by Barbara Tate
Companionship aside, the major function of the maid’s role gave me a real sense of unease. Being the only tenants in the house, we were very vulnerable and, after the shops closed, extremely isolated. As bodyguards go, I was small, and in any case, I flinched from any form of violence. In readiness for any ‘happenings’, Mae flanked her dressing table mirror with two reproduction Staffordshire cats. These, she explained, made admirable weapons if grasped round their elongated necks. She said they were as good as bottles but more ornamental. Apart from this main purpose, they also served as stress levellers when the irritations of the job got to Mae: if a client changed his mind at the last minute, the unfortunate cats would be dropped from the upper window as he left the front door. She always aimed to miss him by an inch or two and was generally successful. While I was with Mae, I swept up no end of defunct cats; fortunately, the supplier was nearby and was always well stocked with replacements.
Taking a leaf out of Mae’s book, I kept the hammer with the broken shaft concealed but handy. It was a far more lethal weapon than a Staffordshire cat, though I had no intention of actually using it; I just hoped that the sight of it in my hand would daunt any passing maniac. My only other aid to the quelling of riots was the few bits of judo I’d picked up from Fred – Mae’s rejected suitor – but I couldn’t be sure of an assailant being obliging enough to fall into the right position to enable me to use those.
So there I was, talking to the strange men I had been warned about, laughing and joking my way through days and nights of sin and scandal. The flippancy disguised an ever-present, real fear that each client might be the last. Every prostitute, every maid, knew this all too well; the newspapers frequently told of prostitutes murdered in or on their beds. All the customers who came up those stairs would see our self-confident front but would rarely appreciate the isolation and danger we also felt. We would joke and flirt but all the time keeping one eye on the cash and the other on where our weapons lay. And remembering never to turn our backs on them.
As the one who dealt with the money, the maid was, in some ways, a more valuable target than the girl. I met several really neurotic maids who were clearly terrified of the job they were doing, and were always taking tranquillisers to keep their nerves under control. These I considered a terrible danger too, as men are a bit like horses, I think, and smell fear and uncertainty; and if the maid was nervous, then the girl usually became nervous too.
One girl had a maid who was well over eighty. She was frail and wizened, and as the girl said: ‘The poor old sod can’t doing nothing but make the tea, and then most of it ends up in the bleeding saucer. If ever I get any bother, I don’t think she’s even strong enough to open the window to shout for help.’
Just as useless was the near-narcoleptic Italian woman whose girl was obliged to serve her cup after cup of black coffee and poke her with a loud ‘Wakey, wakey!’ The Italian would drink the coffee, fold her arms over her ample bosom and nod off again. ‘She goes with the flat,’ said the girl gloomily, nodding towards the sleeping form. ‘I s’pose they couldn’t keep her awake long enough to get her out of it after the last girl left.’
There were motherly maids who were always cooking and serving up meals: wholesome shepherd’s pies, stews and thick soups. They would see the clients as obstacles to proper digestion. One of these considerate souls combined her culinary obsession with a running commentary on her hot flushes. She claimed she couldn’t bear a bra on account of her heat and was happy to discuss the matter further with everyone – including the clients – if given half a chance in between stirring the gravy.
Older maids were often of a different calibre from the girls they worked for. They would read books in between chores, show an interest in world affairs; they would embroider, make lace and tackle a crossword puzzle. Generally, younger maids seemed to be sullen, moody creatures, married to small-time crooks who always seemed to be ‘inside’. The older type were more usual, and many of them could play ‘Mum’, some even having the credentials of a wholesome background and a husband in a well-paid, responsible job. In these cases, maiding was just to provide the ‘bunce’ to give their children a good schooling.
But not all the maids were quite so maternal. Others were tough customers who squeezed their girls for ever-larger tips. They would want paying for everything they contributed, however small an item. Despite – or maybe because of – this penny-pinching, some of the girls really needed them around.
One might have thought that maids were often prostitutes who had become too old for the game, but this was hardly ever the case. It occasionally happened in dire emergencies, but only for minimal periods; however old a convicted prostitute was, in the eyes of the law she was still considered capable of prostitution, and therefore the two of them together could constitute a brothel. I knew only one maid who was an ex-pro; she, being French, had received her convictions in France, and so all was well.
One maid stands out above all the others as worth her weight in gold. The aptly named Prudence knew all the laws concerning prostitution – and knew them as well as any lawyer. She was polite, smart, tactful and a great psychologist. She knew every quirky aberration in existence and how it should be handled, and could quickly calculate the correct rate for the job. She could prepare light, appetising snacks and could converse on practically anything. When she trusted a person, she was warm-hearted and kind; when she did not, she was as cold as ice. Only once did she ever work for a girl who was worthy of her. That particular person listened and learned and retired a very wealthy woman.
I often wondered how Mae and Rabbits had got along with each other for as long as they had. But in the end a girl and her maid were working towards the same end.
I remember one incident, round at one of the other girls’ flats. The ponce had been sent for – an almost unheard-of occurrence – as a result of the maid being threatened by some thug with a knife. She had promptly handed over twenty-five pounds – too promptly, the girl was arguing. The ponce remained in the background, moodily chewing his nails. When I arrived, the maid was making a big show of collecting her belongings and getting her coat on. But within half an hour we were all – minus the ponce, who had left – sitting down amicably to the usual pot of tea. The scene had been engineered so the girl could prove to her boyfriend that she had a legitimate excuse for taking home less than usual that evening.
Everyone generously conceded that it was harder work being Mae’s maid than anyone else’s. We, the maids, were a little clique of our own – ‘partners in persecution’. One day, I met a maid in the street who was breathing fire because her girl had been counting the used rubbers to check the number against the maid’s written total.
‘After all the time I’ve been with her, she starts not trusting me! But I’ve got even with her, haven’t I? Now, every night I go in and whip a few out of the bin before she counts ’em.’ Then, with typical loyal protectiveness, she added, ‘’Course, I don’t really blame her – he must have put her up to it.’
And so the weeks went on and my expertise increased. It was autumn now. Cold winds blew down those inhospitable alleys, bringing tides of brown leaves, which were caught in puddles of water, there to rot down into a black mat, lethal to the unwary foot.
I thought less and less of my previous life, much as I expect angels have little reason to think of their time on earth once they’ve passed through the Pearly Gates to the life beyond. Even if I had thought of my former life, what would I have done with the memories? My grandmother had cursed me and was hardly a woman to let go of a grudge. My mother had been fast enough to flee when I was a child, and would be no more delighted to see me now that I was an independent adult. The only school friend with whom I’d enjoyed a real bond had moved off to South Africa, half a world away.
My little bed-sit, with its gas fire burning in its nest of fireclay, and its other small comforts, was still my home. Although sometimes when I got home I recalled uneasily how I’d arrived there vow
ing to become an artist. I’d had visions, once, of earning enough money to buy art materials with which to practise relentlessly at my craft, in the hope one day of painting that perfect painting.
Foolish hopes! My artistic ambitions had been entirely mute since meeting Mae. For six days a week I was simply too busy to lift a paintbrush. On the seventh, I had my domestic chores to attend to. I was tired – and besides, my attention had strayed. I was now fast becoming a Soho expert and a genuine Soho native. The police officers’ concerns were confirmed: I had become inured to depravity and no longer saw it as anything other than normal life. As the old Rabbits Regime fell into almost total decay, the corruption – and the sheer pace of life – increased to a level I could never have guessed at in my old, sheltered existence.
Sixteen
Pandemonium was both the hardest thing to get used to and the only constant that I could rely on to define a day as ‘average’.
Mae would arrive, propelling a client before her. As she passed, she would break off chatting to him to say, ‘Hello, love, make us a cup of tea, will you?’ And with that, battle commenced. I continued to begin work an hour earlier than Mae in the mistaken belief that if I got everything under control before she arrived, I could deal coolly and efficiently with whatever ensued. The reality was that within half an hour of that first cup of tea, the day would rapidly scuttle into tragedy or farce. Like a boulder crashing down a mountainside, Mae had a momentum that left havoc in its wake.
To arrive with one customer was, perhaps, understandable, but it was not unknown for her to kick-start the day with as many as five men at once. On one such occasion, these were visitors to London who, with a little persuasion from Mae, had decided to all have a go. Handling these groups was a speciality of hers, and she managed to round them all up with the added encumbrances of the two dogs and – as was quite usual – a large bunch of flowers. With a grin and a wink, she passed the dogs’ leads over to me, piled the flowers into my arms and, leaving brief instructions to give the waiting men tea, feed the dogs and put the flowers in water, swept into the bedroom with the first of the friends.
With the dogs yapping round my feet, the flowers in my face and the remaining men standing self-consciously on the landing, I was helpless for a few moments. I deftly shut the dogs and flowers in the kitchen before ushering the men into the waiting room. I had enough experience to stand in the doorway in the pretence of chatting to them. Our division of labour was clear enough: Mae had caught them and I must prevent their escape: so early, so sober, they might easily have changed their minds. It was all rather tricky, because I also had to be ready outside her door when her hand came through with the money. I could do this and be back, blocking the waiting room door, before anyone realised I’d moved.
Another client wended his way up the stairs. On being shown into the waiting room, he bucked like a frightened horse at the sight of so many other faces. I decided to put him in the kitchen with the dogs and the flowers; if he liked dogs he would be kept amused, and if he didn’t, he’d be too scared to move.
At first, performing as cloakroom attendant, gracious host, prison wardress, dog minder and tea lady nearly drove me demented. As time went by, I realised that ‘give everyone tea’ needn’t be taken literally, and if I cocked a deaf ear – as the local parlance had it – life became less difficult.
Once the first influx was dispensed with – always remarkably quickly – I could draw a breath, untangle the dogs and put the flowers (or whatever else Mae had lighted on that day) in a vase. Then Mae would fish for other men and I would be presented with her unpredictable catches.
One afternoon, some months after I had started, business was a bit too quiet for Mae’s liking and she declared she would be out longer than usual. When she returned, she galloped up the stairs calling triumphantly, ‘I’ve got it! I’ve got it!’
I went to the landing and found her brandishing a square foot of striped mirror.
‘I’ve been trying to get this for ages. Look, you can see through it.’
She held it up to the light, and what had appeared to be dark stripes showed as plain glass.
‘What I want now is a hole in this wall about here.’ She thumped a spot on the kitchen wall that divided it from her bedroom. ‘Do you think you can do that for me, love?’
Some of the other flats had spyholes so the maid could check on the girl; the mirror was evidently a refinement so the client wouldn’t know he was being watched. I tapped the wall for myself and it sounded hollow.
‘You’re in luck – or rather I am. What do you suddenly want this for? Are you going to start lumbering back with villains and desperadoes so I’ve got to keep a constant eye on you?’
‘Not at all, lovey! This is for the geezers to look through. A pal of mine’s got one and she makes a bomb out of it. But apart from that,’ and her voice became more serious, ‘it is a bit safer for me if you’ve got a way of seeing I’m all right. After all, you heard about Millicent last week, didn’t you?’
I’d never heard of Millicent before, but I looked as though I understood.
‘It sounds a good idea,’ I said. ‘But you do realise the hole will have to be covered so the kitchen light doesn’t shine through all the time. In fact, the light will have to be switched out when anyone’s peeping at you.’
I still hadn’t bought many tools but I’d kept the miscellaneous selection I’d inherited. I said I would do it the following day when I could buy something more appropriate for the job. Her face fell with disappointment.
‘I so wanted to see it done tonight,’ she said in that crestfallen way she always used to such advantage.
‘But I need a drill,’ I protested.
‘You’ll think of something,’ she said. ‘I’m off.’
And with that, she was gone. To show willing, I could at least mark the place where the hole should be made. I chose a spot on the kitchen wall at my eye level – to hell with the clients; they came in all shapes and sizes anyway.
After her next client, Mae asked if I’d thought of something yet. I told her I’d chosen the place for it and she examined my pencil mark studiously.
‘It doesn’t have to be a round hole, you know. Bollocks to that when you’re in a hurry! Where’s your tools, love?’
I showed her the motley bag of odds and ends and she picked out the bent screwdriver and placed the point against the mark. ‘Sure it’s the right place?’
I nodded, and she walloped the palm of her other hand against the butt of the screwdriver, and lo, we had a hole (although the plaster on the other side of the hollow wall was still intact). She was about to repeat the performance but I stopped her.
‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘You said this was the right place.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but the other hole has got to be more precise, so you’re looking downwards at the bed, otherwise we’ll only see the curtains opposite.’
She handed me the screwdriver and said, ‘Well, work out where that’s got to be and we’ll have another bash next time I’m up.’ She disappeared down the stairs, chattering merrily to herself: ‘It’s all bash, bash, bash! Out on the bash, in on the bash – bash, bash, bash . . . !’
Calculating the correct angle was quite a problem, and it was two clients later before I’d found the spot for the other hole. I decided to make it myself, so I went round to the bedroom and began the attempt using Mae’s method. I only succeeded in hurting my hand, so I brought the half-a-hammer into use. I placed a handkerchief in the centre of the bed to represent the centre of interest for the viewer, and on testing it from the kitchen side, found my calculations had been perfectly accurate. The opening still needed to be widened, but success was within reach. Mae came into the kitchen after the next client had gone to find me quietly jubilant.
‘I’ve done the other hole,’ I announced triumphantly, ‘but all I can see through it is my handkerchief.’
‘Was that your handkerchief on the bed?’ she asked. ‘My l
ast one wiped his you-know-what on it.’
She had a look through the hole but at first saw nothing at all because I’d temporarily plugged the other side with a twist of newspaper. I rushed in and removed it.
‘We’ve got to have a bit more of the bedroom wall out,’ she called. ‘Get bashing!’
I soon got the hang of the bashing, hitting the screwdriver over a tiny area to flake away the plaster, and then knocking bits off the comparatively soft plasterboard into the recess. The chips of hard plaster were flying everywhere, so I asked Mae if she would help me pull the dressing table over the messiest part of the floor to hide the worst of it. First, she wanted to lie on the bed and get a report on how much of her could be seen at that stage.
‘If you shove up a bit, I’ll be able to see your hips,’ I called out.
She wriggled herself accommodatingly but the wrong way.
‘So they’ll get a good view of me, will they?’
We got the dressing table into position and cleared up the existing mess. Mae departed and I got cracking on the wall again. The frequent interruptions were annoying, as they meant humping the end of the dressing table back into place each time. Though it successfully screened the actual area of demolition, it didn’t hide much mess, because stupid little white chips kept ricocheting all over the place. Eventually I smoothed off the jagged edges with the bread knife and disguised the kitchen side of the hole with a teacloth before taking a break.
