THE BOTTOM DROPPED OUT OF PIGS 14 page

She murmured, “Oh, it’s beautiful Zakir, just beautiful. Is this really the room your uncle will let me have?”

He laughed, and replied, “It is the most beautiful room in London. You will not find a finer room anywhere. You are a lucky girl Mary, I hope you know that.” “Oh I do, I do, Zakir,” she sighed

“and I am grateful with all my heart.” He had seduced her with practised

ease. She did not want to talk about it, and I did not want to press her. I felt that the memory of that one night was sacred to her. She did, however, say, “I am sure he loved me, because no one else has ever touched me in the way that he did. All the other men were rough and horrible. But Zakir was gentle and beautiful. I thought I would die with happiness that night. It would have been best if I had died,” she added quietly.

As they lay in each other’s arms, watching the daylight banish the soft darkness, he whispered, “There, my little Mary, did you enjoy that? Did you think anything like that could come to you? There are many other things that I can show you also.”

“Then I made a terrible mistake,” she said to me. “If I had not made that mistake, he would love me still. But I thought I should tell him all the truth about myself, so that there would be no secrets between us. I told him about me mam’s man in Dublin, and what he did to me.”

“Zakir pushed me away from him then, and jumped up, shouting, ‘Why do I waste my time with you, you little slut. I

am a busy man. I have better things to do with my time. Get up, and get yourself dressed.’

“He slapped me in the face and threw my clothes at me. I was crying, and he slapped me again, and said, ‘Stop snivelling. Get your clothes on, and hurry up.’

“I got dressed as quickly as I could, and he pushed me out of the door on to the landing. Then his mood changed again, and he smiled at me. He wiped my eyes with his handkerchief and said, ‘There, there, my little Mary. Don’t cry. It will be all right. I am quick tempered, but it is soon over. If you are a good girl, I will always look after you.’

“He put his arm around me, and I

felt happy again. I knew it had been my fault for telling him about the Irishman. You see, I had hurt his feelings. He had wanted to be the first.”

Her gullibility astonished me. After all that she had been through and witnessed, did she really cling to the dream that Zakir had loved her, and prized her virginity so much that his love ceased when he knew that she had been raped by a drunken Irishman?

“He took me down to the café area, and called over to one of the women I had seen holding the leg of the girl on the table the night before. He said to her, ‘This is Mary. She’ll be all right. Tell Uncle when he gets up.’

“Then he said to me: ‘I have to go

out now. I am a busy man. You stay with Gloria and she will look after you. Do what Uncle tells you. If you do what Uncle tells you, and are a good girl, I will be pleased with you. If you do not, I will be cross with you.’”

Mary whispered: “When are you coming back?”

He said, “Don’t worry, I will come back. Stay here and be a good girl, and do what Uncle tells you.”

CAFÉ LIFE

During my time at Nonnatus House I took many walks around Stepney to see what it was like. It was simply appalling. The slums were worse than I could ever have imagined. I could not believe that it was only three miles from Poplar where, although poor, badly housed and overcrowded, the people were cheerful and neighbourly. In Poplar everyone would call out to a nurse: ” ’Allo luvvy. ‘Ow’s yerself? ’Ow you doin’ then?” In Stepney no one spoke to me at all. I walked down Cable Street Graces Alley, Dock Street, Sanders Street, Backhouse Lane and Leman Street, and the atmosphere was

menacing. Girls hung around in doorways, and men walked up and down the streets, often in groups, or hung around the doors of cafés smoking or chewing tobacco and spitting. I always wore my full nurse’s uniform, because I did not want to be propositioned. I knew that I was being watched, and that my presence was deeply resented.

The condemned buildings were still standing, nearly twenty years after they had been scheduled for demolition, and were still being lived in. A few families and old people who could not get away remained, but mostly the occupants were prostitutes, homeless immigrants, drunks or meths drinkers, and drug addicts. There were no general shops selling

food and household necessities as the shops had been turned into all-night cafés, which in fact meant they were brothels. The only shops I saw were tobacconists.

Many of the buildings apparently had no roofs. Father Joe, the vicar of S Paul’s, told me he knew of a family of twelve who lived in three upper rooms, with tarpaulins to shelter them. Most of the upper storeys were quite derelict, but the lower storeys, protected by the floor above that had not yet collapsed, were teeming with humanity.

In Wellclose Square (now demolished) there was a Primary School that backed on to Cable Street. I was told that every kind of filth was thrown

over the railings, so I spoke to the caretaker. He was a Stepney man born and bred, a cheerful East Ender, but he looked grim when I spoke to him. He told me that he came in early every morning to clean up before the children came to school: filthy, blood-and wine-sodden mattresses were thrown over into the school playground; sanitary towels, underwear, blood-stained sheets, condoms, bottles, syringes - just about everything. The caretaker said he burned the rubbish each morning.

Opposite the school in Graces Alley was a bomb site where the same sort of filth was thrown by the café owners every night. This was never cleaned up or burned; it just

accumulated, and stank to high heaven. I could not bear to go past it - the smell from fifty yards away was enough for me - so I never did visit Graces Alley, although I was told that a few Stepney families still lived there.

The brothels, ponces and prostitutes dominated the area and the squalid derelict buildings seemed to stand gloating over the sordid trade, and evil, cruel practices. The more Cable Street became known for its cafés, the more the customers flocked there, and so the trade fed itself. The local people could do nothing. Their voice was silenced by the noise of the jukeboxes. In any case, they lived, I was told, in deadly fear of complaining and were

crushed by the magnitude of the problem. There had always been brothels in the East End. Of course there had; it was

a dock land. What else would you expect? But they were always absorbed and tolerated. It was when hundreds of brothels sprang up in a small area that life became intolerable for the local inhabitants.

I could well understand the fear felt by local people, and that to complain, or in any way interfere with the profits of the café owners, would mark you out for retribution. A knifing or a beating would be all that you would get for your courage. I was glad that I walked down Sander Street in broad daylight. Through the dirty windows the haggard, painted

faces of girls could be seen leaning on the windowsill, looking out, openly touting for men. As Sander Street led directly off Commercial Road, men were constantly looking into it, and going down it. These houses used to be a neat little terrace only ten or fifteen years before, a place where families lived and children played. The day I went, it looked like something from a horror film. The girls in the windows did not pester me, of course, but there were a lot of big, sinister-looking men around, who glared at me as if to say, “You get out of here.” Did any Stepney family really live amid all this? Apparently yes. I saw two or three little houses with clean windows and net

curtains, and a well-scrubbed doorstep. I saw one old lady shuffling along close to the wall, eyes down, till she came to her door. She looked around furtively, then opened the door with her key and shut it quickly after her. I heard two bolts slamming shut.

There is a saying amongst the masters of working dogs, be they sheep dogs, guard dogs, police dogs or huskies, ‘Don’t treat them with kindness, or they won’t work for you.’

It is the same with pimps and prostitutes. The girls are treated like dogs, but usually far, far worse. Dogs have to be bought or bred, and in consequence are usually well looked after. They are expensive assets, and the

loss of a valuable dog is a serious matter. But girls on the game are utterly expendable. They do not have to be bought, like a dog or a slave, yet they live a life of slavery, subject to the will and the whims of their masters. Most girls enter the trade voluntarily, not really aware of what they are doing, and within a very short time they find that they cannot get out of it. They are trapped.

Zakir had left Mary with the words, “Be a good girl, and do what you are told, and I will be pleased with you.” Mary lived on this promise for months. Just for a smile from Zakir she would, and did, do anything.

He left her at about 8 a.m. with

Gloria, a hardened old pro of about fifty who occasionally worked, but whose main job was to keep the girls up to scratch. She stared at Mary unsmiling, and said, “You ’eard what he said. You ’ave to do as you are told. You’d better get on wiv cleaning up the café and the kitchen before Uncle comes down.”

Mary didn’t know what to do. The whole area looked so big, and was in such a mess, that she didn’t know where to begin. In the sheelin’ back in Ireland, cleaning was a simple business - a bed, a table, a mat, a bench; that was all. But the café looked enormous. She stared around in bewilderment. A heavy foot landed in the small of her back, and she was flung forward a yard or two.

“Get on wiv it, you lazy bitch, don’t just stand there starin’.”

Mary jumped to it. She remembered what Zakir had said about a job in the café washing up, and she ran round collecting dirty glasses, mugs, spittoons, and a few dirty plates. She hurried with them into the kitchen, which was filthy, and over to the greasy sink. There was only cold water in the tap, but she washed everything up as best she could, and then dried the things on a filthy bit of old sheet. Gloria, in the meantime, was putting chairs up on the tables.

“Clean the floor when you’ve done,” she called.

There wasn’t a broom, but there was a wet mop, and Mary rubbed it all

over the floor, in reality just pushing the dirt around.

“That’s better,” said Gloria. “Go and clean the kazi now.”

Mary looked blank.

“The gerry, the lav, the bog, stupid.”

Mary went out to the yard. It stank. The lavatory had probably been used by over a hundred men during the night, and each night before, and had not been cleaned properly for years. Most of the men peed on the ground around the shack, so the cobblestones were always wet and slippery. There was no toilet paper, only the torn up newspaper that littered the place. Some of the men had been sick, and as it was a warm summer

morning, the stench was rising. This was also the only lavatory available for the girls to use, and as there was no bin, used sanitary towels lay scattered all over the yard.

Mary stared at it in horror, but fearing another kick in the back, she quickly got to work. There was a broom in the yard, so she swept up most of the more solid filth into a pile in a corner. Then she got a bucket of water, and swilled it over the yard. It seemed to be effective, so she fetched several other buckets of water, and did the same.

Gloria came out, and stared around silently. She took the fag from her mouth. “You done a good job ’ere, Mary. Zakir’ll be pleased wiv you. An’ Uncle

an’ all.”

Mary glowed with pleasure. To please Zakir was her keenest desire. She said, timidly, pointing to the pile of filth in the corner, “What shall I do with that?”

“Take it over to the bomb site in Graces Alley. I’ll show you where it is.” There was no other way of picking the mess up but with her hands. Mary

was not happy about it, but did so nonetheless. She had to make four trips to the bomb site to get rid of it all.

Mary felt filthy. Her last wash had been in the Cuts, and she hadn’t changed her clothes for days. She went into the kitchen and washed her face and arms under the cold tap, then her feet and legs,

which made her feel better. She tried to remember what had happened to the string bag, that contained her clean blouse. She remembered Zakir had carried it the night before, and she had not seen it since. She asked Gloria where he might have put it.

Gloria laughed: “You won’t see that again,” she said. And indeed Mary didn’t.

At that moment a man entered the café. He was one of the knuckledustered pair Mary had seen the night before taking money from the men. He was thickset, with a large stomach, which hung over the belt of his trousers. Dirty slippers scraped across the floor and tattoo marks covered his arms. His face

was terrifying, and robbed Mary of the power of speech. She slunk away out into the yard. The man was Uncle.

“Come back here,” he shouted. Mary was powerless to disobey.

She stood before him trembling. He just stared at her with hard black eyes and sucked at his fag end. He put out a podgy hand, grabbed her shoulder, pushed her head sideways, then said, “You good girl, obey me. I look after you. You bad girl...” He didn’t finish the sentence, just curled his lips and held a threatening fist up to Mary’s face.

He said to Gloria, “Take her,” then he walked out.

The old building consisted of the shop and back yard, two rooms in the

basement, and about eight rooms on the upper storeys. All the rooms were divided into three or four small cubicles by thin boarding. In each cubicle was a narrow bed, or, in some, as many as four to six bunk beds. All the beds were filthy, grey, ex-army blankets the only cover.

Mary was taken upstairs, past the gold and silver room where she had spent the night with Zakir, to the top of the house. In the attic were about twenty girls, lying on the floor or on bunk beds. Most were asleep.

Gloria said, “You stop here. We’ll want you later.”

Mary sat down on the floor in a corner. She had known nothing but

poverty all her life, and, since her Dublin days, had slept only in makeshift slum dwellings or outdoors, so she was not surprised or dismayed. It was hot in the attic, and she soon fell asleep.

She was woken at about 2 p.m. by movement. Most of the girls were going out. She stood up, but was told to stay where she was. She remained in the hot attic all afternoon accompanied by the heavy snores of the girl she had seen dancing on the table. She had had no food or drink, and spent the afternoon dreaming of Zakir.

In the early evening, the girl woke up. She was called Dolores, and was about twenty; a cheerful buxom wench who had been a prostitute since

childhood. She knew no other life, and could not imagine any other way of earning a living. She sat up sleepily, and saw Mary, “You new?” she enquired.

Mary nodded.

“Poor little thing,” she said. “Never mind, you’ll get used to the game. It’s all right when you get used to it. What you need is a gimmick, like me. I’m a stripper. But not one of your regular strippers. I’m an artiste.” She said the word artiste with great pride.

“Come on, we’d better go down to the café before Gloria comes up. You need a clean blouse, here, have one of mine. And you need a bit of make up. I’ll do it for you.”

She chatted all the time as she

dressed, doing her hair and Mary’s, and making them both up. Mary liked her. Her buoyant cheerfulness was infectious.

“There now, you look lovely.”

In fact, Mary looked grotesque, but she couldn’t see it. The sight of her painted face in the mirror thrilled her.

“Will Zakir be there tonight?” she

said.

“Yes, you’ll be seeing him, don’t worry.”

Mary was overjoyed, and followed Dolores into the café for the evening’s entertainment.

They went to the large table, where a number of girls already sat. Zakir was at the corner table, and Mary’s heart leapt. She took a step towards him, but

he waved her away without speaking, and she sat down sadly with the other girls. They were not talking much, and they all stared at her. One or two gave a thin smile, others openly scowled. One rough, dirty-looking girl said, “Look at her. Zakir’s latest. Who does she think she is. We’ll soon cut her down. You’ll see, Mary, Mary, quite contrary.”

Mary told me that she hadn’t really liked it, and wanted to leave.

“Well, why didn’t you?” I asked. “Because Zakir was sitting in the

corner, and nothing in the world could have dragged me away from him.”

I supposed that was how he got and kept most of his girls.

I said, “If you had known what kind

of life he was dragging you into, would you have left?”

She thought, and said: “I don’t think so, at first. It was not until I saw him bring in several other young girls, and sit at the corner table with them, that I began to understand what he meant when he said he was ‘the meat buyer’. I wanted to run over to the girl and warn her, but I couldn’t, and anyway, it would have done no good.”

That night Mary had her first clients. She was auctioned as a virgin, and the highest bidder got her first, with eight others following after. The next day Zakir put his arm around her, and told her that he was very pleased with her. He flashed his smile at her and her

heart melted.

She lived off this smile, and the others he condescended to give her, for months.

For the first week, the clients were arranged for her from the men who came to the café, and they paid Uncle. She hated it, and found the men revolting, but as Dolores and many of the others said, “You get used to it.”

When she was pushed out on to the street, and told to find her own clients, the real horror began.

“I had to bring back one pound each day,” she said. “If I didn’t, Uncle would hit me in the face, or knock me down and kick me. At first I asked for two shillings [10p] but there were so many other girls

on the game, asking sixpence or one shilling, that I had to cut my price too. Sometimes I would bring the men back to the café, but sometimes we just did it in alleyways or doorways, up against a wall, anywhere - even the bomb sites. I hated myself. There were dreadful fights between girls about whose pitch was whose, and fights between the men. If a girl tried to go to another protector, she might get her throat cut. You just don’t know the dreadful things that go on.”

“I was out all the time. I got some sleep in the mornings, but I had to go out every afternoon until about five or six the next morning. I hardly got any food, except some chips at the café, if I was lucky. I hated it, but I couldn’t seem to

stop. I’m filthy, I’m bad, I’m ... ”

I cut her short, not wanting her to dwell on self-reproval: “Well, you left in the end. What made you do that?”

“The baby,” she said quietly, “and Nelly. I liked Nelly,” she continued. “She was the only girl who was always kind to all the other girls. She never quarrelled and was never spiteful. She came from an orphanage in Glasgow and never knew who her father and mother were, nor if she had any brothers and sisters. She was always lonely, I think, because deep down inside, she was always looking for someone who belonged to her. She was two years older than me.”

Then Mary told me the terrible

truth.

“Gloria found out that Nelly was expecting a baby. It had happened before, other girls had fallen pregnant, but I hadn’t been involved, because I wasn’t friends with them. Gloria made arrangements, and a woman came in. I don’t know who she was, but the girls said she always did it. It was a morning, and I was asleep after my night out. I heard terrible screaming, and I knew at once that it was Nelly’s voice. I ran downstairs and found her in a little room. She was lying on a bed screaming, and Gloria and two other girls were holding her legs open while this woman stuck what looked like steel knitting needles inside her. I rushed in and took

Nelly in my arms, and told them to stop, but of course they wouldn’t. I couldn’t stop the pain for Nelly, either, so I just held her tight in my arms.”

I asked Mary to tell me more about Nelly.

“It was dreadful. The woman went on and on poking and scraping. Then suddenly there was blood everywhere. All over the bed, and the floor, and the woman. She said, ‘That’s all she needs. Just keep her in bed for a few days. She’ll be all right.’ They cleaned up, and threw the mess into the bomb site, while I stayed with Nelly. She was dead white, and still in dreadful pain. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stayed with her, and gave her water, and tried to make her

comfortable. Gloria looked in sometimes, and told me to sit with her, and not to go out that night.”

Mary started to cry.

“Sometimes she knew who I was, sometimes she didn’t. She got terribly hot. Her skin was burning up. I wiped her with cold water, but it didn’t help. All the time she was bleeding, till the mattress was soaked with blood. I sat with her all day and all night, and the pain never left her. In the early morning, she died in my arms.”

She was silent - then said bitterly: “I don’t know what they did with

her body. There was no funeral, and no police came. I suppose they just got rid of her, and told no one about it.”

I pondered, was it really possible to dispose of a body? If the girl had no relatives or friends, who would enquire about her if she disappeared? The other girls at the café knew her, but it seemed that they all lived in so much fear of Uncle, that they would say nothing. If Gloria or the abortionist were caught, it would probably have meant a charge of murder or at the very least manslaughter, so a web of protection was woven around them. I had little doubt that many other prostitutes had disappeared and no one ever missed them because they were usually homeless, unwanted girls.

A couple of months later, Mary realised that she, too, was pregnant but fear made her conceal the fact. She

continued to go out soliciting, even though she was sick most of the time. She told me that she wanted to get away but was too afraid to try. The baby didn’t mean anything to her, until she felt it moving inside her, and then a rush of maternal love swept over her. Some time later, as she was dressing in the attic one day, another girl screamed out:

“Look at Mary. There’s a bun in the oven.”

And then everyone knew.

Mary was frantic, and knew she had to get away. She said, “I didn’t mind if they were going to kill me. But they weren’t going to kill me baby.”

That evening she came in with a customer, and as she went upstairs, she

saw that the door of the gold and silver room was open. She told the man to undress in a cubicle, and slipped into the room. There was a lot of money on a table. She grabbed five pounds and ran like mad, out into the street and away.

FLIGHT

Mary ran for her life, and the life of her baby. She hadn’t the faintest idea of where she was going, so she just ran, driven by fear. It was night-time, and in her heightened imagination, she thought that someone was pursuing her with every step. She mainly kept to the unlit side streets, because under the lights of the main roads, she thought she would be recognised.

“I turned corner after corner, and hid in doorways, then doubled back and ran down another dark street, always avoiding the lights of the big roads. I spent nearly the whole night running.”

In fact, Mary must have run round

in circles, because she described the river and the docks and boats, and a church where she rested in the porch, which sounded very like the famous Bow Bells church. She did not get very far. After her sleep in the church porch, the terrors of the night departed, and she thought she would take a bus, to get a long way away, to a place where no one would look for her. It was not until she had actually boarded the platform of a bus and saw the bus conductor clipping tickets and taking one and two penny fares, that she realised her predicament with the five pounds. She could not possibly use it. She leapt off the bus just as it started to move, and fell into the gutter. Several people came over to help

her up, but she was so terrified that she brushed them aside, and ran, hiding her face in her hands.

Mary spent the whole day hiding. It did not seem rational. I asked her, “Why did you not go to a police station and claim protection?”

Her reply was interesting.

“I couldn’t. I was a thief. They would have locked me up, or taken me back to the café, and made me give the money back to Uncle.”

Her terror of Uncle was almost tangible, so she spent the whole day wandering, and hiding from people. She must have headed south again from Bow towards the river as it was in the East India Dock Road that she finally had the

idea of asking someone, a lady who did not look as though she could possibly be mixed up in prostitution, to change the five pound note. As I stepped off the bus that evening she had approached me and I had taken her back to Nonnatus House where she had had the first good meal, and the first night’s sleep in a secure, warm environment that she had had since leaving the sheelin’ back in County Mayo.

It was Sister Julienne who made the arrangements for Mary to go to Church House in Wellclose Square. This house had been set up, and staffed by volunteers as a refuge for prostitutes by Father Joe Williamson.

Father Joe was a saint. Saints come

in all sorts of shapes and sizes - they don’t have to wear halos. Father Joe was born and bred in the slums of Poplar in the 1890s. Somehow he survived cold, hunger, neglect, and four years at the front during the First World War. He was a rough, tough East End street kid, crude and loud mouthed, yet when he was no more than a child, he had a vision that God was calling him to be a priest. He overcame a lack of proper education, a thick Cockney accent that no one else could understand, the inability to express himself, and class prejudice. He was ordained in the 1920s, and many years later, after serving as a parish priest in Norfolk, returned to the East End, to St Paul’s

parish in Stepney, right in the heart of the red-light district. He saw at first hand the appalling life these girls led. From then on, he devoted the rest of his life to helping prostitutes who wanted to escape. The Wellclose Trust still exists in the twenty-first century, and is still engaged in the same work.

At Church House Mary was given a bath, clean warm clothes and good food. She was with about six other girls who, with varying degrees of success, were trying to kick the habit of prostitution. Mary was too frightened to go out, but gradually her fears about being found and murdered subsided, colour returned to her pale cheeks, and her Irish eyes began to sparkle.

I visited her several times during this period of calm, because she always seemed to want me to, and also because I wanted to learn more about prostitutes. It was during these visits that I learned the harrowing details of her life in London. I think she was relatively happy during this brief period, but it could not last. For one thing her pregnancy was advancing, and whilst she could receive antenatal care at Church House, they were not equipped to cope with a mother and baby. But more important was the fact that Church House was perilously close to Cable Street and the Full Moon Cafe. Whilst she did not leave the house there was no danger, but at some stage, she would want to venture out - Church

Date: 2016-04-22; view: 532