3
IN THE AFTERNOONS, wealthy ladies and idle gentlemen called on one another. It was a tiresome practice and four days of the week Maisie told her servants to say she was not at home. On Fridays she received people, and there might be twenty or thirty during the course of an afternoon. It was always more or less the same crowd: the Marlborough Set, the Jewish set, women with “advanced” ideas such as Rachel Bodwin, and a few wives of Solly’s more important business acquaintances.
Emily Pilaster was in the last category. Her husband Edward was involved in a deal with Solly about a railway in Cordova, and Maisie assumed it was on the strength of that that Emily called. But she stayed all afternoon and at half-past five, when everyone else had gone, she was still there.
A pretty girl with big blue eyes, she was only about twenty years old and anyone could tell she was miserable, so Maisie was not surprised when she said: “Please can I talk to you about something personal?”
“Of course, what is it?”
“I do hope you won’t be offended but there’s no one I can discuss it with.”
This sounded like a sexual problem. It would not be the first time that a well-bred girl had come to Maisie for advice on a subject she could not discuss with her mother. Perhaps they had heard rumors about her racy past, or perhaps they just found her approachable. “It’s hard to offend me,” Maisie said. “What do you want to discuss?”
“My husband hates me,” she said, and she burst into tears.
Maisie felt sorry for her. She had known Edward in the old Argyll Rooms days and he had been a pig then. No doubt he had got worse since. She could sympathize with anyone unfortunate enough to have married him.
“You see,” Emily said between sobs, “his parents wanted him to marry, but he didn’t want to, so they offered him a huge settlement, and a partnership in the bank, and that persuaded him. And I agreed because my parents wanted me to and he seemed as good as anyone and I wanted to have babies. But he never liked me and now that he’s got his money and his partnership he can’t stand the sight of me.”
Maisie sighed. “This may sound hard, but you’re in the same position as thousands of women.”
Emily wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and made an effort to stop crying. “I know, and I don’t want you to think I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’ve got to make the best of it. And I know I could cope with the situation if only I could have a baby. That’s all I ever really wanted.”
Children were the consolation of most unhappy wives, Maisie reflected. “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t have babies?”
Emily was shifting restlessly on the couch, almost writhing with embarrassment, but her childlike face was set in lines of determination. “I’ve been married for two months and nothing’s happened.”
“Early days yet—”
“No, I don’t mean I expected to be pregnant by now.”
Maisie knew it was difficult for such girls to be specific, so she led her with questions. “Does he come to your bed?”
“He did at first, but not anymore.”
“When he did, what went wrong?”
“The trouble is, I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen.”
Maisie sighed. How could mothers allow their daughters to walk up the aisle in such ignorance? She recalled that Emily’s father was a Methodist minister. That did not help. “What’s supposed to happen is this,” she began. “Your husband kisses and touches you, his doodle gets long and stiff, and he puts it into your cunny. Most girls like it.”
Emily blushed scarlet. “He did the kissing and touching, but nothing else.”
“Did his doodle get stiff?”
“It was dark.”
“Didn’t you feel it?”
“He made me rub it once.”
“And what was it like? Rigid, like a candle, or limp, like an earthworm? Or in between, like a sausage before it’s cooked?”
“Limp.”
“And when you rubbed it, did it stiffen?”
“No. It made him very angry and he slapped me and said I was no good. Is it my fault, Mrs. Greenbourne?”
“No, it’s not your fault, though men generally blame women. It’s a common problem and it’s called impotence.”
“What causes it?”
“Lots of different things.”
“Does it mean I can’t have a baby?”
“Not until you can make his doodle stiff.”
Emily looked as if she might cry. “I do so want a baby. I’m so lonely and unhappy but if I had a baby I could put up with everything else.”
Maisie wondered what Edward’s problem was. He certainly had not been impotent in the old days. Was there anything she could do to help Emily? She could probably find out whether Edward was impotent all the time or just with his wife. April Tilsley would know. Edward had still been a regular customer at Nellie’s brothel last time Maisie spoke to April—although that had been years ago: it was difficult for a society lady to remain close friends with London’s leading madam. “I know someone close to Edward,” she said cautiously. “She might be able to shed some light on the problem.”
Emily swallowed. “Do you mean that he has a mistress? Please tell me—I must face the facts.”
She was a determined girl, Maisie thought. She may be ignorant and naive but she’s going to get what she wants. “This woman isn’t his mistress. But if he has one she might know.”
Emily nodded. “I’d like to meet your friend.”
“I don’t know that you personally should—”
“I want to. He’s my husband, and if there’s something bad to be told I want to hear it.” Her face took on that set, stubborn look again, and she said: “I’ll do anything, you must believe me—anything. My whole life is going to be a wasteland unless I save myself.”
Maisie decided to test her resolve. “My friend’s name is April. She owns a brothel near Leicester Square. It’s two minutes from here. Are you prepared to go there with me now?”
“What’s a brothel?” said Emily.
The hansom pulled up outside Nellie’s. Maisie peeked out, scanning the street. She did not want to be seen going into a brothel by anyone she knew. However, this was the hour when most people of her class were dressing for dinner, and there were only a few poor people on the street. She and Emily got out of the cab. She had paid the driver in advance. The door to the brothel was not locked. They went inside.
Daylight was not kind to Nellie’s. At night it might have a certain seedy glamor, Maisie thought, but at the moment it looked threadbare and grubby. The velvet upholstery was faded, the tables were scarred by cigar burns and glass rings, the silk wallpaper was peeling and the erotic paintings just looked vulgar. An old woman with a pipe in her mouth was sweeping the floor. She did not appear surprised to see two society ladies in expensive dresses. When Maisie asked for April, the old woman jerked a thumb at the staircase.
They found April in an upstairs kitchen, drinking tea at the table with several other women, all in dressing gowns or housecoats: obviously it was some hours before business would begin. At first April did not recognize Maisie and they stared at each other for a long moment. Maisie found her old friend little changed: still thin, hard-faced and sharp-eyed; a little weary-looking, perhaps, from too many late nights and too much cheap champagne; but with the confident, assertive air of a successful business woman. “What can we do for you?” she said.
“Don’t you know me, April?” said Maisie; and at once April shrieked with delight and jumped up and threw her arms around her.
When they had embraced and kissed, April turned to the other women in the kitchen and said: “Girls, this is the woman who did what we all dream of. Formerly Miriam Rabinowicz, later Maisie Robinson, she is now Mrs. Solomon Greenbourne!”
The women all cheered as if Maisie were some kind of hero. She felt bashful: she had not anticipated that April would give such a frank account of her story—especially in front of Emily Pilaster—but it was too late now.
“Let’s have a gin to celebrate,” April said. They sat down and one of the women produced a bottle and some glasses and poured them drinks. Maisie had never enjoyed gin, and now that she was accustomed to the best champagne she liked it even less, but she knocked it back to be companionable. She saw Emily sip hers and grimace. Their glasses were immediately recharged.
“Well, what brings you here?” April said.
“A marital problem,” Maisie said. “My friend here has an impotent husband.”
“Bring him here, my love,” April said to Emily. “We’ll sort him out.”
“He’s already a customer, I suspect,” Maisie said.
“What’s his name?”
“Edward Pilaster.”
April was startled. “My God.” She stared hard at Emily. “So you’re Emily. You poor cow.”
“You know my name,” Emily said. She looked mortified. “That means he speaks to you about me.” She drank some more gin.
One of the other women said: “Edward’s not impotent.”
Emily blushed.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “Only he usually asks for me.” She was a tall girl with dark hair and a deep bosom. Maisie thought she did not look very impressive in her grubby robe, smoking a cigarette like a man; but perhaps she was attractive when she was dressed up.
Emily recovered her composure. “It’s so strange,” she said. “He’s my husband, but you know more about him than I do. And I don’t even know your name.”
“Lily.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. Maisie sipped her drink: the second gin tasted better than the first. This was a very bizarre scene: the kitchen, the women in déshabillé, the cigarettes and gin, and Emily, who an hour ago had not been sure what sexual intercourse consisted of, discussing her husband’s impotence with his favorite whore.
“Well,” April said briskly, “now you know the answer to the question. Why is Edward impotent with his wife? Because Micky’s not around. He can never get hard if he’s alone with a woman.”
“Micky?” said Emily incredulously. “Micky Miranda? The Cordovan Minister?”
April nodded. “They do everything together, especially here. Once or twice Edward has come in on his own but it never works.”
Emily was looking bewildered. Maisie asked the obvious question: “What, exactly, do they do?”
It was Lily who answered. “Nothing very complicated. Over the years they’ve tried several variations. At the moment what they like is, the two of them go to bed with one girl, usually me or Muriel.”
Maisie said: “But Edward really does it, properly, does he? I mean, he gets hard, and everything?”
Lily nodded. “No question of that.”
“Do you think that’s the only way he could ever manage it?”
Lily frowned. “I don’t think it matters much exactly what happens, how many girls and so on. If Micky is there, it works, and if he’s not, it doesn’t.”
Maisie said: “Almost as if Micky is the one Edward really loves.”
Emily said faintly: “I feel as if I’m in a dream, or something.” She took a long swallow of gin. “Can all this be true? Do these things really go on?”
April said: “If you but knew. Edward and Micky are tame by comparison with some of our customers.”
Even Maisie was startled. The thought of Edward and Micky in bed together with a woman was so odd it made her want to laugh out loud, and she had to make an effort to suppress the chuckle that bubbled up in her throat.
She recalled the night Edward had discovered her and Hugh making love. Edward had been uncontrollably aroused, she remembered; and she had felt intuitively that what inflamed him was the idea of fucking her immediately after Hugh. “A buttered bun!” she said.
Some of the women giggled.
“That’s right,” April laughed.
Emily smiled and looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
April said: “Some men like a buttered bun.” The whores laughed louder. “It means a woman who’s just been fucked by another man.”
Emily started to giggle, and in a moment they were all laughing hysterically. It was a combination of the gin, the weird situation, and the talk of men’s peculiar sexual preferences, Maisie thought. Her use of the vulgar phrase had released the tension. Every time the laughter eased one of them would say “A buttered bun!” and they would all collapse into giggles again.
At last they were too exhausted to laugh anymore. When they quietened down, Maisie said: “But where does this leave Emily? She wants to have a baby. She can hardly invite Micky to bed with her and her husband.”
Emily looked miserable.
April caught her eye and held it. “How determined are you, Emily?” she said.
“I’ll do anything,” said Emily. “Really, anything in the world.”
“If you mean that,” said April slowly, “there is something we could try.”