by Martina Cole
Who’d ever heard of chips on a Wednesday?
Cathy skipped back to the kitchen with her mother’s beaded bag. ‘Thanks, love. You’ll have a clear-up for me tonight, eh?’
Cathy nodded solemnly.
Madge pressed her cheek to her daughter’s and laughed gently, her sour breath, a mixture of cheap Scotch and onions, hitting Cathy’s nostrils like a week-dead dog.
‘I’ll bring you back some crisps, what do you say to that?’
Cathy nodded, loath to open her mouth and let the stale smell enter her body.
There was a knock on the front door and she used it as an excuse to escape. It would be her mum’s friend Betty. They worked together in a small drinking club in Custom House where they served foreign sailors drinks and anything else they wanted, though this was never discussed openly in front of Eamonn Senior unless he brought up the subject himself. Even though he’d drink the money and eat the food it provided, and go so far as to give the two women a lift to work some days, he pretended to know nothing about it - until once a fortnight or so he decided to batter Madge’s brains out to prove a point. That point being that he, as a man, didn’t like the set-up.
Betty wafted into the small hallway, all Max Factor and beaver lamb coat.
‘Hello, Daffy Cathy!’ Her booming voice seemed too big for her slim frame. Betty Jones was slender to the point of emaciation, though she had the constitution of a horse, as she’d tell anyone who’d listen. She shoved a threepenny bit into Cathy’s hand and winked.
Cathy adored Betty. Eamonn Junior adored Betty. Eamonn Senior hated her and the feeling was mutual.
Madge hurried into the hallway, pulling on her coney fur coat. It was going bald in places but with snow on the ground it was a warmer bet than her usual cotton jacket.
‘That coat’s being held together by spit and hope, girl! Get him to provide you with a new one. He don’t do fuck all else. The least he could do is clothe yer.’
Eamonn Junior closed his eyes in distress. He felt his father’s body stiffen at Betty’s words. Her voice was like a red rag to a bull where his father was concerned and as the man stood up and unceremoniously dropped him to the floor, Eamonn rolled away.
Betty and Madge were on their way out of the front door when a booming voice stayed them.
‘What have I told you about coming into my house?’
Betty pulled her coat around her like a shield. ‘You talking to me?’ This was said with a rough edge to her voice, a fighting edge.
‘And what other piece of shite would I be referring to?’ Eamonn Senior’s voice was deadly quiet. He was standing in the doorway of the front room now.
‘You don’t scare me, mate, you never have. If you was any kind of a man you’d provide for these kids, and your old woman wouldn’t be flogging her arse in three feet of fucking snow! You don’t impress me, Mister Docherty. There’s only one piece of shite in here and I’m looking at it!’
The man’s face was purple with rage now, and as he stepped forward Madge pushed vainly at his chest.
‘Leave it out, Eamonn. You know what Betty’s like, all wind and water. She’s had a drink and—’
‘Get outta me way before I knock your head off!’
He slammed Madge against the wall, causing her to lose balance. Cathy stood in front of Betty as the big man approached her. Betty, with a maddening smile, egged him on.
‘Come on then, hit me! You’re good at hitting women, ain’t ya? But not men though, eh? As big as you are, you don’t hit men, do you?’
Cathy pushed Betty towards the open front door. The cold air was rushing inside now and the small hallway was freezing.
‘Get out, Betty! Stop causing trouble.’
Turning, she threw herself at the big man’s legs. Picking her up in one arm, he pointed at Betty with a trembling finger.
‘One of these days, lady, I’ll break your fucking neck.’
Betty laughed raucously. She knew exactly how to wind up Eamonn Docherty. ‘Get stuffed, you Irish ponce!’
Roughly, Madge pushed her friend out of the front door. ‘Leave it out, Betty. I’ve got to live here, you know.’
‘I’ll see you when you get home, lady.’
Madge looked into the big man’s face and nodded.
Young Eamonn pulled his father back into the front room, and the air of menace left the narrow hallway.
Madge pulled the front door to behind her. ‘Thanks a fucking bundle, Betty. He’ll trounce me now. Happy, are you? You just got me a hammering.’
Betty shook her head in distress, her dyed yellow hair stiff as a board under the sugar and water setting it. ‘I’m sorry, Madge, but you know how I feel about him - he’s a ponce.’
Madge smiled faintly. ‘I’m well aware of that, Betty, but he’s my ponce.’
Both women grinned as they click-clacked across the tiled floor to the stairwell in the stiletto-heeled shoes unsuitable for the weather but mandatory for their jobs. Giggling like schoolgirls they walked down the stairs, a pair of ageing tarts who still thought they had it.
Cathy and Eamonn lay together in the darkness, arms entwined. At ten he was much bigger than she, but she had the edge because even at seven Cathy was a born diplomat.
After tidying up the flat, they had all eaten chips and saveloys, washed down with mugs of hot sweet tea. Then Cathy had made connie-onnie sandwiches from condensed milk for them both before they went to bed.
Eamonn Senior had gone to the pub at eight-thirty, and the two children were able to relax. The ever-present sense of danger had disappeared out of the front door with him. Now they had been woken by his return and in the dim light of the streetlamp outside they waited with bated breath for him to fall asleep. They could never relax of a night unless they could hear his tell-tale snores. Until then, anything could happen and frequently did.
They heard a cup smash and, sighing heavily, Cathy slipped from the bed.
‘Don’t go, Cathy, leave him to it.’
She pulled on a dirty dressing gown. The room was freezing and her breath made little clouds as she spoke. ‘You stay here and keep warm, all right? I’ll make him his Bovril and get him to bed, otherwise none of us will get any sleep.’
The big man was standing in the small kitchen scratching his belly, wearing only vest and underpants. He tried hard to focus on the broken china at his feet, his drink-filled body impervious to the cold.
Cathy picked up the broken cup. Quickly and expertly, she put it in the bin then led him into the front room by the hand. He dropped on to the battered settee with a thump.
‘You’re a good girl. Where’s me boy?’ His soured question needed no answer and Cathy didn’t offer any. Instead she slipped into the kitchen and put on the water for his nightly Bovril. No matter how drunk he was, Eamonn Docherty had to have his Bovril or he wouldn’t sleep. Cathy knew from experience that it was easier to make it for him, watch him drink it and put him to bed, even though her tired eyes were straining to stay open and felt as if they’d been sprayed with hot sand.
When she brought him in his drink, he took it gratefully. ‘You’re a good girlie, aren’t you? Me own little pickaheen! Come and sit on me lap, child.’
Cathy shook her head warily. ‘You can’t hold me and the mug. Drink your Bovril, Mr Docherty.’
Eamonn surveyed her through heavy-lidded eyes. She was so tiny, sitting there on the stool, her skinny little legs poking out of her dressing gown like sticks of chalk. But the child had the face of a grown woman, so knowing was it.
‘I wouldn’t hurt you, child, you must believe that.’ It was said soberly and Cathy felt a moment’s regret for the way she’d answered him. For all his faults, she felt safe with him in that way.
‘We’ve been through all this before, Mr Docherty. I don’t like sitting on people’s laps. I never have.’
‘I’m not like the other men your mother took up with, I know how to treat a child. You’re like me own.’
Part of his brai
n was wondering why he always felt the need to justify himself with this girl, but then, her demeanour was that of a woman, a knowing experienced woman. He half guessed what she’d endured before he came on the scene.
He closed his eyes at the implication. He would never want a child like that, yet he knew it was what Cathy Connor thought he wanted and that hurt his pride. Worse than that, the realisation that she knew as much already, at just seven, grieved him.
It was his only saving grace. For all he was, for all he’d done, that would never be on the agenda. Never. He wanted Cathy to know that and to trust him. It was a conversation they had regularly.
‘You should get to bed, Mr Docherty. You’ve got to go to work in the morning.’
He nodded, then running his hand through his thick dark hair, laughed. ‘You’ll never end up like your mother, you’re too fecking sure of yourself. Get away to bed, child. I’m fine now. I’ll have a quick draw and be away in meself.’
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 vo
ice 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.’