2
IT WAS A SUNNY SUNDAY AFTERNOON, and all London was out for a stroll in their best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. The wide avenue of Piccadilly was free from traffic, for only an invalid would drive on the Sabbath. Maisie Robinson and April Tilsley were strolling down Piccadilly, looking at the palaces of the rich and trying to pick up men.
They lived in Soho, sharing a single room in a slum house in Carnaby Street, near the St. James’s Workhouse. They would get up around midday, dress carefully, and go out on the streets. By evening they had generally found a couple of men to pay for their dinner: if not, they went hungry. They had almost no money but they needed little. When the rent was due April would ask a boyfriend for a “loan.” Maisie always wore the same clothes and washed her underwear every night. One of these days someone would buy her a new gown. Sooner or later, she hoped, one of the men who bought her dinner would either want to marry her or set her up as his mistress.
April was still excited about the South American she had met, Tonio Silva. “Just think, he can afford to lose ten guineas on a bet!” she said. “And I’ve always liked red hair.”
“I didn’t like the other South American, the dark one,” Maisie said.
“Micky? He was gorgeous.”
“Yes, but there was something sly about him, I thought.”
April pointed to a huge mansion. “That’s Solly’s father’s house.”
It was set back from the road, with a semicircular drive in front. It looked like a Greek temple, with a row of pillars across the front that reached all the way up to the roof. Brass gleamed on the big front door and there were red velvet curtains at the windows.
April said: “Just think, you could be living there one day.”
Maisie shook her head. “Not me.”
“It’s been done before,” April said. “You just have to be more randy than upper-class girls, and that’s not difficult. Once you’re married, you can learn to imitate the accent and all that in no time. You speak nice already, except when you get cross. And Solly’s a nice boy.”
“A nice fat boy,” Maisie said with a grimace.
“But so rich! People say his father keeps a symphony orchestra at his country house just in case he wants to hear some music after dinner!”
Maisie sighed. She did not want to think about Solly. “Where did the rest of you go, after I shouted at that boy Hugh?”
“Ratting. Then me and Tonio went to Batt’s Hotel.”
“Did you do it with him?”
“Of course! Why do you think we went to Batt’s?”
“To play whist?”
They giggled.
April looked suspicious. “You did it with Solly, though, didn’t you?”
“I made him happy,” Maisie said.
“What does that mean?”
Maisie made a gesture with her hand, and they both giggled again.
April said: “You only frigged him off? Why?”
Maisie shrugged.
“Well, perhaps you’re right,” April said. “Sometimes it’s best not to let them have it all first time. If you lead them on a bit it can make them more keen.”
Maisie changed the subject. “It brought back bad memories, meeting people called Pilaster,” she said.
April nodded. “Bosses, I hate their fucking guts,” she said with sudden venom. April’s language was even more earthy than what Maisie had been used to in the circus. “I’ll never work for one. That’s why I do this. I set my own price and get paid in advance.”
“My brother and me left home the day Tobias Pilaster went bankrupt,” Maisie said. She smiled ruefully. “You could say it’s because of the Pilasters that I’m here today.”
“What did you do after you left? Did you join the circus straightaway?”
“No.” Maisie felt a tug at her heart as she remembered how frightened and lonely she had been. “My brother stowed away on a ship going to Boston. I’ve not seen him or heard from him since. I slept at a rubbish tip for a week. Thank God the weather was mild—it was May. It only rained one night: I covered myself with rags and had fleas for years afterwards…. I remember the funeral.”
“Whose?”
“Tobias Pilaster’s. The procession went through the streets. He’d been a big man in the town. I remember a little lad, not much older than me, wearing a black coat and a top hat, holding his mam’s hand. It must have been Hugh.”
“Fancy that,” said April.
“After that I walked to Newcastle. I dressed as a lad and worked at a stables, helping out. They let me sleep in the straw at night, alongside the horses. I stayed there three years.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I grew these,” Maisie said, and jiggled her breasts. A middle-aged man walking by saw her, and his eyes nearly popped out. “When the head stablehand found out I was a lass he tried to rape me. I smacked him across the face with a riding crop, and that was the end of the job.”
“I hope you cut him,” April said.
“I certainly cooled his ardor.”
“You should have whacked his thing.”
“He might have liked it.”
“Where did you go when you left the stable?”
“That’s when I joined the circus. I started as a stablehand and eventually became one of the riders.” She sighed nostalgically. “I liked the circus. The people are warm.”
“Too warm, I gather.”
Maisie nodded. “I never really got on with the ringmaster, and when he told me to gam him it was time to leave. I decided that if I’m going to suck cocks for a living I want a better wage. And here I am.” She always picked up speech mannerisms and she had adopted April’s unrestrained vocabulary.
April gave her a shrewd look. “Just how many cocks have you sucked since then?”
“None, to tell the truth.” Maisie felt embarrassed. “I can’t lie to you, April—I’m not sure I’m cut out for this trade.”
“You’re perfect for it!” April protested. “You’ve got that twinkle in your eye that men can’t resist. Listen. Persist with Solly Greenbourne. Give him a bit more each time. Let him feel your * one day, let him see you naked the next…. In about three weeks he’ll be panting for it. One night when you’ve got his trousers down and his tool in your mouth, say: ‘If you bought me a little house in Chelsea, we could do this any time you wanted to.’ I swear to you, Maisie, if Solly says no to that, I’ll become a nun.”
Maisie knew she was right, but her soul revolted against it, She was not sure why. It was partly because she was not attracted to Solly. Paradoxically, another reason was that he was so nice. She could not bring herself to manipulate him heartlessly. But worst of all, she felt she would be giving up all hope of real love—a real marriage with a man she really burned for. On the other hand, she had to live somehow, and she was determined not to live like her parents, waiting all week for a pittance on payday and forever at risk of unemployment because of some financial crisis hundreds of miles away.
April said: “What about one of the others? You could have had your pick of them.”
“I liked Hugh, but I offended him.”
“He’s got no money, anyway.”
“Edward’s a pig, Micky frightens me, and Tonio is yours.”
“Solly’s your man, then.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. If you let him slip through your fingers, you’ll spend the rest of your life walking down Piccadilly and thinking ‘I could be living in that house now.’”
“Yes, I probably will.”
“And if not Solly, who? You could end up with a nasty little middle-aged grocer who keeps you short of money and expects you to launder your own sheets.”
Maisie brooded on that prospect as they came to the western end of Piccadilly and turned north into Mayfair. She probably could make Solly marry her if she put her mind to it. And she would be able to play the part of a grand lady without too much difficulty. Speech was half the battle and she had always been a good mimic. But the thought of trapping kind Solly into a loveless marriage sickened her.
Cutting through a mews, they passed a big livery stable. Maisie felt nostalgic for the circus, and stopped to pet a tall chestnut stallion. The horse immediately nuzzled her hand. A man’s voice said: “Redboy don’t generally allow strangers to touch him.”
Maisie turned around to see a middle-aged man in a black morning coat with a yellow waistcoat. His formal clothes clashed with his weatherbeaten face and uneducated speech, and she guessed he was a former stablehand who had started his own business and done well. She smiled and said: “He’s doesn’t mind me, do you, Redboy?”
“I don’t suppose you could ride him, now, could you?”
“Ride him? Yes, I could ride him, without a saddle, and stand upright on his back, too. Is he yours?”
The man made a small bow and said: “George Sammles, at your service, ladies; proprietor, as it says there.” He pointed to where his name was painted over the door.
Maisie said: “I shouldn’t boast, Mr. Sammles, but I’ve spent the last four years in a circus, so I can probably ride anything you have in your stables.”
“Is that a fact?” he said thoughtfully. “Well, well.”
April put in: “What’s on your mind, Mr. Sammles?”
He hesitated. “This may seem a mite sudden, but I was asking myself whether this lady might be interested in a business proposition.”
Maisie wondered what was coming next. Until this moment she had thought the conversation was no more than idle banter. “Go on.”
April said suggestively: “We’re always interested in business propositions.” But Maisie had a feeling Sammles was not after what April had in mind.
“You see, Redboy’s for sale,” the man began. “But you don’t sell horses by keeping them indoors. Whereas, if you was to ride him around the park for an hour or so, a lady such as yourself, looking, if I may be so bold, as pretty as a pitcher, you’d attract a deal of attention, and chances are that sooner or later someone would ask you how much you wanted for the horse.”
Was there money in this, Maisie wondered? Did it offer her a way of paying the rent without selling her body or her soul? But she did not ask the question that was on her mind. Instead she said: “And then I’d tell the person: ‘Away and see Mr. Sammles in the Curzon Mews, for the nag’s his.’ Is that what you mean?”
“Exackly so, except that, rather than call Redboy a nag, you might term him ‘this magnificent creature,’ or ‘this fine specimen of horseflesh,’ or such.”
“Maybe,” said Maisie, thinking to herself that she would use her own words, not Sammles’s. “Now then, to business.” She could no longer pretend to be casual about the money. “How much would you pay?”
“What do you think it’s worth?”
Maisie picked a ridiculous sum. “A pound a day.”
“Too much,” he said promptly. “I’ll give you half that.”
She could hardly believe her luck. Ten shillings a day was an enormous wage: girls of her age who worked as housemaids were lucky to get a shilling a day. Her heart beat faster. “Done,” she said quickly, afraid he might change his mind. “When do I start?”
“Come tomorrow at half-past ten.”
“I’ll be here.”
They shook hands and the girls moved off. Sammles called after her: “Mind you wear the dress you’ve got on today—it’s fetching.”
“Have no fear,” Maisie said. It was the only one she had. But she did not tell Sammles that.