by Barbara Tate
‘There you are, my man, that’s for you – although I can’t really say you earned it.’
Alphonse bowed his head – partly because the head waiter was watching and partly to hide the murderous look in his eyes. Mae collected her belongings and sailed out, queenly and arrogant. I made my escape close on her heels.
Inside the ladies’, she collapsed into helpless fits of laughter, leaning against the wall for support and clutching on to the roller towel.
‘Oh, what a scream! What a laugh! I thought I’d die! Did you see his face?’ Then she had a sudden thought. ‘Hey! What if we turned up here again tomorrow?’ She exploded again. ‘I reckon he’d give in his notice!’
Blinkered by my loyalty to Mae, I disingenuously told myself that Alphonse must have done something to deserve this despicable treatment, but there was still a glimmer of sympathy left in my heart for him.
‘Oh, Mae, you couldn’t! That poor chap!’
‘Perhaps not,’ she said. ‘I reckon he’s had enough.’ Then, to my amazement, she said, ‘Come on then, let’s get back to work.’
Twelve
With Tony now firmly part of her life, Mae developed a greater desire for fun and frivolity, and, being constantly at hand, I was a convenient playmate.
After my interlude with the police, she appreciated how different I was from the run-of-the-mill maid, and how innocent I was. She was tickled that the police were worried she might corrupt me, and decided to show me what corruption was.
At first she confined herself to anecdotes, enjoying my incredulity; when the fun of this palled, the practical demonstrations began. She was so inured to the ordinary sex act that she didn’t think it possible I’d be interested in that, but she considered anything offbeat to be essential for my education. I, the Soho debutante, was about to be ‘brought out’.
The ‘geezers’ known previously only as characters in Mae’s tales became living personalities as, one by one, they came back and I was called in to witness their particular penchants. This course of instruction took months to unfold and I never baulked at it. I was Alice in a depraved Wonderland.
Widening my horizons was a good distraction for Mae. She was finding it difficult to settle down to work. With a new boyfriend, a new maid, a newly spring-cleaned flat and two new dogs, she couldn’t keep her mind on the mundane business of ordinary work for long. She began by taking me for walks – with the dogs in tow – so I could meet her friends in the area.
Many times these field trips were abortive, as more often than not she would meet one of her regulars halfway along the alley and back to the flat we would all have to trot, with the dogs looking most perplexed. Then there would either be a rush of customers to prevent us sallying forth again, or Mae’s mood would have changed and she wouldn’t feel like going out after all. Occasionally, however, we managed to break past the client barrier and tread new ground.
On one such occasion, Mae grabbed my arm and whispered, ‘This you got to see. That’s Benzy Nell over there. You watch: she’s always doped up to the eyebrows.’
She indicated a middle-aged woman on the opposite side of the road who was striding along as though she had seven-league boots on. She was tall, slim and plain, with short mousy hair and clothes that looked as though they’d been thrown on in a hurry. She was on her ‘beat’, which she had preordained to be about ten yards long. She tackled this like a fast-marching sentry, executing a skilful ‘left, about turn’ at each end.
Mae grabbed my arm again and towed me across the street, doubling the length of our strides. We managed to fall into step alongside Benzy Nell. She was singing quietly to herself as we caught up with her, but when she saw Mae, she broke into rapid speech, not pausing for anything.
We marched backwards and forwards with her until we were out of breath, though not from talking – Mae couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Then suddenly Nell spied an old client and doubled her pace to get to him. We let her go and crossed the street again, where we turned to watch. The man had replaced us at her side and he too was marching up and down.
‘I hope she gets him inside while he’s still got some energy left,’ Mae said.
The same thought must have occurred to the man, because suddenly, steering her by leaning his weight against her shoulder, he executed a most beautiful right turn and they both disappeared through an open doorway.
Over time, Mae took me to visit quite a number of other working girls, and I discovered that our flat was a palace compared with most. They were all much dirtier than hers had been when I first arrived, and many were far smaller – like the girl who had only one room and the maid sat behind a screen in the corner. Another place was boarded up on the outside, devoid of electricity – the stairs were lit by candles placed on every landing – water or drainage, and seemed to be teetering on the brink of falling down. No doubt it was condemned and had been pressed into service by an enterprising agent who had skeleton keys. Here, the maid sat in the corner of a room that was so small there was only space for her chair and an enormous galvanised water tank filled with a dark, evil-smelling liquid. At my reaction to the noxious odour, a hoarse cackle came from the maid’s dim corner. Mae’s friend waved her hand in the direction of the tank; the turbid contents gleamed unctuously in the candlelight.
‘Our pisspot,’ she told me. ‘We’ll have to start bailing soon.’
Our next trip led us up to an eyrie where, sitting on the stairs, we came across a fat lady who seemed to be sound asleep. Mae, who was leading, stooped down to give her a gentle shake. This had no effect, so she squeezed past her, explaining to me that the woman had epileptic fits and had to sit down when she felt one coming on. Up another flight, and a brunette, known as Fiona, looked over the banisters to see who was coming. She was wearing a French corset with the bosom so padded she was nearly falling out of the top of it.
‘Sure, and if it isn’t Mae,’ she greeted us in a thick Irish brogue. ‘It must be you heard me putting the kettle on. Hello to you too,’ she said to me. ‘Would you be seeing anything of me maid at all? I sent her for milk and sugar an hour past and I’ve not clapped eyes on her since.’
Mae told her that we’d passed her on the stairs. The girl laughed.
A client trudged up the stairs and Fiona went into the hall, drawing a tatty curtain across a slack length of string to screen us from view.
‘It will be two pound to you – sorry,’ we heard her say.
Judging by the sudden bumping against the wall dividing us, he must have acquiesced
‘Hear that?’ Mae said.
‘How could I not?’
‘Yeah, two pounds and not a murmur. I’d like to know what she’s doing for it,’ she mused with pursed lips.
When we finally left, I asked Mae if Fiona existed solely on regulars. She replied scathingly:
‘Her? No! She’s got a good passing trade; all she has to do is hang her tits out of the window and whistle.’
On another excursion, Mae steered me towards a café known as The Little Cabin. It was basically a large shed or small warehouse and had been erected with some haste in the middle of a bomb site. It was constructed from all sorts of oddments and had a corrugated-iron roof.
Inside, no effort had been made to make it any cosier. It was uncompromisingly stark. The tables and chairs were the most leprous assortment imaginable; having no windows, it was lit at irregular intervals by harsh electric bulbs in white enamel shades; the floor consisted of dirty bare boards resting on beams, through which the wind whistled from underneath.
At the far end, a serving counter covered with worn American cloth ran the full width. On this stood a tea urn and several glass cases full of snacks. The only other home comforts in the place were a jukebox and a couple of pinball tables that didn’t work. The whole effect seemed calculated to put as many customers off as possible. It was cold, strident and cheerless; yet it was packed with people.
The proprietors, sweaty and complacent with success, had no need
to play the happy hosts. They slammed cheese rolls on to plates, cups on to saucers, fat fingers on to the till and gave not the slightest hint of recognition to any of the customers.
The clientele were too involved in their own affairs to notice, let alone feel slighted. Nearly all of them were thieves, mobsters, self-appointed car-parking attendants and racketeers of all types. These were people who lived by their wits and relied on seizing chances as they arose. They were alternately flush with money or dead broke. Those who were in the steady rackets never patronised The Little Cabin as, having mostly graduated from its ranks, they would be expected to lend a sympathetic ear, which might in turn lead to their being obliged to lend cash. Mae was an exception to this rule. She was no snob and liked to recall her humble beginnings; she was never ungenerous to anyone in need.
Half the crimes in the Metropolitan area were conceived over cups of tea in The Little Cabin. If the police had ever raided it, they would have netted an impressive catch of criminals. It would, however, have been a hollow victory: fake alibis would have been conjured on the spot.
As we sailed through that sea – or rather backwater – of people, everyone called out greetings to Mae. Despite my being in her company, this cordiality was not extended to me: they eyed me curiously, almost suspiciously. This was definitely a ‘members only club’. I realised that Mae had done a most unusual thing in choosing an outsider for a maid. I was an enigma, excused only by the fact that Mae, being who and what she was, was able to get away with anything and was expected to do mad things now and again.
The twilight characters of Soho were an extremely clannish lot and resented interlopers and snoopers. Here at last my upbringing came in useful, for I had been taught to be ‘seen and not heard’. I was under Mae’s patronage, and because she was respected and admired, I was accepted temporarily on condition I didn’t ask any questions. And it paid off: eventually I was able to elicit from them everything I wanted to know precisely because of my seeming indifference.
We took a seat and people gravitated towards our table to chat and exchange scandal. Several men at adjoining tables slewed their chairs round to face us. They flirted with Mae and even attempted to include me in the badinage. They knew that a maid – especially Mae’s maid – earned enough to keep a small-time crook in modest luxury.
All of them were well dressed and their outfits seemed out of place among the cracked, chipped cups they drank from, the rickety chairs and the scarred, ugly tables. But clothes were important to this lot, intended as proof of their success and cleverness. To be seen in a frayed suit or grubby shirt was noticed immediately and taken as a sign of a decline in fortune.
Actually, it took months for me to recognise these things, but this first time, sitting amongst these affable and friendly people, I saw no further than the smiling faces, I heard no more than the jokes and I understood nothing except that Mae – all sparkling eyes and bouncing curls as she held court – was in her element.
Having been taken to The Little Cabin, I started to feel like I was really at home in Soho. The final seal on my acceptance came one evening after dark, when Mae and I were walking along Old Compton Street on our way back to the flat after visiting one of her friends. A group of men were walking towards us. Mae, who had been holding my arm, quickly dropped it and gave an apprehensive gasp.
‘It’s Vince! He’s going to want to have a look at you: he always likes to get new people sized up. Mind your Ps and Qs, for goodness’ sake!’
I had heard of Vince before; everybody who read the Sunday papers had heard of him and his notorious brother. He was the overlord of Soho, at the top of the league and always several jumps ahead of the law. He could afford very smart, struck-off solicitors, and although it was known he was the brains and organiser of every big Soho racket – and much that went on further afield – nothing was ever provable.
The approaching group consisted of six men. As they came close, they spread out across the pavement and halted, facing us. Five of them formed a semicircle round Vince. All six were utterly devoid of expression. They all wore dinner jackets and boiled shirts, and Vince had a gardenia in his buttonhole. He said something quietly to the man on his right, who then turned to Mae.
‘Who’s she?’ he demanded.
Mae told him who I was and he in turn told Vince, who must have heard Mae’s answer but, like some Eastern potentate, preferred to have no direct communication with his subjects. A few more questions about my background followed; all the while Vince remained completely impassive and said not a word.
I was puzzled as to why an important man like this should bother with someone so far down the ladder. He had probably heard that I was an oddity, and about my interview with the police.
After the interrogation was over, there was absolute silence, during which he stared at me for a full five minutes while his bodyguard gazed over our heads and beyond. Then instinct seemed to tell me he was waiting for a sign of submission on my part, and much as I detested the idea, I thought I’d better comply – so I lowered my eyes humbly. For perhaps thirty seconds more, I felt his continued gaze. Then, still without a word, they closed ranks and we stepped aside for them to pass.
‘Phew! I’m glad that’s over,’ said Mae. ‘Scares me stiff, that man.’
I felt more annoyed than scared after having this silly psychology practised on me, but I realised Vince was not a man to be angered.
Not all the Soho characters were so daunting. Every so often a character called Matilda would come round to Mae’s. She was a thin, elderly lady, and the moment I first met her took me straight back to something I’d learnt in art school. She was somehow in the Perpendicular Gothic style. Everything about her ran in straight vertical lines, except round the mouth, where the flesh of her face was gathered into little pleats like the drawn-up opening of a handbag. This and her glasses gave her a prim and disapproving expression – like some impoverished gentle-woman who found her surroundings impossibly sordid and distasteful. She was shabby, but very neat, and she always brought with her her Pekinese, who, strangely enough, was also Perpendicular Gothic.
Matilda would perch on the edge of a hard chair, very upright, with the Peke sitting beside her, also bolt upright, with its lead still attached to her like a flying buttress. At her other side, as though to keep the symmetry of the Gothic image going, she would place the two ancient cretonne carrier-bags she always brought with her.
Automatically I would give her a cup of tea, and while clients came and went and Mae ran around wearing practically nothing, she would sit genteelly sipping it, her gloved little finger extended, looking for all the world as though she were taking tea at the Savoy. I feel sure everything she wore, especially her hats, had worked its way through at least six rummage sales on the journey towards her skinny frame.
The Peke would sit staring fixedly at the uncouth antics of our two poodles, who, after a period of anxiousness, would retire, unnerved, to the safety of a chair and pretend to sleep. Every now and again, one would open an eye, look at the Peke, shiver slightly and close it again.
When Matilda had finished her tea, she would readjust her crumpled little eye-veil and, if Mae were free, clear her throat delicately and say faintly, ‘I have a few little things which just might interest you, dear.’
Mae, far less timid than her poodles, would say, ‘Right. What you got, Till? Let’s have a dekko.’
Then the contents of the cretonne bags would be carefully unpacked with a show of great ceremony. Never was such rubbish so carefully wrapped: a yard of tissue paper and several rubber bands enclosing a cheap glass necklace, brown paper and string wrapping an old scarf. One parcel was opened with a flourish to reveal a fox fur that Matilda shook to show its lustre, filling the kitchen with flying hairs.
Mae invariably bought some of this tat. The prices were in keeping with Matilda’s delusion, though Mae and I always wondered if she really was a dotty old lady or whether it was a con trick: as with most of the con trick
s in Soho, you could never be quite sure. Mae could never bear to think of the Peke going hungry and would frequently fork out three pounds for an almost-new hot-water-bottle cover or twelve inches of moulting marabou.
‘Chuck it in the dustbin,’ she would say after Matilda’s departure. ‘Half an hour with a punter will pay for it.’
There was a continuous stream of people who saw fit to lift Mae’s hard-earned cash from her – and even some of mine. Apart from the straight ‘Lend us a nicker, love’, there were other women who, for example, offered to clean the stairs for a couple of quid. After doing two steps, they would come up for their money, claiming they were hungry and needed a meal to get their strength up to do the rest. We wouldn’t see them again until several weeks later, when they’d return seeking a re-engagement. Their excuses would be many and varied but usually dramatic:
‘I got taken off with acute appendicitis.’
‘I tripped over the bucket and broke my ankle.’
‘On my baby’s life – my father came round to tell me my mother had just died.’
‘On my baby’s life’ was an oft-repeated assurance. At first I thought that no one would make such a solemn affirmation and not mean it, but I soon discovered that while at least half of them had never had a baby to swear about, the other half had got rid of so many they’d lost count.
And it wasn’t just the women who were on the make. There were plenty of gay men about who would pop up to see if there were any odd jobs to be done. Even the smallest errand would warrant at least a pound in payment. There was one gorgeous boy, known as Angel, who did charring as a speciality. He was beautiful, with long curly hair – not at all the thing for men in those days. He wore jangling earrings, bracelets and flimsy Hungarian blouses. Unlike the queens who haunted many of the Soho cafés, he wore no make-up – but then he didn’t have to: he had a face to match his name.
There was a little Greek shoemaker too, who would come around taking orders. Unusually, he was conscientious and earned his money. I think he lived close by, because I only ever saw him in shirtsleeves; he wore an extremely dirty trilby and his skin was like the old worn-in leather he worked with. Mae had tiny feet and took only a size one shoe. She was very proud of her shoes and spent a lot of money enhancing them. The shoemaker’s name was Nick, and every time he came, he brought the pair of shoes from the last order and went away with a list of instructions for the next. His shoes cost about sixteen pounds a pair: at that time, a small fortune to spend.
