Call the Midwife: A True Story of the East End in the 1950S

lot of money being handed to the knuckledusters. Then one by one, the men undid their trousers and penetrated the girl on the table. Some, whilst waiting their turn, came up the sides and rubbed her breasts with their hands. After more money was pressed into the knuckledustered hands, one went up to her head, undid his trousers, and pressed his penis into her mouth, while the girl contentedly sucked. After that, several other men did the same, one at a time.
     
    Mary felt sick. Her experience of the Irishman had been enough to tell her what was going on, and the sight of the money passing hands told her the rest. She did not need to ask any questions. She shuddered, and crossed herself. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for me,” she whispered.
     
    Mary told me all this over cups of coffee and digestive biscuits as we sat in the kitchen of Church House in Wellclose Square. I visited her often. I was not a social worker, nor even a voluntary church worker. I just liked the girl, and the circumstances of our meeting gave us a bond; and she trusted me and was clearly able to talk to me. As I wanted to find out more about prostitutes and their way of life, I encouraged her to talk.
     
    I said, “After that, why did you not just leave? You were free to do so. No one could have stopped you. Why didn’t you just go?”
     
    She was quiet, and nibbled the edge of a biscuit.
     
    “I should have done, I know, but I couldn’t leave Zakir. He took my hand and squeezed it and said, ‘Is this not good entertainment? You will find nothing better in London. All the night-clubs in London are trying to get that dancer for their shows, but I found her and brought her to my uncle and he pays her well, so she will not go to another café. She performs each night for us, and makes the café famous. But my dear little Mary, you are looking tired. You need to go to bed. Come. My uncle has a room ready for you.’”
     
    He tenderly took her hand, and led her through the crowd of men and girls, pushing them aside, putting his arm protectively around her.
     
    She said to me, “I knew he cared for me then, because he treated me differently to all the others. He was looking after me and protecting me from all those rough men, wasn’t he?”
     
    I sighed. With the wisdom of my twenty-three years, I wondered if it was really possible that a girl of fourteen or fifteen could be so taken in by a smooth-talking scoundrel. I felt that I could not have been. But now I am not so sure.
     
    He led her out the back to the kitchen area, and said, “This is the stairway to the upper rooms. They are very fine and beautiful. You will see. If you want the lavatory, it is over there, in the yard.”
     
    He pointed to a wood and asbestos shack.
     
    Mary did need to go and after whispering, “Don’t go away,” she went over to it. It was revolting and evil smelling, but in the dark Mary could not see the magnitude of the ordure covering the wet and slippery floor.
     
    She returned to Zakir, who led her through the kitchen and up to the first floor. He produced a key, opened a door and switched on the light.
     
    Mary found herself in a room the like of which she had never seen, nor even imagined, in all her life. Lights shone from the walls, not the ceiling, and some even shone from the curtains. There were mirrors on the walls reflecting the lights. She gasped at the gold and silver that seemed to be everywhere although it was, in fact, just chrome. In the centre of the room stood a huge brass bed, with what looked to her like a silk covering. After the dark, dingy interior of the café below, it seemed like paradise.
     
    She murmured, “Oh, it’s beautiful Zakir, just beautiful. Is this really the room your uncle will let me have?”
     
    He laughed, and replied, “It is the most beautiful room in London. You will not find a finer room anywhere. You are a lucky girl Mary, I hope you know that.”
     
    “Oh I do, I do, Zakir,” she sighed, “and I am grateful with all my heart.”
     
    He had seduced her with practised ease. She did not want to talk about it, and I did not want to press her. I felt that the memory of that one night was sacred to her. She did, however, say, “I am sure he loved me, because no one else has ever touched me in the way that he did. All the other men were rough and horrible. But Zakir was gentle and beautiful. I thought I would die with happiness that night. It would have been best if I had died,” she