It was late, and Pixie Haircut and I were crossing the Bell
Lane rec, when she said, apropos of nothing, “Do you think there are
prostitutes in Lewes?”
Quick as a flash, I pulled on some fishnet stockings and posed
provocatively under the lamp-post. However, it was so dark (the lamp wasn’t
on), that Pixie didn’t notice, and I had to resort to calling out ‘Hello,
Duckie,’ to get her attention. Yes, I am willing to concede that my representation
of sex workers is slightly out of date.
I caught Pixie up (she’d hurried on ahead for some reason),
and asked what had brought on this slightly left-field musing. She explained
that on her way to meet me earlier that evening, she’d walked past a house
where a lady in a state of déshabillé was
standing in her doorway, waving an affectionately lewd goodbye to a much older
gentleman. I won’t trouble you here with Pixie’s spirited re-enactment, but it
did lead me to ask whether she definitely saw it, or was getting muddled up
between real life and the Robin Askwith film, Confessions of a Window Cleaner.
“I definitely saw it, and no he wasn’t her father or grandfather or
other plausible relation.”
“You know this because…”
“I just do.”
Pixie led me to this alleged house of ill-repute and we
stood on the opposite side of the road, examining it for wantonness.
“There’s a light on,” she gasped, “at this hour!”
“Well,” I said, reasonably, “We’re out at this hour, and
when we go home, we’ll probably put a couple of lights on so we can clean our
teeth, put on our cold cream, etc.”
We speculated for a few more minutes, then the front door
opened, making us jump. A burly man stepped out onto the path. Behind him stood
the purported Lady of the Night, wearing a floral dressing gown which she was
holding closed at the front. We tried to look inconspicuous, but we were
clearly casing the joint.
“You two gonna be out here gabbing all night?” growled the
man, shining a torch into our faces. “Me and the wife are trying to sleep.”
The woman behind him said, “Come on, Ray,” and with an extra
frown, the man clicked off the torch and went back inside.
As soon as the front door slammed Pixie and I scuttled up
the road and didn’t speak till we were outside my house. “Husband, my eye,” I
said.
“He was clearly her husband,” Pixie said firmly. “So either
he has no idea what’s going on. Or he’s, er, her business manager.”
I went indoors and reported our investigative findings to
Man of the House.
“A red light district? In Lewes?” he snorted, spreading
Gentlemen’s Relish onto an organic oatcake. “I don’t think so. Now if you were
to say Newhaven, well, that’d be a different story.”
Beth Miller, 27th Feb 2015
