by Barbara Tate
I went home that night in quiet and reflective mood.
Eighteen
The autumn nights deepened. It was dark by seven, a boon to women like Hilda, but none of the girls looked forward to the cold, dark, dangerous months ahead: especially those who were not so quickly ‘in and out’ as Mae was. With the first frosts expected soon, true to form, Mae took the dogs to be clipped. They had sweltered all through the summer under their thick curly coats, and now they shivered resentfully. By way of consolation, Mae bought them smart polo-necked doggy sweaters.
The advance of autumn brought good omens with it. Mae’s two most redoubtable kinks, Daisy and Houdini, were back in the fold, and she was already, optimistically, beginning to tell her regulars what she would like for Christmas.
In the meantime, something was afoot for the shop below us. Over the weeks, we watched its metamorphosis with interest. While the work proceeded, there were piles of rubble outside, lit at night by red hurricane lamps, to warn pedestrians. Mae heartily approved of those and occasionally moved one to the side of our front door. She had taken to chatting to the man who had leased the shop, and had learned it was going to be a high-class snack bar.
‘I told him,’ she said later, ‘he’d better not make it too high-class ’cos it’s not the district for it. But he’s a toffee-nosed, know-it-all sod, so what can you do?’ She mimicked him: ‘“Oh, I don’t know. We’ll see.” We’ll see all right! It’ll be one big flop; you mark my words.’
From then on, on her sallies into the street, she noted every item of progress in the ill-fated venture below and regaled me with snippets of news:
‘Putting in the first mosaics on the wall’ . . . ‘Fixing the spotlights’ . . . ‘Edging the counter with stainless steel’ . . . ‘Fixing a row of bamboo poles along one side’ . . .
I got numerous reports every day and was so well genned up that I didn’t need to look at it myself until the day she told me the fascia had gone up.
‘This you gotta see,’ she said. And she took me downstairs.
‘Toffee-nose’ was dancing about in a state of acute excitement and gazing up delightedly at the name of his shop – stainless-steel letters superimposed on black: La Milano.
‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’ he said rapturously when he saw us. ‘When I open, you two must be my first customers.’
When we left him, Mae said, ‘Poor sod, what a waste of bloody money!’
By the following week, the final touches had been made: indoor plants had been forcibly trained up the bamboo poles, red leather stools with chrome legs were placed in front of the counter, two neatly trimmed potted bay trees were set at each side of the entrance – ‘They won’t last five minutes,’ Mae had remarked gloomily – and the window was garnished with a large, beautifully roasted turkey, nestling in a bed of lettuce and tomatoes, flanked by two lobsters and surrounded by parsley.
The day it opened, Mae and I went down and indulged ourselves in a chicken sandwich, a rum baba and a cup of mocha coffee, which we consumed to the soft accompaniment of recorded mandolins playing ‘Come Back to Sorrento’.
‘Poor bastard!’ Mae said, licking her fingers. ‘It’ll never pay.’
This was not the only change to our little world. In order to produce a charge of ‘living on immoral earnings’, the police had to prove a ponce was living with a girl for a certain number of consecutive nights. To safeguard Tony, Mae had been staying at the flat for as many as two nights a week, and because of this, the bedlam had increased. Presumably she must have spent some hours sleeping, but that didn’t decrease the amount of havoc she could wreak in the night. It was a relief, then, when she told me that Tony had found a furnished house for them ‘out in the sticks’ at Rickmansworth – that being outside the Metropolitan Police area.
As her new route practically passed my front door, I was offered a lift home each night in their car. Predictably, this turned out to be something of a drama. To keep the police in the dark about the new address, Tony waited in a different part of central London and we took a cab to meet him. As soon as we left the flat, Mae began to peer through the rear window to see if we were being followed. Then, when we reached the prearranged spot, she waited for the cab to disappear before we were allowed to approach the waiting car. To me, unused as I was to private cars, it was all deliciously luxurious. The soft glow of Tony’s cigar and the dance music issuing from the radio added to the atmosphere as Tony glanced at Mae briefly:
‘All right?’
An equally brief nod from Mae:
‘Yes, love.’
And off we drove, Mae singing quietly to the music, her scent drowning slowly in his sandalwood perfume intermingled with cigar smoke. There was little conversation between them but nor was there anything to indicate strife. The more I knew of Tony, the less I liked him, and I have no doubt at all that the feeling was heartily reciprocated. Nevertheless, these encounters took place so late and I was so tired that I had no energy to indulge in duelling with this spiteful little man, nor would I have dared to do so in any case. I sat in the back, watching the red glow of Tony’s cigar butt and letting the music prepare me for bed. I allowed myself to think that, as ponces went, Tony was as good as any.
That happy delusion was quick to disappear. One day, near the end of October, Mae ‘ran into something in the dark’ and arrived sporting a large black eye. Perhaps ‘sporting’ is the wrong word, as it was lurking behind a pair of dark glasses. She later referred to Tony as ‘that bastard’ and I knew the honeymoon was over at last.
During that day, her mood alternated between darkly sombre and gaily frivolous. She couldn’t concentrate on her work at all; she said she didn’t feel like it, and spent a lot of time cuddling the dogs and sifting through her clothes. I suggested it might do her good to take the rest of the day off, spend a quiet evening at home and have an early night.
‘What. And get another of these?’ she burst out, jerking her hand up to her eye.
‘Oh Mae,’ I said. ‘I am so sorry!’
By evening, the takings were lower than I had ever known them to be. Mae was only dealing with regulars; she was not going out at all. Besides feeling too truculent and depressed, she didn’t want to advertise her ‘accident’.
Suddenly there came the sound of feet on the stairs – too decisive and quick to be a client. I felt alarmed: Tony must either have been told or, worse, seen that she had remained indoors all day. The same thought had crossed Mae’s mind too, and she was clearly anxious. I went out to meet him, hoping to at least act as a sort of mediating force. A huge bunch of red roses rounded the bend in the staircase, followed by a complete stranger. He muttered, ‘From Tony’, thrust the flowers into my hands, turned on his heels and departed as hurriedly as he’d arrived.
When I took them in to Mae, she went into paroxysms of joy and relief. She sniffed the flowers and admired them ardently. Several times she started to count them before giving up the task with a happy sigh. To me, Tony’s gesture seemed like that of a poultry farmer who reassures a chicken by stroking it prior to wringing its neck.
Soon we had arranged the treacherous gift in two vases and put them on the dressing table so the blooms were multiplied by their reflection in the mirror. Then Mae turned to me, as if she’d had a sudden revelation. In great excitement, she instructed me to call on a certain Betty Kelly – I didn’t know this woman – and ask her to pop round as soon as possible.
‘I’ll be all right on my own for a while,’ she said. ‘I’ll shut the door and only let in regulars.’ She gave me her old grin and a playful tap on the nose with one finger. ‘Don’t look so worried ! Off you go!’
I tramped out into the cold Soho air and found the market area she’d indicated. After passing through several streets where fish and chip papers drifted dismally among other fresh rubbish of the day, I came to the place I was looking for. Here, the litter was predominantly orange boxes and the debris of a daily market. The last few barrows were being trundled away for
the night and the familiar smell of rotting fruit prevailed. Scavenging cats were appearing alongside the incoming tide of Soho’s tattered human flotsam, who slouched around, stooping here and there amongst the little piles of discarded merchandise.
I located the building I wanted. It was a sombre Victorian block, comprising shops with tenements above. There was a cluster of bell pushes outside, but as the street door was ajar, I went in. I walked up several flights of stone steps, looking on all the doors for the name Mae had mentioned. It was difficult, as most of the plates were encrusted with grime and the low-wattage lighting, high on the ceiling, soaked into the parchment-coloured walls.
The flat I wanted was on the fourth floor. My knock brought shuffling and creaking sounds from within before the door opened. A very large elderly woman stood there. The lighting inside was only infinitesimally stronger than that on the staircase, but I could see that she had dark, watchful eyes and iron-grey hair clamped tight to her head. She wore a voluminous old cardigan and skirt and her bulk in the doorway blocked my view of her rooms, but they looked pretty basic and meagre from what I could see: a cheap lampshade and a shabby old armchair in front of a depressingly low fire.
‘Yes? What d’you want?’ she said in a tone that most people reserved for the bailiff.
‘Are you Betty Kelly?’ I asked and she affirmed with a curt nod. ‘Mae sent me,’ I said. ‘She says, would you come round to see her as soon as you can?’
‘Blonde Mae?’ she asked.
I said yes, and started to tell her the address.
‘Yes, I know,’ she interrupted, and taking a step back into her room, she shut the door, narrowly missing my nose. I stood there for a second or two, a little stunned by the brevity of this exchange; then, shrugging to myself, I picked my way back down the dingy stairs.
Later that night, Betty Kelly laboriously picked her way up our stairs. Knowing her to be a woman of few words, I said nothing and showed her in to Mae. She stayed no longer than a few minutes.
When she’d left, Mae leapt into the kitchen, full of chirpiness. She stuffed a wad of notes into my hand.
‘I borrowed a hundred quid from her,’ she crowed jubilantly. ‘Put fifty in with today’s takings, take a fiver for yourself and keep the rest somewhere safe for another day. I’ll show that bastard . . .’ she said it in a loving way, ‘that I’m still the best! I can still earn more than anyone else, even when I stay in all day. I bet he thinks I’ve only taken about twenty quid. I can’t wait to see his fucking face when I give him that lot!’
Prancing like a skittish pony, she started back to the bedroom. She paused halfway and called out, ‘Oh, by the way, what’s today?’
‘Tuesday,’ I answered.
‘Well remind me, love, won’t you, early every Tuesday? Betty will be up for her money and she’ll want paying twenty-five a week for five weeks. Don’t forget, will you?’
I pointed out she would have to work harder than ever to pay that and to keep the takings up to the same amount as usual, but she wasn’t to be deflated.
‘Don’t matter – I can do it, no trouble at all.’
She went to have another peep at the progress of her black eye. ‘Cor, what a shiner! The bastard!’
‘Bastard’ was now an official term of endearment; she giggled again.
‘Mae, you’ll be the death of me,’ I said, bringing in our tea and hurling myself down on the bed. ‘Funny, though,’ I added reflectively, ‘the way that Betty lives and dresses, it doesn’t look as though she’s got a bean.’
Mae lovingly prodded her eye and gazed into the mirror.
‘She’s rolling in it,’ she said. ‘Richest woman around, I should think – and it’s not bleeding surprising with the interest she charges.’ Her giggles consumed her like spontaneous combustion.
‘We’re in the wrong game, mate!’ she declared.
Despite her new gaiety, I felt sure she was right.
Nineteen
From that day onwards, a subtle change in the atmosphere took place: one that probably wouldn’t have been sensed by anyone less close than myself. A slight cloud seemed to hover over the flat, and Mae’s natural high spirits were replaced by a more forced and strident quality. I noticed, too, that there was more intensity in the way she worked and more enquiries as to how we were doing financially. She gradually began to see Tony for what he was, and realised that the affection she could expect from him as a ponce was directly related to her earning power. But it was too late to leave him and admit to everyone she’d been wrong. Nor was it just the humiliation of the climbdown stopping her. There was Tony himself. Had he not displaced Alphonse by playing with his evil little flick knife as an open threat? And if he was happy to use his fists on Mae after a day or two’s low takings, then what might he not do if his milch-cow sought to abandon him altogether? These were thoughts that neither of us put into words, but they were present in us both, I am certain.
In the meantime, life – and my eccentric education – continued. Mae, never one to be picky about the company she kept, would sometimes entertain the local beat policemen. Their excuse was concern for our welfare, but they didn’t seem to be able to make their enquiries without having a cigarette and a cup of tea. To be fair to them, I did wonder if it was me they were keeping an eye on: checking I wasn’t progressing further down the Primrose Path than was advisable.
This type of uniform in the kitchen would, of course, be enough to cool the passions of the most ardent customer, so I had to make sure the door was shut tight. I learnt this lesson after a client once crept up without my hearing him. He peeped through the gap in the door and alerted us to his presence with a sudden intake of breath. By the time we’d turned, he was scampering down the stairs at breakneck speed. The friendly bobby gave a snort of amusement.
‘If he was better acquainted with the law, he’d know that what he was about is quite legal.’ The front door slammed very loudly and he added, ‘I suppose I could book him for disturbing the peace.’
The police had a tolerant attitude towards the girls, whom they regarded as necessary evils. Over the years an agreement had been reached whereby it was understood that arrests must be made (because it was the done thing), but not too often (because that wasn’t kind). It wasn’t particularly warranted, because those girls who did break the law by soliciting on the street seldom got desperate enough to actually accost a man; they hardly ever blocked the pavement, stripped in public or hurled abuse after men who weren’t interested. A girl could advertise herself simply by doing nothing more than twirling her keys. Likely men were sometimes asked if they were looking for a good time – even then a cliché – or sometimes, more candidly, a short time.
Mae’s old friend Rita was one exception to this code of conduct. I was on an errand when I was treated to the sight of her making a most ladylike approach to a passing man. After he’d given her a short brush-off, she persisted, walking beside him a little way, making sweet blandishments in a wee, demure voice. The man told her to get off the pavement, and in an instant Miss Sweetness turned into a shrieking banshee.
‘Get off the pavement? I’m not fucking getting off the fucking pavement, you fat sod!’
Assault and battery followed, using her handbag to emphasise her point. I don’t think she normally went that far and I wondered if the violence had been provoked by her embarrassment at my having seen her being refused.
Every now and again a newspaper, short on lucrative horrors, would ‘discover’ that Soho was full of prostitutes. This revelation would necessitate some Member of Parliament or other proclaiming that something must be done. Senior police officers would be told to do it – whatever it was – and then everybody could forget about it again. Everybody, that is, apart from the police rank and file, who had their orders and must be seen to be carrying them out. They endeavoured to do this without allowing the scandal sheets, the MPs and their own superiors to do any real damage. Being on the game therefore meant knowing the rules and oc
casionally landing on ‘Go directly to jail without passing Go’.
Naturally, some kind of balance had to be reached. Just as the police didn’t want to hang around all day waiting for a catch, the girls didn’t want them there, frightening off the customers.
To solve this problem, a sort of rota system developed whereby every two or three weeks – depending on age, circumstance and convenience – a girl was expected to more or less deliver herself up for arrest. The procedure was that, in a perfectly friendly fashion, the policeman would approach the girl and say, ‘It’s about time we took you in, you know.’ The girl then had to accompany him to Bow Street police station for a charge to be made out. She had the choice of walking with him all the way along Long Acre, gauntleted by the curious glances of passers-by, or paying for a taxi to take them there. Mae occasionally came rushing up from the street saying, ‘Quick, give us some money. I’ve just been nicked.’ I would hand her a couple of pounds from the takings and off she would hurry. About an hour later she would be back with her bail slip – and another client.
Paradoxical though it may seem, the arresting officer would be quite sympathetic to the excuse that there were far too many men about to waste time going to the police station to be charged with prostitution. Accommodating this would mean the girl was morally obliged to be caught in the act the following day. This respectable arrangement kept both sides happy until one or the other party attempted to cheat.
Mae often came close to risking the wrath of the local police, especially now she’d started borrowing from Betty Kelly and had to work solidly. If she knew her arrest time was due and the expectant officer was hovering about, she would avoid him by walking in the opposite direction. Sometimes she would only go out as far as the front door and entice men in from there – or even from the window on some occasions. However, these were simply delaying techniques, and she would take her turn at Bow Street as soon as she could fit it into her busy schedule. Younger and newer girls, who perhaps didn’t appreciate the beauty of the system and avoided arrest indefinitely, found themselves taken in as often as twice a week until such time as they learned.
