The Runaway (3 page)

Cathy nodded, saying a quiet goodnight and slipping back into the bedroom. The large overcoat that covered the bed was falling on to the floor and she pulled it back on top, tucking a sleeve under the mattress to secure it.

Eamonn was already asleep and as she slipped in beside him, the warmth of his body was like balm.

Madge was frozen. As she felt the man’s hands grope inside the bodice of her dress she cursed softly under her breath. He was a small Chinese with bad teeth and the haunting smell of Chow Mein on his hair. Freeing her pendulous breasts, he squeezed them painfully, causing her to shove him away from her.

‘Don’t get flash, mate, I ain’t in the mood. And as I’ve got about six stone on you, I wouldn’t advise you to try nothing too rough.’

The man smiled in the dimness and once more pushed her against the wall, but more gently this time. She felt his lips on her nipple and smiled in the darkness. They were like three-inch rivets with the cold. As she hitched her dress up over her hips the icy wind made her shiver all over. The Chinese man thought he was doing something right for once and sucked furiously on her breast. Madge felt an urge to crush his skull in her bare hands. Instead she placed her leg up on a wooden crate and encouraged him to enter her.

‘Come on, mate, it’s fucking freezing.’

He was strong for his size and as he began a steady rhythmic thrusting she set about her real business of the night. Murmuring encouragement, she pulled him into the warmth of her coat. She ran her hands over his body, gently and expertly relieving him of his wallet. He had already given her a brand new ten-shilling note; now she went for the big one. Expertly, in the guise of caresses, she checked him for a knife. Though most sailors carried them in their boots, it was as well to be prepared. Her own knife was safely tucked into the back of her dress, in a thin belt, in case she needed it. She felt the shuddering of his body and the slimy wetness between her legs, and then as always she held him for a few seconds until he regained the use of his legs. His hot heavy breath coming in short gasps, he spoke to her in Cantonese and she smiled at him gaily.

‘All right, love?’

He seemed to understand her tone and smiled again. Madge realised he was only young, no more than nineteen. Why was it she never looked at them properly till after the event?

She shrugged. Pulling her coat around her, she made her way through the back of the building and into the warmth of the bar.

‘Give us a hot toddy, Pete,’ she shouted to the barman as she made her way to the ladies’ toilet. Inside she put her leg on the dirty seat and wiped herself clean. Then, rinsing her hands under the icy cold tap, she shook them dry. Wiping away the last of the water on her dress, she took the wallet from her pocket. It was a cheap plastic affair with ‘Buenos Aires’ written boldly across it. A souvenir of her john’s travels. Madge smiled because it had ‘Made in China’ on the back.

‘Long way to go for a wallet made in your own country!’ Her voice was loud in the small cubicle.

Inside the wallet there were three five-pound notes and a photograph of an elderly-looking woman, probably his grandmother. Grinning now, Madge tossed the wallet into her bag and made her way out to the warmth of the bar once more.

Pushing through the throng, she picked up her hot toddy. When she saw Betty sitting at a table with two sailors, she joined them.

Pete’s Bar was an old container depot, rented from a local bullyboy called Jimmy Capper who saw to it that the place was never raided and that it was ‘protected’. He was twenty-five, shrewd and violent. Perfect credentials for Custom House, and the perfect foil for Peter Lawson, the bar’s owner. Peter encouraged his girls to work, and looked after them in his rough way. He would loan them money and sort out disputes. All his girls respected him, few of them liked him. They paid ‘scrum’ money to work the bar and resented this, arguing that they kept his trade coming in. Pete argued back that their whole livelihoods revolved around robbing the sailors, so if they wanted his protection it would cost them. It was a chicken and egg situation, and no one would ever win.

Tonight Pete’s clientele was the usual mixture of Chinese, Russian and European seamen. Gambling was the major attraction, and Pete watered down their drinks, overcharged them, and smiled at their jokes. He kept a sawn-off shotgun under his counter to scare them when they fought, and a baseball bat in the ladies’ toilets for when the whores argued among themselves. In fact, he preferred fighting the men; breaking up two women, kicking, screaming and scratching, was far more dangerous as far as he was concerned. Especially waterfront women. They were the hardest, meanest bitches he had ever come across. But, he conceded, they had to be.

Part of him admired them for their toughness. They spent their lives in the pox clinic, his bar or up against walls. Anyone who could sustain that lifestyle for years deserved a certain respect. He watched the bar constantly, and kept up eye contact with his two bouncers. In Pete’s Bar, anything could happen but he averaged £700 a week and that was what kept him here, and his wife and children in a detached house in Maida Vale.

Madge was on her second rum toddy when the Chinese sailor walked back into the bar. She didn’t see him until he stepped in front of her. For a second she didn’t realise who he was.

‘Money, lady. Want money.’

He stood there in dignified silence as everyone turned to stare at him. His white suit, crumpled and stained, was bright under the harsh lights.

‘Money, lady. Want money.’

Madge grinned. ‘Fuck off! I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

She resumed drinking her toddy. Betty watched the little man warily as he stood before her friend. People, women especially, had been knifed for much less than a wallet on the waterfront at Custom House.

A record came on the jukebox and as the strains of Del Shannon belted out, the little Chinese man once more asked politely for his money. The two sailors Betty had found were Russians - great bears of men who spoke perfect English.

‘Do you have his money?’ The Russian sailor’s thick guttural voice was hard. Sailors were the same the world over. If the woman had stolen the Chinese man’s wallet, the chances were she could already have his. Instinctively he put his hand to his pocket and was relieved to find the reassuring bulge still there.

Madge lit a cigarette and shook her head dismissively. ‘I ain’t got his fucking money. He’s a nutter.’ She leant forward in her seat and said: ‘Look, you had a nice time, didn’t you? You probably lost your money or something.’ She smiled at the Russian nearer her and hunched her shoulders in a ‘They all try this’ kind of way. She didn’t want to lose this one; if she could score again tonight, she could have tomorrow off.

Two women made their way to the table and stood nearby, sipping their drinks. Like sailors, whores stuck together. One of the women, a large-boned African called Dobie, smiled slightly at the little Chinese man. A gold tooth glinted in the light and her tribal markings made her face look like a death mask.

‘Go on, piss off, you little runt!’ Betty’s voice had a finality about it that even the Chinese man understood.

Before anyone realised what had happened he had stabbed Madge in the upper arm. The three-inch blade hung unsteadily against the bone for a few seconds before dropping to the table. Madge looked at the wound in wonderment. A deep tear was oozing blood and the open flap of skin seemed to hover in the air for a second before closing over the wound once more.

The Chinese was instantly knocked flying by Dobie’s handbag. He was launched unceremoniously into the lap of a Swedish sailor who was playing cards and hadn’t bothered to look up during the argument.

Within seconds the whole bar was in uproar as sailors began fighting among themselves. All the Chinese patrons were determined to look after their countryman.

Pete Lawson was hauling out his sawn-off shotgun as all the women made a hasty retreat. Outside they hurried towards Commercial Road; an all-night cafe would be their final destination. As they hurried along, the African woman opened her bag and removed a housebrick, flinging it away with animal strength.

In the brightly lit Commercial Road their footsteps slowed. A few snowflakes shone in the light of the streetlamps and they all pulled their coats tighter around them.

‘Brass monkey weather this, eh, girls?’ Betty’s voice was loud but no one answered her. They burst into Lenny’s all-night cafe, bringing with them the cold and the smell of cheap perfume. Sitting at a large table at the back, they looked at one another and burst into loud nervous laughter.

‘Breakfast’s on you, Madge Connor, seeing’s how you started all the hag in the first place.’

Madge grinned and slipped out of her coat. They all surveyed her wound.

‘You’ll live. A couple of stitches and you’ll be right as ninepence. We’ll nip up the Old London before we go home.’

Madge lit a cigarette and coughed heavily. ‘Fucking rinky dink dinks! No wonder they dropped a fucking bomb on them.’

‘That was the Japs, you prat. Here, did you see in the paper today about Hedy Lamarr? Got caught shoplifting in Holly-wood! With all that money, she’s out skanking!’

Lenny automatically began pouring them out tea laced with whisky. He didn’t mind the whores, they were a good earner. The women chatted on about nothing very much, all aware that they had got off lightly, all unwilling to admit that fact. It was common for women to be found dead in the docks; they all knew they were prime targets. Used and abused by sailors who came and went within days, hours in some cases, the police didn’t bother looking too hard into the case when one of them was murdered. The attitude seemed to be: one fewer to harass, one fewer to police. Their age, lifestyle and looks condemned them to such a livelihood in Custom House. Even the dingiest bars in Soho would shun them. They were the lowest of their kind and all too well aware of that fact.

Yet, united, they possessed a certain rough dignity of their own.

 

Young Eamonn opened his eyes and yawned heavily. At ten he knew he was getting too old to sleep with his stepsister but her warm presence reassured him. He lay listening to her soft snores. Then, remembering she’d been up in the night, he felt a pang of guilt. He knew he should have got up with her; instead he had gone straight back to sleep. He looked at the curtains and saw the weak winter sunshine coming through them and snuggled down under the covers once more. Cathy didn’t mind getting up and she would soon have the kitchen nice and warm for them. Under the pretence of turning over, he pushed against her roughly, knowing she would waken. Then, pretending still to be asleep, he burrowed down deeper into the bed. As he felt her get up, he smiled to himself.

Cathy was good, she knew what had to be done and she did it. In twenty minutes she would have tea and toast ready for him and he could get up and scamper through to the heat of the kitchen.

Cathy shivered as she lit the small stove, turning on two burners to try and heat the place up. She cut the bread expertly and put it under the grill, then pulling down the door to the wooden larder, she checked over the provisions. There was margarine and a small amount of jam. Humming now, she began to prepare breakfast. Just as she had made a large pot of tea Madge let herself in the front door.

‘A nice cup of tea! Just the thing, it’s freezing out there.’ Opening a newspaper parcel, she revealed some cold sausages. ‘I got these from the cafe for you, love.’

‘I’ll put them into sandwiches. I love sausages.’

Cathy smiled at her mother, grateful for the small kindness. Good money was earned with regularity in this house, but the amount that went on food was paltry. Drink was the mainstay of the household, as were new clothes for Madge when she was flush, and elaborate furniture, which was always repossessed.

Somehow, doing a weekly shop was beyond her. They got tick, like everyone else, at Tamlin’s, and lived from day to day, paying a bit off the back only when refused more food or cigarettes.

Madge took off her old coat and grinned. ‘Bleeding thing! I’ll have to get a new one. I look like fucking Yogi Bear walking about!’

Cathy laughed delightedly. ‘That means Betty must be Boo Boo!’

They laughed together at the joke.

Madge, full up with bacon, eggs, tomatoes and sausages, turned her nose up at the sandwiches. As she watched her daughter deftly work in the small kitchen, she felt a momentary pang of regret. Looking at the tangled blonde hair hanging down the child’s back, and her large blue eyes, she realised that she loved Cathy dearly. She was a good kid, you could rely on her to do what needed to be done. In a few years she’d be a real little asset . . .

‘Give us a kiss, baby.’

Cathy went dutifully to her mother. Putting her thin arms around Madge’s ample waist, she kissed the cheek which her mother bent to offer her.

‘I love you, Mum.’

Madge nodded sadly. ‘I know you do, darlin’.’

Madge hugged her little girl against her, savouring the sweetness of her smell and her wiry thinness. Cathy would be all right, she was a survivor. Madge told herself this every day of her life.

Eamonn Senior watched them from the doorway and shook his head in wonderment. How had God in His wisdom ever seen fit to give them both children?

He surveyed Madge’s smeared make-up and fat belly, her varicose veins and swollen feet in tight silver stilettos. In her big moon face there was still a trace of the beauty she had possessed once. Madge was just thirty-five years old.

Pulling his braces up over his shoulders, he walked into the little kitchen. ‘Sausages, is it? Have we no eggs?’

Cathy shook her head, happy at the jovial tone of his voice. Madge took a pound note from her bag as Eamonn Junior came into the kitchen, face still creased with sleep.