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Hello and welcome back to Behind the Powder Podcast from EPuls and Victoria. We are continuing to read Paul Bailey and English Madam, The Life and Work of Cynthia Payne. Now I do believe this is I think the last chapter, but there are some pages afterwards which they look like um they talk about No, ignore that.

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Um There's just a weird little interlude bit after this chapter. And then it goes in chapter eight.

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Chapter 7. Old men are more appreciative. Cynthia was so careful with the money she earned as a prostitute that she eventually amassed enough to buy a small terraced house in Elder Court Road, Strepham. It was a pokey little place compared to what I've got now, but at least it was a proper home. I had my own bricks and mortar at long last. I was beginning to see my dream of security come true. I still had a rented flat in the West End, and it was in there that I started my brothel activities. On a small scale, naturally. I had to be a bit cautious when I moved to Strepham. I had to find out the lie of the land. I didn't want the neighbours suspecting anything. I didn't want them to know what I was up to. I wanted to pass myself off as respectable. She succeeded in her ambition. It wasn't until the police raid on Cranmore in December 1978 and the interest it attracted in the national papers that the residents of Edencourt Road became aware of what kind of householder had once lived among them. They never had a bloody clue I was that discreet. I used to give my sex parties at lunchtime when the other women in the road were busy in their kitchens. I spaced them out to start with, and then I gave one every other month, regular like. I told the people living on either side of me that I liked to hold a business conference, seeing as how I was a consultant on a friendly basis. It was surprising. I told them how much work you could get done over a drink and a ham or cheese roll, with some nice music playing in the background. Some of my gentlemen owned really Swiss motors, Rolls Royce and such, so I gave them strict instructions not to park them in Elder Court Road. You just leave that bloody Jaguar round the corner, I'd say. It may be beautiful, but it's far too posh for a street like this. It draws attention to the house. I had to be a bully to protect myself. Most of the blokes were sensible when it came to parking, though they realized the trouble I could have had with the neighbours if Eden Court Road was crammed chock a block with strangers' cars taking up the residence parking space. I kept in with the Irish family next door by giving them the leftovers from my parties, cold chicken if there was any, and the old roll or two. They weren't well off, so the food went down a fair treat with them. They really believed I was a businesswoman. I was, of course. But not in the way they thought. Oh, I was in my element. The sex parties were not a new venture for Cynthia. By the time she settled in Stratham, she was already an experienced hostess. I love entertaining. It's my greatest pleasure in life. It was years before I came up with the idea of an admission charge, and even then it was only because a client put it in my mind. You bloody daff Cindy, he said, letting them have all this for nothing. He was right. In those days I was always out of pocket after a party. Everything was free. The booze, the grub, the fucking. I'd laid it all on just for the fun of it. It never bloody occurred to me that I could enjoy myself and make a profit at the same time. I had some real riff raff at the early parties. They soon got the push. I don't cater for young men anymore, unless they're transvestites, or slaves, or both. Blokes under forty are all jack malads, who think their pricks are bloody priceless. They like to boast and boasts and boastings something I can't be doing with in men or in women. Anyway, I discovered the secret of how to organise a marvellous sex party. Find the willing girls, supply a lesbian display, and get enough older men who'll be grateful for the sex they're paying for. Give them plenty to eat and drink. That was always my biggest problem. Finding the willing girls. I'll never forget. I put a special advert in one of the contact magazines. Kinky people wanted for kinky parties. It was through that that I met Agatha and Joanna. Aggie's as plain as a bloody pike staff, but she's wonderful she's a wonderful little worker in the bedroom. Her husband, Reggie, used to come to the parties with her, and he didn't give her monkeys when she went upstairs with another man. Quite the opposite. He bloody smiled. She's a bundle of energy, my missus. That's what he'd say. I've known Agatha take on three men at once. It wore you out just to watch her. I don't think there's a hole in her body that hasn't been filled. Yet, if you saw her in her habadashery shop, selling pins and needles and bits and bobs, looking all bloody demure, you wouldn't reckon on her as a raver. We had a retired police superintendent at one party, I remember, who was really excited by her. They went upstairs and he asked Agatha to whip him. I don't think I could, she said. It's not something I've ever done. There's always a first, he said. And he was bloody pleading with her by now. Well, Agatha started to give him a good hiding, and she told me afterwards that a change came over her. Once she got into the swing of it, she couldn't bloody stop herself. She liked having a sub she liked having a man submissive to her. She liked having a man submissible to her. I thought of all those years washing my husband's socks and underpants, cooking his meals, waiting on him hand and foot, and it suddenly gave me a lovely feeling punishing that policeman. The ex superintendent enjoyed himself too. He asked Agatha if he could visit her at home and do some really menial work for her. She told him that she and Reggie lived in Somerset, but that didn't put him off. I would like my gas cooker cleaned, she said. It hasn't been done in ten years. Would you believe it? That copper drove down to Somerset early one morning, took all his clothes off, and set to on the cooker. Agatha's kitchen is just behind the shop, so it's not what you'd call private during shopping hours. Agatha had to leave Reggie on the counter. Well she gave the copper a few lashes. What on earth is going on in your kitchen, Mr Pratt? One old lady asked Reggie. It sounds as if someone's being murdered. She didn't know how near the truth she was. The copper was screaming his head off with pleasure as the change came over Agatha. She was whipping the bloody life out of him. I expected something on the television, Reggie said to the old lady. Nothing but violence on the box these days. Oh I have to laugh when I think about it. Agatha looks so bloody prim and proper on the surface. But she's a right demon for sex underneath. And the funny thing is, she didn't begin to lose her inhibitions until she was in her mid-40s. I was the butter wouldn't melt in her mouth type, she says. Well, she's had more than butter in her mouth since then. There's no stopping Agatha when she's in the mood. A strange look comes into her eyes. I call it the warning signal. If there's a bloke in the room when she gets that look, he has to surrender. He's got no bloody choice. He's a marked man. Joanna shares Agatha's enthusiasm, but not her resourcefulness. She was my other star in the days when I didn't charge. Between them, Joanna and Agatha could keep any number of men happy. Joanna never took on three at a time, but she was a wonderful worker in the bedroom. She used to be a school teacher. She's a very educated woman. She was a bit like Agatha. She realized when she was middle-aged that there was something missing from her life. She was happily married too, but she wanted to spread herself like. She certainly did that at Edencourt Road. She and Agatha both say that the parties went off as soon as I made the men pay for their sex, but I don't agree. I think they became a touch classier, if anything. I'll never forget. I remember saying to Joanna and Agatha, look, you can still have your fun, but you'll be getting some pin money as well. There aren't many people in this world who get paid for enjoying themselves. Agatha stayed on, but Joanna faded away. I sent her a few chaps who didn't mind the journey to Pullborough. She liked to do a little entertaining at home. Her husband's the same as Reggie. He just toddles off to another room when a bloke comes round for a fuck. Joanna had a beautiful affair with a bloke in his early twenties that's less than half her age. He's just got married, but he says he owes everything to Joanna. She taught him how to be a good lover. I wish more young blokes would fall for older women. They wouldn't be such bloody jackma lads then. They wouldn't be in such a hurry to get rid of their spunk. They'd learn that a woman likes to take her time. She doesn't want the bloody thing shoved in one minute and pulled out the next. I met too many men with that attitude when I was on the game, and I would never allow them in any brothel of mine. Cynthia was always anxious on the night before a party. I couldn't sleep. I was terribly excited, looking forward to all the fun. And I'd be worried too. Would my lesbians turn up? Would there be enough girls? I didn't have to worry about the men. They'd be around for a bit of the other, even if it meant struggling through a bloody snowstorm. I'd learnt early in life with Terry that if you tell a man you're going to drop your drawers for him, he'll fight his way through fire and bloody flood to get to you. There was one party I remember when dozens of blokes arrived, but not a single girl. Every time the doorbell rang, I prayed that there was a woman on the step. Those blokes stood about in my small front room like a load of dummies. I was a spare, I really was. They were getting tanked up and a bit irritable, because the first thing a man wants when he goes to a sex party is to get himself despunked. It stands to reason. Then, thank God, just as I seriously thinking that I'd have to give the men their money back, a whole troop of girls suddenly appeared out of the blue. My word, were they soon in business, the blokes were fairly panting for them. That party looked as if it would be a disaster, but it turned out a great success. The house in Eden Court Road was kept spotlessly clean, but not by Cynthia. Her new friends Gregory and Mitchell attended to the washing up and dusting and the polishing, following one of many advertisements she placed in the various contact magazines to which she was by now subscribing. Cynthia acquired the services of slave Rodney, who tended the tiny garden every weekend and made himself useful in a hundred ways. Rodney's a perfect slave. He would do anything for me. I was frightened of losing him to begin with. I'm a bossy little bugger, but I'm not a natural mistress. I had to take lessons from Gregory on how to keep a slave happily humiliated. I suppose it's because I've got a bit of the actress in my nature, that I was able to pretend to be nasty. Some women are right cows and don't have to put on a show, but not me. It's quite a strain sometimes, being thoroughly bloody unpleasant to sweet and gentle blokes like Slave Rodney and Slave Philip. I hate to hear myself saying the things I have to say to them, but they love the insults. They can't get enough of them. It's not easy trying to find fault with their work. You couldn't have a better gardener than Slave Rodney, and Slave Philip's painting and decorating is bloody wonderful, it really is. Slave Philip was taken on by Cynthia when she moved to Cranmore, by which time she had accumulated a large band of licensed jesters, as she describes her clients, her girls, and her contently submissive servants. Cynthia was at last in her element, giving her monthly parties and presiding over her brothel days each Tuesday and Friday. You have to appreciate that there are a lot of gentlemen who wouldn't be seen dead at a party. It's not just that some of them are famous and don't want to be recognized, it's because they like their sex to be private. The kinky bondage fellows don't object to a party, so as long as it's on a small scale. But then the other guests have to be kinky too. I used to enjoy organizing those. They really challenged my imagination. Janet offered me plenty of good advice with all her experience of strict discipline. I had this really beautiful girl who looked bloody wonderful in Leather. Old Mitch would get really carried away, grovelling at her feet. No kinky do was complete without Magda. The kinkiest parties I gave were planned around a bank manager. He was difficult to satisfy at first, because no amount of humiliation was good enough for him. He wanted more, more, more. Magda would whip him after Mitch had tied him up, but still he wasn't happy. I want mud, madame, he said to me one day. Where the bloody hell do you think I'm going to get mud from? I shouted at him. I'm not trapezing off to the seaside just for you. Anyway, I gave his request some thought, and Madame who takes her work seriously has to consider her customers' requirements. I was listening to Gregory cleaning one of the carpets with the Hoover when I had a flash of inspiration. I phoned the bank manager straight away, be at the flat on Friday. I was using the flat as a brothel still. I found the very thing for you. I was terribly excited. I could hardly wait for Friday to come round. I ordered Gregory to clean the house from top to bottom because I wanted the hoover bag to be full to bursting. I'll never forget setting off for the bus stop with a hoover bag in my hold all. That bus journey to the west end seemed to take forever. When I got to the flat, I told Magda and Mitch what I intended to do. It had to be a surprise for the bank manager. When he arrived, he was commanded to undress. We covered his naked body with baby oil and then we strung him up. I opened the Hoover bag and the three of us pelted him with the muck inside. He was in his seventh heaven. Some of the stuff stuck to him, which was exactly what he wanted. He looked bloody horrible by the time we'd finished with him. Like a monster from the deep. He thanked me after we cut him down. That was a brainwave of yours, he said. I called him a disgusting sod and ordered him to wash. He clinched that clinched it. He was squirming with pleasure. Cynthia never lost contact with her family, though relations between her and her father and sister were often strained. Melanie, in particular, expressed contempt when she learned about Cynthia's chosen occupation. One memorable evening, Cynthia, Gregory, and Mitch had dinner with Melanie and Kevin at their house on the outskirts of a Sussex resort. The meal was a success. The conversation amicable. When it was time to leave, Cynthia revealed that her sister and brother-in-law had just been entertaining a couple of transvestites. Kevin was furious, Melanie told me. He was under the impression that Mitch and Gregory were both normal, ordinary, decent men. They behaved themselves at our table, that's true. But to learn as they were going that they dressed off as women? Kevin was horrified that the news would get round the town that he had had a pair of deviants in his house. I could cheerfully strangle my sister when she does things like that. A truly startling change was effected in Cynthia, uneasy and frequently quarrelsome relationship with her father. A distinct change for the better, in her view. As Hamilton grew older and lonelier, he became increasingly frustrated. He closed down his business and consequently had little to occupy him. He was well aware that his eldest daughter was now the proud owner of a brothel in an area not commonly associated with immorality, though he didn't pass on this information to his fellow Freemasons, pillars of the community don't have madams as daughters. He kept the knowledge to himself, but he made use of it nevertheless. Dad turned up one night on my doorstep, really far gone in his cups. He could hardly stand up. He was so bloody squiffly. I let him in, and I said, For Christ's sakes, Dad, what are you doing in London this late? It was after midnight. I want a girl, he said. You're drunk, I said. Get me a girl, Cinders, you know how. I kept telling him he was drunk. It was the whiskey speaking, I told him. You go to bed and sleep it off, and we'll hear what you have to say in the morning. I was convinced that he would be thoroughly ashamed of himself when he woke up. He was that kind of man. Either that or he'd forgotten that he ever asked me. Anyway. He came into my bedroom the following day, and he said to me, Cinders, I meant every word of what I said to you last night. I was bloody flabbergasted. He was stone cold sober by now. It wasn't a drunkard talking anymore. I want you to find me a woman. You specialise in looking after the needs of older men. Well, Cinders, I'm an older man, and I need a woman. I played it cool even though I was bloody thunderstruck. He was the last person in the world I would have expected to ask me for a girl. I mean he was my own bloody father. Listen, Dad, you'll have to give me time to think this over. It's come as a bit of a shock to me. Then he said. Don't take too long about it. There's a good Cinders. I'll never forget. I'd never known him to be so bloody nice to me. Typical man, I thought, all smom when he wants his oats. You've got to understand, Dad, I said, that it's my policy to find the right girl for the right bloke. It's hard work sometimes, because some people just don't make a match. I'll do my best for you. He went back home and I was still wondering whether he was serious. I was in two minds about the whole business. It wasn't as if he'd helped me when I was desperate, and I had been desperate more than once, and he bloody knew it. What happened was I decided to do as he wanted. I've never been one to harbour grudges. You can waste your life that way. I sat down and thought about getting getting him a girl, and then I had one of my brain waves. I remembered Mavis, who'd been Melanie's best friend at school. She's worked for Dad a while, and he told me he fancies her something rotten. He didn't know that while she was working for him she was having it away with every one of his trainee barbers. He wanted to make a pass at her, but he thought that because she was so ladylike, she might take offence, and he didn't have a bloody clue, and no more did Melanie, that when he came and asked me to organise a bit of the other for him, that Mavis was one of my girls. I've sent dozens of blokes to Mavis, and they've all came back raving about her. She's a genuine French polisher, the real McCoy. She gives the most bloody wonderful blowjobs it's possible to have. She's an artist at it, Mavis or Felmer, as a lot of her clients knew her, is a very warm-hearted person, very considerate and kind. She's another one with an understanding husband, but always takes the dog for a walk when a bloke turns up for a game. He realizes that the £15 she charges comes in handy, but he appreciates that Mavis has to express herself, and that's the way she likes to do it. They've got the perfect marriage. The only time in the year that Mavis doesn't work is when her daughter is home for the holidays from university. Anyhow, my brain wave was to fix my father up with Mavis. I rang her up and asked if she was agreeable. We both had a bloody good laugh, and she said yes. So then I phoned Dad and I said, Dad, I've got just the right girl for you. She doesn't live very far from you. Here's her address and telephone number. When you ring, ask to speak to Thelma. I was splitting my bloody sides when I hung up. I was terribly excited. I'll never forget, waiting to hear from either one of them how it all went. Dad arrived at Mavis's place, and he had no idea that he'd be getting a gam from the well-spoken friend of Melanie, who'd worked for him when she was a teenager. He nearly keeled over with surprise when Mavis opened the front door. Come in, Mr Payne, she said, or can I call you Hamilton? He couldn't believe his bloody eyes. He went into the house and Mavis made him a nice cup of tea, and then she gave him a sample of her French polishing. He'd never known anything like it in his life before. Thus, it was that Hamilton Payne joined his daughter's happy band of licensed jesters. He never missed a party if he could help it. The first time he watched a lesbian display, his eyes were out on stalks. He was so bloody amazed. He became much more broad-minded in the last years of his life. He had always been very prejudiced, very Victorian about anything to do with sex, and there he was looking at two girls making love on the floor of my lounge and thoroughly enjoying himself. There was one bloody wonderful evening when he said to me, Cinders, I really fancy that gorgeous bird who's just walked in. Well, the gorgeous bird was a bloke in track. You won't have any luck there, Dad, I said. She's a he. He was knocked sideways. And what's more, I said, He's dead normal, even though he's dressed as a woman. That full mocks Tim. I can tell you it took hours trying to convince him that very few transvestites are gay or queer, which was the horrible bloody word he always used. He couldn't make it out. If a man wants to get into women's clothes, then he must be a sissy. That was his line. Gregory and me we told him otherwise. Dad soon came to see what a sheltered life he had had and how much more I knew than him. Then he did about a lot of things. I can honestly say that I taught him to be tolerant. It was about bloody time, as far as I was concerned. I used to have this lovely transsexual at my party's, Martin, his name was then. Now that he's had the operation and made the change, she's Martina. It was a bloody wonderful moment when Dad took Martin on his lap and gave him a little cuddle. He wasn't the tyrant of my childhood at all. I was looking at a nice old man instead of the so and so I'd argued with for years on end. Dad really entered into the spirit of my parties. He didn't blink an eye after a while when Mitch came in in his bra and panties, wearing his yashmak and showing off his stocking tops. He wasn't a bit put out when Gregory served breakfast dressed as a maid. Oh I used to enjoy kidding him. What would Melanie say if she knew you were here? You won't tell her, will you, Cinders? That depends. I'll never forget he turned into the father I'd always wanted him to be, except it was too bloody late now. He hadn't lifted a finger when I touched rock bottom and was crying out for affection. He was too taken up with his business, to be bothered with his own flesh and blood. He'd washed his hands of me once too often. Still, for all that, I couldn't turn my back on him. It upset me to think of him pinning away on his own when he could be mixing with other old boys and having lots of fun. Hamilton went upstairs at Cranmore on numerous occasions. My lovely Indian girl, Carmella, was his favourite. He confessed things to her that he never said to me. He told her what a lousy father he'd been, and how he was trying to make up for all the damage he'd done. She's a bloody wonderful listener, Carmella.

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And she let him talk to his heart's content.

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That's what some blokes want. The chance to talk. I know that's what my father wanted. Apart from sex, of course. I'll never forget. It was on one of his last visits to the house. Carmella was working overtime, trying to get him roused. He got in a terrible state because he couldn't keep it up. I mean he had trouble staying hard. He was practically in tears. Carmella asked me what she ought to do. I suggested a vibrator. But she didn't know how to work it. I went in with her into the bedroom and I plugged in the vibrator and showed Carmella how to stroke it up and down Dad's cock. I was too embarrassed to put it on Dad myself. I demonstrated in the air, if you get my meaning. After all, he was my father. Have you got the hang of it, Carmella? I asked, hoping like hell that she had. I watched for a minute or two while she copied what I'd done, and then I left them to it. I think it wounded his pride, the fact that Carmela had to use a vibrator, needs must and all that. It was a sad experience for him, but no sadder than what hundreds of other old blokes have to go through. That was what my brothel was for, to give the elderly their confidence back. If one of my girls lost patience with a client, I would have to know why. There had to be a bloody good reason. Sometimes I took the girl's side, especially if a bloke was getting stroppy and blaming her for something he couldn't manage himself. Other times, though, I reminded the girl that my house wasn't just any house, and that there were certain little things you could do for a granddad that a young man wouldn't appreciate. Nine times out of ten the girls would stick to my rules and play fair. It was only the odd newcomer who caused trouble, and that was usually because she was nervous and probably a bit tiddly as a result. Anyway, when all else fails, plug in the vibrator. It certainly did the trick for Dad. Hamilton Payne died in 1979 shortly before Cynthia stood trial for running a brothel and keeping a disorderly house. I was glad he was spared the publicity, the disgrace of knowing that his eldest daughter had been sent to prison. He wouldn't have been able to look people in the eye if he'd gone on living. That was one small mercy. I like to think that I made him happy towards the end. The two of us became as close as we'd ever could be, given his behaviour in the past. He let me open my heart to him, and I did. I told him about every single bloody grievance. I'll never forget he gave me some sensible advice once. He'd heard me bawling at Dominic and he said to me, Cinders, don't make the same mistake with Dominic that I made with you. I used to explode when I should have tried to reason with you. We're both impatient you and me. You don't want Dominic to feel for you what you felt for me all those years. He was right, of course. He recognized himself in my attitude. He could see where he'd gone wrong. It was a pity he hadn't seen it earlier. As I say, he was a very different Hamilton Payne when he was at my parties from the tyrant who did his darndest to keep me down. Oh we had some bloody wonderful laughs together. I told him the truth about Terry and the garden shed, and he nearly burst a gut. He found it so funny. He was a nice old boy at the end, because he was having it off whenever he felt like it. It just goes to prove what I've always maintained, that men are much more pleasant and considerate so long as they're regularly despunked. If they're not getting their oats, they're bloody pests. It took Dad a lot of courage as well as a lot of whiskey to ask me to provide him with a girl, and I have to say that he never regretted it. There aren't many daughters who have done what I've done for their fathers. I still chuckle when I think that Hamilton Payne was one of my most satisfied customers. Melanie did not and does not chuckle at the thought. He could have behaved with a bit more dignity, if there was one word he drummed into our ears when we were children, and that word was respectable. Well, I don't call going to bed with your youngest daughter's best friend respectable. I can't bear to speak to Mavis now. I was frankly appalled when my sister told me the sordid details. She laughed, of course. A post mortem revealed that Hamilton's death was due to cirrhosis of the lyra.

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The funny thing was, he'd been warned about his heart, so he gave up smoking.

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He was like a bloody furnace for most of his life. He must have been lighting up 60 a day at least, but I don't think there was a doctor alive who could have persuaded him to stop drinking. My dad was a real pub man. He loved to prop up the saloon bar of a Saturday night. He started on the booze when he was on the ships, and I doubt he ever came off it until his dying day. He was seventy-five, which isn't a bad age for a heavy drinker. Hamilton's estate was divided between his daughters. At Cynthia's insistence, he left £500 to Jersey Lil. I told him it was the least he could do. She brought him a lot of pleasure when he needed it most. As a token of gratitude, I said. Cynthia was surprised and touched to discover that her far from doting father had kept all her letters to him, and even though she wrote to Melanie, in one of those letters in one of these written when she was five months pregnant with Dominic, she tries to reassure Hamilton that one of his daughters will give him cause for pride. Thank Melanie for the frocks. I'm grateful, really, for them. Also I appreciate for what you're doing for me. I don't show it, I know, but I think all the more. I understand any parent being disappointed, but these things happen and nothing can stop them. It's a lot of my mind really now that that you know I was quite prepared to wait until I'd had the child, but I suppose that would have been a worse shock. It would have saved you worrying all this time. I've always have been a worry, and I expect I always will. Don't expect I'll ever change, and it's never done int intentionally funny enough. I always seem to sail into it. And Melanie is the opposite. She always being good, no trouble at all for her. She's a lovely kid, really something to be proud of there. But you don't seem to think she's all that wonderful really, do you? You probably don't notice it being at home with her all the time. She's got poise now, and she's cultured. In her speech, one would think she's had a very good education to study her well sometimes. The dreams that you had for me, Melanie will do just fine. She'll always do well for herself, no need for anxiety there. Sorry it had to be that way for you. Ever since I was a little girl, I always told myself one day I'll be just right for you. That I'd try to make an improvement, but no, I try, but it just don't happen. Still, there's good many years yet to come for me to make up to you. Can't see anything in your letter why I should send it back to you still. I'll do it just the same. I went to the clinic last night, took blood pressure and different things. I'm alright so far. I just get a bit tired at work at the end of the day with my feet. But me, I'm always tired, especially at work, so I don't think that can be any excuse. Haha. Good night for now, all my love, Cinders. Among Hamilton's papers too was a curiously nasty missive set down in a handwriting similar to that of Jack the Ripper. Mr Payne, so your daughter stayed the night with a married man at Brighton. On Monday, 1st of May, they stayed in Queen's Road in a hotel. Cynthia told me, I told my ma'am. She said, I should tell you, the man is Terry, lives with Vincent Brown's mother. I thought I should tell you, because it is wrong, and there might be trouble. Yours truly, Eld Monday. Bloody little sneak. I never knew who'd written to him. It gave me quite a shock finding that in his desk. It's a mystery, it really is. The things people keep. It became clear to Cynthia that the house in Elden Court Road was too small to accommodate her ever-expanding clientele. A large, rambling Victorian mansion was what she needed. With Mitch's financial assistance, she acquired Cranmore. I couldn't have bought it without his loan. Thank God he had faith in me. I'll never forget, I said to him. Now, I can run the brothel of my dreams. I fell in love with the place instantly. I went from room to room thinking to myself, what bloody wonderful parties I'd be able to give. In the summertime the clients could take their drinks into the garden. Oh, it would be so civilized after the cramped conditions I was used to working in. I was terribly excited at the thought of running a knocking shop in that posh suburban street. By the time she moved into Cranmore, Cynthia had already established the particular kind of brothel she was happiest supervising. I've always been fond of the elderly. I came to the conclusion that my brothel was going to cater for the needs of old men. I didn't rule out younger blokes, but I set the minimum age at 40. I decided to charge reasonable prices because some of my clients had little more than their pensions to live on. I used to give a special £3 discount to old age pensioners. I left it to my wealthier clients to pay what they felt like paying. That way they were subsidizing the poorer blokes. My girls all agree that old men are more apprehensive. They show courtesy, and of course they don't make excessive demands when they're in their 70s and 80s. Oh, we had a bloody wonderful atmosphere going before the raid stopped everything. Just to see an old boy come down the stairs with a smile on his face. Even if he was a bit puffed out, used to give me a glow, it really did. I would fix him some poached eggs on toast and make him a nice cup of tea or a mug of beef extract, and I'd sit on the other side of the kitchen table. And chat to him until he got his energy back. There aren't many brothels that offer that kind of service. The bloody wonderful atmosphere was disrupted on December 6, 1978. It was recreated on one occasion in July 1981 in special circumstances. Okay, that is chapter seven. We do have, I think, only I think 60. Yeah, about 60 odd pages to go, which is really, really great. Um, honestly, I I don't agree that older men are better from my own experiences. I actually have found that older men are more rude than younger blokes. Anybody over the age of 35 I've found to be pretty rude and demanding. Anybody in their 50s and 60s, I the amount of clients that I've seen that are in their 50s and 60s that have been rude, that do not want to take advice on like how to pleasure a woman or just how to give themselves an enema, the amount of dirty asses that I've had to clean because they just refuse to clean themselves and know how to clean themselves and their penis. Um, and I think over for me, I've seen a lot of sissies and cross dressers over the age of 40. Um and I like to use the word feminization instead of sissy because I feel like feminization that sounds like you respect women more. I do not like certain types of syssification. Um I mean I don't think I like syssification in general currently. I've been providing it for many, many years. I do believe from my point of view, I do not like I do not agree with certain clients in the manners where they want to dress up as women and be called whores and sluts. Um, it really depends on a clientele basis exactly what they want.

SPEAKER_02 49:39

I I just don't agree. I just don't agree.

SPEAKER_00 49:47

Because yeah, I just she is right.

SPEAKER_01 49:53

A man is better when they are despunked. I mean that helps a lot with depression, um, loneliness, and the day-to-day things. It helps. Um, and de stress and everything like that with all the hormones and all the chemicals in the brains. Like that is a fact. Um, but yeah, I don't think I believe I I bel I don't think I believe in the statement of older men are more respectful. I've had a lot of rude older men in my time, to the point where I have been thinking about not seeing older gentlemen because they're just not gentlemen. And I know that there are some, but the majority of clientele which I have had who are older have been rude as hell. But there are some nice ones. I will say that. But yeah, before I go on a big rant, this has been Behind the Father Podcast, reading chapter seven of the life and work of Cynthia Payne, an English madam. I shall see you next time.

unknown 51:04

Bye.