Lion GameChapter 3 Silk and Swimming
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Lion Terrace, Portsmouth, January 1941
Rachel Scotland
Martin Wainwright walked from the Dockyard Gate along Queen Street,
passing Brickwoods' Brewery on his left, and breathing in the rank smell
of the malt and the sour overtones of the wort with some deep breaths.
He wasn't overly concerned with the pubs he passed, as each one showed
no light in the blackout, and the raucous sounds of conversation,
singing or in one case shouting, exited unfiltered by the blackout
curtains. Each had its own smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, both
perfumed and unwashed sweaty bodies, and, not far from the front door of
each, the tang of urine. The air was also heavy with the smell of coal
burning in untold open fires, from the trains, and from the ships in the
harbour that were in steam, although to be honest, there were few enough
ships alongside the quays, and those in the harbour had gun crews
standing to in case there was an air raid. It was winter in early 1941,
and Britain was at bay.
Martin was not handsome. He was lanky and angular, with a sallow
complexion, spots and sunken cheeks. He was nervous, feared that he had
bad breath, had a low tolerance for alcohol and an even lower one for
tobacco (cigarettes made his eyes run), and worst of all, he was a
virgin. He was the sort of virgin who knew with total certainty that he
would probably die a virgin, possibly suffocating and frozen in an oily
sea when his corvette sank under him, or cold and shivering, seasick and
bleeding, in a life raft alone in the same sea. Not for Martin was the
certainty that he'd die in a cordite flash or in an explosion, or
pierced by a bullet. But whatever certainty he had, it was that he'd
never know the true love of a beautiful woman, writhing underneath him
as he pumped her full of his seed, and moaning softly with pleasure.
Martin had escaped from his ship, which was a sitting target tied up
alongside in Portsmouth Harbour, silent and unmoving, its engines under
repair and therefore devoid of steam, electricity and hydraulics, so its
guns were immobile. It wasn't a safe place to sleep, and the Captain
knew it, so he'd given extended shore leave to anyone who wanted it.
Many didn't. Some of them knew that their dialect would make them hard
to understand - Scots from the Outer Hebrides, Ulstermen, Scousers and
Geordies, and even a few from the colonies. Most of them didn't have the
money, many saved to support families, and some, including Piet the
Dutchman, Marek the Pole and Olaf from Norway probably couldn't make
themselves understood if they didn't take an interpreter with them.
Marek's English seemed to be limited to 'Fuck German', and Piet and Olaf
were only slightly less inarticulate as they'd mastered the plural.
Martin was on a mission: a mission to lose his virginity. He wanted to
do it in style, and he'd saved up for a session in the officers'
brothels in Lion Terrace. He was determined that only the best would do.
Part of his preparation was to forgo his routine and surreptitious
nightly wank. Another part was to save up. He'd contemplated stealing
from his fellows, but a combination of revulsion at the thought and
terror of the consequences of being caught (in equal measure) had
stopped him. Nevertheless, the five pounds in mixed coins and a few
notes he had in a bag was certain to buy him a night of delights, in any
one of the establishments of Lion Terrace. He just had to pluck up the
courage to go in - but first he had to get there without being robbed,
as he knew he clinked as he walked; and not be seen by an officer, who
would send him off with a flea in his ear. Ordinary Seaman Martin
Wainwright was 17, and to further compound his problems, he had a
stammer, and his experiences at sea had already given him a nervous
twitch. The money would buy him what he thought that his unlovely face,
body and personality would never get for free.
Already, Martin was missing the womb of his ship. It smelt of cooking,
it smelt of tobacco smoke, it smelt of oil and steam. It smelt of the
bodies of its crew, and some parts smelt of the heads. Condensation ran
down its painted steel interiors, and it was a cacophony of noise made
up of throbs, thuds, bangs, voices, underlain by the steady background
pulse of the engines as the ship plodded across the ocean. Even just a
few months at sea have found his sea legs, and now, on terra firma, he
had a sailor's rolling walk. He was apprehensive of the challenge, as
for him, negotiating with a Tom was as scary as propositioning a factory
girl or a barmaid. Uniformed Wrens were beyond his wildest dreams,
although he lusted silently after them. He'd already passed two street
women pretending that he was on duty and couldn't be distracted, before
he turned right into Lion Terrace, and here was his destination, what
he'd planned for weeks, and now he was just paralysed with fear. It was
perhaps now the time to summon Dutch courage, and Martin felt for the
small bottle that held an illicitly saved part of his rum ration -
'sippers' from his 'tot'. After that, he walked to the end of the
Georgian terrace looking for a door that was ajar, so he didn't have to
knock, then back again, and again. As he passed No 21, the door opened
and Martin was grabbed and pulled inside. Well, that decided which one
he'd enter: now what was he going to do next?
He stood, behind the blackout curtain in the dimly lit corridor facing a
middle-aged blousey woman, dressed in a mid calf-length skirt of
indeterminate colour and a frilled white blouse, with long sleeves and a
high neck, and an elaborate hairdo that was in the fashion thirty years
before. She was a big, thickset woman, with a huge bust, clear evidence
of extensive corsetry and hands with fingers like sausages, and a
collection of rings like knuckledusters. Around her neck was the
matching set of necklaces and from her ears hung heavy dangling
earrings. Even in the low light, Martin could see that she was heavily
made up. She smelt like his grandmother but overlaid with cheap perfume.
"Not too sure you're in the right place, I suppose," she said looking
him up and down with professional interest and a deep, long past
menopausal, voice. Martin felt that he was being judged for his manhood,
and for his financial worth, and feared that he wasn't doing well in
either category. "This is the house for Maltese Maria."
In the back room, Maria laid back and opened her thighs. She reached
down and parted the thick black curls of her pubic hair, and parted her
vaginal lips and rubbed her wetness to ready herself. She knew what to
expect now she'd heard the door downstairs open and close. Her punter
would mount her, thrust wildly a few times, ejaculate in her, then crawl
off mumbling apologetically before dressing and slinking off. Her
evening's work consisted of four or five such encounters - more if they
were busy, less if they were not. Best of all, it all stopped an hour
after the pubs closed, and then she could squat over a basin, clean the
mess from her business parts, change into a warm nightdress, and -
providing that the Germans obliged by not bombing that night - she would
sleep, revelling in the other use of a bed, until Doris brought her a
mug of sugary cocoa, signalling that it was time to get up.
Germans bombing? Usually they did not, and the air raid sirens would
just whoop with their rising and falling cadences that struck terror
into her soul. It wasn't like before the war, on New Year's Eve, when
ships in the harbour would sound their horns in friendly bonhomie at
midnight, nor the dockyard hooter that sounded the end of the working
day, before the swarm of dockyard mateys on bicycles would stream up
Queen Street to disperse into the wider Portsmouth. This was a banshee
wail that terrified her.
Maria wasn't bright, but she was beautiful, and she commanded a premium
price. She didn't mind at all what she was doing, she preferred it to
having to work in a factory, like her former schoolmates who had left
school at fourteen as she had done just before the start of the war. She
rarely disliked a customer, but never saw them as lovers. Her lover then
was Doris, and she never felt so secure as nestled in Doris's arms in
her warm, soft, bed, smelling her sweat and perfume. Maria's sexual
satisfaction came when Doris reached down and manually stimulated the
little secret button that men did not seem to know. After all, only a
woman of mature years could know what a young woman needed, not those
boys and men with their temperamental erections, their premature
ejaculations, and their shame at consorting with a whore. More to the
point, Doris was always ready with advice, a mug of cocoa, a meal, or a
facecloth with a bowl of warm soapy water - or whatever Maria wanted or
needed at the time.
What Martin, Maria and Doris did not know was that an hour ago, across
the English Channel in northern France, one hundred and fifty German
aircrews had been sitting in their aircraft, warming up their engines,
laden altogether with forty thousand incendiaries and a ton each of high
explosive. They were all equipped with maps showing that their
destination was Portsmouth. Not that they needed a map, because the
lighthouses on the Isle of Wight showed the way - because Trinity House
refused to turn them off - and in any case they had their radio beams
even if that wasn't enough. They were above the Isle of Wight as Martin
was ushered into Maria's bed-equipped workroom, followed by Doris with a
bowl of soapy water and disinfectant, to wash his parts, as this was a
clean house. He had just slipped off his raincoat when the sirens began
to wail.
There wasn't much warning. Guns on Southsea Common opened up first, the
heavy thuds coming in salvos as they threw their shells miles into the
air. Other sounds carried from the harbour, and soon, the different
calibres of guns became less distinguishable. The three of them hurried
back down the stairs, and on, down into the basement. Others were there
already, some pretending to sleep on bunk beds. Doris found the old,
none too clean mattress that she and Maria used, and the three of them
sat down. Maria was clad only in a thin robe, and she shivered in the
dank basement. The first bomb fell not far away, and its blast stunned
the air. The basement walls shook, and whitewash and dirt fell from the
walls.
Martin knew from his experience at sea that one of those falling on them
would leave them a pile of corpses, but Portsmouth was large, so the
chances of a direct hit were small. There were no submarines here, and
the aircraft had the whole of the city to deal with, not isolated
targets to home in on. Maria was whimpering with fear, inconsolable by
her Doris, but reassured by Martin's experience of this scenario. He'd
been in his first few months at sea when he fought in the Battle for
Norway. Now, on land, the terror of the icy sea had gone.
"They won't get us here, Maria," he confidently asserted, and Maria
sensed his confidence. She abandoned herself in his arms, and nestled up
to him like a cat, Martin feeling her slim naked body beneath the robe.
The three fortified themselves with the contents of Martin's bottle of
spirits.
After the 'All Clear', Maria took him back up to her workroom, and
rewarded him with the loss of his virginity. There was more to their
coupling than just a business arrangement, and both of them felt it.
"Maria," said Martin as he dressed. "Where do you come from?"
"Malta, Valetta," she replied. "Mother was Maltese, and worked there
like I do here. She died. Mamma Doris is my second mother, not my real
mother, but better. She rescued me from the streets and brought me here
on a ship. I was so little that I could be carried in a sailor's
kitbag!" Martin felt that she wouldn't fit in a kitbag any more, but
he'd like to take care of her, and envied Doris the task.
"Doris," said Martin, "Doris. Have you always been a tart, all your
life?" The answer was a rueful shake of the head. He looked
questioningly as he adjusted his hat, ready to walk out into the dawn,
down Queen Street where the fire tenders were working now that the tide
had risen and there was water for their pumps. Those German bastards
always timed their raids for low tide to keep the Fire Brigade short of
water. It was rumoured, probably truthfully, that most of their bombs
were fused to kill the Bomb Disposal engineers.
Martin's walk back down Queen Street was not straightforward, as in one
place a bomb had blown bricks across the street and left a blackened
ruin that still smoked.
"They got the Guildhall, the bastards," said a fireman tinkering with a
hydrant and a hose. "Just the walls left."
"Aye, and some bombs in the Dockyard. Victory's OK, and Brickwoods is
still brewin', so all's right in the world!" replied his companion,
cheerily.
Some drunks had left the pavement splattered with vomit, and Martin
stepped to avoid it. He was on a mission, and instead of turning into
the Dockyard gate, he turned left on The Hard. He was on his way to the
tattoo parlour under the brick railway arches of the approaches to the
harbour station. Not long afterwards he marched back to the dockyard
entrance with his arm stinging. He had a small heart bearing a Maltese
Cross and a Cupid's arrow, and the name 'Maria' just tattooed on it.
"Jerry made a mess of the town," said the Bosun, "Bloody good job you
weren't here. Olaf got burnt. Where did you sleep? Aggie Weston's got
hit." Aggie Weston's was a Sailors' Home, where sailors ashore could
always get a cheap room.
"I got a girl, and stayed with her," bragged Martin. "I couldn't get
back anyway because of the Guildhall fire ..."
"Well, you're back. And bloody lucky not to be hit. Not as lucky as
some, though. Chalky White's been posted up to the Admiral's Passion
Wagon, lucky bleeder. The Hood. Well, fuck him. You are now the helmsman
when we get this shithole moving again."
Martin looked in his pocket for the letter his mother wrote to him last
week, but he'd dropped it somewhere. Ah well, another would come,
regular as clockwork. His reply could not mention that he'd fallen in
love, nor that he'd acquired a tattoo. If he'd dropped it in the house,
then Maria would know who he was, and how to contact him. He fantasised
that she would.
Two days later, HMS Fuschia, a Flower-class corvette, steamed under her
own power to the jetty where she was to load ammunition. As the sun went
down, she steamed out of the harbour, past the Still and West pub, past
the home of W. L. Wylie the naval artist responsible for saving HMS
Victory, who got a salute from the Fuschia's captain. If Martin, at the
wheel, had dared to look, he would have seen two female figures standing
atop the Round Tower : big blousey Mama Doris Gozo, and petite, lovely,
Maltese Maria. They waved at the ship. Maria turned to Doris and asked:
"Mamma. I love him. Will he come back?"
"I'm sure he will, sweetie. Shall we pray for him?"
Maria nodded, and with the corvette now a dot on the horizon, the pair
walked over to the Garrison Church past the guncrews on the Hot Walls,
sleeping by their guns. The last fire crew was rolling up hoses as the
two women knelt in prayer in the street as close as they could get to
the burnt out church. They prayed for the safety of a young sailor and
his ship: they prayed for themselves and they prayed that the Germans
wouldn't come again.
"Mamma Doris," said Maria as she helped the older woman to her feet, "I
can't do it with anyone else. Not now."
"Aye," came the reply. "And Portsmouth is no place for us anymore. Time
to go over the hill."
The two women packed their meagre belongings in an old, slightly rusty,
pram, and set out for the long walk north out of Portsmouth, past the
shell of the Guildhall, along Commercial Road, up Portsdown Hill, and
through village after village on the road to London until they finally
arrived at the little bungalow that Doris had bought with money from a
variety of sources, some legal and some not. It wasn't very big, but it
was set in a huge garden, and there they could raise chickens and
vegetables and sit out the war.
"Mamma Doris," asked Maria querulously, sitting up in bed one evening,
her pretty little face framed by her black curls, as she filed her
nails. "Do you think he loves me?" she pouted.
"I'm sure he does, pet," replied Mamma Doris Gozo, who as Leading Stoker
Patrick McGinnity, late of HMS Warspite and marked down in her muster
roll as 'Run', had brought the orphaned child Maria ashore in
Portsmouth, wrapped in his kitbag after a long, hot, voyage from Malta
lodged in a secret place in the bowels of the engine room.
Author's Footnote.
It was the 5th April 1982 when I also stood on top of the Round Tower to
wave off a task force again on its way to war. On board one of the
aircraft carriers leaving harbour that day, was my elder brother,
Leading Seaman Patrick Wainwright. The whole family were there - all
those that were alive, that is. Grandpa Martin and Granny Maria, Dad and
Mum, and my sister Doris - we two girls each held a grownup's hand, and
got lifted onto Dad's shoulders in turns. Afterwards, we went to
Kingston cemetery to put fresh flowers on Mamma Doris's grave. It's not
all that far from the Copnor Road entrance, if you care to search round.
In the years since then, she has been joined in the ground first by
Martin, and then by Maria, and when we can find them in bloom in our
garden, the flowers on the grave are always fuschias.
171 people were killed on the night of 10th and 11th January 1941.
Portsmouth was chosen as a target that night as the rest of Britain was
covered by thick cloud, and Portsmouth - on the coast - was the only
readily identifiable target. German records show that 153 Bombers
targeted Portsmouth. This compares drastically with the '1,000 Bomber'
raids launched by Bomber Command on Germany later in the war, but he who
sows the wind must be prepared to reap the whirlwind.
Many victims were unidentified due to their terrible injuries, and in
some cases virtually nothing remained of their bodies. Hundreds of
victims were buried in a mass funeral in Kingston Cemetery in the city.
A memorial stands near to the site of their mass grave. Over 1,000
people died in Portsmouth as a result of Bombing during the Second World
War. Many records state that just 930 civilians were killed, but a
number of servicemen were also killed whilst on leave or while on duty
in the city. Just under 10% of the city's 63,000 houses were destroyed,
and a similar number seriously damaged.
German records state that 40,000 4lb incendiary bombs were dropped on
the city on that one night alone, as well as 140 tons of High Explosive
which at that time were often referred to as 'Land Mines'. Many bombs
did land in the sea - the Solent, and Portsmouth and Langstone Harbours
- and no doubt, some remain there to this day. In 1941 bombing from the
air was not an exact science. The Bombers followed radio beams that
intersected over Southsea Common. The incendiaries caused over 2,314
fires - far too many for beleaguered emergency services to deal with at
any one time, especially given that 60 water mains had been destroyed.
The tide was also low, which prevented the Fire Brigade from pumping
water from the sea.
47 people were died when an air raid shelter at Arundel Street School
suffered a direct hit. The power station was hit, and the main shopping
centres at Commercial Road, Palmerston Road and Kings Road were all
decimated. Also damaged were the Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital, the
Hippodrome, Clarence Pier, three cinemas, the dockyard school, the Royal
Sailor's Rest Home, the Salvation Army Citadel, the Central Hotel and
the Connaught Drill Hall. The FA Cup - won by Pompey in 1939 - was dug
out of a Bank in Commercial Road, where it had been placed for
safekeeping.
The most visible and symbolic material loss was the destruction of the
Guildhall. ARP and emergency services battled fires in the building all
night, but one 4lb incendiary bomb fell down a ventilation shaft and
lodged itself in an inaccessible place, proving impossible to
extinguish. The Guildhall burnt all night and into the next day, the
melting copper from the ornate dome dripping down to the ground. When
the fires finally subsided only the outer walls remained, but when the
basement was dug out however the Lord Mayor's chain and civic plate were
found to be intact. Also burnt out was the Royal Garrison Church, built
in 1212 as the chapel to the Domus Dei hospital.
I've always found it a mystery why the Luftwaffe didn't target
Portsmouth more during the War. Situated on the coast and with the Isle
of Wight to the south harbours to either side it should have been
relatively easy to locate from the air, certainly easier than many of
the inland cities that were targeted. Granted, most of the large naval
ships didn't use Portsmouth during the war for fear of air attack, but
there was still a sizeable dockyard and a plethora of naval training
establishments. Portsmouth was strongly defended by Anti-Aircraft Guns
however - on Hayling Island, along the crest of Portsdown Hill, and on
Southsea Common, where there were also rocket batteries. There were also
many barrage balloons. Naval ships in harbour would also open up their
AA guns. ARP precautions in Portsmouth were also advanced, as the
authorities expected the city to be heavily targeted.
There were incidents of looting, recorded in the local court records.
Many people also left the city each night and 'trekked' out of the city,
over Portsdown Hill. They were criticised for leaving their homes
vulnerable to incendiary bombs. But on the whole morale held
surprisingly well.
Lion Terrace continued to house brothels into the 1970s, when the
Georgian Terrace was demolished to make way for a new building for the
University of Portsmouth. It didn't take the 'Lion' name, as that was
forever linked to vice. However, in the basement of No. 21, tucked
beneath the rotting remains of a mattress, was a small bottle. A workman
unstoppered it and sniffed. It was unmistakeably Navy Rum. The workman,
who had served in the Grey Funnel Line himself, muttered "Sippers!" as
he threw the bottle away to land in some freshly poured concrete, where
as far as I know, it remains today.
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