The Ladies of the House

by Molly McGrann

  ‘I can look after myself, thank you.’ Rita tried to stand but Nell pushed her down on the bed.

  ‘We’d make a great team, you and me. We could make money. Girls who look like you make money, but you got to manage it a certain way. I know how. I want my own place, my own show, and I need a star. You’re my star. You’ve got sex appeal. Everyone says so.’

  Rita looked past Nell to the door. She had thought nothing of it when Nell locked up, but where had the key gone? ‘It’s time I went home,’ she said.

  Nell reached for Rita’s hand, her voice wheedling now. ‘Come on, let’s dance. Do you hear the music coming up from downstairs? It’s loud enough – let’s dance to it.’

  ‘I don’t want to dance.’

  ‘Let’s dance,’ Nell insisted, pulling Rita to her feet. ‘Have another drink, dance with me, let me love you. I want to be with you. If you were mine, I could do anything, I tell you.’

  ‘How many times do I have to say it?’ Rita pulled clear. Nell’s eyes were full of tears but nothing could make Rita love Nell the way she wanted her to. Nell unlocked the door.

  ‘Rita,’ Nell called after her when she was halfway down the stairs.

  Despite herself, Rita turned back – Nell lunged, kissed her. Rita wanted to spit. Nell saw the look on her face and let her go.

  *

  Nell had to have her. She pestered Rita at the Cul de Sac; she sat in her booth, feeding the meter, and Rita gyrated while Nell wept. Nell begged and bullied, she boasted – she assured Rita she was already in love with another woman even as she gazed at Rita for hours on end. Rita held her nerve. When Nell waited for her after work, she shook her head. Nell followed her home and sometimes she was outside in the morning when Rita emerged from her bedsit. Sometimes she was too drunk to stand. Weeks passed like that. The boss was fed up. He said Nell scared off the customers.

  It was a relief when, finally, one day Nell did not appear – nor, for that matter, did anyone else. Traffic to Rita’s window at the peepshow slowed almost to a stop, without even faithful Nell to drop coins into the box. Rita lost her job. What’s more, when she looked for work, there was none to be found, not in Soho at least. She had a feeling it was something to do with Nell. She went to Nell’s room above the Sugar Shop and found it empty, except for the bed, which had been broken into pieces. No one seemed to know anything about Nell. They all knew who Rita was. She didn’t have to say her name or why she wanted Nell. They knew. The birds had seen to that – the pigeons and seagulls.

  To spite them, Rita stayed in Soho. It was just like her to do so. She had some money put aside, enough to keep her going for a short time. Rita didn’t retreat, although she kept to herself. By day she saw the sights of London and at night she stayed indoors with the blackout shades drawn. Just like during the war. She might get a bottle of something to pass the hours, but she couldn’t afford the habit. A bottle of sweet sherry, nothing dear – she’d acquired a taste for it at the Colony Room.

  She ran through her money soon enough and had to quit her bedsit. So it was, packing up her things, not sure what she would do next, that Rita found, among the postcards and ticket stubs and burst-off buttons she hadn’t needle and thread for, a card that a gentleman had slipped her, the coat-check girl. No telephone number, just an address and the name of the woman who lived there. ‘She’ll look after you,’ Arthur Gillies said. Having seen him at the Colony Room many times, Rita knew well who he was. Arthur Gillies was all pop-eyes and no-colour mouth, his suits beautifully made to hide his fat. She had offered him the broom cupboard. He refused, but his eyes never left hers.

  He might remember her. Rita put his card in her purse. Her bits and pieces were packed in a box tied with string. She needed a cup of tea – there was just enough in her pocket for Lyons. She passed the Sugar Shop on the way. The room was empty the last time she looked, but you never knew with Nell.

  Sure enough, the key under the mat was gone. Rita tried the door: locked. She knocked. ‘Nell? Are you there, Nell? It’s me.’ She listened. Someone was there. She could hear breathing catching on itself, then nothing. The breath held. She knocked again: shave and a haircut, six bits. ‘Nell?’

  ‘There’s no Nell here.’ Not exactly Nell’s voice, but close.

  ‘Oh, come on, Nell. It’s me. Rita. From the Cul de Sac.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rita.’ She kept her tone light. ‘They said you got married. They said you were dead. Someone said you turned up on a building site with a brick in your head. How about that? I knew you couldn’t be dead, Nell. Not you.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Only to say hello. I was on my way to Lyons.’

  ‘Anyone with you?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘How do I know?’

  ‘Open the door, Nell. I’ve had enough of this now.’

  She heard furniture moving and the lock undone. The door opened: a girl, younger and smaller than Rita, who was herself only eighteen. Her fair hair – piles of it – was tied back, showing how pale and underfed she was, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘I’m not Nell, as you can see, but for God’s sake come in.’

  Rita stepped inside and the girl slammed the door, locking it with trembling fingers.

  ‘Have you got trouble?’ Rita said.

  ‘What do you know? Who are you? I never seen you before in my life.’

  ‘I’m a friend of Nell’s.’

  ‘What kind of friend?’

  Rita laughed. ‘Just a friend. But I haven’t seen her around.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Has she been gone long?’ Rita said. The girl didn’t reply. ‘Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘She’s not here. There was nothing here. Just the bed, and that was in pieces, but I managed to mend it well enough.’

  The bed had been moved across the room from where it was before and now stood next to the door. ‘One of life’s necessities,’ Rita said, patting the bed. ‘I know this old rocking horse, don’t I?’

  The girl looked at her. ‘I suppose you do.’

  ‘I’m not like that,’ Rita said quickly. ‘I only meant—’

  ‘You better go now.’

  ‘I haven’t got anywhere to go, have I? Nell’s seen to that.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the girl said, looking away.

  ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘About Nell.’ The girl began to cry.

  ‘It wasn’t like that between me and Nell.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t love her, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘I’m so lonely without her,’ the girl wailed.

  ‘I could stay. Just for a cup of tea, if you’re having one. I could do with a cup of tea myself – I was on my way to Lyons when I stopped.’

  The girl shuffled her feet, bare as they were, cold-looking, made of shrivelled skin and swollen joints, the toes shrunken, missing nails. Not pretty feet. She saw Rita looking at them. ‘Trench foot,’ she said.

  Rita helped her push the bed into place. She wanted it against the door. Then Rita put the kettle on and they sat down together on the floor.

  *

  At first Annetta shook and was sick – that was the tablets mucking about with her system, Rita said.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ Annetta fretted.

  ‘Of course he will,’ Rita said. ‘But we’ll be ready for him.’

  He was Sylvain, Annetta’s ponce. She said he was her boyfriend. Rita knew him from the Cul de Sac. He supplied a few of the girls who worked there and he was always trying to get into the dressing room. Annetta wanted to break with him – she swore she did – but he carried on coming round all hours that first night, sometimes with other men in tow, and they banged on the door as if they would break it down. Rita shouted that she would call the police. Even with the door locked and the bed there and Rita standing guard, Annetta trembled. Rita thought she might go out of the window. She boiled the kettle and brewed endl
ess pots of tea to give them strength and keep them awake. Eventually Sylvain went away, but they didn’t dare sleep.

  In the morning, Rita slipped out and bought what they needed – milk, bread, butter, eggs, for Annetta looked half starved. They passed a second night, and then a third, in the room above the Sugar Shop, Rita nursing Annetta, making her eat and drink. There was no sign of Nell, but Sylvain was always at the door. The door wouldn’t take much more – the hinges looked about to pop from the way he hammered. Rita knew they had to get out of there.

  ‘Have a look at this,’ she said, producing the card from her purse. ‘Have you heard of Arthur Gillies?’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He’s a big shot,’ Rita said. ‘He’s got houses.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘He runs a closed-door business. It’s all safe and clean. Should be good money, if he’ll have us. When you’ve fattened up a bit. He don’t take just anyone, you know. He’s choosy – it’s the crème de la crème he’s after. We’re good-looking. You’re so delicate and pretty, a proper dolly bird, and I’m dark, and he’ll like the contrast, the way we set each other off.’

  ‘Do you really think we stand a chance?’

  ‘I think it’s the only chance we got.’

  ‘Arthur Gillies might have you but he won’t take me. I’m not high-class enough.’

  ‘Sure, we’re a double act, aren’t we? I won’t do it without you. You’re the only friend I’ve got.’

  Annetta gulped at the Scotch broth Rita had fetched up. When she had drunk it all, she asked for more.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Rita.

  *

  Arthur Gillies specialized in privacy. He didn’t advertise – he didn’t need to. He owned many houses and each one had its madam, happy in her status, running the girls and keeping the books. Everyman who walked through the door was vetted in some way, his position verified, his ancestry traced. Half the time a girl didn’t know the real name of the man she was with, even if she recognized his face – she was expected to conceal her excitement with a film star, to grin and bear it with the aristocrats who barked and smelled of dogs.

  Looking at the house in the Crescent, one would never think of what went on inside. It was grand enough, standing four storeys tall, its stucco just-minted in white gloss, the door brass on fire, window boxes overflowing their bounty. A rose climbed, filling the air with fragrance.

  Rita marched up to the front door and rang the bell; Annetta lagged. ‘Smile,’ Rita urged. Annetta showed her teeth. Rita wanted to pinch her. She’d had a time of it getting Annetta to leave the room above the Sugar Shop. Annetta was deathly pale under her rouge and she bit at her lipstick. All the way there, Rita had kept firm hold of her, feeling how she shook: like a train ran through her!

  The woman who answered the door was smartly dressed, nothing in her manner to suggest she was an outlaw. She greeted them cordially and invited them in – she seemed to understand the purpose of their visit. She led them to a double front room, which she called the drawing room. Rita had never been in a drawing room before. ‘Please sit down,’ the woman said, indicating two armchairs upholstered in horsehair. She took her place by the mantelpiece, where she stood, erect, bejewelled, beautifully coiffed, a sleek black cap of hair fitted closely to her head in a sharp bob, not a strand out of place.

  ‘Nice room,’ Rita said, glancing round.

  ‘I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Sal and this is my house.’ Sal was the name on the card in Rita’s possession, the name she had memorized. Sal Gribble. It wasn’t much of a name, to Rita’s mind, but the woman herself was a stunner. Sal studied them from on high. Annetta slithered down the horsehair chair – her feet didn’t even touch the ground when she sat, so little was she, and the slippery haircloth slid her right off onto the floor until she gripped the sides of the chair and held on.

  Sal said, ‘You might as well know, I don’t take pairs. Too much trouble. Lovers’ spats and all.’

  Rita said, ‘It ain’t like that.’

  ‘Isn’t,’ Sal corrected. ‘We speak the Queen’s English here.’

  ‘We isn’t,’ Rita said. Annetta flushed.

  Sal gave Rita a hard stare and put out her hand. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’ll show you to the door.’

  ‘Please,’ Annetta said. ‘Don’t listen to her – she doesn’t know what she’s saying.’

  But Rita was on her feet, eyes ablaze. ‘I don’t stand for disrespect. I am a perfectly decent person.’

  ‘I don’t have room for troublemakers,’ Sal said.

  ‘What is it with you? Calling people names. Arthur Gillies personally gave me this card. I have met Arthur Gillies.’

  ‘Arthur Gillies, you say? Arthur Gillies indeed. You certainly make a lot of noise and Arthur Gillies does not like noise.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Annetta, standing between them, wringing her hands.

  At that moment Arthur Gillies walked through the door. Rita nudged Annetta, who curtsied.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he said, addressing Sal.

  ‘They’re not staying,’ she replied. ‘They were just leaving.’

  Arthur Gillies looked at them, at Rita, his eyes lingering. He nodded, liking what he saw. He didn’t look at Sal, but took hold of Annetta’s hand and shook it hard, then did the same with Rita. He had hands like frying pans. Annetta’s hand liquefied in his, but Rita returned the shake.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’m Rita. And this is Annette.’

  ‘Annetta,’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s right,’ Rita said.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Arthur Gillies. ‘I hope you’ll be happy here.’

  And they were. For a good long while, at least.

  3

  He thought he’d like to punch the door. He didn’t dare, but the instinct was there, always the instinct was there. Mr Wye wouldn’t be treated that way, not by those women. He spoke to the door. ‘You’re nothing. I could turf you out if I wanted to.’

  A movement from the window drew his attention: Rita’s face, the no of it. She’d always been trouble. He knew she liked a drink. You could see it in the ruddy sag of her cheeks, the pouched eyes, dead set, full of red; the fireworks of burst capillaries. Arthur Gillies had ordered her from the house more than once but he always took her back, like a fool. Certain women got to him and she was one of them, although Mr Wye couldn’t see it himself. She was good-looking, but not like Sal.

  He had never been with Sal. He’d been with nearly every other girl that worked for Arthur Gillies – they were on the house, Gillies said, and Mr Wye took full advantage of the offer. But not Sal. When Gillies fell for a girl, he fell hard, and he never fell as hard for a girl as he did for Sal. Sal was the making of him. She turned him famous just by being herself: London’s own Bettie Page.

  Once Sal had borne Joseph, she was untouchable. Gillies wouldn’t admit the boy was his, but everyone knew. Joseph was the spit of him.

  Mr Wye had no children. It might have all turned out differently if he had, not that he had regrets. He’d lived a noble life. He’d worked hard. He did not aspire to the leisure of retirement, long days of television, bowling on the green, hot tea in hot weather – how refreshing. He gave to the church, even though it was unfashionable to do so these days, and when his wife died he paid for a whole new pew in her name, right at the front, with a long buttoned cushion in burgundy velvet. She had spent so much time in private, quiet worship at St Mary’s, it seemed only right that he should preserve her place there, and he joined her now on Sundays, their spirits together in comfort.

  Rita had always asked after his wife, screwing her eyes upon his face. He thought her cold-blooded, the way she slunk about the room, stripping slowly, slithering to and fro before the bed where he waited. The white skin rippling, the surprising contours of her breasts on that lean, lithe body. He
asked her to be still but she had to do her dance every time. The murderous Mars of her mouth, the darting eyes, black as diesel. When he had her pinned, she writhed and whipped in all directions. That’s why he tied her down. When she protested, he stopped up her mouth. He made her submit to him. He made them all submit, every single girl.

  ‘I could have been a nurse,’ Rita told him, but the money was no good, she said. She kept a nurse’s uniform in her cupboard. She wore it once when he asked. She took his temperature with an oversized glass thermometer. ‘You’re hot. Too hot to handle.’ She always made him feel as if she were laughing at him. He let her know who was in charge.

  In later years, after a long career in brothels, Gillies had gone soft about the women who worked for him. He wanted them looked after when he was gone. They would stay in the houses, he decided. Mr Wye had dismissed the notion. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said. ‘It’s an absurd idea. Don’t be ridiculous. Keep them in the houses? Doing what? Just living there? It doesn’t suit a man to be sentimental.’

  Gillies turned square on him, his face contorted. ‘Sentimental?’

  Mr Wye continued unperturbed. ‘It is my duty, as your legal adviser, to ensure you make sound business decisions. If you were to let out the houses, there would be tax benefit, plus the rental income—’

  Gillies did not let him finish. ‘They’ve earned me a fortune. Who else will look after them? They’ve not got families, most of them, or the wrong kind of family, if they do. It’s no skin off my nose, letting them see out their golden years under a solid roof.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What happens then? We can’t get them out, once they’re in. They’ll have dependents – some of them have children already, hidden away, or they’ll get a lodger in – a sitting tenant, that’s right, impossible to shift, or you’ll have a hefty legal bill if you do. You haven’t thought this through.’ Mr Wye put his handkerchief to his forehead.

  Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. They regarded each other, one squat and heavyset, glowering, all eyebrows, and the solicitor, so tall and narrow, dressed like a Puritan in black and white.