Dara

Turning to a police sergeant, 'I'll need you, too, to keep an eye on Ned while I search the rooms.'

The door of the brothel wasn't locked so the inspector pushed it open and almost bumped into Ned Dawkins as we entered. He gave a sharp command to his sergeant, 'Hold on to Ned' then, grabbing me by the arm, rushed me upstairs and into the first room on the landing.

An elderly gentleman, wheezing and blowing like a boiling kettle, had just finished his congress with one of the girls. The poor little thing was so small she was out of sight, completely covered by the old man's fat, naked body. The inspector, moving very quickly, got alongside the bed and rolled the man onto his back. Taken by surprise, a fair-haired young girl looked up at us with innocent blue eyes. There were no signs of developing womanhood on her youthful, baby skin.

'What's your name?' the inspector enquired gently.

'Ann Mundy, sir,' she replied nervously.

'How old are you?'

'Twelve, sir.'

'You don't look more than ten. Are you speaking the truth?'

'Yes, sir.'

Throughout all this the stout gentleman by her side just lay there with eyes closed. The inspector wasted no further time with her and made for the next room.

The uniform of an army officer was neatly folded over a chair and on the bed lay a well-built, muscular man about thirty. The hands of two naked girls, kneeling beside him, held his thick upright cock. It was only when they turned their faces towards us that I realized one of the girls was Polly. No bigger than walnuts, her protruding virginal breasts stood out on her skinny, ribbed chest.

'Polly,' I cried out. 'Get dressed at once. You are going back to Exeter Street straight away. This place is not for the likes of a young girl. I don't know what's got into you.'

'So this is Polly,' the inspector exclaimed in triumph. 'Now we are getting somewhere. What's your age, Polly?'

'Twelve,' she answered, right smartly.

'But, Polly,' I protested fervently, 'you told me it was your eleventh birthday about three weeks ago.'

'Nah, yer got it wrong. Yer want yer ears washed aht. I said twelve.'

'Twelve or eleven, I don't give a damn. Get your clothes on. I'm taking you home.'

'I 'aven't eaten for days. Ave yer got six shillin's cos that's wot this 'ere gentleman 'as given me.'

The older girl, kneeling on the other side of the man and still holding on to his cock, looked at me with an insolent grin on her face. 'Fer Gawd's sake give Polly six shillin's so she can give the gent 'is money back an' then get the 'ell aht of 'ere.'

I stood there exasperated, looking at the two girls, who, ignoring my presence in the room, had returned to their task of caressing the man.

Descending the stairs, fuming with anger, I vowed never to allow myself to get into a situation again where I was without money. But for a miserable six shillings, I could have saved Polly from becoming a prostitute. There is no justice in this world, especially for the hungry poor.

The following morning I made my way through a not particularly salubrious neighbourhood to the Queen's Theatre, determined to make a living somehow. My experience in American theatricals, I thought, should stand me in good stead in applying for work on the English stage. Viewing the bill posters exhibited on the facade of the theatre gave my hope of employment a further boost. They announced in large, bold letters a new version ofThe Marble Heart, a melodrama by Charles Selby, which would simulate classical statuary by means of living models. The theatre was to be re-opened by its new owners, Venus Productions, the following Saturday.

I was about to knock on one of the main front doors when a tall uniformed theatre commissionaire appeared by my side with a large key in his hand.

'And what can we do for you, young lady?' he enquired.

I explained briefly that I was an actress looking for work in the theatre.

'If that's the case you'll need to see Mr. George Guyatt, the new owner and producer of this play,' he said, waving vaguely at the posters. “E's probably still abed. Sleeps in one of the dressin' rooms,' he added, by way of an explanation.

I had to wait a good half hour before seeing Mr. Guyatt who was busy frying a kipper for his breakfast. He was a large, fat man with a beetle-browed face and a completely bald head. Chewing slowly at a mouthful of kipper, he surveyed me from head to tail.

Swallowing his fish he compressed his lips and then questioned me in a loud, deep voice. 'Are you modest, bashful or given to prudery?'

Giving the matter some thought before answering, I replied with a grin, 'No, not particularly.'

'Then I may have some work for you. It's good pay. Eight pounds a week and all you will have to do is stand still through the first and third acts.'

Eight pounds was a great deal more than I had expected. I considered myself indeed fortunate to be offered such a sum when skilled craftsmen were earning less than two pounds a week for working twelve hours a day.

Swallowing another mouthful of kipper, Mr. Guyatt went on to give a summary of the play. 'It's about a sculptor who loves unworthy women and neglects his mother and gentle sweetheart. Much of the melodrama takes place in Raphael Duchatlet's studio in Athens. The studio has a number of statues of Greek women, nude from waist upwards. How do you feel about having your tits whitewashed to look like marble? For that's the effect we will be aiming for: live women looking like marble statues.'

Once again I took my time before answering. The idea of exposing my breasts to the public took some getting used to. On the other hand, I was desperately hungry and without a penny to my name. As the saying goes, 'Beggars can't be choosers', and so I agreed to be one of the statues for the play.

In my impoverished circumstances I needed a friend who would loan me some money to tide me over until I received my first week's wage of eight pounds. The only friend that came to mind who might give me a loan was Florrie, the barmaid at 'The Half Moon' tavern.

Good, kind Florrie was generosity itself when I asked for a loan to see me through till pay day. Without a moment's hesitation she placed five sovereigns on the bar and asked me if that would be enough. Overcome with emotion and faint with hunger, I collapsed on a chair and burst into tears. Florrie's answer for anybody in trouble, a glass of brandy, was placed in my hands with her usual words for these occasions: 'There, there, luv, drink that up. It will do you good.'

I wanted so much to open my heart and tell her about what the dwarf had done to me and how I had left his battered, dead body locked away in a deserted wharf shed above the river-but managed to restrain myself. That was a secret I dare not reveal to anybody.

We had only three days for rehearsals before our first performance on Saturday. There was little for me to do but learn to stand very still which wasn't as easy as it sounds, as I soon discovered. Most of the work was done before we 'living statues' got onto the stage. With two different shades of whitewash we covered all our flesh from the waist to the hair line on our heads. I arrived before anybody else to apply whitewash to cover up the bruises and bite marks that the dwarf had inflicted on my breasts. The second coating of whitewash was of brown stain colouring which was brushed on lightly in streaks to give an effect of old marble. When it was dry, glycerine was dabbed on to make the marble colouring look smooth and shiny.

I must admit that when we put on the thin, wet pieces of cloth across our eyes and the papier mache helmets which had received the same treatment of whitewash we really did look like Greek statues. The final touch was the white material which hung in folds from our waists.