by Martina Cole
Five minutes later they brought in Eamonn and watched smugly as he was beaten black and blue by Dixon. As a finale, he requested his baseball bat from his car and hammered the boy’s legs until he were sure they were fractured at least. Leaving Eamonn bloody and unconscious on the warehouse floor, he walked out unsteadily.
‘Take him to the quack and when he comes round, explain it was nothing personal, just sound business. If I hear what I want from him, his job’s still there.’
A heavy nodded. Then, loading the boy into the back of a van, he drove him to the doctor’s, all the time whistling along to the radio and wondering what his wife had got him in for tea.
The punter was small, so small he made even Cathy seem like a giant. Handing him a drink, gin with a splash of lime cordial, she smiled at him pleasantly and said she would see if Miss Desrae was ready to receive him. The man smiled at her, showing pristine white false teeth and a small pink tongue.
Walking through to the bedroom, Cathy said to Desrae in a stage whisper: ‘It’s Mr Middleton. I’ve given him a drink and taken his coat. He pays by cheque, doesn’t he?’
Desrae, in the middle of putting on his stockings and suspenders, nodded. ‘Yeah, give him a large drink, won’t you? He can keep at it for bleeding ages and it’s so boring. It’s the clothes that do him, you see. Likes to see me tackle hanging by me stocking tops.’
At the moment, his tackle was concealed by a pair of black silk panties. Mr Middleton also liked to take these off with his very precarious teeth.
Desrae knew he sold fantasy and did his job every bit as well as any actor or actress. His customers really thought he was enjoying himself. Which, he believed, made him a performer in every sense of the word.
Cathy went back to the living room and topped up the man’s drink, all the time smiling and chatting.
Mr Middleton was a banker, a very successful one. He was also married with four grown-up children, two daughters married in their turn and two sons doing very well in the City. His wife was a petite woman whose life revolved around her family, shopping and cooking. For her a regular sex life consisted of once every few months, whether they needed it or not. She had no idea that her husband preferred men. Grown men if possible, not girlie boys like many of the men who came to Soho. He had been visiting Desrae for nigh on twelve years and they even exchanged Christmas gifts.
They were friends, confidants, and best of all they were both men who liked a laugh and some good company. The arrangement worked well.
Two minutes later Cathy led him through the flat and into Desrae’s pink and gold bedroom. Shutting the door firmly behind her, she went to the lounge and picked up the used glass. Maiding was the easiest job in the world and in the six months she had been at Desrae’s she had learned a lot. Like: never discuss anything personal with a customer. And never use their first name unless they request that you do. In fact, never presume anything, especially with the older men. And never, ever refer to what they were there for.
They were always treated as if they were valued guests rather than paying customers. Cathy collected the money, or remuneration as she had to call it. Desrae took the cheques, though only off good customers of long standing. Through his association with Joey Pasquale the cheques were made out to a shop he owned in Soho, and this way Desrae’s name never appeared anywhere.
The punters could happily put their chequebooks into their accountants’ hands without fear of anyone cottoning on to what they had really purchased.
Cathy heard the sound of deep laughter coming from the bedroom and grinned to herself. Desrae was a real professional. If only her own mother had had the sense to treat her job as a business.
She looked out of the window at the hustle and bustle of the street. The weak April sunshine was making the place look quite pleasant, but it was at night that Cathy loved Soho best. It was so bright, so alive, so full of music and laughter. She, of course, had only really seen it from this flat. Her first solo outing here had not been very successful, and she knew she still had a lot to learn.
Even doing Desrae’s washing had been an eye-opener for her. Everything was hand-washed individually, without a thought for the cost or the time involved.
‘You get what you pay for’ was a favourite expression of Desrae’s, and Cathy could see the truth of this statement every day. Her own clothes were beautiful. Desrae made sure she was dressed every bit as nicely as any well-heeled young lady. He enjoyed seeing her look so good, admired her all the time, which had given her back some much-needed confidence. Now she felt strong enough to venture further afield.
She needed to go back to the East End and find out what had happened to her mother and Eamonn.
Looking at herself in the mirror above the fireplace, she felt pleased with her appearance. She had filled out in all the right places, looked more like a woman of twenty now than a fourteen-year-old girl. Desrae had taught her how to apply cosmetics, how to make the best of herself, and it had certainly paid off. She was propositioned every time she left the flat, which was flattering, even though she would never have dreamed of taking up any of the offers.
The pimps all knew she was with Desrae and treated her with the utmost respect because of that fact. Cathy was sensible enough to know that she wouldn’t last five minutes in Soho on her own, and that Desrae and Joey were her passport to the good life she led. In return Cathy loved Desrae fiercely, for his kindness to her and because she sensed in him the same need to be loved that she herself felt.
She knew that Desrae was frightened that once back in the East End, she would fall into the trap of returning there. The people she knew, the life she had once led, might call her back for good. Cathy knew that he was wrong, but could not convince Desrae of this fact.
On Saturday morning she was going to get dressed up and travel back to her old life. Prove to herself she had left it all behind, but for Eamonn. Three days to wait until she saw him again. She longed to see the admiration in his eyes that she saw in everyone else’s.
She deserved that.
Picking up her bag, she gazed around the flat and sighed with satisfaction. It looked immaculate. Now she was going down the market to do a little bit of shopping for Desrae, then over to the Italian delicatessen on Old Compton Street for some nice pasta for their lunch.
As she let herself out of the flat she was a very happy girl. At long last life was being good to Cathy Connor.
Caroline was shocked when she finally saw Eamonn again. His face was swollen out of recognition, one eye heavily stitched and he was limping badly. At least his legs were not broken, and he’d been so grateful for that fact he had nearly cried.
As he lowered himself gently on to the bed, she exclaimed: ‘Oh my God! Look at the state of your face.’
Eamonn shook his head painfully. ‘Get me a stiff drink and shut your fucking trap.’
Caroline poured him a large Irish and handed it to him in silence.
He surveyed the flat disdainfully. ‘Look at the state of this fucking place. Look at it, will you? It’s like a shit-house. All the money I give you and I end up living in a pig sty.’ Tossing back the drink, he bellowed, ‘Clear this fucking place up now, girl.’
Caroline, her natural belligerence getting the better of her, said nastily, ‘What fucking money, Eamonn? What you give me goes on food and clothes. It’s your job to take care of the bills. If you had any sense you wouldn’t have upset Dixon. Where’s the money going to come from now, eh?’ Even as she spoke she knew she was saying the wrong thing but could not stop herself.
Eamonn’s eyes narrowed and Caroline felt fear leap inside her breast. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Rage was creeping up on him, sliding into his mind, and he wanted to beat her, pummel her into the ground, eliminate her. Because someone had hurt him and he could not bear that affront to his pride.
Caroline’s eyes softened and she said shyly, ‘Please, Eamonn, let me look after you.’
Trying to turn on the bed, he
realised that in this condition he would not be hurting anyone but himself. He forced a smile and lowered his voice. ‘Clean up a bit and get me some grub. I need to rest.’
Caroline breathed a sigh of relief, yet felt a teeny bit disappointed. She liked it when they fought. It was exciting and made her feel more alive.
‘I’ll be back to normal in a couple of days, I just need to rest up a bit, that’s all,’ he said.
They smiled at each other then, like conspirators. Caroline opened a tin of soup and set about cleaning up the tiny flat. All the time Eamonn watched her and thought about what he was going to do next.
Tomorrow he would haul himself off to go and see Dixon. He would apologise. He had a feeling he would then get his job back. If not, it would at least stop any more bad feeling. If Dixon gave him his cards, he could work out where he was going to go from here.
He had had plenty of offers but would see how the land lay before taking any of them up.
Danny Dixon sat in his office and smoked a cigar. He was hungover from the day before and his eyes were bloodshot and aching. His wife’s strident voice upbraiding him all morning had not helped his mood. Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t just kick her to the kerb and get himself a young bird with big tits and no mouth. He knew why, though. For all her faults his Jean was as sweet as a nut when it came to his businesses.
If he got a capture this second, Jean would swear black and blue that he was with her at the time, date and day he was supposed to have been out doing his skulduggery. She was a diamond in that respect. She was also good for PR. She visited around the East End, looked out for people and brought petty squabbles to his attention. She was an exemplary mother and a good cook. And when he did take a little bird from time to time, she turned a blind eye, knowing she would always be Queen while he wore the crown.
The office door opened and he quickly put out his cigar in the ashtray before him. Jean had told him that if she caught him smoking she would give him the mother of all hidings.
It was one of the heavies, Jake Jacobs.
‘There’s someone to see you, Mr Dixon.’
Danny blinked impatiently. ‘Well, who is it then, man? Spit it out.’
Jacobs cleared his throat. ‘It’s young Docherty, sir. He wants a word like.’
Danny Dixon grinned. ‘Then send him in.’
A minute later Eamonn hobbled into his office. Dixon made him stand.
‘So what can I do for you then? As if I ’aven’t done enough.’
Eamonn had rehearsed what he was going to say in his mind all morning. Now, standing before this man who had badly injured him, he was having serious doubts about whether this was in fact a good idea.
Taking a deep breath, he began: ‘I’ve come to apologise, Mr Dixon. It was the drink talking and not me. I don’t know what possessed me to be so disrespectful to someone who has only ever shown me kindness and consideration. I know that I won’t be working for you now and I accept that as my punishment, though it hurts me more than the hiding did. I felt I had to talk to you face to face so you would know how sincere I am, and also to prove to you how much your goodwill and friendship mean to me.’
Danny Dixon was impressed, and not just by the flowery words. He was more impressed by the fact that the boy had got himself here after a hiding that would have kept lesser men in bed for a week at least. He knew he had been accurate in his estimation of the young man and liked to be right about these things.
‘Sit yourself down before you fall down.’
Eamonn lowered himself gingerly into a chair. Dixon stared at him for a few seconds.
‘I’ve crippled people for less than what you did, son. You got off very lightly, I hope you realise that?’
Eamonn nodded his head vigorously. ‘I do, Mr Dixon. I can only thank you for being so lenient with me.’
Dixon laughed then, a happy sound. ‘Don’t lay it on with a fucking trowel! Grovelling doesn’t suit you, boy. Now, what do you want?’
Eamonn had trouble keeping the smile from his face. He knew that he was back in with a chance and was elated by that fact. He knew how to play the game and was playing it with as good a grace as he could muster.
‘I would like the chance to prove to you that it was a one-off aberration. If you could find it in your heart to give me a second chance, then no one would behave with more respect, more attention to detail, and more willingness to do any job you cared to give them. I want the chance to prove once and for all how much your goodwill means to me.’
He was gabbling now and knew it, but he had to try and give the man before him the right message and was doing the best he could under the circumstances.
Dixon watched him for a long while, making sure the boy felt the full weight of his scrutiny. If he were to take Eamonn back, he would have to do it without seeming too eager.
‘Let me think it over. Your apology has been taken on board. I’ll let you know my decision in a few days. Now, go home and rest. I admire you for coming out today and that will be considered along with everything you said. But I can’t have anyone slagging me off, especially not an employee. You understand that much, surely?’
Eamonn nodded. He knew he had done well, knew that he had impressed the man both verbally and physically. He only hoped that he had done well enough to warrant a second chance.
As he limped from the building, Jake Jacobs watched him warily. Even he had to admire the young bugger, although he had never liked him. Eamonn had taken a hammering and had come and asked for his job back. That took bottle. But Jacobs still hoped his boss kicked the flash little bastard out on his arse, because Eamonn Docherty Junior was trouble and Dixon should have realised that by now.
Saturday was a bright April day with a promise of warmth. Cathy discarded her coat in favour of a light blue crêpe jacket from Biba. She looked beautiful.
As she alighted from the cab by Bethnal Green station, she breathed in the smells of the East End: hot bread mingled with the odour of the fish stalls. She saw little boys on their way to the synagogues and others carrying kindling and matches, going to light fires and turn on lights for the orthodox Jews in exchange for a penny. She saw the women’s curlered heads wrapped in bright headscarves as they made their way to the Roman Road for their shopping, and street cleaners picking up papers and bottles from the Friday night fish suppers.
Her heart singing, she made her way towards Vallance Road where Madge had had her flat - and then stopped dead. She couldn’t go to the old neighbours. Obviously they would have had a visit from the Old Bill and she was, after all, still on the run. Instead she turned and made her way towards Code Street in Shoreditch. Betty was her best bet; she would know all that was going on and would keep Cathy’s visit a secret.
Cathy knew that people would notice her and that she would seem familiar to them, but she also knew she now looked very different from Madge’s daughter, which was how most of them would remember her.
As she walked she looked around her, in search of familiar faces. She saw a few but bypassed them, knowing that to stop and chat would only lead to trouble. East Enders always wanted to know everything. She could tell them nothing, not because she didn’t trust them but because what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.
If questioned about her they could speak the truth: they hadn’t seen her.
As she walked up the stairs to Betty’s flat her heart was in her mouth. But once she had knocked and her mother’s friend had opened the door, a puzzled look on her face, she began to smile.
‘It’s me, Betty. Cathy Connor.’
Betty’s face broke into a wide smile. Pulling the girl inside, she slammed the door shut and gave her a tight hug. She crushed Cathy to her chest as if she were Betty’s own longlost child instead of someone else’s.
‘Oh, darling, I’ve been at me bleeding wit’s end with worry about you.’
Cathy extricated herself from the woman’s embrace and said happily, ‘Don’t I get a cuppa then?’
Betty grasped her hand and pulled her through to the kitchen, all the time exclaiming how beautiful she looked, how grown-up and prosperous. As she put the kettle on for tea, she said slyly: ‘Sit yourself down, love, and tell me what you’re doing for a living because you look marvellous.’ The admiration in her voice pleased Cathy but she understood the implication behind the words.
‘Well, I’m not doing the obvious if that’s what you think.’
It was said in fun, but Betty heard the underlying note in her voice. Grinning, the old brass said, ‘I should bleeding well hope not! But all the same, what are you doing, love? I mean, no one’s heard a thing from you in six months. Sit yourself down properly and tell me all your news.’
Cathy took off her jacket and when she finally had her cup of tea, began to talk. She started to tell Betty about Benton School for Girls then said heavily: ‘It’s no good, Betty, I can’t concentrate until you tell me what’s happened to me mum. No one else can really help me with that. I feel terrible that she’s away and I can’t see her or anything. I mean, I can’t even visit her, can I?’
Betty sipped at her tea and wondered how best to lie to the girl before her, because lie she would have to. If Madge Connor had had her way she would have had this little girl - well, Betty conceded, not so little these days but vulnerable all the same - banged up right beside her. She felt that Cathy had dragged her down and wanted to see the girl pay for that. It was only Gates’s intervention via Susan P that had made Madge keep quiet for as long as she had.
If she saw Cathy she would talk this beautiful young girl into giving herself up, if she could, and taking the can. Not only for the murder of Ron but also for the assault that had occurred when Cathy had run away from that awful Home.
So keeping her face straight, Betty began a tale that both delighted the girl before her and assuaged her guilty feelings.
‘Your mum is as happy as a sandboy, love. I mean, she ain’t happy about being banged up, but she accepts it because it’s kept you out of trouble. She doesn’t want to see you locked up too. When she heard about you going on the trot, she wouldn’t believe that you’d hit anyone, said it must have been whoever you was with who’d done the thumping like. You know your mum, love. I mean, for all her faults, she loves you in her own way.