Take Me Up to Monto

On a warm, late July evening, it doesn’t take much bait to entice the free ranging shoals into the Monto, and most of this evening’s catch, half full of liquid courage, swim around the brightly painted lures; trying to decide which strategically placed, shimmering beauty will best serve their needs.

Low walls enclose small gardens to the front of each terraced house, forming sanctums for alluring females, which keep the male of the species, mostly soldiers and sailors, from the comforts they so eagerly seek. But this separation only lasts until hurried financial negotiations are completed across the low barriers, then a wide-eyed male darts from the shoal to leap the wall and follow the shimmying tail of the scantily clad female he’s chosen as she disappears inside.

George’s mouth breaks into a broad grin before his lips come together and kiss the back of his clenched fist in excitement as he takes his first look up Montgomery Street. Much better than I ever thought, he tells himself; these sights, those sounds; the laughter, music and song that pours from each house as well as the pubs - this is the place for me!

"That’s why they call it the Monto," Dusty points to the street nameplate fastened to the front of an old terraced house that looks as if it might fall down if anyone tries to remove the sign.

"Is that it?" says George; "I was expecting something a bit more exotic."

"Bleedin’ hark at him," yells Smudger. "Only been in Dublin for two minutes and he wants bleedin’ exotic."

"No – I just thought…"

"… That it would have some fancy meaning?" offers Finchy.

"Jesus, bleedin’ recruits?" Smudger throws his arms in the air. "One wants exotic, now his mate wants fancy? What’s this bleedin’ army coming to?"

"No, I just thought," says George, "that the answer to its origins would be a bit more obscure, that’s all. It takes away some of the mystique knowing it’s only called the Monto just because it all started in Montgomery Street."

Smudger stares in disbelief, "Christ, hark at the bleedin’ professor here; origins, obscure, mystique? It’s Saturday night, we’ve come for a shag and to get pissed, what’s it bleedin’ matter how it got its bleedin’ name, for Christ sake?"

They all laugh, then the others grab George and spin him around before pushing him down a passageway.

"The professor’s not with us, he’ll want to ask ‘em what their name means, rather than kiss ‘em." Dusty shouts, before they all run off up the street.

"Wait for me," George laughs, as he chases them up the street, "I’m much too young to be left all alone in the Monto, I might forget what my name is, or where I come from."

The Monto may have started in Montgomery Street, but it’s now evolved into a much bigger beast. It now includes a myriad of lanes and alleyways, and the authorities don’t pay too much attention to its nefarious goings on. After all, it isn’t just soldiers from the barracks and sailors from the docks who’re regular visitors; even Royalty once visited its more salubrious part.

If trouble’s kept to a minimum, the police are only too happy to take their wages and look the other way, and the army simply sees all areas like this, which grow up around all big garrisons, as being a necessary evil. It helps with morale, and stops them having to provide entertainment for the troops on camp.

Some medical officers and padres try to educate the men, but most don’t, because just like the other officers, they’re too busy sampling the Monto’s delights for themselves.

Still laughing, George catches up with his mates as they stop at the junction with a smaller road.

Dusty points upwards, "You two want exotic and fancy, will that do?"

Their eyes follow Dusty’s finger, "Beaver Street?" yells Finchy, reading the street sign. "Bloody Beaver Street? That’s got to be a bloody joke?"

"No joke," says Dusty; "somebody at the council’s either as thick as pig shit, or they’ve got a great sense of humour. They changed it last year, Christ knows why? But, got to admit, I much prefer Beaver Street to Little Martins Lane. I couldn’t stop laughing when I first bloody saw it."

"What’s so funny about Beaver Street?" asks George.

"Jesus Christ, give me bleedin’ strength," cries Smudger, "I know it’s the twentieth bleedin’ century, nineteen bleedin’ fourteen and all that, but do you think the council’s put up a bleedin’ signpost to point us in the right direction, you bleedin’ thick dozy shite?"

"I'll tell you what’s so funny about Beaver Street, my new and innocent little mucker," says Dusty as he places an arm around George’s shoulder. "It’s because beaver is what we’ve come down here for, and down there is where we’re going to find it. Waiting for us at number twenty-two Beaver Street, is as much bloody beaver as we can bloody well handle."

Dusty and Smudger discovered Clancy's not long after they’d arrived in Dublin, and for the past fourteen months they’d been regular travellers down the side passage of number twenty-two Beaver Street.

A giant of a man opens the back door, and, when recognising Dusty and Smudger, is only too happy to allow all four inside.

Clancy’s bordello is a whole row of terraced houses knocked into one, providing one large social area backed by a warren of interconnected chambers.

George, to his surprise, finds himself looking at one massive barroom. At the far end of this illicit taproom, through the tobacco’s leaden haze, he sees two soldiers leaning on a makeshift bar, drinking beer and laughing at two of their comrades’ clumsy efforts at dancing with two young girls. All along the back wall are tables and stools - soldiers occupy most of them, but a couple of sailors and a civilian are playing cards at one of the tables. Everyone else is heartily singing a song that he doesn’t recognise, as an old man encourages their raucous serenade by playing something that only just passes as a tune on an even older piano in the corner.

His eyes become transfixed on two plump women, skilfully moving in and out of the tables with trays full of drinks and empty glasses. As they go about their work, they laugh out loud when members of the inebriated choir grasp at their overgenerous breasts and backsides.

Amazing, thinks George, just bloody amazing! They’re constantly moving, bringing drinks from the bar, collecting money, handing out change, picking up empties, and having their tits and arses felt at the same time. But they never spill a drop of beer or smash a glass. I wonder what they do for an encore?

"See, everything we need’s right here," says Dusty, as he heads for the only vacant table. "We’re all set for the night."

As Smudger orders four pints, George’s mind cools his excitement - been in bars before, back in Pontefract near the training camp, but never seen anything like this. I’ve bragged about sex as much as the rest, but bragging’s one thing …

"…Here you are, Smudger darling," says one of the two plump women as she places four pints onto their table. "That’ll be a bob please."

Smudger nearly chokes on his first sip, "A bob? A bleedin’ bob for four pints?" he yells, "Christ, Phyllis, that’s threpence a bleedin’ pint, it was only tuppence ha’penny last bleedin’ week?"

"Pay the woman, you tight sod," says Dusty as he fondles Phyllis’ left breast. "They told us a month since it was going up."

"I know, but not a bleedin’ ha’penny a pint, for Christ sake, I expected a farthing not a bleedin’ ha’penny."

"Do you ever stop bloody moaning? Pay the woman and lets get pissed."

Smudger places a shilling in her hand, "Keep the bleedin’ change."

"Thanks for nothing, arsehole," she pushes Dusty’s hand away as her smile disappears - it soon returns as she gets to the next table.

"One of these days, Smudger, I’m going to punch your bloody brains out, why’d you have to upset Phyllis? It’s not her fault. She’ll be slow at serving us all bloody night now."

"I just begrudge paying threpence for a bleedin’ pint. Oh all right, everybody put tuppence on the bleedin’ table and I’ll go over and slip it in her hand, that’ll bring her round."

They all throw two pennies into the middle of the table. Smudger scoops them up and chases after Phyllis. She kisses him as if he were her long lost lover when he slips the money into her hand while grabbing a handful of her arse.

"Right, a round apiece, then a shag, then another round apiece," says Dusty, lifting his pint, "I hope you two can keep up with the professionals?"

"Don’t worry about us two," yells Finchy. "We can drink and shag with the best of ‘em, can’t we, George?"

"We’re the best – at drinking that, and using that," shouts George, pointing to his beer and grabbing his crotch in quick succession.

As their fourth pint of the night lands on the table, George’s mind works overtime; not long now and still no plan. Jesus, I want a shag, Christ knows I do, but not like this; the place and the women are just too much. Bloody hell, if I can’t think of anything, I’ll have to go through with it. I can’t back out in front of me mates; they’ll be merciless, they’ll tear me to bloody bits.

"Come on, sup up. It’s time for a ride, then some more ale," Dusty yells.

"Er, there’s plenty of time," says George as the others down their pints.

"No there’s bleedin’ not," snaps Smudger, "I’m bleedin’ busting for it."

"I’ve, er, er – I need a piss," says George.

"Another one?" asks Finchy; "You only went five minutes since."

"No I didn’t!"

"Yes you bleedin well did," laughs Smudger.

"It’s this ale, it must be bad, must be causing me to piss more."

"Causing you to bleedin’ piss more?…Hey, lads, he’s a virgin…look at his bleedin’ face, he’s bleedin’ shitting himself."

"No, I’m bloody well not. I’ve had more shags than you’ve had…"

"…You’re right, Smudge," Dusty yells. "He’s a bloody virgin, quick grab him, lads!"

"Get off me, you bastards," screams George.

Ignoring his struggles and protests, they raise him shoulder high before carrying him through the cheering crowd to a door at the rear of the barroom, singing, "Georgie is a virgin," as they go.

George tries in vain to kick his assailants as they thrust him through the portal of one of the many boudoirs, slamming the door behind him. In panic, he tries to turn the knob, but his mates hold it shut on the far side.

"Bastards!" he hisses.

"Come on, darling, hurry up," a female voice says from behind. "Time’s bloody money, you know."

He turns, saying the Regimental motto, Cede Nullis – Yield to None, over and over in his head.

At least a decade older than his eighteen years, she lies on the bed in her underwear, "My name’s Molly, and I just said time’s money, so bloody well get on with it."

Her words make him freeze, rooted to the spot just inside the door, but he fumbles with his fly buttons in response to her command, "I can’t undo my flies," he whispers, apologetically, then looks away, staring in stony silence at anything in the room but her.

His whole body shakes as he senses her climb off the bed and walk slowly towards him - his instinct is to run, but where to? Cede Nullis, Cede Nullis, Cede…he chants, over and over, under his breath.

Molly gently takes his hand, kisses him passionately on the lips then leads him to the bed and places him on his back.

"Long time since I had a virgin," she repeatedly says in a low trembling voice as she first undresses him, then strokes and plays with his youthful innocence before climbing onto the bed to join him and smother him in more kisses.

Her first lesson finishes much too soon for both of them, but now he knows what all the fuss is about he's overjoyed to promise her that he'll visit every Saturday night. But next Saturday up the Monto never comes; his next kiss will be with the devil as he sails for France with his Regiment, to face the Kaiser’s hordes.

© John Sales 2004