The Midwife Trilogy (26 page)

“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 St 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.