Bron-25

Continued from Chapter 24: Bron-24 | ABCtales

Chapter 25

Bron chained her bike to a lamppost outside the Seven Stars. She put the second lock too; the area looked sketchy. Guys lurked outside Brick Lane’s many curry houses, trying to entice punters inside on this quiet Wednesday night.

The sign sellotaped to the Seven Stars’ window advertised ‘Exotic Dancing’ in black felt-tip. Perhaps that was something to do with the surprise that Grace had promised.

She was already perched on a high stool at the bar.

“How’s tricks?”

“Oh fine. The trains are fine. The film’s going OK. Bike’s fine; haven’t managed to get myself killed yet. Obviously.”

“You should be careful.”

“I am. Mostly. So, what’s exotic dancing? Is that what you do here?”

“Sure is.”

“So, is it Turkish, or Chinese? In an oriental costume?”

“In a manner of speaking. Anyway, you’ll see, soon enough. Got to get changed.”

Grace disappeared inside a small wooden cubicle, next to the low wooden stage at the back of the saloon bar. She emerged a few minutes later. Gone were jeans and T-shirt, replaced by a bright red ra-ra skirt, a shiny metallic golden-yellow crop top with spaghetti straps and six-inch high white stilettos. She’d thrust an artificial red rose into her afro which she’d coaxed into a rhinestone headband with small dangling red glass beads.

The barman reached down and flicked a switch. The hiss of static, then Sade’s No Ordinary Love boomed, muffled, out of the Seven Stars’ ancient speakers. On the stage, Grace tried a pirouette on her left stiletto, then thought better of it and kicked her right leg high into the air. Almost overbalancing, she turned the move into a controlled descent, landing on her arse and kicking both feet into the air, legs akimbo.

Grace’s stage name was Sultry Sue; the locals called her Clumsy Claudine.

Then, bending her legs, she levered herself upright and stood, legs apart, towering over the handful of punters in the bar. She pulled off the shiny top, then reached behind her back and fumbled with the fastening of her white satin-effect bra.

“C’mon love! It’ll be last orders by the time you get that off!”

Finally unfastened, she tossed her bra into the air. It caught on one of the dusty light fittings and hung, limply, like a discarded carrier bag.

Grace lurched down the steps onto the parquet floor and dangled her breasts over the top left pocket of the pool table. The guy on the table didn’t look up, instead sending the yellow thumping into the hole.

 

Bron nodded at the small collection of fifty and ten pence pieces that Grace had collected in her pot as she paraded round the bar. “Three pound fifty. Not much for taking all your clothes off on a cold Wednesday night.”

“Well, yeah, the punters here are more interested in the pool table than female flesh. Hard to get their attention.”

“You need to practice your moves. Thought you were going to fall off those heels.”

“Too right. Well, I’ve only been doing it for a few weeks.”

“But you told me you were a feminist! A women’s libber!”

“But I am! But if a bunch of guys want to pay me money to take my clothes off, I’m not going to argue … “

“Not many of them are, by the looks of it.”

“That was just the warm-up. Wait till I do the second part of my act …” Grace produced a foot-long pink plastic object from her handbag, shielding it with her arm.

“Oh my GOD! That’s GROSS!” Bron got up from her stool. “I’m going in the back bar. Come round when you’ve finished.”

“Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

“Not in front of me, you’re not.”

 

“Eight-fifty,” said Grace.

They walked down Brick Lane. Only a few late-opening curry houses splashed their neon colours over the pavements now, Grace on the left, Bron wheeling the bike to her right.

“Later than that, surely? Your first act didn’t finish till nearly half-past.”

“No. I mean, I made eight pounds fifty. For my second act. Always gets ‘em goin’. Insofar as you can ever get that lot going…”

“Not much, then…”

“Bit of beer money. Pays the grocery bill…”

“Groceries. Not much for prostituting yourself in front of dozens of men…”

“A dozen men. So that’s an average of 70 pee per man. A pound each, allowing for the ones who disappeared into the toilet as soon as I took the pot round…And anyway, I wasn’t prostituting myself, I was taking my clothes off for an appreciative audience…”

“And shoving a big pink plastic dick-thing up your fanny….”

“I wasn’t putting it up my fanny; it was just a prop. You weren’t there to see it, remember?”

“Like I said, prostituting yourself.”

“Oh hearken to Miss Goody Two-Shoes, devout chapel-goer of the parish of Llanfair Saint Mochwyn…”

“FUCK you!”

“Just because you’re screwed up, hung up about anything to do with sex, just because your home life back there’s totally fucked up, doesn’t mean – “

“You mind your OWN FUCKIN’ BUSINESS! Gracie Smith, I was managing my life perfectly well before you decided to come and barge in. YOU were the one that decided I had to be part of your little world, where it’s OK to shove big pink plastic things up your filthy fuckin’ arse. Well maybe, maybe, I just don’t WANT to be part of all that? If you get a kick out of it, get your carpet-munching mates from the lesbian club to come and watch!”

“Carpet munchers? Where did you learn that term, Miss Bronwyn. I’m sure you didn’t learn that in bible class…AAARGH!” Grace went spinning onto the wet pavement as Bron’s front bicycle wheel contacted her shin, her fall broken by the Jewel of Bengal’s A-board.

“AAAHHHOW! OW! OW…”

“Oh shit! Gracie? Are you hurt?”

“No! I often lie on - filthy wet pavements - yelling my head off. Another thing I get off on. ARRGH! My FOOT! My God, there’s a massive lump on it! You BITCH, Bron!”

“Let’s get you to the hospital; just round the corner. Lean on me, take the weight off your foot…”

 

 

They waited in Casualty, on hard dark grey plastic chairs.

“Sorry, Gracie. I really didn’t mean …”

“Yes, you told me.”

“Not still mad at me?”

“Only a bit mad at you.”

“It’s not broken, is it?”

“Just in a couple of places …”

“Oh NO Gracie! I really, really didn’t mean …”

“Only kidding, Bronnie. Just a sprain. You don’t really do irony, do you?”

“No.”

“Bron?”

“Yes?”

“There IS something wrong back home, isn’t there? I mean, if you feel able to talk to me about it …”

“Maybe I will one day. But not tonight.”

 

 

“I think I’ve sprained my foot, doc. Tripped over on the pavement.”

The young junior doctor looked across the desk, down his nose at Grace’s outstretched foot.

“Yes, you’ve sprained your foot. What d’you expect me to do about it?”

 

 

“Well, he was a help, wasn’t he? Lie down and rest - waited three hours for that.”

“Going to?”

“To what?”

“Lie down and rest.”

“Fat chance. We’re short-handed in the park as it is.”

“How you goin’ to get home then?”

“Dunno. Taxi I guess. Cost me more than I got for prostituting myself.”

“Get on the back carrier and hold on.”

“You’ll do anything for a big hug from me, won’t you Bron?”

To be continued in Chapter 26: Bron-26 | ABCtales