‘You’re so wrong about me, Jimmy. Stop thinking about me as some stuck-up teacher. I love Soho. I often shop there.’
‘That’s different. Not the Italian delis and nice restaurants. We’re talking serious sleaze here. I want to take you to nice places.’
Marguerite was determined not to let go of the opportunity that his honesty over his earnings had presented. As with the children at school, she needed an all-round picture if she was to help him out of the corner which he seemed to have got himself trapped. For such an accomplished lover he was lamentably lacking in confidence, and that limited his ambition to make something of himself.
When she shared those thoughts with Tony he said, ‘Blimey, you sound like his mother.’
‘Oh sod off. I’ve got Florrie lecturing me on not taking care of my man, then you mock me for doing so.’
‘Sweetie, don’t take any notice of me. I’m just an ageing poof. What do I know? Let’s face it – neither of us is going to get a job with the Marriage Guidance Council.’
Her persistence paid off, and Jimmy was persuaded that a guided tour of his Soho haunts would be diverting fun for her. She arranged to meet him in a restaurant he had chosen in Greek Street. Meandering from Piccadilly Circus tube station to the back streets of Soho, Marguerite realised Jimmy was right. She had not been to Soho for several years and was astounded by the change. The village atmosphere of quaint shops run by all nationalities had been spoilt by the sex trade. The narrow alleys and roads were disfigured by myriad signs advertising so-called clubs, and frighteningly young girls stood in halls and at the bottom of filthy stairs, offering membership, entitling men to see ‘live kinky sex show’ or some such delight. There were dozens of new bookshops, which did not look as though they stocked Jane Austen, and other premises that sold objects and clothing that spoke of more complex sexual adventures than she had ever encountered. Yet again, thought Marguerite furiously, the powers that be had sought to impose their wrong-headed order on a situation of which they were completely ignorant. The women selling ‘a good time’ on the streets of Soho in the 1950s had been part of the community. By passing a law to ban them, did they imagine the whole thing would go away? Be restricted to lords and government ministers like Profumo cavorting with naked girls in stately homes? Which was perfectly all right, unless the minister in question told a lie in their sacred House of Commons. Then, blame the man who organised the parties, and drive him, Stephen Ward, to suicide and forget all about it. That’s the way to deal with it, they thought. Banish it from sight. Get rid of the prostitutes. Close down difficult schools, and banish their trouble-making headmasters.
It was a relief to walk into the cosy atmosphere of Bianchi’s restaurant, where she had arranged to meet Jimmy, and be greeted by a gracious Italian-looking plump middle-aged woman with a London accent.
‘Jimmy has told me about you. Welcome.’ And she led Marguerite to a table in the corner where he rose to greet her.
‘She’s lovely. I approve,’ said the woman. ‘You will have the risotto as always, and I suggest my special ravioli for the lady.’ And she disappeared into the back kitchen. It was apparently not up for discussion.
Marguerite was surprised.
‘She knows you.’
‘Yes, I’m a regular here. Have some wine. It’s a very good little Pinot Grigio.’
She looked around at the tables laid with immaculate white cloths and shining cutlery and glass and at the photos of famous diners on the walls.
‘I was thinking more of a little café, when I suggested Soho. This seems quite posh.’
He raised his eyes to the sky.
‘Don’t worry, I can afford it.’
It was a delicious lunch, and Marguerite enjoyed it, despite Jimmy’s strange discomfort. The owner herself looked after them, whilst a waiter served the rest of the quite small room. Out of the corner of her eye Marguerite saw him give Jimmy a thumbs-up sign. Which Jimmy ignored.
The proprietor came to the table.
‘Did you enjoy your meal?’
‘Very much. Thank you. It was delicious.’
‘I’ll have the bill, please,’ said Jimmy.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the woman. ‘It’s on me. And you needn’t come in tonight. We’re not very busy.’
Marguerite was stunned.
When they got outside she said, ‘You work there.’
Jimmy’s eyes darted as if searching for an answer.
‘What’s up with you, Jimmy? I was bound to find out. And what does it matter? It’s a lovely place, the owner is fond of you. Why pretend?’
He looked genuinely bewildered.
‘I don’t know. I suppose I just can’t face—’
‘What?’
‘What I am.’
‘As far as I can see you are someone these people are very fond of. What’s wrong with that?’
‘I want you to respect me.’
‘Well, I won’t if you keep lying to me.’
She was angry and unsettled about this strange behaviour, but mindful of the fact that some children behave badly to draw attention to themselves, she decided to ignore her inclination to leave. Besides, he looked so forlorn.
It started to rain.
‘Let’s get inside somewhere.’
He brightened at once.
‘OK, let’s go for a drink.’
‘We can’t. The pubs are closed till 5.30.’
‘Come with me. Anything is possible if you are in the know. You want the truth? I’ll show you somewhere else that I work.’
Jimmy took her arm protectively as they walked to the next street. They passed a group of reeling football fans regaled in red-and-white scarves and rosettes, whirling their wooden rattles and shouting. Their chanting was brought to a halt by a Brylcreemed, silk-suited man stepping from a filthy doorway, followed by a dazed-looking, near-naked, nubile girl. Above him was a crudely hand-painted board with the stark promise of ‘A live double-act show on bed’. Some negotiation went on and the football fans stepped sniggering inside.
‘Poor sods,’ muttered Jimmy.
After edging past smelly dustbins, they groped their way down the dark stairway that led to their next port of call. At the bottom was a battered door. As Jimmy pushed it open, a voice from inside bellowed, ‘If you’re not a member – fuck off.’
Jimmy shouted back, as he went in, ‘No one’s a member, you silly moo, and watch your language. I’m bringing a lady to meet you.’
The room was small, dimly lit and smoky, with little more than a threadbare carpet, a piano, some sagging armchairs and sofas, and a wilting cheese plant. Seated majestically on a high stool at the bamboo bar was a woman with black hair scraped back from her face, and pencilled eyebrows over hooded eyes that missed nothing.
‘A lady? This place is full of ladies, duckie. Look at her over there and her in the corner.’ She pointed to a respectable-looking man in a suit, and a policeman in uniform.
‘I’m Mavis.’ She scrutinised Marguerite’s face. ‘Do you want a drinkette then, my pretty pedigree ginger pussycat?’
Marguerite asked for a gin and tonic. Mavis clambered off her stool and went behind the bar to pour the drinks. Marguerite noticed she drew a double whisky for Jimmy from the optic without even asking.
Marguerite whispered, ‘Is this a gay club?’
Jimmy explained, ‘It’s anything you like. Those two are perfectly normal, but Mavis calls everyone “miss” and “lady”. This is the Dominion Club – a dive where people come to drink when the pubs are closed. You’re supposed to be a member, but the membership is a question of whether Mavis likes the look of you or not. She’s very choosy.’
That was proven as a man with glasses tentatively came in the door and she bellowed, ‘Piss off – you’re not pretty enough to be a member of my clubette, four-eyes.’
Sitting on her bar stool again, she chain-smoked, adding to the choking fug. The cigarette in a long ivory holder, held in elegant blood-
red-nailed fingers, was used to languidly point to the subjects of her savage wit. To a woman whom Marguerite recognised as the star of a current West End show, who was talking loudly about her latest triumph, she directed her cigarette accusingly. ‘If you don’t belt up, Gertie, you’ll be barred. You’re boring the arse off all of us.’
To which the victim replied, ‘You won’t bar me, Madam Muck. You need my money. I’m the only bugger who pays for my drinks.’
Mavis thought for a bit.
‘Yes, that’s true. You can stay.’
Turning to look at Marguerite, she asked Jimmy, ‘Does it talk, this one? Or is it just for decoration?’
Jimmy replied, ‘You’re frightening her to death, you awful woman.’
‘How dare you. I’m a sweet little lambikins. Well, she can stay because I love you. Give your mother a kiss.’ He did and she turned to Marguerite. ‘I adore him because he stood up to that naughty Mrs Hitler.’
A willowy young man appeared behind the bar.
‘Oh there you are, Amadeus. Get to bloody work. What do I pay you for, or rather what does the toast of the West End over there pay you for?’
She slapped the pianist on the backside as he made his way to the piano.
‘Classically trained. And he’s ended up in this shithole. Where did it all go wrong, Ludwig?’
Marguerite sat next to Jimmy on a lumpy sofa and looked around. It was the oddest social venue she had ever been to. It was as though a bizarre party was being given for people that one didn’t notice in the daylight outside, if it was still daylight – there was no way of telling. Time was suspended in this basement. They were creatures of the underworld.
Everyone seemed to know one another, and Jimmy. One Hogarthian old woman, who looked and smelled as if her clothes had not been washed for a long time, staggered towards them and leant over him. ‘Get us a drink, Jim,’ she slurred, giving a toothless smile.
‘Don’t you dare,’ Mavis intervened. ‘They won’t let her in the hostel if she gets any more pissed.’
She crossed to put her arm round the old woman and, with surprising tenderness, led her to the door and up the stairs. Jimmy told a shocked Marguerite that when she was young the woman had been a great beauty and modelled for several major artists, two of whom still came to the club.
The habitués of this closeted world seemed to have little in common but their devotion to alcohol. Each new arrival was greeted warmly by the clientele and insultingly by Mavis. The laughter became raucous as the drinks flowed. One ignored woman in the corner wept continuously.
When Marguerite pointed her out to Jimmy he said, ‘Don’t worry, she enjoys it. She can let it all hang out here and nobody cares.’
Jimmy was proudly introducing Marguerite to one strange character after another, some of whom expressed exaggerated pleasure in welcoming a new person to their bibulous fold, and some of whom ignored her completely. She was trying to understand a rambling tale of woe told by a man in a floral dress, about an outrageous arrest for being drunk and disorderly, when she was conscious of a hush descending on the room.
Two aliens had descended from the real world outside. A young woman, tall, with blonde hair in an upswept beehive hairdo revealing diamond earrings, and wearing a white dress, low-cut to set off a string of pearls, stood in the doorway. Behind her was a short middle-aged man, immaculate in bowtie and dinner suit.
As everyone stared at the couple, Mavis drawled, ‘Hello, darlings, doing a bit of slumming, are we? OK, animals, don’t just stare – perform for the two ladies. Do louche, do bohemian, do the scum of the earth. Give them their money’s worth.’
The young woman strode to the counter.
‘Two double whiskies, please.’
Mavis didn’t budge.
‘I don’t think so. I think it’s champagne all round, don’t you, petal?’ She looked across to the man cowering in the doorway. ‘The party’s on you, you lucky lady. Open your handbag, Lottie, and let’s party. Do the honours, Jimmy.’
The little man was hauled into the club, and everyone beamed as they told him what a fine chap he was. Jimmy meanwhile opened several bottles of champagne and handed out glasses to the grabbing hands.
Marguerite noticed that the young woman was talking to Mavis, who went to the till and handed her several £5 notes. She turned round to put them in her satin pochette. Peering through the gloom, Marguerite gasped. As Jimmy had taken his working stance behind the now-busy bar, Marguerite left her seat in the shadowy corner and walked towards the young woman.
Her face lit up as she caught sight of Marguerite.
‘Miss Carter. Bloody hell. What on earth are you doing here?’
‘It is Elsie, is it? I wasn’t sure. You’ve changed so much.’
‘I knew you at once. I’d recognise your lovely hair anywhere, Miss Carter. What are you doing in this dump?’
‘I’m here with a friend. There, behind the bar.’
Elsie looked surprised.
‘Jimmy?’
‘You know him?’
‘Only by repute. From coming here. I thought . . .’ She trailed off.
‘Are you here often then?’
The noise from the champagne-drinking clientele was becoming deafening.
Marguerite said, ‘Let’s go outside. I can’t hear myself think in here.’
They retreated up the stairs and stood by the dustbins.
‘Fag?’ Elsie took out a cigarette from a silver case and, in cupped hands, lit one for each of them. Then she took a pill from a small box and gulped it down without water.
‘Have you got a headache?’
‘No, it’s a magic pill. I’ve got a long night ahead with that boring old git. Do you want one? They give you a real high. Purple hearts, they’re called.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘They’re harmless. You get them from the doctor.’
‘So, Elsie. Who is the boring old git?’
‘A customer. I work for an escort agency. High-class one. He’s down from Manchester and I’m showing him the sights and keeping him company.’
‘And this club is one of the sights?’
‘Yes, they love it. They think it’s really cool.’
‘And what do you think, Elsie?’
‘I don’t think anything. It’s my job. And I get extra from Mavis and others for bringing them customers.’ Her eyes were bright. ‘I’m doing really well, Miss Carter. I’m making a bomb.’
Unlike Jimmy, there was a refreshing honesty about the girl’s attitude to the way she earned a living that made it possible for Marguerite to ask, ‘And do you sleep with these men?’
‘Not unless I want to. Most are quite happy to just talk and be with someone who knows her way around. Someone attractive, that they can show off about.’ She looked diffidently at Marguerite. ‘Do you think I’m attractive, Miss Carter? Bit different from when you last saw me, eh?’
‘You look very glamorous, Elsie.’
‘I bought these earrings myself. They’re real diamonds. Only little, but real. What about that?’
Faced with this slightly frantic enthusiasm, which Marguerite supposed might be related to the pill, she could only reply, ‘Congratulations, Elsie. They’re lovely earrings. But—’
‘No. No buts, miss, please. I know you would rather I was a teacher or something but I bet I earn a lot more than you. And anyway it wasn’t possible.’
‘I know, Elsie. I’m sorry. How is your child?’
‘He’s fine. Well looked after,’ she continued quickly. ‘You probably think the trouble you took with me was wasted, but it wasn’t. Especially the acting. I use it all the time. The old git thinks I find him fascinating, funny, clever, handsome. Saint Joan was a piece of cake compared to this.’
They laughed together. Marguerite hugged the girl and said, ‘Oh Elsie, take good care of yourself, please. Go easy on those pills.’
‘I’m fine, Miss Carter. Unlike that lot downstairs, I hardly drink at all. Wel
l, better get back and rescue my client from those vultures or he won’t have enough money left to pay me. Have a dab of perfume, take away the dustbin smell.’
She took a small bejewelled phial from her bag and dabbed the fragrance behind Marguerite’s ears.
‘Thank you. It’s lovely. Joy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Do you use it?’
‘No. I knew someone who did. Years ago.’
‘Don’t leave me, Maman. I don’t want you to go. Who will look after me? I’m frightened.’
‘I like the smell. It cheers me up.’
‘I wish you joy, Elsie my dear.’
‘And you, Miss Carter.’
Elsie scrutinised her face in the mirror of a gold powder compact.
Colonel Buckmaster looks embarrassed. ‘I always give the blokes cigarette cases before they go into action. I thought this was more fitting for you. Don’t worry, it’s French-made so quite safe to take with you. Must keep that pretty nose powdered, eh?’
He shakes her hand. ‘Good luck, my dear.’ He smiles but his eyes look troubled.
‘Are the scars showing?’ Elsie asked Marguerite.
‘Hardly at all.’
Marguerite followed Elsie down the basement stairs and saw that the unfortunate git was handing over wads of notes to Mavis. Then he and Elsie left, ignored by the revellers, who with the champagne drained dry were back to their usual gossiping.
Jimmy came over and hissed, ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Talking to Elsie. Why?’
‘You’re here with me. You should stay with me. They see you disappearing with that slag it makes me look a fool.’
‘She is not a slag, as you put it. She is an ex-pupil of mine of whom I am very fond.’
‘She’s a buddy of Mavis, who’s a dyke, so if you disappear with her, the bitchery starts. What did you talk about?’
‘Jimmy, you’re drunk. Stop this. I told you, she was a pupil of mine.’
‘I’m sick to death of your pupils. You’re here to meet my friends. Did she talk about me?’
‘No.’
‘Right. Here’s your coat.’ He threw it at her and got into his trench coat and hat.
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