West End Girls: The Real Lives, Loves and Friendships of 1940s Soho and Its Working Girls (6 page)

I recalled some of the language I’d heard tonight – especially from Rabbits – and I grinned. It was almost poetic. At home, under extreme emotional stress, I had been allowed to say ‘Blow!’ and ‘Dash!’ How satisfying it must be, I thought, to really let rip as she had done.

I never once considered the fact that most people would have regarded the new life I was embarking on as the steep and slippery road down into hell. Mae seemed so bright and spirited that I regarded Ronnie’s gloomy remark about the people I was getting mixed up with as peevishness at my leaving. It was so typical of the sort of thing my grandmother would come out with that I thought no more about it. Grandmother had always maintained that my mother had had to get married because of me, and that because of this, I was bound to inherit her morals and would need watching. Perhaps she was right.

A favourite teacher at art school had said that artists such as Renoir, Goya and Hogarth had lived, seen, thought and suffered. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is what makes them great painters.’ At that time, I would have got fairly high marks for the suffering and thinking bits but that was all. In my case, the sort of living and seeing my teacher meant had – until a few weeks ago – been strictly second-hand. This, I thought, is my great chance to really live and see. I would be foolish not to take it. The way I saw it, I would serve as maid and the experience would serve me.

The thought of being a maid presented a picture of myself in a frilly white cap and apron. I smiled at the image, though my stomach turned over at the thought of what my grandmother’s reaction would be if she were ever to know. One of the things she was totally against was any of her family going into domestic service; she would have had hysterics had she known what I intended. But it only added extra appeal to me – here was an opportunity that I saw as a gesture of defiance against the thousand and one thou-shalt-nots that had hemmed my life in.

I decided that on the following day I would write a note to my boss at the studio, telling him that I had left and giving him the name of the best girl on the staff to replace me. The next day being Sunday, the studio would be empty and I could collect the few private possessions I had there without a fuss. I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that soon I really would be free of the past.

I undressed and turned out the fire, which gave a few protesting pops as I climbed into bed. My thoughts turned towards Mae. I remembered the impetuous way she had leaned across the bar and kissed my cheek. Perhaps at last I had found a friend.

Five

On Monday afternoon, with butterflies in my stomach, Mae’s address in my handbag and, as instructed, wearing my most shapeless dress, I arrived at what I thought to be the nearest underground station.

I’d allowed myself plenty of time, and for the first time, I found myself wandering around in Soho. My route to The Mousehole every evening had been through comparatively deserted streets in a quieter part of the outskirts. Now I ventured into the heartland and fell under the spell of a sordid magic that to this day has never faded for me.

I was overwhelmed by the noise, the smells, the teeming squalor of its life and its disregard for order. I passed fascinating little shops whose windows were hung with peculiar cheeses and strings of queer sausages, the barrels on the pavements filled with pickled herrings, olives and unrecognisable things, the racks holding newspapers from all over the world; Chinese shops with flattened, varnished ducks and cardboard-like dried fish hanging from cords amongst paper parasols and incense; rowdy street markets selling vegetables and fruit, some of which were completely unknown to me; dirt and debris everywhere; the many foreign restaurants and cafés, exuding pungent smells of herbs and garlic, and the raucous but melodic sounds of waitresses shouting orders in Italian down to long, dark kitchens. I was enchanted by it all.

I could have lingered indefinitely, drinking it all in, but there would be plenty of time to explore on other occasions and I thought I’d better find Mae’s place. In the end, it wasn’t so much a street as an alleyway – and a very dirty one at that. It clearly hadn’t been swept for some time and then, probably, only by the wind. It was just a pedestrian way, partly cobbled, partly paved and with a slight dip in the middle. Whether this was by design or the wear of centuries, I didn’t know, but it acted as a trap for rain and rubbish. Apart from that main furrow, there were other hollows, all full of sludgy water. I would hardly have been surprised had a window overhead been thrown open and more filth been hurled out to join it.

Looking up, I saw that all the buildings were three or four storeys high and the windows blind and grey, with many panes broken and replaced by cardboard. High above me was a narrow strip of sky, and if any sun ever penetrated this noisome little lane, its light would have been fleeting.

On one side were small shops with grimy windows, while the buildings opposite had railings in front where, looking down, you could see open basement areas full of refuse. Pigeons were everywhere, adding to the squalor. They were on every parapet and window ledge: a dirty, dishevelled, sinister little lot, covering everything with giant white droppings. Some were pottering about on the ground, scuffling amongst the debris. They somehow reminded me of the people I passed. Many of those I saw were lounging against the empty shops or railings, one old lady was rummaging in a dustbin, and in a doorway, another was seemingly taking an afternoon nap with all her worldly possessions in bundles beside her.

I nearly turned back, but just then, glancing down into one of the basements, I saw such a pretty sight. Framed inside a sparkling, clean open window, hung with spotless lace curtains, a white-haired old lady was sitting knitting. Above her was a cage in which a canary sang merrily, and on her window ledge were two sleek old cats: one washing while the other snoozed. There were many potted plants on the steps leading down to her door, as well as others hanging from nails everywhere.

Mae’s place is probably nice too, I thought. Some people just choose to live in unusual places.

Looking around, I saw that I had almost reached the end of the alleyway and must have missed the house I wanted. I turned around and retraced my steps a little way until I found it.

By now, I was having not just second but third thoughts. I shuddered as I took a step through the open street door into the hallway. The long, dark bare boards stretched ahead covered with almost as much debris as there was in the alleyway outside, and it smelled just as bad. The grubby wallpaper hung in strips and the exposed plaster was covered with scrawls and graffiti. At the far end I could see a split and broken staircase turning in a dogleg and disappearing from sight. Beyond that – what? I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know. Just then, I heard a low voice in my ear:

‘Looking for someone, my dear?’

A man had sidled up to me and was blocking the doorway. On his face was the look my boss had worn a few weeks ago. I didn’t know quite how to get rid of him without being rude, but I knew that look well enough to know the difficulties that could ensue. I muttered, ‘I’m all right, thank you,’ and self-consciously traversed the passage, praying that he wouldn’t follow. At the bend in the stairs, I stole a glance back and was relieved to see that although he hadn’t gone, he had remained standing in the doorway. I carried on until I reached the first-floor landing, where a boarded-up window was lit by a very dim naked electric light bulb. There were two doors, secured by massive padlocks. The rubbish began to thin out as I climbed the next flight, possibly because a small lidless dustbin was handily placed on the next turn in the stairs.

The second-floor landing was much like the first, but the dirt had been swept over the top step, where it lay in an untidy ridge. The window here was not boarded up, and light struggled through panes that were covered in transparent paper, ornamented to look like stained glass: no doubt to afford some privacy from the buildings to the rear. The doors here were not padlocked; the one to my left was ajar, and fixed to it with four drawing pins was a piece of cardboard bearing the name ‘Mae’ written in nail varnish.

I knocked.

‘Come on in, love,’ I heard Mae’s voice call. I pushed the door and went in.

Along a short hallway and through a second open door ahead, I found her sitting on a divan bed and pulling on a pair of stockings. She looked up and grinned at me.

‘Hallo, lovey! So you got here! I wondered if you would.’

Me too, I thought. Out loud I said, ‘Hello – yes, it wasn’t too difficult.’

‘Now what about a nice cup of tea and I’ll show you everything before we start.’

Start what? I thought, following her back into the hall and into a tiny kitchen. I still had the idea that being a maid involved some sort of domestic work.

From what I could judge, the entire flat had once been a single large room, one corner of which had been partitioned to make the small entrance hall and kitchen and creating an L-shaped bedroom. In contrast to the staircase I’d just braved, this little flatlet was a paradise, though compared with anyone else’s idea of a home, it wasn’t much. The block must have been built about a century ago and Mae’s bit was in need of a little care. The hall and kitchen had been painted in cream and fitted with brown linoleum. Opposite the kitchen door stood a low, old-fashioned unit with two drawers above and a cupboard below. On top of this was the big brother of the gas ring in my bed-sitter: a double one. On it, an aluminium kettle was just beginning to sing. Mae was chatting away, showing me where things were kept, as she prepared the tea.

At the end of the kitchen, in line with the outer door, was a window overlooking the backs of surrounding buildings. It provided no sight of the sky: just white-splodged bricks, water pipes and, of course, a row of the same vile-looking pigeons lining every window ledge. Below the window was a deep chipped stone sink full of dirty crockery, from which Mae produced a teapot. I would have liked to have washed it, but was too late. She put it on the small enamel draining board and wiped some grease off the lid with one of the dirty tea towels that were strewn everywhere. She seemed oblivious to the matchsticks and cigarette ends covering the floor, and added another butt to them after absent-mindedly attempting to put it in the overflowing bucket underneath the sink. The two chairs were piled high with clothes and the walls were splashed with grease and dirty water. I rescued two cups and saucers from the sink and washed them. Mae was still chattering:

‘See what I mean about Rabbits?’ she said. ‘Just look at this place. Makes you sick, don’t it?’

I cast my eyes around again dutifully and agreed. I dreaded even to think what the cupboards and drawers contained. Mae continued:

‘I’m that pleased to get rid of her, I tell you straight, love – filthy old pig! Come on, let’s have our tea in the other room; it’s more comfortable in there.’ Picking up our cups, we left the foul hole and shut the door behind us.

The other room was more comfortable – marginally. I noted that the filth was less concentrated as I shifted a heap of clothes off a basketwork chair, sat down and cleared a space for my cup on the cluttered dressing table. Mae sat on the bed and deposited hers on the little bedside table. I looked at the rose-pink Regency stripes and wondered whether it was Mae who’d decided on this touch of glamour. Instinctively, I compared her efforts at home-making to my own, noting the cheap but newish wardrobe, the chest of drawers and dressing table. I decided that one of the first jobs I would undertake would be to tidy this: I wondered how anybody could be so nonchalant about the festoons of stockings and bras that hung from its open drawers.

Although it was still daylight, the pink brocade curtains were closed. I supposed, correctly, that they were never opened, but at least they gave the room a certain cosiness. My artist’s eye for colour took in the warm glow from the pink-shaded bedside light, added to by another from the standard lamp round the corner and one from the kitchen’s electric fire. I put my feet on one of the two fluffy rugs, carefully avoiding the screwed-up paper tissues and the odd stocking strewn on their surface. On the bedside table – amongst a welter of dirty cups, several overflowing ashtrays, empty cigarette packets and make-up – stood a large dark-blue cardboard box with the word DUREX printed across it in bold white letters.

I drank my tea, listened to Mae and wondered when a cap and apron would be thrust at me, or, more appropriately, a mobcap and dungarees. I was already absorbed in planning a campaign for cleaning up the place, but Mae was still chattering away, obviously in a party mood. I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was leading up to something special. I shook my mind free of brooms and dusters to give her my full attention.

‘. . . but – here – do you know what? After I left you on Saturday, I couldn’t do any more work till I got someone in to change the lock, so I thought I’d go and get a meal in Luigi’s place – and guess who was in there.’

‘I’ve no idea!’ I answered, knowing it would be Rabbits.