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cannedhistory · 4 years ago

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Making Beds in Brothels.

A chapter from my memoir 'Making Beds in Brothels'. Chorlton Street bus station originated in 1950, in one of the car parks that took over areas once occupied by buildings bombed during the Second World War. In 1967 a large multi-story car park had been built, with the bottom floor taken up by the city bus and coach station. It was open on each side, but remained semi-dark even on a bright day, so you could pass through it easily on foot and, being a bus station, such perambulations passed unnoticed, in other words, it was a suitable venue for clandestine activities. To the right of the station were the ticket offices, a café and the public toilets. It was here, and at the corners of the street outside, that young men would congregate to ‘rent’ themselves.After all these years I can still recall the haggard, ravaged faces, often toothless with their skin covered in sores, of the heroin addicts who worked Chorlton Street bus station, their emaciated, worn-out bodies barely holding up the shabby clothing that hung off them: torn shell suit bottoms hanging over the bony arses of their wearers. Their hands fidgeted constantly with the toggles that tightened the string around their waists, for fear their trousers might fall and expose the infected track marks of their groins and upper legs. These men were the lowest rung of a despised profession, pitied rather than despised by the other rent boys, who watched them wearily. Experience had taught us that these desperate men would rob us at the first opportunity.Surprisingly, while these men occasionally had people willing to pay for them, mainly they made their living begging or by being an irritant to the other working boys, pleading, “Lend us a couple of quid our kid. You know I’m good for it”. The more successful lads were often generous, slipping them a tenner, “just for a bit peace”. The generosity of prostitutes on the street, slipping money to each other if the day had gone badly, buying food from the Village Chippy for those who were hungry, was part of that hard life. I still saw these lost souls tottering around the Village years later, although thinned out by overdoses, AIDS and other occupational hazards. I like to think some survived and recovered, although I’m not overly optimistic.There were two guys (I can’t remember if they were brothers or simply looked related), who were both tall, well-built and well dressed. These older guys survived, not only by rent, but also by ‘taxing’, the colloquial term for robbing younger prostitutes of their earnings.I remember the anxiety of seeing them appear on my peripheral vision, like sharks entering my territory. They watched out for who worked and who returned. They clocked guys leaving with the punters who paid well and would either wait for us to return or, if you were on foot, follow you at a distance. Then they’d grab hold of you, pulling you into one of the dark alleys, and demand your earnings. If you refused, a quick punch to the face followed by a punch in the kidneys ensured your compliance.You became adept at outsmarting them, dodging down an ally, or jumping on a passing bus. We referred to these men as ‘ponces’. They ponced off you, which was the equivalent of pimping, and there still strikes me as something beyond the pale about men who choose to earn their living that way. The people we feared the most were those working alongside us, and we considered them absolute scum, worse than the worst punters.The rest conformed either to the normal appearance of working-class men or ‘scallies’, wearing track suit, trainers and baseball cap or sometimes flamboyantly camp; we were a mixed bunch, mainly unremarkable in appearance. My defining characteristic at this time, was my extreme youth, I looked much younger than my fourteen or fifteen years. I was so slight and feminine looking, with longish blond hair parted down the centre, that I was sometimes mistaken for a girl.I spent my days wandering in an endless cycle: up and down Chorlton Street, onto Bloom Street and towards Canal Street, down the countless back streets, sometimes walking into China Town or down the tow path of the Rochdale Canal that ran alongside Canal Street, through the gay cruising area and onto Dale Street or Aytoun Street near the labour exchange. Sometimes I would stand on the street corner, for the entire world to see, in the hope that a driver would stop and pick me up, saying, “Get in ’ere lad, out of the cold”. I was on my feet till they ached, till my shins throbbed. The scandalised stares of the public didn’t bother me, they were the least of my worries.For rest and refreshment, we used the big old-fashioned café in the bus station. It was the type of steamy, busy café once ubiquitous across Britain: tables with Formica tops, screwed to the floor, and red plastic chairs, a set of condiments and napkins, menu above the counter. The food was simple: cheap home-cooked fare, meat and potato pie served with mashed potatoes and gravy, or a full English cooked breakfast. I fondly remember the egg and bacon sandwiches made with toasted bread.The waitresses were diamonds, always kind, always quick with a smile. Those smiles were as nourishing as the food, they kept you going, lifted your mood. Apart from we rent boys who frequented the café, so did other denizens of the street. Bag ladies parked their overflowing shopping trollies outside and, during bad weather, settled themselves down for the day nursing a cup of strong tea, while the waitresses quietly used to top up that cup all day and surreptitiously pass them a plate of toasted tea cakes or bag of stale buns, without a word ever being said, never asking for a penny. That’s how I imagine these street women survived; small acts of kindness by normal people. (Image: Manchester Archive) If you want to read more follow the link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Maki.../dp/1080503099/ref=sr_1_1...

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