by Jake Arnott
‘You know what all this is about, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ I sighed. ‘Peter.’
Rachman. I met him at a party in the Latin Quarter Club in Soho. He set me up in the flat. Made me give up the club. ‘It’ll wear you out,’ he said. ‘In a few years you’ll have nothing to show for it but a lined face, and then what’ll you do?’ He gave me enough money so that I could start going to castings and auditions again. He even got me a little MG sportscar. He didn’t ask for much in return. He would come around every so often and without much ceremony lead me into the bedroom. He was short, fat and bald and had an odd squeaky Polish accent. He always had me sitting on top of him facing the other way so I didn’t see his face when we had sex. He’d been in a concentration camp during the war and had never really got over the experience. He was stinking rich but he still hoarded crusts of bread under his bed out of habit. His eyes never lost their cold glittering hardness. I’d heard about his methods as a landlord. Setting thugs with alsatians on tenants that wouldn’t pay. He shrugged as if he didn’t realise what all the fuss was about. ‘Business is business, Ruby,’ he’d say. ‘If someone agrees to pay ten pounds a week then I am entitled to make sure payment is made. I have my overheads, you know.’
For a while our arrangement worked well for me. I had the time and money to try again with my acting career. Peter had lots of contacts. Usually the wrong ones. And I had become his possession. I lost any sense of pursuing things for myself. I no longer felt that I had any control over my life. Being kept made me lazy.
He had other mistresses but he was insistent that I was not to see other men. He was suspicious of the most innocent circumstances. He could not imagine men taking any kind of interest in women unless it was sexual.
After a while it got too much for me. At first I made excuses to avoid seeing him, to put off his little visits to the flat. But when these ran out I just missed appointments that had been made, knowing that he would be infuriated turning up to an empty apartment. I’d been expecting a visit from one of his heavies for a while now.
‘Mr Rachman wants to know where the hell you’ve been.’
The well-tailored thug spoke softly. He had more style than Peter’s usual muscle.
‘You don’t look like one of Rachman’s usual rent collectors,’ I said.
The man shrugged and took a sip of whisky.
‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m freelance.’
‘So Peter’s hiring extras, is he? What’s the matter? He in trouble?’
‘Yeah, well, your boyfriend is having a spot of bother, actually. Not just from you. Some people are wanting a share in the profits. It doesn’t pay to let a racket get too well known. People are liable to muscle in. I think he wants me on his firm.’
‘For protection?’
‘Something like that. But I ain’t getting involved. It’s bad business.’
‘But you don’t mind coming around here and scaring me for him?’
‘Hell, he’s paying me enough.’
‘I still don’t get it. Why’s he gone to the bother of having you follow me? He could of sent one of his own men.’
‘Well he wants this matter sorted with a bit of delicacy. And because . . .’
The man gave a little cough.
‘He can trust me with you.’
‘Really?’ I said smiling. ‘Immune to my charms, are you?’
‘Yeah, something like that,’ he replied rather tetchily.
I’d hit a nerve. For a second his gaze lost some of its toughness and became petulant. He pulled his head back a touch as if to regain his poise. His face tightened with menace as if to compensate for being caught off guard.
‘He wants you to start behaving yourself.’
‘Or else?’
The man suddenly slammed his glass on the coffee table and I gave a little jump.
‘Look, darling. You’ve got a flat, a car, regular money from him. You know what Rachman’s like. He expects you to keep your part of the bargain. It’s not a good idea to fuck him around like this. He’s liable to turn nasty.’
‘Or to get someone to turn nasty for him.’
‘Well I ain’t here for my own good health.’
He picked up his glass, drained the rest of his scotch and put it back on the table.
‘So, what’s supposed to happen now?’
‘You come with me and we go and see him.’
‘And if I say no?’
‘That wouldn’t be a good idea,’ he said flatly.
He looked around the room for a while and then stared back at me.
‘So what’s it going to be?’ he demanded.
I suddenly found myself starting to sob. Real fear mostly but some of the tears were Charm School technique, like I was detached from it, acting it out. Just like he was. He sighed heavily and went over to the cabinet and poured another round of drinks. He handed me a glass and pulled the handkerchief out of the top pocket of his suit for me to blow my nose on.
‘You’ve got yourself into a right fucking mess, Miss Ryder.’
‘Ruby,’ my voice quavered. ‘Call me Ruby. What am I going to do?’
He sighed and shook his head. Then he sat down again and waited for me to catch his stare once more.
‘We go and see him. Yeah? Come clean about finishing with him. Give him the car keys and the keys to the flat.’
I wiped my face and stared back.
‘But he’ll be angry. He’ll want to hurt me.’
‘Well, you should expect a couple of slaps for the way you’ve been carrying on. But that will probably be it.’
I nodded slowly as if trying to steady my head.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘OK.’
He got up and patted my shoulder.
‘Finish your drink and get ready. We’ll go in my car.’
I looked up at him and chewed at my lower lip nervously. He grinned down at me.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’ll soon be over.’
‘Yeah, all right. Thanks, er . . .’
‘Harry,’ he said. ‘Harry Starks.’
Harry drove us to an address in North Kensington. It was a crumbling Victorian terrace that smelt of damp. One of Peter’s properties. Rachman pulled me by the arm and dragged me into the front room. He slapped me hard about the face while still holding me by the elbow and then pushed me onto a battered sofa.
‘You stupid bloody bitch!’ he shouted at me.
Harry had come into the room. Rachman turned away from me and walked over to him, peeling off notes from a bankroll he took from his back pocket.
‘Thank you, Mr Starks,’ he said, suddenly genial as he handed over a wad of money. ‘A job well done. I only wish that I could employ you on a more permanent basis.’
‘Rent collecting?’
‘I was thinking more of using your, um, organisational skills.’
‘This wouldn’t have to do with a take-over bid from Bethnal Green, would it?’
‘Tch, those twins. What am I going to do with them? They were always looking for twins in the camps, you know,’ he remarked rather wistfully. ‘Experiments.’
‘If you want my advice, give them something to play with. Something to distract them.’
‘Money?’
‘No. They’ll spend it quick and come back for more when it’s used up. Give them something solid. A racket or something.’
‘A property?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
Harry made a move to go. Rachman shook his hand.
‘If you ever reconsider my offer, you know where I am.’
Harry looked over at me just before he turned to leave. He gave me a quick nod and then he was gone.
‘So, have you come to your senses?’ Rachman hissed at me.
‘You could say that,’ I replied and picked my handbag off the floor.
‘Are you going to behave yourself ?’
I took the keys to the car and the flat and handed them to him. He weighed them in
his hand and narrowed his eyes at me.
‘I see,’ he said.
He pocketed the car keys and then, holding the flat keys by the fob, made to swing at me with them. Flinching, I curled up into the sofa, then uncoiled as I realised he was faking. He started laughing.
‘You little bastard!’ he hissed, tossing the keys in my lap.
‘I can keep the flat?’
‘Yes, you can keep it. But you start paying rent.’
Queenie Watts was belting out a song on the stage of the Kentucky. There was a glass in my hand. I took a gulp of gin without thinking. Reflex action.
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
What did he want? From what I’d gathered the obvious seemed out of the question. Uneasy thoughts. Blackmail. Was that it? Always edgy about my past. I worked so hard to cover it up. And here he was now like the ghost at the feast.
‘I just wanted . . .’
A shrug and a grin. Putting on the friendly act.
‘To buy you a drink.’
‘And talk over old times? No thank you.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. About what happened. It was just . . .’
Another shrug.
‘Business.’
‘And this is just sociable?’
‘Yeah.’
I laughed.
‘Go on then. Surprise me. Be sociable.’
‘You were good in Woman in the Shadows.’
‘You saw that?’
After Peter I got a film part. I’d played a tragic whore in a Gaumont feature in 1961. Cruel gossip was that I hadn’t had to act very hard. Rumours dogged my attempts at a legitimate career. The film hadn’t done much business anyway.
‘Yeah, I saw it. You were good.’
‘The tart with a heart. Well, as you know, I can play that one from memory.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to talk about old times.’
‘Why not? We know each other’s secrets. Where’s your young friend, by the way?’
Harry lost his smile for a second. He coughed and looked across the room to where his boyfriend was talking animatedly to Victor Spinetti.
‘He can look after himself,’ he said gruffly.
‘Yeah, you want to watch him.’
‘So,’ said Harry turning back to me. ‘What are you working on at the moment?’
‘Darling, I’ve had fuck all work for months. I think I’m getting past it.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘It’s true. Anyway, never mind my so-called career. What about you? Who are you threatening these days?’
Harry laughed.
‘I’ve come on a bit since then.’
‘Not doing walk-on work any more then?’
‘I’ve got my own interests now. I’m a businessman.’
‘Of course.’
‘No, really. I’ve got my own club now.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry proudly. He did a quick scan of the Kentucky, flaring his nostrils slightly. ‘In the West End.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Yeah. You should come down. I’m having a big do there next week. A charity night.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that.’
‘Go on, Rube. It’ll be a chance for me to make it up to you for, you know, that Rachman business. There’s quite a lot of people in your line of business that come down. You could make some useful contacts.’
‘I’ve heard that one before.’
The Stardust Club. It wasn’t exactly part of the fashionable scene. But then it was a relief not to be surrounded by wafer-thin models and slumming public schoolboys. Charity night and Harry packed his club with ‘personalities’. Politicians, showbiz types, all sorts of potential friends in high places that he could be photographed with. I realised then what Harry wanted. He had collected me. He wanted me as part of the group of minor celebrities that he liked to gather around him for a bit of social clout and cheap glamour.
There were others there too. People with improbable names up to all kinds of business. Thieves, touts, con men, dog dopers. Harry would introduce me to them, often with a whispered aside as to their status. ‘A hoister,’ he’d say, indicating a short, well-dressed woman, ‘and a good one at that.’ He was as proud of the form of the villains that frequented his premises as he was of the fame of his celebrities. And it seemed an active meeting place for criminals. All sorts of people would drop by to gather information. To ‘get a clue’, as they’d put it.
There was a sort of fairground or circus feel to the place. I have to admit that it was me that nicknamed it the Sawdust. I got to quite like the atmosphere there. I got treated with a lot more respect there than in the trendier places in London. There I was just a tarty actress with a shady past. In the Sawdust I felt legitimate.
And I got to know Harry. He was always charming in that slightly menacing way of his. I remained wary of him. He frightened me a bit – I heard all sorts of rumours about him. And I always had this nagging feeling that he had something on me.
I understood the value of the sort of power people like Harry wielded. I’d lived a precarious life and in the back of my mind I thought there might come a time when I’d need to call on it. I only worried about what it might cost me.
In November of that year Harry phoned me.
‘Come for a drink, Ruby,’ he insisted, bluntly.
‘Harry?’
‘Come over Rube,’ he went on. ‘We should celebrate.’
‘Why?’
‘You not seen the evening paper?’
‘What’s all this about, Harry?’
‘Rachman. He’s dead.’
‘No.’
Harry laughed.
‘Yeah, the old bastard’s dead. Heart attack.’
‘I didn’t think he had one.’
So I got a cab over to the Sawdust and we held a bit of a wake for Peter. I felt relief that he was dead, that that part of my life was finally over. But I was shocked too. Someone so viciously dedicated to his own survival could suddenly drop dead without warning. I’d almost envied his ruthlessness. After a few gins I had this strange image of all the stale crusts of bread that he hoarded under his bed, blue with mould, being heaped like packing for him into his coffin.
‘I can hardly believe that the old bugger’s dead,’ I said as Harry and I raised a glass together.
‘Well,’ said Harry. ‘At least he brought us together, Rube.’
With Rachman dead, few people knew about me being a whore. Except Harry of course. Now me and Harry had a past. We went back. From then on we started to become close. From time to time we went out together. There were many social occasions where he liked to be seen with a woman. He liked to put on a straight front sometimes. And I was the ideal companion, I was in on the act and my Rank Charm School training came in handy after all. And Harry played his part too. He acted the real gentleman. It was nice to be taken out and fussed over, so it worked out for both of us. Neither of us felt that we were doing each other any favours.
We became friends. As well as wanting an escort now and then Harry liked to have someone to talk to. To confide in. To be able to talk about the boys that he’d fell for or fallen out with. It wasn’t something he could discuss with his other friends. And I would confide in him as well. We seemed equally unlucky with men but we could rely on each other to some extent. Harry was prone to depression and at times, during one of his black moods, I’d have his heavy battered face sobbing gently into my shoulder.
In 1964 I was in a film called A Bird in the Hand. It was a trashy, very British sort of comedy. Full of innuendo and double entendre. I’d traded in my starlet persona for the blowsy dolly-bird act. I was the oversexed housewife opposite Gerald Wilman who played a travelling salesman selling sex hormones door to door. Gerald was famous for his part in the radio comedy How’s Your Father? A complete queen but terribly repressed about it. It all got channelled into his performance. Hyperactively furtive, neurotically camp, it seemed to sum up
the British fear of sex. And I was the dolly bird gone to seed, playing frustration as comedy.
When he wasn’t having a tantrum Gerald could be great fun on set. He could make the most harmless comment or situation seem loaded. His manic behaviour implied a lustful potential that existed everywhere. Except in the act itself. I don’t think Gerald ever had sex. Except with himself. He often mentioned masturbation. The ‘J. Arthur’, he called it, in a rhyming joke against my former employer, the methodist, ever so stainless, Mr Rank. I once said that Gerald should run the Wank Charm School, a that he found so funny that he later claimed it for himself.
I introduced him to Harry who was keen to meet him and they got on like a house on fire. Harry tried to get Gerald to come to one of his ‘parties’ but Gerald would have none of it. He still lived with his mother. He was a bit of a sad case really.
Apart from A Bird in the Hand, I did a bit of telly work, but work was a bit thin on the ground. I thought about leaving the business for good but what would I do? Harry always looked after me, insisted that I took a bit of cash from him from time to time to tide me over.
In 1965 I met Eddie Doyle at The Stardust. Harry introduced us. Eddie would regularly call in at the club. It was a good place to meet other faces and exchange information about jobs. Maybe get a clue.
Eddie was a jewel thief. A climber. He’d made a fortune out of shinning up and down the plumbing of some of the best houses in London and the Home Counties. And it wasn’t just drainpipes he was climbing. Eddie was from Deptford but he wore Savile Row suits and shirts by Washington Tremlett so that he could effect an entrance to the classier places in the city and mingle with his potential victims. He regularly read Tatler or Harper’s, scanning features on social engagements, photographs of rich socialites and their splendid homes, sizing up future jobs.
His first interest in me was probably in the possibility of meeting the rich and famous. Even when we started dating, I always suspected that his attention would at any moment stray to a professional interest in any fur or costume jewellery on display in the restaurant or nightclub we were in.
I could tell that Harry became a little jealous when me and Eddie started seeing each other. I still escorted Harry sometimes on social functions when he wanted to be seen with a woman but these occasions became rarer as I got more involved with Eddie. I realised that Harry had become quite possessive of me. But also I felt that Harry worried that he didn’t have as much style as Eddie. Eddie was a thief, not a heavy, and consequently his style was sharp where Harry’s was blunt. When they met they would talk in an almost competitive way about what to wear, what to drive, even what wine to order. Behind it all Harry always would have the upper hand, even if Eddie could point out that Cartier was not as sophisticated as Ulysses Jardin. Harry wielded real power and Eddie was always careful to defer to that. It was important for him to stay on good terms with people like Harry. Getting rid of stolen gear was often as risky as actual theft and Harry had more control over that end of the business. Gangsters would often prey on thieves if they got wind of a big haul. If Eddie made a lot of money from a particular job he’d often give some to Harry in exchange for protection.
