What it feels like to grow up with prostitutes

Jeanette Whitton was brought up in a Victorian house full of hookers. She talks about the men, the shame and the lies

(Chris Floyd)

Jeanette Whitton

As I was growing up, my mother worked as a housekeeper in a bohemian part of London full of hookers and artists. My family — my brother, sister, mother and often absent father — lived in a leaking basement flat of a large Victorian house, which had rooms that my mother would clean and deliver breakfast to. When I was 10, three prostitutes moved in. My mother kept their profession a secret from us, but I noticed they were very different from her — they were covered in make-up, wore low-cut tops and would sit very provocatively on the doorstep with their legs open; if she saw us on the doorstep, she would scream at us.

In our teens, we gradually worked it out, after noticing how they’d sleep in the day, then go out at night and return with men. There was only one telephone, so my mum would always rush to answer it, to prevent us doing so, but my sister and I became inquisitive and started picking up the phone. If we said the girls weren’t in, the callers would ask us if we were on the game. We’d make up names for ourselves, such as Letitia, from EastEnders, and say, “We’ll give you the full works,” a term we’d overheard. We’d arrange appointments, and men would come round. My mother would answer the door and quickly slam it. A couple of times, men wanted us to go into detail: “What colour are your knickers?” That was too much, it scared us and we’d hang up.

The men didn’t frighten us, but my mother was very protective. The girls had a pimp, and I always felt he would intervene. He was very controlling, and at night he would keep vigil in the bathroom. One woman was a heroin addict, which shocked me. I never saw her shoot up, but she physically deteriorated in front of us. We became friendly, though I never spoke about it with my mother. When I was 14, one prostitute’s brother arrived to get over heroin — he died two weeks later of an overdose. I remember the girl coming screaming to my mother. And there were terrifying police raids in the night that woke us up with loud banging on the door. My mother would soothe us with hot milk and a biscuit. Her policy was never to tell us what was really going on — she covered up the police raids as if they were a treat. She never showed her emotions — I guess she buried most of the pain — but had the meanest temper, so we didn’t dare ask her anything.

I never felt safe at home, but I couldn’t talk to my mother, and wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone else. My mother wanted us to pretend it wasn’t happening — respectability was the most important thing to her. She comes from a very proud Spanish family, and was deeply ashamed of her life and didn’t want her relations to know. The shame was infectious. I took on the habit of lying from a young age, and began a double life. To friends, I invented a happy alternative, that we were middle class, that we owned our home, that I had a normal family. I put on a posh accent and remember people calling me a snob. Lying was my tool for survival. The lies made the emotion easier to manage, and I became very numb to the events. I buried a lot as well — I don’t remember half my childhood, but I have diaries from my teens. I was clearly depressed and very insecure. My diaries were the only outlet.

We moved out when I was 17, when the owner of the house decided to sell, but my upbringing influenced everything I did — I had seen how you could end up so low in the class system. My way out was education, so I was the first person in my family to get a degree. I developed a fear and lack of respect for men — it only seemed to end in sex, which I thought was perverse. When, at 19, I had my first boyfriend, I was frigid and nervous.

I’m 41 now, married with three children — a son, aged 11, a daughter, aged 5, and a 19-year-old stepson — and I’m trying to reverse those influences. My husband and I are completely open with each other. I found a kindred spirit — his childhood was worse than mine. But initially he had a very different impression of me. He tells me I used to behave like an airhead — that was my defence to keep men at a distance.

I never confronted my mother, but in my early twenties it came out organically and that was hugely cathartic. Now we’re adults, she’s totally open. To open up these secrets felt like a great burden had been lifted. It led to a change in our relationship, where she recognised me as an adult. But she wasn’t embarrassed about having lied. She endured Franco’s dictatorship as a child, where covering up the truth was important. Having left London for a clean start, I didn’t have to tell my close friends about my life — it was upsetting and it made me feel weak.

Then, six years ago, my sister moved to my area. She is much more open; she has a London accent and, when you meet her, it’s clear we don’t come from a conventional middle-class family. I felt terror about her arrival. I was going to have to rewrite myself completely. I was forced to become more honest. I had spent a long time adapting my story so people would like me, but I had to accept some people won’t like me for not being a posh intellectual. I feel lighter now; the truth has given me back the ability to enjoy life. Lying was always on my conscience, I always felt fraudulent. I finally feel what I imagine normal people feel like. I’m happy with who I am now. In fact, I feel I’ve done very well, considering.