by David Barry
Title Page
Tales from Soho
David Barry
Publisher Information
Tales from Soho
published in 2014 by Acorn Books
www.acornbooks.co.uk
Converted and distributed by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2014 David Barry
The right of David Barry to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Spieler
Jess Bevan was a young man with high hopes. After studying drama for three years at one of London’s most prestigious drama schools in the early-sixties, he walked the West End streets radiating a glow of optimism and felt he was going places. At first he attended dozens of auditions, and his aura of self-confidence, coupled by his good looks, should have secured him plenty of acting jobs. The trouble was, he failed to realise that his extreme self assurance stood in the way of directors employing him. They suspected his over-confidence was a mask concealing insecurity and an inability to be a team player, although this couldn’t have been further from the truth. So, after a period of time, his self assurance began to diminish, and he soon tired of the company of other actors, aware that he had to lose some of his theatricality and become unaffected and more like a down-to-earth ‘real’ person. He was self-aware enough to recognise that perhaps being middle-class stood in his way of succeeding in a profession that was hurtling towards gritty drama and northern accents, kitchen sink and tough social realism. So he started to hang around in seedy pubs. And he loved Soho, with its striptease and clip joints, undercover porn shops, prostitution and illicit gambling dens.
One day, at one of Soho’s less salubrious pubs, he asked around if anyone knew of any work he could do, and someone suggested that Spike Martindale (real name Eugene) was looking for someone to assist him and his wife in their subterranean spieler. Of course, although Jess was a middle class twenty-two-year-old from Carshalton Beeches in Surrey, whose reasonably well-heeled parents owned several gift shops, he was street-wise enough to know that a spieler was an illegal gambling den. In the mid-sixties there were no licensed betting shops, and bookies tended to operate illegally, bringing horse and dog racing a forbidden-fruit excitement to those punters unable to spend time at the races. Jess seized the opportunity of brushing with dodgy Soho characters as a way of gaining valuable experience and acquiring some street credibility, which he reasoned might help him in his future ambitions as an actor. His determination to become a successful actor hadn’t been entirely extinguished by his twelve months’ unemployment since leaving drama school; and seeing as the job involved illegal gaming, he thought it might make him some much needed money. With high expectations, he headed for a litter-strewn alley just off Brewer Street and found the unnamed club in the basement of a building beneath what he had been told was a “knocking shop”. Whistling cheerfully, his optimism and excitement growing with the thrill of rubbing shoulders with the criminal classes, he descended the uneven stone steps to the basement and rapped loudly on the fading green door.
A woman answered, peroxide blonde, with a pink sweater pulled tight over pointed breasts, brassy and brazen, but with a sympathetically round and motherly face.
‘I’m Jess,’ he explained. ‘I’ve come about the job.’
‘Oh!’ the woman exclaimed, as if there had been a mistake. ‘A job, is it?’
‘Yes, I was told... ’
She interrupted him and offered her hand. ‘I’m Vera, Spike’s wife. It’s not a job as such, but you should make some easy money, Jess.’ She gave him a broad, warm smile. ‘And I expect you’re up for that.’
As she stood aside for him to enter the dingy hallway, he pointed to the dilapidated green door and whispered, ‘What’s that secret you’re keeping?’
Vera closed the door quickly and threw him a startled expression. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘You know - like in the song.’ He sang a line from it. ‘There’s an old piano and it’s playing hot behind the green do-or.’
She looked relieved and blew out her bottom lip. ‘Oh, yes. I quite like Frankie Vaughan. Now come with me and meet Spike.’
He followed her along the hall, past a hunting print on striped damp-stained wallpaper and through another door into a large bar area with an enormous green baize gaming table in the centre of the room, surrounded by odd chairs of all shapes, sizes and materials. He heard the clink of beer bottles as they came in front of the bar and stood before a man with a rugged face and dark greying hair. Vera introduced Jess to her husband who, instead of offering his hand to shake, plonked an open bottle of Blue Bass ale on the bar in front him and said, ‘Good to meet you, son. Have a bottle of beer. Or is it too early for you to start on the sauce?’
Jess shook his head earnestly and turned it into a joke. ‘No, I always have a beer at ten in the morning.’
‘Good lad,’ Spike said with a broad grin. ‘As long as you don’t make a habit of it.’ He swigged from his own bottle of Bass, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and asked Jess if he was happy to work on tips only.
Jess frowned deeply and asked Spike to explain, but it was Vera who answered. ‘It means we sometimes get some punters in here who gamble big - and when I say big, I mean big. So all we want you to do is keep them supplied with booze, which ain’t free, and once they hit a winning streak, believe me, a punter will hand you a pound note for a bottle of beer or a large Scotch and tell you to keep the change. For a large Scotch we would charge five bob, so you can easily make a tip of fifteen shillings. You only need two or three tips like that in a day and... ’
She left the sentence unfinished, choosing to end it with a smile and palms-up gesture to indicate how easily money could be made.
‘Sounds good to me,’ Jess said. ‘When can I start?’
Vera looked to her husband for guidance. ‘We got that game starting tonight, Spike? I know Jim the Cat said he was loaded and fancied some action, but I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
Jess noticed how uncertain she seemed about their prospects, and he began to smell a little foreboding in the air.
‘I think they’ll be here,’ Spike growled, frowning at his wife. ‘It’s game on for tonight.’ The frown disappeared with a smile for Jess. ‘So how you fixed for tonight? You up for it?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Jess nodded. ‘What time?’
‘We’re not expecting any punters until just after last orders, so if you get here about half-ten, it should give me time to explain about the prices of the drinks an’ that. Oh, and something you ought to know: sometimes a poker game can last all night, until everybody’s well knackered.’
Jess smiled and shrugged. ‘I don’t mind.’
All night illegal poker in Soho. Who was he to mind? After Carshalton Beeches, this was living on the edge.
Vera stared at her husband, almost as if she was trying to send him a telepathic message. ‘You going to explain to him about the key to let himself in when we’re not here?’
‘Well,
I’m not sure about that,’ Spike mumbled.
‘Well I am, Spike. Jess looks like a trustworthy lad.’ Vera turned to face Jess. ‘If we have a long session, there’ll be dirty ashtrays to empty and wash, plus all the dirty glasses, and the shelves will need restocking with beer. We don’t do draught beer, so you should be able to manage. Of course, we don’t expect you to do this after a session, everyone’ll be too exhausted. So if I give you a key to the club, you can let yourself in the next day around eight, tidy up, and maybe even be ready to serve, in case we get an early punter. You’ll always have a float of about ten or twelve quid behind the bar, which you might need if an early punter wants a few sherbets.’
Spike fumbled under the bar and handed Jess a key. ‘See you tonight then. And let’s hope we get some extravagant punters.’
Jess thanked them, downed the rest of the Bass, and left hurriedly, taking with him an impression of magnified sleaze, the likes of which he had never encountered before. The walls of the basement club had been covered in a squalid maroon flock wallpaper that made the shabbiest Indian restaurants seem like palaces of gourmet gratification. Even the focus of the club, the reason for its existence, the dominant gambling table, had been pathetically neglected, with the green baize frayed and tatty with cigarette burns at the edges. And the place stank of stale beer, damp and cigarette smoke.
Jess loved it! It was just what he needed to coarsen the edges of his anyone-for-tennis image. But as he made his way towards Charing Cross Road, intending to browse for a while in Foyle’s Bookshop, he was disturbed by a niggling worry, a suspicion that he had been played for a sucker. It was the looks that had passed between husband and wife that aroused his suspicion. Why had Spike shown reluctance in giving Jess the key and clearing up the previous night’s debris? Was Vera the one who was taking advantage of him, using him as an unsalaried servant, expected to arrive early, open the club and clear up the mess of the previous night. But she had mentioned the tips, and this, coupled with the exciting image of mixing with some of London’s disreputable characters, gave Jess some grounds for feeling a little more optimistic about the job.
But that night, after he returned to the club for the first session and hung around with Vera and Spike, waiting for the punters to turn up, and sensed the despair and desperation of the married couple, he became aware of the extreme and pitiful defeat of the club. It had ‘loser’ stamped all over it.
Even Jim the Cat - whoever he was - had let them down. Vera prattled on about how the gambler was always up for it, and was a big spender, especially if he was winning, so something must be going on somewhere else in the manor. Something big: like the celebration of a villain being released after a stretch and being given the treatment.
But the evening was a washout and Jess left just before midnight without having served a single customer. Vera assured him that it sometimes happened, if there was something else going on in the manor that was important. Tomorrow would be different. Or as she put it, giving a poor imitation of Vivien Leigh: ‘Tomorrow is another day’.
But tomorrow was no different, and when Jess arrived at half-eight and let himself into the club there were no dirty ashtrays to empty, no need to stock up on sold beer, no chores to undertake, only hours o f boredom stretching beyond closing time. Another washout.
On his third night, however, just after half-ten, a group of four men who looked like film extras from a Hollywood gangster B-movie barged in and said they were up for some ‘action’. As they sat at the tatty green table, and Spike prepared to be a non-playing dealer, Jess put a spring in his step as he fetched the drinks for the motley crew of punters, observing the silver coins and paper money that was spread before them. This was more like it. Big spenders, and hopefully big tippers.
But when the gamblers paid for their first drinks, three of them gave him the exact money and only one of them told him to keep the change, which came to a mere shilling. When Spike noticed the disappointed look on his face, he gave him a reassuring wink and, as he returned to the bar, Vera, who was perched in front of it on the stool, whispered to him that he would do all right at the end of the game, especially if one of them cleaned up, which was what usually happened.
But it didn’t quite work out that way. Around 2 a.m., with money changing hands back and forth between each gambler, and no one hitting it big, the game reached an anti-climax and the gamblers yawned and became bored and listless.
As for tips, Jess was left with some silver, which came to the grand total of six shillings, which he calculated wouldn’t last very long. If he ate at the salad bar at the top floor of Lyons Corner House he could eat as much as he liked for five bob, but it would leave him with a measly shilling. He left despondently; shoulders hunched, but not before Vera explained that the next night, which was a Saturday, was bound to be good, bringing in a large and generous crowd. But Jess had had enough. It rankled when he worked out six shillings divided into three nights’ work came to a lousy two bob a night. And his dissatisfaction kicked in with a vengeance, growing sourer by the minute as he emptied the ashtrays and wiped the beer-mucky bar at eight the following night. When he went behind the bar to replenish the beers, his eye was drawn to the ancient till, which he knew contained the float. He pressed hard on one of the digits and the till tray opened with a ping, and there in the slots was the float staring up temptingly: one five pound note, three ones, two ten shilling notes, and loads of half crowns and sundry silver coins.
Glancing over his shoulder, although he knew Vera and Spike never arrived much before half-nine, he pocketed the entire amount, the silver coins bulging in his pockets and jingling as he legged it out of the club as fast as he could, posting the door key back through the rusty letter box. He weaved his way past strip joints and clip joints, dodged down the alley near Raymond’s Revue Bar, and sped towards the welcome illumination of Shaftesbury Avenue and the theatres, where he imagined his name in lights as he made a dash for Piccadilly Tube station, praying he wouldn’t bump into Spike and Vera.
He tried not to imagine what would happen if he did? Would they guess what had happened and try to drag him into a back alley? He had heard rumours of stabbings and beatings in Soho, notorious as London’s gangland and red-light district. There were even the occasional bombings in clubs, probably because owners refused to pay protection money. And then there were the razor merchants, the ones who striped you with a cutthroat if you owed them money or favours. Jess wondered if Spike was a razor man. He seemed quite easygoing, but if Vera felt cheated, Jess wouldn’t put it past her to persuade Spike to do him in. Lady Macbeth out for revenge.
As he ran down the steps of Piccadilly station, he chased the Lady Macbeth image from his mind, knowing how unlucky it was to have thoughts about the Scottish play, especially when you’ve just committed a crime. But once he was on the Piccadilly Line heading for Hammersmith, he relaxed, and even chuckled to himself, knowing he would be able to afford the week’s rent now on his dreary little bedsitter in a gloomy area sandwiched between Ravenscourt Park and Hammersmith.
But later on, when he thought about his theft of the float - and there could be no denying that it was stealing - he began to worry about the consequences. How could he walk the streets of Soho again or anywhere in the West End for that matter, without looking furtively over his shoulder? For several weeks he avoided going anywhere near the West End, but after a while time the healer erased his worries and he often forgot about his indiscretion. And even on the odd occasions when he did remember stealing the money, he convinced himself that he was justified in taking it, which after all belonged to him. He felt he had worked for it, and had been conned into believing generous punters would tip him lavishly every night.
By the late sixties, he didn’t give the spieler another thought, even when he walked along Wardour Street, the hub of the film industry. He walked, almost strutted, with confidence, his head held high, because by 1969 Je
ss was a household name, starring in a situation comedy on television. Wherever he went, people recognised him and pestered him for an autograph. And far from shrinking and avoiding the intrusion into his privacy, he actually enjoyed the attention.
And once again Soho became one of his favourite areas of London. He was a member of several Soho clubs, one exclusively for actors. But Soho was very different from the Soho he had known in the early part of that decade. For a start, gambling laws had changed and there were now legalised bookmakers. And no more street walkers, prostitutes were now call girls who plied their trade by appointment. Homosexuality between consenting adults meant that there were now some openly gay pubs, and Soho had generally become a different, less threatening playground.
But Jess’s dishonest past was about to catch up with him. Of course, the spieler went the anachronistic way of many of Soho’s dens of iniquity, and by the late sixties
the premises had been thoroughly transformed and was a trendy Italian restaurant. So that threat had long passed into oblivion.
Jess’s shock came in another area, not a million miles from Soho. Well into the third series of his successful sitcom, he bought himself a terraced house in Kentish Town, in a street of Edwardian houses, for many decades fallen into neglect but now gentrified and desirable.
Not long after he moved in Jess was leaving the house to go to his Soho actors’ club one evening when he saw a neighbour two doors away, painting his front door. Before the man could turn round and see Jess leaving, Jess had stepped backwards indoors and slammed the door shut. He thought he had recognised his neighbour as Spike, the man he had cheated almost a decade ago. Heart beating a steady tattoo, Jess leaned with his back to the door as he considered his options. Clearly the old spieler proprietor lived only two houses away, so it was only a question of time until he recognised Jess. He would be bound to bump into him some time. And he was trapped. The street was a cul de sac. He had to pass Spike’s house to get to the turning into the main road, and if the man happened to be looking out of his window...