West End Girls: The Real Lives, Loves and Friendships of 1940s Soho and Its Working Girls (13 page)

‘Look, there he is: over there. And he’s just seen us.’

The head waiter approached.

‘I want to sit at one of that waiter’s tables, please,’ she told him sweetly. She pointed at Alphonse, who did a very good impression of having been turned to stone.

Once we were seated, she clicked her fingers. ‘Waiter,’ she called melodiously. I turned scarlet under my make-up as he came shuffling over with his head down in a most un-waiter-like manner. He was a tall, rather good-looking man, and in my view a much nicer type than Tony.

‘He looks just like a penguin, doesn’t he?’ Mae giggled – just as he came into earshot. ‘Well, my man, where’s the menu?’

Then she took us through all the courses. She was allegedly dissatisfied with each and threatened to complain to the management about the service. First she said the soup was cold and must be sent back; then she criticised the state of the cutlery and glassware and demanded replacements. I could see that Alphonse wished he could put either to violent use. However, he gritted his teeth and found admirable self-control. He was betrayed only by his trembling hands: a calamity while serving the peas was his only disaster.

When we came to the sweet course, Mae turned diabolical. She slammed down the menu and announced, ‘We’ll have crêpes Suzette, waiter.’

Purple-faced, he trundled over to us with the trolley and proceeded to go through all the complicated business necessary for the highly overrated little pancakes. Mae stopped talking completely so she could watch every part of the process. Under this scrutiny, Alphonse knocked over bottles and slopped things everywhere. After several attempts, he succeeded in getting the crêpes to go up in flames, and Mae let out a piercing shriek that made him nearly drop the lot. It all felt like a malicious charade and I marvelled that Alphonse didn’t tell the head waiter he had an awkward customer – as I feared he might.

At last we ordered coffee – after Mae had conspicuously dusted the cups with her napkin – and then called for the bill. She checked it meticulously and finally opened her handbag, which was crammed so full of money it nearly erupted. She extracted a few notes and disdainfully let them flutter to the plate. Thankful to be nearing the end of his ordeal, Alphonse scuttled off and returned with her change. She picked it up in its entirety then, almost as an afterthought, dropped a shilling back on to the plate.

‘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.