all the way.
We went down the Marylebone Road into the Euston Road and then turned left up the other side of King’s Cross station where we turned right into a side turning and came to a halt. All done without so much as one word passing between us.
The cobbled street is narrow and dingy, with run-down Victorian warehouses and shops on either side. This is a little backwater in the lee of the station. A backwater that time has passed by.
‘We’re here then.’
Joe said this and then turned in his seat and started shaking something in the back of the van.
‘Wake up, Sambo. We’re fucking here. Come on! Stop dossing. You’re on next. You’re not here for forty winks!’
I turned and could just make out in the dark a black bloke rubbing his eyes and yawning. This was the some thing that Joe had to pick up in Notting Hill.
We get out the van and I follow Joe through an open door and up a flight of stairs with the black guy trailing behind us (his name, I later learnt, was Clarence, but Joe never called him anything other than Sambo). We stopped on the landing and Joe knocked on a door that had EVE stencilled on it.
‘Vera! You in there, Vera?’
I could hear a radio blaring some Paul Anka record inside. A tinny small radio turned much too loud, the speaker distorting the sound. I looked around the landing. The paint and wallpaper were old and grimy. There were three other doors but none of them looked like they were ever opened. The floor was bare boards except for a half-moon -shaped rug, badly worn, in front of the EVE door. Clarence still looked sleepy and hungover. He had a perpetual half-grin on his face and was standing with his hand in his pocket, bent slightly forward. I kept on expecting him to straighten himself but he didn’t. It was as though he was frozen.
‘Come on, Vera! I ain’t got all night!’
‘Coming‚’ said a raspy female voice from inside.
Then the door opened and there was Vera standing in a pink dressing gown with a cigarette in a holder about a foot long. She was late thirties, early forties, had long bleached hair and was heavily made up. Her lips were as red as red apples and full and sensuous. She wasn’t particularly beautiful but she had the vestiges of beauty. A tired, used beauty, all spent. Her lips parted into something that could equally well have been a sneer or a half-smile.
‘Come in. I don’t want all the heat escaping‚’ she said.
We trooped in and she shut the door behind us. There was another woman sitting on the bed painting her toenails. She gave us a glance as though the three of us had been dragged in by the dog. She was a few years younger than Vera and was in a similar dressing gown. She had short black hair, small eyes and very thin lips. This, I would later learn, was Olive. She looks a bit like Janette Scott the actress, but older.
‘I must finish doing me toes.’
Nobody objected.
I looked around the room. It was about half the size of mine. The window overlooked King’s Cross. Or, to be more accurate, underlooked King’s Cross. The other side of thestreet was a brick wall that went up as far as the eye could see. The room was dominated by the large double bed Olive was sitting on. A pink candlewick bedspread was stretched over it. There were some kidney-shaped cushions thrown about at the head.
On one side of the bed was a dressing table with mirrors and on the other a wardrobe, also with mirrors. Two Lloyd Loom chairs were at the foot of the bed where we were standing. It was a cramped room and our presence made it more so.
In the corner was a hand-basin with a couple of grubby white towels thrown over it. There was also some soap and a bottle of medical disinfectant.
The bedside table is littered with half-eaten packs of biscuits, ashtrays, packets of Durex and other types of contraceptives, and a Pifco vibrator with all manner of attachments. There are also a couple of tins of Vaseline and a large container of talcum powder. And a
We went down the Marylebone Road into the Euston Road and then turned left up the other side of King’s Cross station where we turned right into a side turning and came to a halt. All done without so much as one word passing between us.
The cobbled street is narrow and dingy, with run-down Victorian warehouses and shops on either side. This is a little backwater in the lee of the station. A backwater that time has passed by.
‘We’re here then.’
Joe said this and then turned in his seat and started shaking something in the back of the van.
‘Wake up, Sambo. We’re fucking here. Come on! Stop dossing. You’re on next. You’re not here for forty winks!’
I turned and could just make out in the dark a black bloke rubbing his eyes and yawning. This was the some thing that Joe had to pick up in Notting Hill.
We get out the van and I follow Joe through an open door and up a flight of stairs with the black guy trailing behind us (his name, I later learnt, was Clarence, but Joe never called him anything other than Sambo). We stopped on the landing and Joe knocked on a door that had EVE stencilled on it.
‘Vera! You in there, Vera?’
I could hear a radio blaring some Paul Anka record inside. A tinny small radio turned much too loud, the speaker distorting the sound. I looked around the landing. The paint and wallpaper were old and grimy. There were three other doors but none of them looked like they were ever opened. The floor was bare boards except for a half-moon -shaped rug, badly worn, in front of the EVE door. Clarence still looked sleepy and hungover. He had a perpetual half-grin on his face and was standing with his hand in his pocket, bent slightly forward. I kept on expecting him to straighten himself but he didn’t. It was as though he was frozen.
‘Come on, Vera! I ain’t got all night!’
‘Coming‚’ said a raspy female voice from inside.
Then the door opened and there was Vera standing in a pink dressing gown with a cigarette in a holder about a foot long. She was late thirties, early forties, had long bleached hair and was heavily made up. Her lips were as red as red apples and full and sensuous. She wasn’t particularly beautiful but she had the vestiges of beauty. A tired, used beauty, all spent. Her lips parted into something that could equally well have been a sneer or a half-smile.
‘Come in. I don’t want all the heat escaping‚’ she said.
We trooped in and she shut the door behind us. There was another woman sitting on the bed painting her toenails. She gave us a glance as though the three of us had been dragged in by the dog. She was a few years younger than Vera and was in a similar dressing gown. She had short black hair, small eyes and very thin lips. This, I would later learn, was Olive. She looks a bit like Janette Scott the actress, but older.
‘I must finish doing me toes.’
Nobody objected.
I looked around the room. It was about half the size of mine. The window overlooked King’s Cross. Or, to be more accurate, underlooked King’s Cross. The other side of thestreet was a brick wall that went up as far as the eye could see. The room was dominated by the large double bed Olive was sitting on. A pink candlewick bedspread was stretched over it. There were some kidney-shaped cushions thrown about at the head.
On one side of the bed was a dressing table with mirrors and on the other a wardrobe, also with mirrors. Two Lloyd Loom chairs were at the foot of the bed where we were standing. It was a cramped room and our presence made it more so.
In the corner was a hand-basin with a couple of grubby white towels thrown over it. There was also some soap and a bottle of medical disinfectant.
The bedside table is littered with half-eaten packs of biscuits, ashtrays, packets of Durex and other types of contraceptives, and a Pifco vibrator with all manner of attachments. There are also a couple of tins of Vaseline and a large container of talcum powder. And a
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