‘See what I mean about Rabbits?’ she said. ‘Just look at this place. Makes you sick, don’t it?’
I cast my eyes around again dutifully and agreed. I dreaded even to think what the cupboards and drawers contained. Mae continued:
‘I’m that pleased to get rid of her, I tell you straight, love – filthy old pig! Come on, let’s have our tea in the other room; it’s more comfortable in there.’ Picking up our cups, we left the foul hole and shut the door behind us.
The other room was more comfortable – marginally. I noted that the filth was less concentrated as I shifted a heap of clothes off a basketwork chair, sat down and cleared a space for my cup on the cluttered dressing table. Mae sat on the bed and deposited hers on the little bedside table. I looked at the rose-pink Regency stripes and wondered whether it was Mae who’d decided on this touch of glamour. Instinctively, I compared her efforts at home-making to my own, noting the cheap but newish wardrobe, the chest of drawers and dressing table. I decided that one of the first jobs I would undertake would be to tidy this: I wondered how anybody could be so nonchalant about the festoons of stockings and bras that hung from its open drawers.
Although it was still daylight, the pink brocade curtains were closed. I supposed, correctly, that they were never opened, but at least they gave the room a certain cosiness. My artist’s eye for colour took in the warm glow from the pink-shaded bedside light, added to by another from the standard lamp round the corner and one from the kitchen’s electric fire. I put my feet on one of the two fluffy rugs, carefully avoiding the screwed-up paper tissues and the odd stocking strewn on their surface. On the bedside table – amongst a welter of dirty cups, several overflowing ashtrays, empty cigarette packets and make-up – stood a large dark-blue cardboard box with the word DUREX printed across it in bold white letters.
I drank my tea, listened to Mae and wondered when a cap and apron would be thrust at me, or, more appropriately, a mobcap and dungarees. I was already absorbed in planning a campaign for cleaning up the place, but Mae was still chattering away, obviously in a party mood. I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was leading up to something speci
al. I shook my mind free of brooms and dusters to give her my full attention.
‘. . . but – here – do you know what? After I left you on Saturday, I couldn’t do any more work till I got someone in to change the lock, so I thought I’d go and get a meal in Luigi’s place – and guess who was in there.’
‘I’ve no idea!’ I answered, knowing it would be Rabbits.
‘Rabbits!’
‘No!’ I gasped, impressed with my ability to act my part. ‘What did you do? Walk out?’
‘Me? I don’t think so. She’s the one who should’ve walked out.’
‘What happened?’
Mae chuckled. ’Nothing, for about ten minutes – until I’d got me grub served. She had to wait till then, didn’t she? I was having spaghetti and she couldn’t resist it. So I got the lot in me face!’
‘Strewth!’ I said, using Syd’s catchphrase. ‘Then what?’
‘Well, you can imagine: I fairly boiled over. I fetched her such a clump behind the earhole it spun her round. I got both hands in her hair from behind and nearly pulled her bleeding head off. You should have heard her scream! But the bitch kept kicking back at my shins and I didn’t know what to do about that. Just look at my legs!’
I looked, and through her nylons I could see that both legs were black and blue, with several bumps and a gash.
‘Ugh!’ I winced. ‘Nasty!’
She leaned over, picked up the cup in front of her and took a swig, which she hastily spat out. It was the wrong cup, containing dregs from goodness knows when.
‘I bet that’s her cup too!’ she said. ‘Anyway, Luigi came up and put a stop to it and threw her out. He offered me another plate of spaghetti after I’d cleaned myself up, but somehow I didn’t fancy it.’
‘Do you think you’ll have any more trouble with her?’ I asked.
Mae shrugged. ‘I’ll try to keep out of her way, but if she comes here again, she’ll be sorry, ’cos I’ll be ready for her next time.’
She reached for her handbag and, opening it wide, held it out for me to see inside. There, besides her purse, keys and miscellanea, lay a large penknife. She removed it and clicked out a wicked-looking blade.
‘Next time,’ she said ominously, ‘I’ll carve her, I swear I will!’
Ronnie’s words came back to me as I watched Mae retract the blade and drop the knife back into her bag, but this time I feared his warning might have been well placed.
Mae took a sip out of the right cup and said, ‘We’re going to have such fun, us two!’
It sounded a weird sort of maid-and-mistress relationship to me, but I was all for democracy.
I pushed the thought of the knife to the back of my mind, hoping it was just for show. ‘I’d like to do a bit of spring-cleaning,’ I ventured. ‘You know: get the place more comfortable.’
‘Go right ahead, love. Anything to make you happy. That is, if you have the time; we get a bit busy, you know.’
Surely, I thought, all the clients don’t come at once. Aloud, I said, ‘Do we?’
‘Well, let’s hope so,’ she answered, lounging back on the bedspread and puffing out great clouds of cigarette smoke. ‘As soon as I’ve finished this fag, I must put me face on and get cracking.’
And get cracking she certainly did. It wasn’t long before she was made up and ready for action. I was in the tiny kitchen, trying to decide how to tackle its filth, when she went shooting past me out of the door and clacking down the stairs, tossing a breezy ‘See you, love’ over her shoulder as she went. I was alone in the flat. My mind, I think, still refused to get to grips with what was about to happen. The entire flat was hardly large and the wall was only a partition, with plasterwork on one side and bare on the other. Sounds from one room were almost as audible in the other. Mae was about to . . . to do it... and all I could think about was whether to deal with the sink first, or the floor, or the overflowing bin.
I had made some sort of start on the clutter when, in what seemed an astonishingly short time, I heard footsteps ascending the stairs, a male set closely followed by Mae’s own. I swept the cigarette butts on the floor into a pile, using anything that came to hand to do it. (There was, of course, no broom). Then the door to the flat shot open, and the two pairs of footsteps swept through into the bedroom. Encased in my little kitchen as I was, I saw nothing.
I began to tackle the detritus littering the sink and its surround.
There must have been sounds from the room beyond, but I think I can honestly say I heard none of them, so intently was I concentrating on the task at hand. I was thankful to have my work in the kitchen to focus on. Then Mae’s voice sang out to me and her arm appeared through the bedroom door, bearing cash. I took the money and scuttled back to the safety of my kitchen, feeling like a rather nervous stage hand. I continued to make a tiny dent in the mess surrounding me.
In what again seemed like a remarkably short space of time, doors opened and closed, and I heard male footsteps leaving the apartment, followed very soon after by Mae, who shot me some cheerful parting expression – ‘cheerio’, ‘see you’, ‘bearing up?’ – as she darted away. Apart from these few moments of friendly contact, and always of course the moment when her hand appeared through the bedroom door to bring home to me the money that lay behind all this, I saw neither Mae nor her clients, and avoided thinking about what was happening. The sink and the floor and the stains on the wall and the piles of rubbish occupied me completely.
After half an hour or so, Mae had seen three clients. Within an hour she had dealt with half a dozen all told. It was towards this point, and utterly bewildered, that I began to realise what prostitution really was.
‘But Mae,’ I wailed, as she started for the stairs once more, ‘I read in a book once that eight or nine men in succession could kill a woman!’
She paused with her face just above the banister rails. ‘It’s a good thing they’re wrong then, isn’t it?’ she said, grinning at me. ‘Ta-rah, love; see you.’ And she clattered off again.
When she returned with the next client, I could hear her laughing like mad and repeating my words. On the way into the bedroom, I caught sight of ‘the punter’ for the first time. He seemed like a very ordinary man of about thirty, suited and safe-looking – certainly nothing like the picture my imagination had created. He glanced at me and smiled. Afterwards, he saw fit to lash out with a ten-shilling note as a tip for me.
That was another thing I’d got wrong: I had thought that the wage of two pounds a night was to be my main income and the tips would be tiny extras. In that first hour, it would have taken a brain a lot denser than mine not to realise that the truth was the reverse. Every time Mae’s arm shot out at me with her fee of a pound or more to protect, there, amongst the paper money, was silver for me, usually half a crown’s worth.
I was determined to be a proper maid and bring some sort of order into the place in the incredibly short space of time it took her to come bustling up the stairs with another ‘boyfriend’. As I became braver, whenever she left the bedroom to go on one of her swift sorties into the street, I dashed in, madly collecting armfuls of the accumulated rubbish. After the rush of that first hour, Mae started not to slow down exactly, but to allow breaks for cups of tea and gossip and sly comments on the quirks and peculiarities of the men she’d seen.
On that first day, I ran the gamut of every known emotion. When at last, somewhere around midnight, Mae shoved me into a taxi and sent me home, I threw myself back on to the seat in a state bordering on bewilderment. I thought I ought to feel thoroughly shocked, nauseated and dirty, but I was amazed to find that I didn’t. All I could feel was the ache around my stomach muscles caused by laughing at the flippant way in which Mae conducted her business. I had learnt a lot that day, but the most wonderful thing was that I’d learnt how to really laugh.
Six
The following day, when I arrived at the little alleyway, I was surprised to find myself regarding it with something like affection. Nothing had c
hanged, but in some subtle way, I had. The rubbish still lay about in rotting heaps; in their aimless shufflings, the pigeons and the people were just as uncouth as they had been the day before, but I no longer regarded them with distaste. It was as though I had finally found my own people. I walked slowly along, relishing this fact. I was amongst fellow outcasts. That day the flat felt homely and lived-in, and it was warm with yesterday’s laughter. Mae, who had arrived only a few minutes before from where she lived in Paddington, had already put the kettle on and greeted me cheerily. Everything felt good.
‘You know,’ I reflected, as we were drinking our tea in the bedroom, ‘if I had a key, I could get here before you and do some cleaning. The stairs and this room, for instance: I could never do them while you’re working – at least not the way you work. The place gets like Victoria station!’
‘Well, don’t kill yourself; it’s already looking miles better than it did.’ She glanced at her bedside table, which now held only one cup and one ashtray. ‘I’ll get another key cut if it makes you feel any better – had to give Charley the spare one. Let me know what cleaning things you want – I don’t s’pose there’s any there – and I’ll drop a list in at the oil shop.’
On her first trip out, I reminded her of this, and an hour later, I was presented with a shiny new Yale key (as we were the only people in the building, only the front door was ever locked). I then listed all the things I needed to assist me in my battle for hygiene. It was a long list. Mae had been right: we had nothing. The only cleaning implements consisted of a mop in a bucket of turgid liquid – as I pulled it out, its strands fell off with the weight of the water – and an old broom whose bristles were practically worn down to the wood. She took the order to the shop at the end of the alley, and during the afternoon, an elderly man in a grey overall delivered everything I needed.
‘Looks as though someone’s going to do some cleaning,’ he said, as he dumped the large cardboard box on the kitchen floor and divested himself of the new broom and mop. When he straightened up, he spoke the words I was going to hear over and over again during the next few weeks;
