It is 1959 and I am a Windmill girl. Right next to the Windmill´s stage door in Archer Street, above the Rehearsañ Club - out of bounds to me - is the New Yorker, a coffee bar and restaurant which is ´the´gathering place for a quick bite to eat and a chat. It is also the perfect place for watching the comings and goings of people involved in the club land life, plus a rich ´pot pourri´of villains, strippers and theatre folk. I often go there to relax after the show, sitting at a window seat and sipping my new found beverage, lemon tea, from a glass in a silver filigree holder. So much classier than a cup! Kenneth Moore often pops in after leaving Sylvia´s Bar, his regular haunt, and another "face", who always wears a camel overcoat, introduces himself to me as James Hanratty. Because the New Yorker is opposite Mac´s Rehearsal Rooms, and Archer Street itself is crammed with agents offices, there is certainly never any shortage of famous faces to spot - including the likes of Millicent Martin and Shani Wallis, who are appearing in nearby West End theatres. Mondays are particularly special, however, for the corner of Archer Street is always milling with musicians, each touting for work with one of the many bandleaders passing by on their way to recruit fresh talent at one of the agents´offices.
Eventually I become good friends with some of the strippers and drag acts working the circuit and tag along with them, visiting any number of bars and venues, from sleazy dives to plush theatre clubs. These artists have anything up to ten different shows to do, all through the day and night, and can be seen sprinting from place to place, wearing full "slap" and stilettos, enveloped in anything from a Mac to a mink to hide their skimpy costumes. A typical circuit would be from the Venue rooms in Old Compton Street - where Stanley Baker can be spotted from time to time - to the Big Toe in Wardour Str4eet, then Lady Jane Grey´s in St Anne´s Court, on to the Doll´s House in Macclesfield Street, back to Jimmy Humphrey´s Phoenix Club or Gigi´s, owned by Maltese Frank - or is it Bernie Silver? - in Frith Street, and finishing at Miranda´s, owned by Billy Hill´s wife, Aggie. There is certainly no shortage of clubs in the Soho Square Mile!
As well as the flurry of glamorous strippers, there are all the call girls, who stand idly in groups of two or three before the open doorways leading to dingy passages and, beyond, the unsavoury rooms they rentto do their business. Inevitably, I get to know some of these girls too, and discover that their clients range from the flat-capped to the bowler-hatted, between them requesting anything from bondage or "French maid" to transvestism or "dominatrix". All these terms have been explained to me, and I find it pitiful that so many people seem to be in need of such services. They tell me, too, that things are changing - the Maltese are moving in. I am unaware of the significance of this until I witness a number of nasty incidents, either in bars or in the street, involving men slapping girls around and even punching them. Naively, I at first think they are lovers´tiffs, until Pearl - a middle-aged old hand at the game -explains that the men are ponces. "The bastards are taking over",she says, shrugging her shoulders. "Thank God I am over the hill - they only want the young girls in their stable, not someone ready for the knackers yard!"
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