West End Girls: The Real Lives, Loves and Friendships of 1940s Soho and Its Working Girls (4 page)

I stole a quick glance at them, but couldn’t quite picture the girl as someone with a title, and the maid looked more like a bodyguard. Syd seemed nearly floored when I looked at him blankly again. He scratched his head and seemed to be searching for words. Then, leaning forward once more and studying my face for signs of comprehension, he said, with suitable pauses:

‘She’s a business girl . . . One of the birds . . . A tart . . . A prostitute!’

It was only his last term that I understood. He leaned back with relief when I blushed and gasped, ‘Oh!’

I felt embarrassed. Syd was holding his glass out for another beer, and while I was filling it, I was relieved to see a couple of his friends arriving. I opened two more bottles, so all three glasses were lined up when they turned to the bar after greeting Syd.

I left them and wandered back along the bar. The dumpy woman was ready for another gin, and I was able to study the blonde at closer range.

I was utterly intrigued, but anxious not to make it obvious. I had never knowingly seen a prostitute before and I was filled with curiosity. Apart from her voice – which had a slight northern accent that she had clearly taken pains to disguise – the most noticeable thing about her was her hair, which was long and gleaming. In defiance of the upswept fashion of the time, it was a mass of loose waves and curls. She was pretty; but more than that, she was provocative and reckless-looking. She wore quite a lot of make-up, especially around her eyes, and I was struck by her resemblance to a bust I’d seen of an Egyptian queen, Nefertiti. Her sweater was simple but looked expensive: turquoise silk with a V-neck showing her cleavage. She had pushed the sleeves up to just below her elbows. As I watched, she swung her feet lightly to the floor and walked with easy assurance to the jukebox. Marilyn Monroe could have learned something from that walk. Her skirt was grey, tight and straight, with a slit at the hem; the waist was cinched tight with a wide black patent leather belt, and her extremely high-heeled shoes were of the same material. It was obvious that her flair lay not so much in the clothes she chose to wear as in the careless negligence with which she wore them. I somehow knew that she would look good even in a sack. She had all the qualities I lacked: glamour, boldness and an eye for fashion. In spite of all these assets, though, she was evidently unhappy.

Her companion caught my eye. She was dressed in a food-splattered red Moroccan frock and a black straw hat decorated with bunches of artificial cherries nestling amongst crumpled leaves. Somewhere at her feet was the disgusting matted fur wrap which I later found out was the reason for her nickname. Fumbling in her handbag, she produced a compact and smirked at her own reflection for a while. Then, leering across at me with what she obviously believed to be a winsome smile, she spoke.

‘It comes to something, don’t it, when the maid’s better-looking than the mistress!’

I was saved from having to comment because Syd and his friends had run dry again.

A strange feeling came over me; everything seemed unreal. What on earth was I doing here amongst all these peculiar people, in this sleazy little basement club? I thought of my grandmother and blanched.

The blonde returned to her seat, and sat there looking stiff and aloof. I felt sorry for her. Then, to my horror, the maid lumbered down off her stool and came towards me with one elbow slithering along the counter. As she reached where I was standing, she treated me to another of her ghastly smiles and hissed in a stage whisper:

‘She’s muck – and she knows it!’

Then she pushed herself away from the bar to pass Syd and his friends and went through the archway that led to the toilets in the vaults below the pavement. I didn’t know whether the blonde had heard, but when I looked, she was staring hard into her drink.

Just then, the jukebox got stuck and I went over to give it a remedial kick. Returning, I saw the woman reappear from the vaults, wearing a triumphant expression. She walked purposefully to where she had been sitting, and after delivering a few seemingly strong words to the girl, picked up her handbag and stomped out of the club.

I had just got back from serving the pair at the corner table and was dropping the used glasses into the sink when I was suddenly electrified by the sound of the blonde’s voice, full of pent-up fury and exploding with venom.

Alarmed, I spun round, thinking for one awful moment that she was addressing me, but she was just sitting there with clenched hands, glaring belligerently into the remainder of her gin.

I watched her with growing sympathy as I swilled the dirty glasses in the sink. She looked up and caught my gaze, and a grin spread across her face as she realised I’d heard her. It was surprising how impishly different she looked when she smiled.

‘Sorry, love,’ she apologised. ‘But I’m so bloody mad I could burst!’

‘Well I hope you won’t,’ I replied, ‘’cos I have to mop up at the end of the evening.’ My remark actually produced something akin to a giggle, and she pushed the gin away from her with an expression of distaste.

‘I don’t think you like that stuff any more than I do,’ I said. ‘Feel like joining me in a lemonade?’

‘Yeah, let’s be devils!’

I poured us each a large glass and, not wanting to intrude too much, carried on working.

‘What a life!’ she sighed, making it obvious that she wanted someone to talk to. I moved towards her.

‘Had a bad day?’ I asked.

‘Actually . . .’ she said, lifting herself from the slump she had fallen into, ‘actually, I’ve had a bloody good day. It’s just that cow, Rabbits, who gets on my wick. That’s my maid: the one who just went out. I wish she’d just drop dead and do everyone a favour!’

She seemed to take it for granted that I knew what her trade was.

‘What’s Rabbits done, then?’ I asked, now full of curiosity.

‘Nothing – as usual – and that’s the whole damn trouble! Absolutely bloody nothing! She sits on her fat arse all day, and if I even want a cup of tea, I have to get it myself. She’s filthy dirty and never bothers to clean the place or do a bloody hand’s turn. It makes me sick!’

She sipped gloomily at her lemonade and went on:

‘I could just about put up with all that, but it doesn’t stop there. She thinks she’s the boss: always trying to order me about. Talks about me behind my back, too. She takes the piss and pulls all sorts of faces she doesn’t think I notice.’

She learned towards me, gradually getting angrier.

‘Do you know, she’s even stopped me having friends up to the flat because she reckons it wastes time – wants me to flog myself to death so she can get more tips. Tonight was the last straw, though; she’s gone a bit too far this time!’ She sat back, her eyes wrathful with the recollection.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Well . . .’ she replied, settling herself more comfortably, with the air of one preparing to tell all. ‘It’s what she just said that really choked me, and I don’t think I can stand the sight of her much longer!’ She paused again, leaving me positively burning with curiosity.

‘What did she say?’ I asked breathlessly.

She took a deep breath and her nostrils flared slightly. ‘She only called my bed a meat stand!’ Her eyes filled with angry tears as she went on: ‘And I’m not taking that from anyone!’

‘Oh!’ I gasped, relieved to know, at last, the cause of the friction, although puzzled as to why its effect had been so devastating. Her annoyance was sufficiently infectious for me to add, with feeling, ‘She didn’t!’

‘She bloody did!’ she said vehemently, though her temper was abating now she had someone to share her anger with.

‘But why do you have to put up with all this?’ I asked.

She sighed. ‘In our business, love, maids sometimes go with the flat. I could find another place, but I’d have to find another lot of key money. Besides, I like the flat I’m in – it’s in a good spot – but that old sod’s driving me potty!’

She was chewing her lip with the frustration of it all, and I was searching around in my mind for some possible solution to her problem.

While the girl and I had been talking, I’d noticed two more of Syd’s friends come in. Syd was taking an interest in my conversation with the blonde. He told his friends he’d join them later, and ordered another beer. In doing so, he stationed himself on a stool much closer to us.

‘What about asking the agent or landlord if he could get Rabbits a job with someone else?’ I asked. ‘Tell him you can’t work with her properly and soon won’t be able to pay your rent. He can supply you with another maid and so he won’t be any worse off, will he?’

‘It’s an idea,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not as though the greedy cow’s grateful for anything. I get good tips for her and I’m never out long before I bring someone back. Some maids have to wait for hours! And do you know . . .’ she leaned closer to me across the bar, ‘I’ve been up and down those bloody stairs twenty-four times today already!’

‘Oh!’ I cried, caught between sympathy and surprise. ‘Oh, your poor feet!’

Her jaw dropped open in amazement and she stared at me for an instant, then threw back her head and let out peal after peal of helpless laughter.

‘My feet?’ she choked. She tried to prevent more laughter and to regain her breath. ‘Oh, you’ll be the death of me – look, you’ve made my mascara run!’

She dabbed at her eyes with a little lace handkerchief she had snatched from her bag. ‘The funny part is that you meant it!’

Her amusement was contagious; even Syd was grinning and surreptitiously moving nearer. I was laughing too, although the full humour of what I’d said had escaped me. The laughter gradually died down and the girl’s face began to resume its former sombre lines. Then she gripped the clasp of her handbag with both hands, as though preparing to leave.

‘Well, I suppose I’d better be off. The old bag’ll be sitting up there waiting for me and getting into an even worse mood.’

It dawned on me that she was as frightened of her maid as I’d been of my grandmother.

‘I’d sooner stop here, though, and have a bit of a laugh,’ she said.

‘I wish you could,’ I replied, feeling a little sad. ‘But I suppose I ought to get on with some work too!’

‘What’s your name, love?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Barbara,’ I answered.

‘That’s Babs to me.’ She grinned. ‘And I’m Mae.’ She put her hand out to clasp mine and our eyes met in a smile. At that moment, I knew that she needed a friend as much as I did.

Not long afterwards there came a crashing of feet along the upstairs passage, followed by what sounded like an elephant plunging down the staircase. The bamboo curtain was swept aside with a mighty clash and Rabbits burst through. Her face was puce. For a moment she stood, hands on hips, surveying the scene and looking for all the world like Henry the Eighth’s twin sister – and then she exploded.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Here’s me, sitting up there like a bleeding lemon, and here’s you, down here, getting bloody pissed. What do you think I am?’

All eyes in the club were riveted on the scene, while the jukebox carried on regardless with ‘Stardust’.

Mae did not reply. Indeed, she was speechless and her face was ashen. Nor did she make any attempt to stand up; she seemed frozen. The maid obviously expected her to jump up and leave immediately. Infuriated at the lack of response, she fairly screeched:

‘So that’s how you want it, is it? Well leave your bleeding boozy friends and come along the alleyway and we’ll have it out once and for fucking all. You’ve been asking for this for a bloody long time, you have. Now you’re going to get it!’

Then, throwing her head forward, she spat on to the carpet, spun her ungainly bulk round, nearly tripping over her own feet, and mounted the stairs heavily. The other customers tactfully withdrew their attention from Mae – all except Syd and me, who were regarding her with concern. Syd drew closer.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked gently.

‘Her!’ answered Mae tersely, from between clenched teeth. ‘If I let her get away with that, my life won’t be worth living!’

Much as I hated violence, I couldn’t help but agree. Syd seemed to feel the same and was hovering in an uncertain way.

‘Can I give you a tip?’ he asked tentatively. ‘I could show you a good way of getting the better of her.’

‘How?’ asked Mae.

Syd’s face lit with enthusiasm and he stationed himself in front of her.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you know how two women in a barney always grab each other’s hair, don’t you? Well, take a hold of mine.’

He bent his head forward, and Mae grasped his orangey curls. Syd then clutched her wrist and took her hair in his other hand, which caused Mae to instinctively grab his waist. The other people in the club were all attention once more, and I watched Syd’s demonstration with interest. It looked very clever, but I didn’t learn a thing: it was all too quick, ending with no one holding anyone’s hair any more and Mae in a helpless grip. Syd released his hold.

‘See, it’s easy,’ he said. Mae laughed and called him a bastard as she rubbed her shoulder. However, Syd wasn’t happy until she’d done the same thing to him. She was a quick learner. Then, smoothing her skirt, she said decisively, ‘Right! I’ve got to go!’

At that moment, two sets of heavy footsteps could be heard coming along the upstairs passage.

‘Blimey, she’s got reinforcements!’ said Syd, bristling. We stood stock still, watching the doorway, and I took a deep breath of relief when we saw it was only a couple of cabbies, who walked straight up to the counter and started jovially tapping on it with coins. The tension was broken and I went along to serve them. Mae thrust her handbag at me.

‘Look after that for me, ducks. I’ll be right back.’ Then off she went at a brisk pace.

‘I’ll come along too,’ said Syd, and he strode after her.

I felt rather shaky at this proximity to violence, but sensibly reminded myself that incidents of this sort must be taking place in Soho every night. I felt an affinity with Mae, and it made this particular fight a much more personal thing. I kept wondering how she was getting on and was glad Syd had gone with her; but I couldn’t dwell on it for long, as all at once everyone seemed to be wanting more drinks at the same time. Added to that, Tommy – the pianist for Saturdays – had just arrived. Directly on his heels came two bookies with their girlfriends. I was turning off the jukebox ready for Tommy to start playing when Jim and Ronnie returned, closely followed by another small group of customers. Tommy gulped his drink down and, going over to the piano, loosened his fingers with a series of ascending arpeggios. The busy evening trade had begun.