by Barbara Tate
It was a wonderful Christmas. I listened to endless ‘Noels’ and ‘Wenceslases’ on my little radio. With loving fingers I re-examined the drum-tight surface of my year-old, still virginal canvas and weighed the small, heavy tubes of paint. I revelled in a large book on Michelangelo that I’d bought as a present for myself. Then, with two old and comforting favourites, The Herries Chronicles and Cranford, I would fall into contented dozes.
That solitary Christmas was a minor paradise, a little oasis. I even nourished hopes that the new year might bring with it some ease-up in Mae’s love affair with Purple Hearts. But by halfway through January, I realised there was no chance of that. Even the less ambitious hope – that things would at least get no worse – had proved in vain, for amongst Tony’s New Year resolutions had been one that Mae should work harder and earn more.
In his greed, he was disappointed that Mae was no longer continually breaking her own record, as she had earlier in their association. In fact, she was taking home less and less. The tough new regime he insisted on involved a seven-day week, with Mae staying at the flat most nights so as not to waste time and energy in travelling.
I had been gradually jettisoning my other Sunday jobs in order to recharge my batteries, so, albeit reluctantly, I was able to accommodate the extra day. Mae did not like being at the flat alone, and my days with her began to stretch like elastic, starting ever earlier and ending ever later. It didn’t surprise me that all the extra working hours didn’t result in an increase in takings. It wasn’t that Mae didn’t try to earn more; it was more as though she was semi-paralysed by Tony’s high expectations of her and her now chronic debts. She seemed to be jinxed by a desire to slack off whenever she began doing well. Once Tony had swallowed this bitter pill, he sought a sleeping partnership in another ‘business venture’.
Thoughts of money were beginning to worry Mae constantly, and there was an edginess about her and a sense of falsity in her gaiety. I felt pretty sure that Tony knew all about her dealings with the moneylenders and her trips to the pawn shop – there wasn’t much privacy in Soho – but it suited him to say nothing. Her forays even extended into my savings. That was on the day she talked me into buying her pawn ticket from her.
‘There’s a nice mink stole, as well as the coat and ring; I hocked it while Rabbits was here – never been worn. Might as well keep them in the family. I’ll let you have them cheap.’
There was almost six months’ worth of interest to pay, but in all fairness, it wasn’t a bad bargain. Even so, the last things I wanted or needed were a Persian-lamb coat, a sapphire and diamond ring and a mink stole. In fact the mink stole has still never been worn.
And then, of course, Mae was Mae. She was too restless a soul to allow anything to remain as it was for too long, so she began augmenting the Purple Hearts with anything else that came her way. Having run the gamut of everything obtainable, she settled on two drugs in particular. One was known as a Bomb: a large, clear capsule filled with green and white hundreds-and-thousands that exploded inside you at intervals. The other was a Black Bomber, a form of speed made from a combination of amphetamines and dextroamphetamines. She must have had the constitution of an elephant.
Unable to work off her surplus energy on Tony, she began to use her clients. The masochists started to get a lot more value for money – almost more than they wanted. Then she began taking on all-nighters, which shrivelled me up with fear for her safety, and she began to play irresponsible, kinky games with her straight clients. It was these that caused the first real drop of poison to be injected into my affections for Mae.
There was one client who said that he was a bit bored with straight sex and wondered if Mae could suggest anything new. He couldn’t have consulted a better person. Mae came out and whispered salaciously into my ear, ‘Keep your eye glued to that hole in the wall, or you’ll miss the sight of a lifetime.’ Then, aloud, grabbing the man from the kitchen chair, she said, ‘You want something different; well, I’ve got it.’ And she pulled him into the bedroom after her.
I saw the thrill-seeker strip naked and bend over to touch his toes and another client, equally naked, approach him. The evident relish on his face showed that he too had paid for something different, and he was all for it. Client No. 1 was not so happy; after several attempts, during which he let out sharp yelps, he eventually retreated into a neutral corner. Not to be outdone, Mae talked them into changing drivers – but with similar results. She enjoyed every minute of all this and had goaded them on throughout.
Though it’s not to my credit, I watched right through to the bitter end, hardly believing it. It was not until I saw the two men leave, separately and shamefacedly, that I began to have misgivings. They had been coaxed into performing acts that they would never otherwise have dreamed of. I was uneasy about what effect this episode might have on their self-esteem and was disappointed in Mae for having engineered it. I decided that although it was within the rules to give men all the things they might have thought of themselves, it was quite wrong to persuade them to act against their instincts.
From then on, my feelings for Mae subtly altered. I had seen my idol’s feet of clay, and although I still loved her and remained loyal, my love and loyalty were no longer absolute and unquestioning. The unthinking, light-hearted frivolity had completely gone; now, beneath the smiles and bonhomie, her eyes took on the calculating watchfulness of the professional entertainer. I notched this up as one more black mark against Tony, and my hatred of him grew so strong that I could barely speak to him.
Thirty-One
Towards the end of January, Mae erupted into some of her old, spontaneous gaiety.
We’d just had a severe spell of icy weather and for several days our phone number was being dialled by people who had got hold of Mae’s ‘M. Roberts, Plumber’ business cards at second hand. One of these was a woman who’d found the card in her husband’s wallet and had kept it for an emergency. Mae relished the opportunity for double entendre.
‘Sorry, love, we’re up to our eyes with bursting pipes just now. We’re on the job day and night with leaks.’
Later, a man called – he’d no doubt been given the card as a joke. In a cooing and seductive voice, Mae said, ‘Frozen, you say? Oh, you poor dear. Why don’t you come up here and I’ll thaw it out for you.’
This was a brief respite. Dark clouds continued to gather around Mae. Because she was so much away from Tony, she began to suspect him of being unfaithful. He was allegedly spending most of his time at a Maltese club in Greek Street that was run by a man known as Big Frank. Mae began sending me to check on him.
It was a very large room, about as inspiring as a church hall. In the far corner was a bar, and near it, a cluster of card tables. The only lights were behind the bar and the ones that illuminated several billiard tables. A dozen or so pallid, dark-haired men whiled away their days there. The air was permanently thick and blue from their cigars. Big Frank spent his time strolling amongst them, looking imposing and placid.
The ponces found this place highly convenient. It was handily placed for checking up on the girls every so often and was a good centre for news. Most of the time they simply lounged about listlessly and the place reeked of boredom. On my first visit, it occurred to me that this boredom was the natural payback for their determination to fill their days without doing a stroke of work. Whenever I opened the door, all heads swung round in unison.
Mae sent me there with such transparently unnecessary messages that I was embarrassed. As her mistrust of Tony grew, my excursions to Greek Street became more and more frequent. It was absurd, especially as Tony always was at the club anyway.
‘Mae,’ I said. ‘How can you get so worked up about Tony going around with another woman – or even sleeping with one – when you’re doing all this?’ I waved my hand to indicate the bed, the box of Durex and the canes strewn about.
She gave me a long, thoughtful look.
‘A bloke’s got to feel like it before he can
perform,’ she said. ‘I haven’t.’
With that truly wonderful piece of homespun wisdom, she packed me off to Big Frank’s place once more.
Tony was indeed messing, but he was too careful to fall into Mae’s traps. He’d been doing it for some time and everyone knew it except Mae. No one dared tell her, least of all me. Eventually, though, the storm burst with unexpected suddenness, and all hell broke loose.
Mae had spent one of her rare nights at Slough. Whilst sleeplessly prowling about the house, she’d come across Tony’s latest bank statement. Her calculations were never wrong where money was concerned, and she knew the statement should have shown five thousand pounds or so; instead it read four pounds fifteen shillings and twopence.
Whilst still enraged by this discovery, she also came across two brunette hairclips. She nearly went berserk. In a boiling frenzy, she phoned for a taxi and returned to the West End, leaving Tony snoring in bed. She spent the rest of the night rushing from one all-night café to another, questioning everybody. Tactful ignorance disappeared when challenged by this screaming virago: at last, she ferreted out the truth.
She then went and woke the girl in question from a tranquil sleep. She removed a few handfuls of hair, beat her up and left her sobbing on the floor. It was about seven in the morning, and so she went on to the flat and phoned me to join her. When I arrived, she was lying flat on the bed, puffing hard on a cigarette and staring grimly at the ceiling. It was obvious that something cataclysmic had happened. In silence, I made us a cup of tea and, after a few sips, she poured out the story of her night’s adventures.
No repercussions occurred all morning: Tony was a great sleeper. Mae and I sat – as women from time immemorial have sat – drinking tea, me uttering condolences and both of us mulling over the iniquities of men. After midday, when clients began to arrive, she took them, from force of habit, but her heart wasn’t in it.
Then, at about three o’clock, we heard thunderous footsteps on the staircase and Tony burst in on us in a murderous fury. He made as though to attack Mae, but thought better of it and just stood there, breathing hard and glaring with blazing eyes. She glared back, breathing just as hard.
‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on me, you fucking bastard,’ she hissed.
‘Lay a finger on you, you filth! It makes me sick every time I have to touch you. I have to force myself to touch you.’
He said this in a low, vicious voice, and I thought to myself, This is the truth she’s hearing at last; this is the good Catholic boy talking.
‘This is what I think of you,’ he said, and he spat full in her face.
There was a poignant silence. Then Mae brought her hands up to her face and began to cry with the most racking sobs I ever want to hear: as though she were disintegrating into her hands. As he remained glaring at her with an air of satisfaction, I stepped towards him.
‘You’re a guttersnipe,’ I said. ‘And in five years you’ll be a fat, ugly guttersnipe. She gave you everything you have. How dare you!’ I was beside myself with rage and gave him a push. ‘Get out, before I make you ugly, now!’
My fingernails were right up to his face like the claws of a cat. If he’d made the slightest move towards the pocket where he kept his flick knife, I would have had my excuse, and the way I felt, I could have killed him. He glared at me for a moment longer, then he muttered something and flung himself out of the room.
I turned to Mae, who was still racked by heartbroken sobs. I put my arms round her and cuddled her.
‘What he said! What he said!’ she cried over and over again.
‘You’re worth ten of him,’ I said. ‘Other men pay to touch you.’
This notion seemed to have some cheering effect on her, and the sobs gradually turned into sniffs. I brought her a cup of tea and locked the door.
‘It’s no good, Babs, is it? Can I come and sleep with you tonight? You’re the only friend I’ve got,’ she said, giving me a watery smile.
We went home to my place by taxi and warmed our toes in front of the gas fire, drinking endless cups of tea. We were calming down by degrees, when the front doorbell went. We looked at one another nervously, but I knew I had to answer it. Tony was on the doorstep, and two other men were waiting in his car.
‘I want to speak to Mae,’ he said, in a voice that brooked no opposition.
‘I’ll see if she wants to come,’ I replied, trying to grasp back some of my earlier bravado.
‘Get her,’ he demanded ominously.
My heart thumping, I shut the front door on him and went back upstairs. ‘It’s Tony,’ I said. ‘He wants to speak to you.’
She looked scared. ‘I thought it would be,’ she said. ‘He’ll make a scene if I don’t go. Come with me, will you?’
I didn’t relish facing him again but I had to cover my fear and be Mae’s strength. Together we went to the front door and opened it. To my evident disbelief, there stood a completely transformed Tony. His face had creased into a relieved and humble smile, and freshly applied fake tears glistened on his cheeks.
He flung his arms wide open and said, ‘Oh Mae, my darling. I thought I’d really lost you. Don’t ever leave me like that again, or I’ll kill myself; I swear it. I can’t live without you.’
With a little sob, she rushed into his arms. With the mock tears already drying on his face, Tony smiled at me triumphantly over her shoulder.
Nothing was ever quite the same from then on. There was constraint – a sense of embarrassment – between Mae and me. She wanted to forget Tony’s insults, but she couldn’t because I’d heard them too. More than that, she’d heard me tell Tony what I really thought of him; my long-term concealed dislike had become apparent. I had made a classic mistake: I had taken sides in a fight between partners; the rift was no longer between them, but between them and me.
Left alone, Mae and I would have forgotten this unpleasant episode and, in time, returned to our old, easy relationship. But we were not left alone. In Tony’s book, my days were numbered.
I knew that I had always been a thorn in his side; moreover, I had stood toe-to-toe with him in open conflict. I knew enough of him to realise that he wouldn’t be happy until I was out of the way. This fact should have made me nervous, but I felt nothing but cold anger. He knew that resorting to the customary threats of violence wasn’t going to work with me. He recognised my principled nature and so hit on a more subtle and cunning plan.
Guido’s Lulu – already responsible for Mae’s drug addiction – began visiting us every evening, ostensibly to make up her face before going to work. At first she performed this task in the waiting room so that Mae could carry on working if she wanted to. One evening she began to complain that the lighting in there was bad and asked if she could use the bedroom. Not being able to do anything whilst Lulu was in there, Mae sat on the bed and chatted with her. The following evening, Lulu went straight into the bedroom as a matter of course, ‘absent-mindedly’ closing the door after her to exclude me.
From then on, there was a noticeable decline in Mae’s manner towards me. It started as a slight decrease in her warmth and cheerfulness. It was nothing much: as though she weren’t feeling too bright. It was strange enough to arouse my suspicions but not enough for me to be direct. I asked if she was worried about something, but she said no, everything was fine.
Gradually, after two or three evenings of being closeted with Lulu, the change became so marked that she wouldn’t look at me when I spoke to her and wouldn’t speak at all unless I did first. I wasn’t able to suffer in silence for long.
‘Mae, what is the matter? Have I done something wrong?’
She wouldn’t look at me, and said nothing.
‘What is it?’ I said. ‘It’s not fair to be like this without telling me why.’
Slowly, still without looking at me, she said, ‘I’ve heard that you’re going around telling everyone that I take it in the mouth and go without rubbers and do all sorts.’
It was a relie
f not to be guessing what was wrong any more, but at the same time I suddenly felt weary and sick of everything. It was a stock insult from one prostitute to another – a real old chestnut – and Tony had dusted it off and succeeded in ascribing it to me. I was shocked that after so much time spent together, Mae had so little understanding of my nature. Our friendship had been so important to me that I would have fought a horde of dragons for it, but she had let a few calculatedly spiteful words destroy it.
Memories of the past flooded into my mind; amongst them were the words of the kind policewomen who had tried to prise me away from Mae: ‘Promise me you won’t waste your loyalty. Don’t throw it away on something worthless . . . Just wait and see; you’ll learn in time.’ That time had arrived. My idol’s feet of clay had finally crumbled and pitched my first, passionate friendship into the dust.
At last I made myself say something. ‘You believe that? You really think that’s my style? Is this what Lulu’s been saying?’
‘Several people say you’ve said it,’ she answered, still avoiding my gaze.
‘So it was Lulu,’ I corrected her, firmly.
At last she turned to me. ‘Did you?’ she said.
I didn’t grace the question with an answer. I had a vision of Lulu’s doll-like face and her large, innocent blue eyes turned on Mae while she watched the effect that her slow poisoning was having; then I thought of Tony’s satisfied grin as he received her daily progress reports.
Even now, I thought cynically, all will not be lost if I start to shout and scream – if I threaten to go and carve up Lulu. Mae would understand that: it was the accepted defence strategy. But I was so hurt that Mae didn’t understand quiet, unostentatious loyalty – didn’t recognise true friendship – and I wasn’t about to demean myself.
‘Just tell me you didn’t say it,’ she insisted, now eyeing me quite hard.
