I first saw Pam back in February 2007. She was shuffling down Old Compton Street like something from Beatrix Potter, eyes scanning left and right, a half smoked fag in one hand, plastic bag in the other – one of the many homeless working the small area bounded by Shaftesbury Avenue, Charing Cross Road and Regent and Oxford Streets.

Gradually we got to know each other. I say ‘know’, Pam knew my name, that I had a shop and that I was writing about her, I knew that once she’d made enough money for her bed for the night the rest would go on fags, dog bets or fruit machines. But I didn’t know her surname, her family history or how old she was. I’d heard that she was staying in Pimlico, in a hostel, and that she’d venture into Soho on a daily basis (it’s where she felt most at home) – but that was it.

I suppose it was a symbiotic relationship. I became one of her ‘almost definites’ for loose change and she became a character in my books. That’s probably why I felt so indebted to her. She gave good story. Plus she was a real Sohoite. Not one of those celebrities that spill out of The Groucho or Soho House, pose for the paps, then swan back to their penthouse apartments. Pam was a daily face. And back then we were all in it together on that street, all trying to eke out a living, all trying to get by on a wing and a prayer.

I have this vision of her now as I’m typing this; I’m in the little coffee shop on the corner of Old Compton and Frith; she spots me (it was as if she had me ‘GPS fixed’), she rushes in, stands in front of me, rocking. ‘Gotta gold one for me?’ she says, looking up through big framed glasses. ‘That’s all I need, then I can go ’ome.’ Invariably I’d reply, ‘Pam, not today. I’m skint.’ She’d wait a few seconds to see if I’d change my mind, and when she could tell I wasn’t budging, she’d shrug and say, ‘Cuddle then?’ and then she’d wrap her arms tightly around me, snuffle into my jacket and whisper, ‘Love you!’ before tottering out. She really was a sweet soul.

When Sebastian left us in 2010, it was a shock. Soho was in mourning. There was talk that after Paul Raymond and Michael from The Colony, all Soho’s great characters had now gone. But Soho has a rich history of eccentric characters, from a variety of backgrounds and Pam was as much a Soho ‘name’ as the rest. I’d heard she’d been ill. Noticed that she’d lost weight when I last saw her on Bateman Street just before Christmas. But I never thought she’d go. She seemed such a Soho fixture (like The French House and the Algerian Coffee Shop), always there, whatever the weather, weathering the recession (when many of us didn’t), never complaining, a handful of coins enough to brighten her day.

Oh well … Goodbye my luv. You’ll be missed. And you were loved. Whenever I visit Soho it’ll be you and Sebastian that I think of. Here’s hoping you’re now getting all the cuddles and gold ones you deserve.

Clay x

February 2nd, 2007: Fag Lady

There’s a small, stocky woman who frequents these parts. Very often dishevelled, sporting a number one cut, with round, “barn owl” NHS glasses. She’s often wearing a long brown raincoat that glides along the ground behind her, and she always carries a faded Tesco’s bag. She reminds me of one of those Gateways-era lesbians, butch to the point of being unidentifiable as male or female.

A few weeks will pass by without me catching sight of her. Then, when I least expect, she suddenly pops up everywhere: shuffling past Patisserie Valeria, picking something off the ground in Archer Street, leaning against a porn shop window in Walkers Court. And when she sees me she smiles and talks to me as if we’ve known each other for years, often starting a sentence mid-sentence.

“…and then she says, ‘Well, it’s your turn to buy them.’ And I say, ‘I can’t afford them at that price. You must be mad!’ Do you think I should have bought them?” So I’ll smile back, or try and respond, and she’ll look at me strangely, as if she’s just realised that she doesn’t really know me at all. Then she scurries off, like an overweight dormouse.

Today, as I tap away at my keyboard in the shop, I catch sight of her outside, crouching down, placing something carefully under the wheel of a car. Then off she goes. Five minutes later, she’s back—same procedure, placing something under the car wheel, rubbing her little hands together with glee, then off again, as if she is about to hibernate and is burying her food for winter. After her fifth or sixth visit, I sit up in my seat to get a better view. Cigarettes. Half smoked butts. An ashtray’s worth, all gathered in a little mound, and as she arranges them she smiles to herself, looking over her shoulder cautiously, making sure no one has spied her. Our eyes lock for a fraction of a second, but I look quickly away. Then, once her pile is in place, I watch as she clumsily gets back on her feet, using her hands to push herself up, and proceeds to make her way down Dean Street, stopping passersby.

“Have you got an empty fag packet? ’Scuse me, sir! Got an empty fag box you don’t want?”

I sit back down in my chair and start tapping away again, deleting everything was writing previously, starting afresh with this Fag Lady story.

Moments later, the owner of the car returns, a good-looking businessman. He throws his sports bag into the back seat, jumps inside, and starts to rev the engine. Oh, no! What’s going to happen? Will the car crush the “fag mountain?” Will it just leave a pile of burnt tobacco in its wake? Will Fag Lady return in a flood of tears? It is a real Hitchcock moment, and I stand up, tempted to rush outside and shout at the driver, “Careful of those cigarette butts, you road hog!” But, miraculously, the driver turns his wheel at such an angle that the whole mound of cigarettes stays perfectly in place.

Then, as so often happens in Hollywood films, just as the coast seems clear and you close your mouth and start munching on your popcorn again, one of those new, motorised road-sweeper vans turns into Dean Street, purring and whirring, sucking everything up in its path. I watch, panic-stricken. The cigarette butts don’t stand a chance and they are whisked off, in the blink of an eye, to Cigarette Butt Heaven. Oh, no! This is a disaster. I close my laptop, walk to the shop doorway, and look down Dean Street just as Fag Lady shuffles back into view with a big, beaming smile, holding a cigarette box in the palm of her hand, like one of the Three Kings bearing gifts.

As she gets nearer to her spot she appears puzzled, looking backwards and forwards, up and down the street, as if trying to retrace her steps. Then she walks right up to where her mound should have been, her face forlorn, almost tearful. I take a step down from the shop doorway toward her, and I’m just about to say “I tried to stop it…” when she spins round on her little blue deck shoes and glares at me.

“You stole my fags! You’re always following me and now you’ve stolen my fags!” Then she brushes past me, angrily, and, throwing the cigarette box in my direction, shouts, “And stop writing about me! You mental case!”

From Dirty White Boy: Tales of Soho ©2008 Clayton Littlewood