Jennifer Worth - Call The Midwife - A True Story Of The East End In The 1950S

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.

In the early evening, the girl woke up. She was called Dolores, and was about twenty; a cheerful buxom wench who had been a prostitute since childhood. She knew no other life, and could not imagine any other way of earning a living. She sat up sleepily, and saw Mary, “You new?” she enquired.

Mary nodded.

“Poor little thing,” she said. “Never mind, you’ll get used to the game. It’s all right when you get used to it. What you need is a gimmick, like me. I’m a stripper. But not one of your regular strippers. I’m an artiste .” She said the word artiste with great pride.

“Come on, we’d better go down to the café before Gloria comes up. You need a clean blouse, here, have one of mine. And you need a bit of make up. I’ll do it for you.”

She chatted all the time as she dressed, doing her hair and Mary’s, and making them both up. Mary liked her. Her buoyant cheerfulness was infectious.

“There now, you look lovely.”

In fact, Mary looked grotesque, but she couldn’t see it. The sight of her painted face in the mirror thrilled her.

“Will Zakir be there tonight?” she said.

“Yes, you’ll be seeing him, don’t worry.”

Mary was overjoyed, and followed Dolores into the café for the evening’s entertainment.

They went to the large table, where a number of girls already sat. Zakir was at the corner table, and Mary’s heart leapt. She took a step towards him, but he waved her away without speaking, and she sat down sadly with the other girls. They were not talking much, and they all stared at her. One or two gave a thin smile, others openly scowled. One rough, dirty-looking girl said, “Look at her. Zakir’s latest. Who does she think she is. We’ll soon cut her down. You’ll see, Mary, Mary, quite contrary.”

Mary told me that she hadn’t really liked it, and wanted to leave.