The Whitechapel Girl

by The Whitechapel Girl (retail) (epub)

  ‘Shut up, May,’ said Billy, staring into Ettie’s eyes.

  ‘So where’s all the girls got to today?’ asked Ettie, feigning enthusiasm. ‘Not still sleeping off last night, surely?’

  ‘They’ve all gone down the docks,’ said Bill, still not shifting his gaze. ‘Mad Milly come legging it down the market about an hour and half ago, hollering that a big Yankee ship had come in. They’ve all gone down there. See if they can do a bit of business.’

  ‘That’s nice. I was waiting for them in here and all,’ said Maisie angrily.

  ‘They knew yer was at the funeral with Mum,’ said Billy, calming her down. Still he kept his gaze on Ettie, as though he were worried that she might try to escape.

  ‘Oh, May, I’m sorry. I’ve been going on about my own worries. Who’s died?’

  ‘No one,’ said May laughing. ‘She’s a right caution, our mum. Even though Bill and Alf are helping her out with money now, she still can’t resist a good funeral. Still hangs round the cemetery gates to see if she can scrounge herself a drop of something at the do afterwards.’

  ‘Still the same old Myrtle Bury,’ said Ettie, laughing through her tears. ‘One rule for how everyone else should go about their business, and another rule for her, eh? Some things’ll never change round here.’

  ‘One thing has changed,’ said Billy, suddenly serious.

  ‘Yes?’ said Ettie.

  He tried to say what was on his mind, but couldn’t talk with Maisie around, so he decided to leave it. He changed the subject to the latest bit of gossip doing the rounds. ‘The girls are having a bloody hard time round here,’ he said. ‘That’s why they all shot down the docks so sharpish.’

  ‘What? No business?’

  ‘No, it ain’t that,’ said Billy, turning round and holding up his empty glass to Patrick and gesturing for him to bring them another round of the same. ‘It’s that Charrington geezer, him and his flaming good works. He’s causing murders round here.’

  ‘How comes?’ said Ettie.

  ‘Closing all the case-houses, that’s how,’ Maisie chipped in. ‘All the working girls are being driven out on to the streets. No, nothing. Having to do it in the alleys and under the railway arches like the right old whatsits. Right dangerous it is, if yer ask me. And all cos of that interfering bastard.’

  ‘Alfie and a few of the boys have been seeing what they can do to keep him and his cronies away, but that Charrington’s got some powerful friends. Nasty bit of work, he is. Reckons he’s doing it for the girls’ own good, but that’s a load of bollocks. Buying up property or something, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘There’s a lot of ’em doing right bad round here, Ett. Things have never been harder for some of the poor sods. But our Billy ain’t got nothing to complain about, have yer?’ said Maisie, steering things back towards her favourite subject. ‘Man of means now, ain’t yer Bill?’

  ‘Good to see yer, Ettie girl,’ said the landlord in his soft Irish brogue as he leaned over and put down the glasses on the table in front of them. ‘Good for trade to have beauties like you in the Pan.’

  Ettie smiled and nodded her thanks at Patrick for the compliment and the drink, picked up her glass, and downed it in one. Then she looked at Billy. He still wasn’t conventionally handsome by any means, but he’d grown into an attractive, well-built man.

  ‘Cat got yer tongue, Ett?’ asked May, looking from her friend to her brother and back again.

  ‘What?’ said Ettie, frowning.

  ‘You,’ she said slyly. ‘Yer staring at our Billy and yer ain’t saying a word. What’s up with yer?’

  ‘Leave off, May,’ warned Billy.

  Ettie pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I’ll have to be going,’ she said.

  ‘What? Getting back to the Professor are you?’ said May, suddenly sarcastic.

  Billy glared at his big-mouthed sister as he stood up next to Ettie. ‘I’ll walk yer,’ he said casually.

  ‘No. It’s all right, Bill,’ she said resting her hand gently on his sleeve.

  ‘What? You ashamed to be seen walking along the streets with the likes of me?’ Billy’s face was growing red, and May was looking outraged.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Bill,’ Ettie said softly.

  ‘Aw, too stupid for yer now, are we?’ butted in May.

  ‘Leave off, the pair of yer,’ shouted Ettie, her sense of hurt getting the better of her.

  All heads were turned, but Ettie disappointed them by rushing towards the door, almost knocking the drink out of an elderly man’s hand as she did so.

  Billy dashed after her and stopped her in the doorway. ‘Don’t go, Ett. Not yet.’

  ‘I’ve got to.’ She grabbed the door-handle. ‘Please, leave me alone, Bill. I’ll see you around some time.’ With that she slipped out of the door and into the unexpected chill of the early evening air.

  As the door shut behind her, she was about to turn and go back in, but then she heard Billy’s voice call out, ‘What’s yer fancy man got to say about yer locket and chain, eh? Tell me that? Or is he used to men giving yer presents?’

  Ettie ducked her head down and began running along Brick Lane towards the Bethnal Green Road. She didn’t care who she forced out of her way. She just wanted to get out of Whitechapel and back to Jacob. She didn’t want people to see she was crying again – crying for her mother, for herself, and for the home where she felt she no longer belonged.

  Chapter 17

  As Celia walked along the now familiar streets of Whitechapel towards Brick Lane, she grew more and more despairing that she would ever be able to do anything of any use for the poor women she visited during her secret excursions into the East End. She was becoming almost resigned to being useless, accepting that her role of observer was as good as worthless to those whose lives she watched, although they assured her that they appreciated her greatly when she handed out money for drinks. At least, she reasoned with herself, being in the pub kept them off the streets and out of harm’s way for a few hours. But she couldn’t deny her disappointment. She had seen this as an opportunity to prove that she was of some consequence, that she had real worth, and that her life wasn’t just a meaningless round of abuse and fear.

  So concerned was she with her thoughts that she didn’t notice the cattle until it was almost too late to get out of the way.

  ‘Watch yerself, yer dozy bitch!’ yelled the big, burly man as he drove the herd of terrified beasts on their way to one of the dozens of slaughterhouses in the area.

  Horrified, Celia pressed herself flat against the wall as a living tide rushed by her in a blur of wild-eyed animals, closely followed by eager, whooping children, rushing to keep up so that they wouldn’t miss the popular diversion of the wretched creatures meeting their bloody end at the sharp point of the slaughterman’s knife.

  A more familiar sound attracted Celia’s attention from the gory spectacle: Ada, hollering at her usual full blast, ‘It’s her, Florrie, ain’t it? Look, over there by the wall.’

  Ada and Florrie came weaving along the street towards her, excitedly, indifferent to the steaming piles of dung left behind by the frightened animals.

  Celia was used to the signs by now: they were obviously both much the worse for drink.

  ‘How about buying us a few drops of Satin, eh girly?’ Ada asked her in a pathetic, wheedling voice.

  Celia nodded her terse assent, hoping that if she didn’t speak, she would be able to keep the sickly aroma of the cattle-befouled road from entering her mouth.

  She didn’t say a word, in fact, until they were safely inside the Frying Pan where, almost unbelievably, she found the stench of stale beer and tobacco acceptably familiar. She handed Ada some money for drinks – she still didn’t like going up to the bar – and sat down with Florrie at one of the little round, marble-topped tables.

  As usual, Celia did her utmost to bring the conversation round to the two women’s way of life and her endless, hopeless list of alternatives.

&nb
sp; ‘Here she goes again,’ said Ada. ‘Same old song. Don’t yer know any new tunes? I’m fed up with hearing yer go on at us.’

  Florrie flashed a furious look at Ada, warning her not to upset their gold mine – good booze-providers like Celia didn’t grow on trees.

  Ada took the hint from Florrie and modified her tone. ‘But I don’t know why yer worry yerself so much about us, Celia. At least yer know we’re decent girls.’ She tipped back her gin glass and swallowed the fiery liquid in a quick, single gulp, then screwed up her eyes as it hit her throat and took a long pull at her glass of stout to soften the effect. ‘Least we don’t go in for no coshing like that mob up the Old Nichol,’ she gasped, her voice coming out in a fume-filled gush that made Celia wince.

  ‘That’s only cos they’ve got no choice,’ said Florrie, surprising both Ada and Celia. No matter how bad their reputation, Florrie felt a personal link with the women from round those parts: her only surviving sister lived there. ‘They have to do what they do. The bully gangs’d do the girls over good and proper if they didn’t bring in the marks for ’em to rob.’

  ‘And it’s better than starving to death, I suppose,’ said Ada philosophically, conceding to her friend’s wisdom.

  ‘Is there really no gainful employment in which you might find occupation around here?’ asked Celia, still persisting in her attempt to put the women back on the Right Path.

  ‘If yer mean, can’t we earn an honest shilling no other way, then the answer is, yeah,’ said Ada, still serious from the thought of the women having to somehow get by in the Old Nichol. ‘Sometimes we can.’

  ‘But when there is work it’s so bleed’n horrible that I’d rather walk the streets, for one,’ said Florrie, also uncharacteristically solemn. She leaned forward and tapped on the table, marking each alternative as she spoke. ‘See, there’s yer sack-making – that rips yer fingers raw. Then there’s fur-pulling–that ruins yer lungs. Sweating’s no better than slave labour, and more often than not yer get told there’s no money till the end of the following week, so you have to live on air pie and windy pudden till yer get paid. Scrubbing freezes yer to the bone and gives yer screws in yer knees and back. Taking in washing needs money for firewood before yer can even start thinking about that.’ Florrie looked up and grinned at Ada. ‘Mind, there’s nothing wrong with mangling – except it kills yer from overwork!’

  The two friends laughed loudly and uninhibitedly as Florrie finished reciting what had become a familiar list of possible employment to Celia.

  ‘And the pay from them jobs. That’d make yer laugh and all,’ said Ada, barely able to control herself from screaming with laughter. ‘Times I’ve gone without to make sure me kids have had something in their bellies, then been too hungry to go to work the next morning.’

  Celia couldn’t understand what was so funny, but then she didn’t understand much at all about these two women and their lives, which were as exotic to her as any mountain dweller’s in the furthest-flung reaches of the Empire.

  ‘That’s the choices we have, dear,’ said Florrie, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘So we choose to walk the streets.’

  ‘So you see doing this “work” as actually a type of freedom, do you?’ Celia really did want to understand. Even if she had to ask them to repeat themselves every day for a year, she’d understand; even if it was the last thing she did.

  ‘Freedom?’ Ada was now almost beside herself. ‘Leave off, will yer, or I’ll wind up pissing meself.’

  ‘Freedom from what?’ said Florrie. She had stopped laughing. Inside she was feeling angry – what did this woman from up the other end know about anything? – but she wasn’t stupid, she wasn’t going to let this meal ticket go, not by rowing with her. So she said, slightly sarcastically, but pleasantly enough, ‘What, from starving to death in the gutter?’

  Now Ada had stopped laughing too.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was insensitive,’ Celia apologised. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t you go feeling sorry for us,’ said Ada, tucking a greasy lock of hair primly behind her ear. ‘We don’t want yer pity. Pity never helped no one.’

  ‘Well, tell me,’ said Celia earnestly, leaning forward in her seat: maybe here was the answer to what she could do for them. ‘What would help?’

  ‘A bit more consideration from some of the bloody landlords, that’s what.’

  ‘That’s enough, Florrie, we don’t need nothing from the likes of them, or her.’ Despite her resolve to keep Celia sweet, the topping up of gin and ale had brought out Ada’s aggressive streak. ‘If we was lucky enough to get ourselves one or two decent big spenders, we’d be well away. It’s a bit of luck we need, that’s all. And we ain’t got much of that lately. We even missed that bleed’n Y ankee ship what come in the other day. Could have made a nice few bob if we’d have known.’

  ‘Aw yeah, and we could get ourselves a nice little gig and go riding through Vicky Park!’ hiccuped Florrie, her mood swinging back to amiable good humour. She drained her glass and held it up expectantly to Celia. ‘Like proper ladies.’

  ‘Is that what you both want from life?’

  Ada shook her head, as though she had been confronted with teaching a particularly stupid child to unravel an especially complicated puzzle. ‘Yer still ain’t got a single idea what walking the streets is really about, have yer? Get ’em in and let me tell yer about it.’

  Celia handed over more cash.

  * * *

  ‘Like I told yer before,’ said Ada, handing round the glasses, and wagging her head up and down for emphasis. ‘Me old girl put me on the streets when I was a youngster. And I’ve had to go with all types in me time, believe you me. Horrible, diseased old bastards. Raving nutcases with right funny ideas about what they want and how they want it. I’ve got meself up the duff gawd knows how many times when me little ways have let me down.’ She noticed Celia’s expression. ‘Aw yeah, we do have our methods, but they ain’t much use half the time.’ Ada took Celia’s untouched gin and knocked it back.

  ‘Yer hear all sorts of stories,’ said Florrie, taking up the story from her friend. ‘Kids born all sick and that ’cos of what the mothers have tried to do to themselves to get rid of it. And there’s women what smother or drown their babies in a bucket.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘What else can yer do? When yer life’s all about being exhausted, cold and hungry; or exhausted, sweating and drunk? In the end yer do what yer have to.’ She lifted her chin and looked Celia straight in the eye. ‘Walking’s a job like anything else.’

  Celia shook her head. ‘But surely…’

  Ada held up her hand and butted in. ‘There’s no need to look at us like that. Every city has its business area, and always will have when there’s still men around. But it’s easy for the likes of you, ain’t it? You can just keep away if yer don’t like it. Run off home to yer posh house.’ Ada’s voice was growing tense. ‘But for us it’s a totally different story. We have to stand all the shit being thrown at us. “Dirty, no-good whores,” they say. But we don’t do no harm to no one. Don’t even disturb them, unless they comes round here looking for trouble. Then they get what-for.’

  ‘Do the police come if there’s trouble?’

  ‘Some of our best customers, darling,’ sniggered Florrie.

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Yeah. And why not?’ Ada wanted to know. ‘They’re blokes, ain’t they? And just cos yer don’t see your sort of fellah hanging about round here much, don’t think that they ain’t our customers. Your type of bloke might live with his wife, but it’s us they turn to when they fancy a bit of company.’

  ‘Can’t blame the wives, mind,’ said Florrie. ‘If I didn’t have to, I’d never look at another geezer again. Who wants to get knocked up every few months and wind up having to roll around while some dirty-pawed old girl pours muck down yer throat and rams something up yer fanny to get rid of it?’ She smiled fondly at her friend. ‘I’d rather a girlfriend a
ny day of the week, wouldn’t I, Ada?’

  ‘That yer would, Florrie. Best way to get a bit of love in yer life, eh gel? Come on, give us a kiss.’ Ada leaned drunkenly towards Florrie, her lips pursed.

  ‘Could I have a drink of water, do you think?’ asked Celia. ‘Water!’ Ada sounded affronted that such a thing should pass someone’s lips in the Frying Pan.

  ‘Reckon our chat’s warming up yer blood, eh gel?’ giggled Florrie. ‘Feeling a bit randy are yer?’

  ‘It’s the heat. It is a very warm evening.’ She lowered her voice and placed her hands over her abdomen. ‘I can hardly breathe.’ Florrie nodded knowingly. ‘That’ll be yer underthings, girl. That’s what’ll be wrong with yer.’

  ‘She’s right,’ agreed Ada. ‘You go round the back and get ’em off, girl. Yer can’t wear tight stays in this weather.’

  ‘I really don’t think I could,’ said Celia tersely, blushing a deep crimson. ‘It’s all very well for you: such matters do not seem to concern you.’

  ‘Different for us?’ Ada’s tone had become harsh. ‘Yeah, yer right there. We can’t afford poncey underthings like youm – so we don’t wear any at all.’

  Celia’s face was now burning. ‘But wearing no underthings inflames men’s desires, surely?’

  ‘I hope so!’ spluttered Ada, her mood forgotten as she showed her unconcealed amusement at the stupidity of the young woman. ‘How else would I earn me living?’

  ‘Perhaps you could buy a second-hand garment in the market?’ Florrie couldn’t make it out. Celia was more shocked by the revelation that they didn’t have their bodies strapped up in a harness than by what they did down the back alleys with them. She did her best not to laugh in the young woman’s face. ‘Listen, girl,’ she said. ‘Having a corset holding yer tits up and yer belly in ain’t gonna stop geezers’ desires, as yer put it so nicely, now is it? Matter of fact, one of Big Bella’s regulars loves ’em. Likes ’em laced right tight so’s she can hardly breathe. Pays her good money for that and all.’