Lover (5 page)

There's quite a few in this shelter, tonight. Mrs McIver, with her crosswords. Brings her alarm clock to time herself—beats me how she can see to read in this light, never mind writing down the answers. A couple of dozen knitting and that. Faces I know, not the names. Lot of them wouldn't talk to me. Oop, a man coming in…he's looking round. Obvious what he's after. Not with me, though. No hat—that's a non-payer, for sure. Talking to Edie and Lily, now—Edie's stood up to go with him.
She
can't have done much business tonight. Wants to smarten herself up a bit, if you ask me. You've got to dress up or it's not worth the candle. Stockings and high-heeled shoes, that's what they like. And I've got my new coat—blue wool, very smart. Five guineas, it cost me. Edie looks like the dog's dinner. Scrawny thing—I've seen more meat on a hat-pin. Lily's no better. Seedy, she looks, and that's not like her at all. She's quite a handsome woman: dark hair, like me, and she's got what you'd call a
strong
face, but it's pleasant, not mannish or anything.

It's that ponce of hers making trouble again, I wouldn't be surprised. Lily's a pal; she works round the corner from me. We're always chatting, and we go to the pictures together all the time, but I still say you've got to be soft to stand on the street all night and then go off home and give your takings to some man. The thing is, once he knows you're going out, he gets lazy. He's not bringing anything in so you're giving him the money and then all of a sudden it's ‘Oh, it's such-and-such a time, don't you think you'd better be going down the road?' Then there's no gratitude any more, he just expects it. And then you've got to give him extra, if you want him to stay, otherwise some other girl'll come and give him more money, and he'll be off with her. That's what happened with Lily—Ted used to be Eileen's boy, but Lily took him off her. I'd have said, ‘Good riddance,' but Eileen was that cut up about it, she'd have scratched Lily's eyes out if she could.

Anything's better than that Maltese lot, mind you. Vicious, that's what they are—no more than a bunch of white slavers. Their girls have a terrible time of it: I've heard they'll beat them, even kill one, just to keep the others in line. I don't know why we let them come over here, making trouble. We're too soft; we ought to ship them off back where they came from.

But you want the companionship, and that's something I miss, to tell you the truth, because it can be a lonely old life, doing this. I did live with a man for a couple of years—Alec Voss, his name was. Merchant seaman—
ex
-merchant seaman, I should say. He died, poor man. That was from alcohol. We had a big teapot, and every morning he'd make tea and pour half a bottle of rum in it. He'd make himself another one in the afternoon, so he was drinking it, cold, all through the day. I suppose I felt sorry for him, really, that was why I let him stay with me. He was another one with a funny nose. Quite a good-looking man, but he'd got this lump of a nose through drink, a great red thing all spread out across his face…and they took him in hospital at the end; he was there for several weeks, and do you know, his nose shrank! Right back to what it was before, the normal colour and everything. They didn't let him have a drink, you see.

I wouldn't have a man again, though—well, not unless I gave it up and married, because I'd like a decent life, same as anyone, with a man to look after me. But I wonder if there's much chance of that, now, being thirty and with the war and everything. Although one thing I will say about the bombing, it don't half take your mind off other things…

Sometimes, I used to scare myself half to death thinking about where I'll be when I'm sixty, but since all this started it hasn't crossed my mind once. But as I say, it's a hard thing to get married off the streets. There's plenty who are married, and still do it, but that's not a marriage to my way of thinking. Of course, with someone of your own type, who knows what you are and accepts it, they're likely to be a ponce, aren't they? No decent man's going to like the idea that his wife's been with everybody, is he? You couldn't expect it. But I'd like a family, yes, I would—I've got my boy Tommy, but he's at my sister's, down the road, and…well, to be honest, we've never told him. Auntie Rene, he calls me. He wasn't from any of these. See, I used to be a Windmill girl. Show girls, we were called—I thought that was very glamorous and American, like the pictures. That's why I did it, really. There were shorter girls that danced and sang and what-have-you, and us taller ones just stood about with not much on.
Tableaux vivantes
, it was called—where you're not allowed to move because then it's immoral. Well, I met this man and fell in love with him and then I fell pregnant and we were going to be married, but it was the old story. Turned out he was married already, only he hadn't told me, and he wasn't about to leave his wife—she was rich, you see—so that was that.

I had to leave the show, of course, and then Tommy was born at Dora's and he stopped with her. She and Joe have never been blessed with little ones, so she's happy because Tommy calls her Mum. I was working in a café after that, and some of the street girls would come in, and I got talking to them, and that was it, really. The first time I did it, that was peculiar, and I felt a bit funny afterwards, but then I thought, why not? It's a good living—I earned five pounds a week as a Windmill girl, but I do a lot better with this. And I look after my boy, make no mistake about it, I do.

All the old ducks are giving Edie the look. Immorality, that's what they're thinking. I could tell them, it's not us girls encouraging the immorality, it's all those that do it for nothing, and none of them clean. They're the ones who spread disease, not us. That old girl at the end, in the black with the lorgnette—a dirty look on a long stick, if ever I saw one—she's got no call to be looking down her nose, not her. Well known round here, she is. We've all seen her, in the pubs. Ale Mary, they call her. Not to her face, of course. You'll get somebody come up, ‘What are you drinking, Ma?' and it's ‘Oh, just a whisper of port wine,' so the barman starts pouring, and she says, ‘Louder than
that
…' and before you know it there's a great big glassful and the man's got to pay for it. Then she gets drunk and starts bawling and singing: the Bible or the music hall, and I don't know which is worse. Some people call her a character—I'd say she's a bloody nuisance.

I've always said I rub along with all sorts, but if I'm honest I feel more comfortable with the rest of the girls than I do with ordinary people, even my sister. It's the life, I suppose.

Woman coming in with her kiddie, that's nice… My Tommy was evacuated last year, but it didn't take. The government was paying those people to feed our kids and they treated them like dirt, calling us scroungers, when they were out to grab all the money they could. They had no shelters, either, not like London. Dora went and saw Tommy, and she was so upset that she said, ‘That's it, he's coming back with me.' The woman told her she'd be glad to see the back of him because he was dirty and wet the bed, but it was only because he was frightened, poor mite, being in a strange house. And he had scabs on his body because he wasn't getting proper food. We were ever so worried about him, but he soon had roses in his cheeks again. I swear he gets better-looking every time I see him, like his father. I hope that's all it is, the looks, because Vic—that's his dad—he was a rotter, and I don't want Tommy doing the dirty on some poor girl like he did to me. I don't want him in the army, either. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it, all these poor mothers with their sons going off to fight; I don't know how they can bear it. I feel so sorry for them. It'd break my heart if anything happened to Tommy. I can't stand to think of it.

But he's happy enough here. Always making mischief. Couple of weeks ago, Dora told me he'd gone out with his chums, and they'd gone in the dustbins behind all them film companies in Wardour Street for bits of film cuttings to make stink bombs. Dora said they get the film and wrap it round some newspaper and set it on fire, then when the flame goes out the smoke smells like rotten eggs. Tommy's a mischievous little chap, and he'd lit one in his school, during the prayers, and it got him in trouble. I couldn't stop laughing when Dora told me. She said to him, ‘Here's Auntie Rene come to punish you, you little devil!' but I couldn't, I gave him a kiss instead. ‘All my kisses are yours,' that's what I tell him. I don't let any of
them
kiss me, not likely.

I'd like a little girl, too. I was thinking about that when I went over to Dora's—they've got a nice flat in Covent Garden from the council—and there's all these girls playing out in the road, all clean and sweet. Singing a rhyme, like this:
Dip, dip, dip/ My little ship/ Sailing on the water/ Like a cup and saucer/ You—are—not—IT!
That's how it goes, and then they have to touch the one that's nearest and they all run off, laughing like anything. And this song stayed in my mind, because I thought, well, that's like the war, really, because you don't know where the bomb will come, and if it's you, that's too bad.

My grandmother used to say to us,
We are all in God's pocket
; that was a great favourite of hers. She was always the optimist in the family. Not like my mother, God bless her, she was one of those where if there's any bad news, she had to be the one to tell you. Not that she was a nasty woman, particularly, she just seemed to take pleasure in that sort of thing. If she didn't want you to do something or have something, even if there was a perfectly good reason for it—we hadn't got it or we couldn't afford it—she'd turn it into something terrible. If we said, ‘Mum, can we have an apple?', it'd be, ‘No, you can't. I knew a man who ate an apple, and he
died
.' She always said things like that. Dora and I still laugh about it. Mum's dead, now. Shame she missed this, really—what with all the bad news about bombs and what-have-you, she'd be having a whale of a time. I'd say I'm more like my grandmother in that way, looking on the bright side, but it's very hard when there's nothing you can do about it. Just have to hope you'll stay in one piece… I do go into the church, sometimes, just to sit and get a bit of quiet. The vicar knows who I am. Knows we use the churchyard, too, but he never bothers.

Now this one's a bit more like it. Clean. Nice suit. Married: he's got that look. That's right, darling, over here… sit down… Would I like a cigarette? Can't smoke in here, dear, got to be outside. Here we go, then. Seems genuine—not one of the sort that gets themselves worked up asking how much and then insulting you and going away all excited, but you can't always tell, not in this job. No All-Clear, but it's safe enough out here now. Quiet.

‘Are you a naughty girl?' he says.

‘Very naughty,' I say. ‘What's your name, dear?'

‘Bernard.'

‘That's nice. Mine's Rene.'

‘I'd like to kiss you.'

‘One pound ten shillings all in,' I say. ‘I've got a room.'

Once you've got the money, you tell them what's what. Mind you, I always keep to my side of the deal—give what I'm paid for, fair and square. But this one, it isn't his first time. Knows the drill: doesn't bargain, doesn't bring his money out in the street, lets me go off first, and he follows. He'll be my last, tonight. Five pounds I've taken. Not good, not bad. And threepence off those kippers.

T
hat smell. Oil and fuel and hydraulic fluid—same in all aircraft, but each type smells different. Where the stuff is, I suppose. But Spits smell better, somehow. Special.

I sit in the tiny cockpit and watch my hands at work. They know exactly what to do; I don't have to tell them. The airman gives me the thumbs-up: battery disconnected, and I am free.

They guide me out and we taxi across the grass, snaking from side to side. All clear from control to take off. Slowly open up the throttle to maximum power, that beautiful, throaty roar, and she's vibrating, excited, desperate to get into the air. She gains speed, I raise her tail…90 mph, a slight bump, and she takes off almost by herself…left hand on throttle and right hand on control stick, then change and right hand on lever to raise the undercarriage—indicator light on—bring pitch and mix back…140 mph. Start to climb through the late-afternoon haze. Change radio frequency. Nobody says much on the way up.

Bandits, twenty plus at Angels One Two. Outnumbered, as usual: we are eight, spaced out across the sky. Thank Christ we've given up all that close formation stuff—great for displays but fuck-all use in a scrap. Red Section is leading, with Prideaux at Red One. I'm flying Yellow One, with one of the new boys… Holden-Something…as my wingman. Much good he'll do me. He's supposed to protect my arse, but I'm not betting on it. Not much cloud. Sun behind us. We climb to 14,000 feet. Good job Prideaux's got the sense to get us up higher than the angels they give us. Check the dashboard… Airspeed indicator, artificial horizon—normal; rate of climb indicator, engine speed indicator, fuel pressure gauge, boost gauge, all fine… Gun-sight on, gun-safety off… Nothing in sight—for the moment, the sky is ours.

Corky flying alongside me, singing, his voice distorted by the radio transmission: ‘
I love you in your negligee—
'

‘Corky, I didn't know you cared.' Mathy, on the other side.

‘
I love you in your nightie—
'

More instruction, with Corky warbling away in the background.

We quarter the sky, looking out for enemy planes. Extraordinary that one can feel as alert and excited as hell and totally calm at the same time, but it's possible. That overrides the tiredness, somehow, because we've been up three times today already. How you can feel all these sensations at once, I don't know. It might have been Corky's singing, or perhaps the exhaustion, but my mind starts to wander, and I find myself thinking about Webster, how he once said that his first flight was like the first time he had a girl. He was in the RFC in the last war, so I suppose that was in France. Perhaps French girls are different, although I don't see how they can be.