West End Girls: The Real Lives, Loves and Friendships of 1940s Soho and Its Working Girls (38 page)

This was followed by a long pause, after which she said quietly – almost to herself:

‘Whatever she was, she didn’t deserve that.’ Then – although the word ‘fire’ had not been previously mentioned – she said, ‘And the fire was started to hide the evidence.’

She said that Mae had died in terrible fear and that she couldn’t get any direct message from her yet, but if I could bring something really personal of hers, she would try again. I said I would try, but that all that was left of Mae was the small amount of distorted and blackened jewellery she was wearing when she died and which the police were still holding.

In February 1978, I heard that the landlord’s insurance company had decided that the fire was not an accident. The police had since reopened their investigations.

Sitting here now, writing and thinking, I find myself wondering if, by keeping closer in touch, I could have done anything to avert the final dark tragedy of Mae’s life. I sometimes doubt anyone could have done, for she was ever wayward and invariably followed her own inclinations. And now, in fairness to her, I cannot even pray that she rest in peace, for knowing Mae, peace is something she would not want.

The last memory I have of her was about a week after finding her again. She telephoned to ask if I fancied a night out, and I accepted her invitation.

She took me to the casino where, at that time, she was a well-known and frequent visitor. Having no particular faith in my luck, I didn’t play but contented myself with sitting and watching Mae as she conscientiously and systematically got through all her money. That was diversion enough, for she was looking particularly spectacular, even for her. She was wearing a floor-length dress: a drifting, pre-Raphaelite affair that seemed to be made of dozens of navy-blue chiffon handkerchiefs edged with white lace. Her blonde hair, tinged with amber by the dim peach lighting, was drawn back from her face and piled high, accentuating the length and slenderness of her neck and revealing perfectly that arrogant and lovely profile, utterly unimpaired by the passage of the years. She was – and to me will always remain – a miracle.

End Note

This manuscript was written some thirty years after the events described. It was initially dictated by Barbara and written out longhand by her beloved husband, who fell about laughing at many of the incidents described in these pages. Barbara edited the document herself, had it typed up and was then puzzled as to what to do next.

On her husband’s advice, she bought the
Writers’ And Artists’ Yearbook
, stuck a pin into its pages, and came up with the name of a literary agency. She sent the manuscript in, in a fever to see what they would say. As fate would have it, a relative of Barbara’s, unbeknownst to her, was working there. After strong words on both sides Barbara hurled the manuscript into a bottom drawer, where it might very well have remained to this day.

A few years ago, however, Barbara needed to consult a neuropsychologist (who told her that her memory was in excellent working order). They happened to get talking about Barbara’s memories of Soho in the years immediately after the war. Barbara mentioned that she had written an account of her experiences, and the psychologist said that he would very much like to read it. One thing led to another, and before too long, Barbara had been prevailed upon to make a second attempt to get her memoir into print. This book is the happy result. The preceding material has been edited down from Barbara’s original document, which was significantly longer. There have been a few .adjustments made to ensure a smooth flow and cover joins, but any editorial interventions have been modest in the extreme.

As a schoolchild, Barbara once hesitated between becoming a painter and becoming a writer. At the age of eighty-three, she discovered she was both.

Tragically, however, Barbara lived to see the book deal, but not the book. Not long after securing a publication contract, she passed away early one morning. She had suffered poor health for some time, but had remained engaged, alert and passionate to the end. She was a remarkable woman.

Barbara repeatedly expressed to me her gratitude to everyone involved. As her friend and collaborator, I know she would have liked to acknowledge and thank the people who were touched enough by her story to make this book possible, in particular:

James Tate, her husband, psychological prop, chief whip, and typist during the writing of the original manuscript; Richard Gallagher, for his sympathetic editing of the manuscript, and his entertaining readings; Harry Bingham, from the Writers’ Workshop, for his excitement and passion about the manuscript, and for finding a publisher in record time; Genevieve Pegg, from Orion, for her willingness to invest in Barbara’s story, and for her sensitive treatment of the material; finally, John Prentice, who started the ball rolling again, giving Barbara new hope and a renewed enthusiasm for life.

A last word about Mae’s death. We did what we could to unearth any new facts about her end, including trawling through the British Library’s newspaper archive at Colindale and the microfilm collection at the Westminster Archives. The material we uncovered broadly confirmed Barbara’s story as it appears here, but it seems that police activity came to an end with the inquest. If anyone can tell us more, we’d love to know.

Hannes Buhrmann, March 2010