The Devil Rides Out (7 page)

Sharon, now four months old, still screamed like the banshee if she suspected that I was about to go anywhere near her, let alone, horror of horrors, attempt to pick her up. I suspected I wouldn’t be missed. In fact, as soon as the whistle was blown at Lime Street Station and my train pulled out, she’d probably get the bunting out and hang it round her cot.

I said goodbye to friends and lovers and went up to see the aunties before I left. ‘Trust you to get things arse about face’ was Aunty Chrissie’s only comment on my situation. ‘Aren’t you supposed to bugger off to London before the courts get you? Not the other way round?’

Aunty Anne adopted her priest’s housekeeper voice and an enfeebled manner and hinted darkly that she hoped she’d see me next time I was home, if she were spared, that is, but I was not to hold my breath.

‘Jesus, is she in one of her “one foot in the grave” moods? Take no notice of her,’ Aunty Chrissie snorted, rooting around in her purse. ‘Here, take this ten bob and buy yourself some chips from Billy Lamb’s and get a fishcake for the Grim Reaper here, she’s getting on my bloody nerves.’

I was going to miss my sister’s kids. The latest addition to the family was only a few weeks younger than Sharon and I questioned myself as to why I could feel such affection for my nephew but not for my own flesh and blood. I began to agree with my mother that I was indeed ‘odd’.

My mother insisted on coming over with me to Lime Street to see me off on the train. She was unusually solicitous as she said goodbye to me on the platform.

I kissed her and boarded the train quickly so she wouldn’t see my eyes welling up. I waved at her from the open window of the door as she stood on the platform watching the train pull out until finally she vanished from sight, then I popped into the toilet for a quick cry before I found my seat.

C
HRIS AND BILLY’S FLAT WAS ABOVE A NEWSAGENT’S SHOP IN
Formosa Street, Maida Vale. It was a shrine to every female star who ever graced the stage and silver screen. Movie posters and photographs of their idols adorned every wall. They kept a rabbit in a hutch at the bottom of their bed and a couple of cats. One of them, a petulant Siamese, was known as ‘the Baby’, not due to the urge to satisfy any latent yearnings they may have had for fatherhood but because that’s what Madame Rose called Baby June in the musical
Gypsy
. Like me they were devotees of
Gypsy
, but on reflection I doubt they were so keen on the soundtrack after I’d been there for a while as I played it every chance I got.

The neighbours had been a revelation. Chris had taken me across the street to meet them not long after I arrived. The door was opened by a tall friendly bloke who Chris greeted as Mrs Page.

‘Hello, dear, nice to meet you,’ he said, extending his hand and inviting me in. ‘Tony Page, singer, compère in or out of drag, available for bar mitzvahs, private functions and cock and hen, especially the cock, dear.’

As he chivvied me down the narrow hall I noticed every coat peg on the wall had a wig of a different colour and size hanging from it. In a clear polythene bag on the peg nearest to the kitchen door a teased-out wig of frizzy grey hair rested on a polystyrene wig block that someone had drawn a face on. An image of a decapitated pensioner flashed across my mind.

‘We’ve got company, Alice,’ Mrs Page sang out as we entered the back room. ‘It’s Mrs Scott come to introduce her niece from the country.’

Alice, all smiles, was standing in the middle of the room modelling a strapless cocktail gown that had seen one too many parties, the zip of which was undone at the back. ‘Hello, dear, I’m Alistair. I take it you’ve already met my mother?’ he said, nodding towards Tony Page.

‘New frock?’ Chris asked.

Alistair blinked his enormous eyes and went into mock coquette mode, holding the dress close to him, his arms crossed coyly over the bust in case it fell down. ‘What, this tatty old rag?’ he simpered. ‘Just a little something I threw on.’

‘Those things are going to kill you one day,’ Alice snapped back, emulating my ma, ‘hopefully sooner than later. Now give the jaw a rest and let’s have another go at pulling this zip up.’

Tony squinted and contorted as he attempted to pull up a zip on a dress being worn by a man at least three sizes bigger than its original owner. Alistair was optimistic though and kept up a running commentary concerning the dress’s origins, wincing in discomfort as Tony struggled.

‘Got it in a charity shop near Westbourne Grove … Pull it then, dear … Wanted a fiver, got it for three … Careful! Mind the flesh, you nearly had me fucking back off then, Mrs Page … I’ll wear it with that naff wig for “I Hate Men” … Uuugh. Come on, you’re nearly there, dear. Pull it hard.’ Chris went to give a hand and between them they miraculously got the zip to go up.

‘There you go, ladies,’ Alistair gasped, unable to breathe or move, ‘a perfect fit.’

The dress was so tight that two fleshy rolls of his flabby chest oozed over the top of it. Alistair pushed them together so that they met in the middle and looked like a real cleavage.

‘Varda,’ he smiled proudly, holding his arms up and bending his knee in an Ethel Merman pose. ‘Look at the size of those balloons.’

‘If I were you I’d have a couple of panels put in that frock before you go on stage,’ Tony said, eyeing the bursting seams dubiously, ‘because if you don’t mind me saying, dear, and I know you won’t, there’s simply no way that delicate little zip is going to cope with the tonnage it’s expected to hold in.’

‘You should know, dear, you were the barmaid,’ Tony jumped in, roaring with laughter, delighted with himself at the speed of his comeback.

‘Sad, isn’t it?’ Alistair smiled, patting Mrs Page on the arm in a gesture of mock concern and staring intently into his face. ‘Look at that eek, those bags, those lines, poor old thing. She’s as old as her gags, and they’re ancient.’

‘Hark at her, that’s a bit rich coming from a mime act who can’t even fart unless it’s on tape.’

‘Why don’t you make yourself useful and put the kettle on, Lime Street Sadie here looks like she could do with a cup of tea after the shock of seeing you in daylight.’

I was already known as Lil in certain circles, now here I was being rechristened as Sadie. I had an Aunty Sadie, my dad’s sister, and I didn’t think of it as a particularly funny or unusual name. Mrs Page, Chris and Alistair did though, and so Sadie I became. Alistair called me nothing else from that day on.

He was extremely easy to get on with, warm and good-natured, as was Tony Page. I sat round the table smoking and drinking tea, listening to them gossip and bitch. I felt a little out of my depth at first which made me come over shy, but eventually, prompted by Chris, I stirred myself and fed them a few highly salacious and grossly exaggerated titbits about the prolific sexual activity that was available to any queen who fancied a stroll down the Liverpool dock road. Their eyes stood out like chapel hat pegs as I described the hordes of sex-mad sailors from the four corners of the globe who frequented the gay bars of Liverpool and were just ripe for the picking.

The more they laughed the more I loosened up and started to enjoy myself. Making people laugh is a potent drug that gives you a real buzz, whether it’s on a stage or in a west London kitchen. I liked these people and wanted them to like me.

They were different from anyone else I’d ever met. They were showbiz. Not the showbiz of the blues clubs of Long John Baldry or the classical world that Sir John Pritchard lived in – these being the only two people I’d previously met who were famous and worked within the entertainment industry. No, Alistair and Tony Page were something else entirely. They were a different breed, lairy, funny, brave and ever so slightly devious and the world they inhabited sounded daring, exciting and extremely appealing. I felt that I’d found my tribe.

‘You should be on the stage, wack,’ Tony said, getting up from the table, ‘and talking of which that’s just exactly what I should be preparing to do.’

‘It takes her a long time, you see. It’s tricky getting that iron lung in the back of the car,’ Alistair simpered, smoothing his hair and pursing his lips.

‘I shall clean you when I get back, madam, but right now your mother has got more important matters on her mind, like getting to work. I’m resident compère at the Black Cap, you know.’ Tony looked into the mirror over the fireplace and, licking his finger, ran it over his eyebrows. ‘Got to bring the shekels in, so thank God I’m very busy and working every night, twice on Sundays. Can’t complain, dear.’

Alistair was one half of a mime drag double act called the Harlequeens. His partner Phil and he hadn’t been doing the rounds of pubs and clubs for very long but they were quickly becoming extremely popular. Alistair was the larger of the two both in height and girth. Phil was smaller, very funny and like Alice could go from gross caricature to high glamour. They did a ‘tarts’ routine at first, made up of bits of recognizable songs cleverly edited together on a reel-to-reel tape. They had a wealth of songs to choose from courtesy of Chris’s extensive record collection and between them had concocted a very funny montage. The tarts had gone down a treat when the Harlequeens made their debut. They had planned on calling themselves the Harlequins until someone suggested the funnier alternative, then with a new name they had extended the act into the requisite two twenty-minute spots and successfully gone on the pub circuit.

There was a drag boom on. Every pub in London, gay or straight, seemed to have a drag act. Mime acts were extremely busy too. They could work any pub, no matter how small, and were cheaper as the landlord was spared the expense of the drummer and pianist required to accompany live acts. All the mime acts needed was a record player or a tape machine plus a speaker to play them through. The Harlequeens had their own sound system, not exactly high tech but nevertheless effective and worth the initial expense as it allowed them greater scope.

I couldn’t wait. I’d read about the famous East End and seen it depicted in films on telly. It was home to the Krays and Jack the Ripper, Limehouse opium dens and the white slave trade. Gaslit alleys crawled with whores who lurked in the shadows and said, ‘Wanna good time, duckie?’ to every passing male. And fog, lots and lots of fog. Oh, I knew all about the East End all right, so it was not surprising that after an unremarkable journey squashed in the back of Alistair’s sister’s Mini with the speaker on my lap I was more than a bit disappointed when we pulled up outside an ordinary-looking pub on a main road. No fog, no opium dens, just a couple of girls outside a kebab shop.

Inside was equally unremarkable. The stage was a little carpeted platform with a bit of silver and red slash curtain tacked to the back wall for theatrical effect. A small organ and a set of drums completed the scene and at the side of the stage a chenille curtain had been hung for the acts to change behind. I sat at the bar while Alistair and Phil set their costumes up behind the curtain. They had no need to get made up as they’d arrived in full slap, hiding their heavily painted eyes behind dark glasses in the vain hope that it made them less conspicuous.