‘What’s it to be tonight, old man? Fat? Thin? Red head? Blond?’
‘A girl? Or how about a young boy?’ another man asked him.
‘There are some pretty ones on the street tonight. Come on, tell us, what do you fancy? Maybe an oriental lovely?’
‘Yes, come on Bart,’ the first man persisted, ‘tell us. You’re the expert on what’s to be had round here.’
‘In this world,’ Bart replied, ‘there are many delights. Prostitution is normal, a way of life enjoyed by most of the inhabitants of these parts. Their breeding makes them animal-like in their passions. No different from the beasts of the field.’ ‘Pity some of our ladies aren’t more like that, eh Bartholomew?’
‘God help us if they were,’ guffawed a short, rotund man. Celia could see his fleshy jowls quiver as he laughed. ‘Imagine being worn out by a wife, and not having the energy to sample wider pleasures, eh, old chap?’
‘No problem for you, Bartholomew. From what I’ve heard, you’d have the energy to satisfy a dozen a night.’
‘A dozen? Damn it, my reputation must be slipping!’
As their laughter echoed around her, Celia flattened herself even closer against the wall, not caring that the bricks were running with slimy water. Her mind was filled with confusion. How could he, her own father, continue to do this, even if his mind was blighted with the sickness from that terrible disease? Celia felt a wave of nausea rise to her throat.
She rubbed her hands over her face trying to clear her head. The message from the spirits that Ettie had given her, telling her that helping these women was right, didn’t seem so convincing now. But no, she would not waver, it had to be right if the spirits had said so, and she had seen for herself how innocent babies would suffer if nothing was done.
Celia slumped against the dripping wall of the arch, her head buried in her hands. Perhaps she too was going insane, the poison of syphilis even now surging round her body and eating away at her mind.
She leaned forward cautiously, peering out from the darkness, as one of the men’s voices became increasingly agitated.
‘Come on, Bart,’ he was saying excitedly, ‘what’s it to be?’
‘Might as well take a tart, I think. Good for research.’
‘Funny sort of science, Tressing,’ laughed another man.
‘No, not at all. It’s rather an elegant procedure. Almost a cycle of events. You see, you get one of them pregnant, then the other whores use their barbaric ways to try and rid her of the bastard. That all goes wrong and she finishes up on the dissecting slab. More dead meat for us to cut up.’
Celia drew in her breath at his foul words.
‘No, you’re misguided there, Tressing,’ one of her father’s colleagues protested, his voice rising above their ribald laughter. ‘It’s not good enough having these outsiders involved in surgical procedures. They’re learning too much about the techniques. We in the medical profession need to protect ourselves.’
‘Jackson’s on to his favourite subject,’ mocked one of the others. Tressing held up his hand to stay the man’s laughter. ‘I must say, Derringer, that I agree with Jackson there.’
‘Don’t encourage him, Tressing,’ said Derringer, sneering at his competitor.
‘You can laugh, Derringer,’ continued Jackson, never one to be silenced. ‘But if we don’t fight to keep out these amateurs, we are going to lose more than a bit of business. Our whole professional mystique will be eroded.’
Tressing opened his mouth to offer further support, but Jackson was not to be interrupted so easily.
‘It’s not good enough to let outsiders think the work is easy,’ he continued, addressing his companions as though they were sitting in their West End club after an agreeable dinner rather than standing in a dark and dangerous street in the East End. ‘Savvy? Otherwise every man-Jack’ll be at it. And, when all’s said and done, it must be worth a half-guinea or so for these harlots to get rid of what they don’t want. And that soon…’
Celia’s father had to interrupt him there. ‘A half-guinea! How do you suppose these creatures could find that much money? A half-crown if they’re lucky, more like.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to pay a bit more for your fun then, won’t you old man?’ said Derringer, anxious to get on with the evening’s entertainment and to get one over on Tressing – who, as all his colleagues knew, was Derringer’s acknowledged rival for the role of being the most popular surgeon with bored ladies whose husbands had more money than sense where their wives were concerned. ‘Good for business all round.’
‘A better idea,’ said the short fat one, aroused by the turn things were taking. ‘Why not do a straight swop? It’s a brilliant idea. You could offer the operation in exchange for a…’
‘That’s enough, Walter. Come on, or you’ll get over-excited and spoil your evening.’
Celia watched as though in a dream as a ragged, tangledhaired boy sidled up to them.
‘Sir, sir. Gis a penny for a hot dinner, sir,’ the child whined as he dragged on her father’s sleeve. His little bare feet were ingrained with the grime of the streets, and his frail body, with its bones jutting out, looked like the split carcasses hanging in a butcher’s window display.
‘Gorn, sir, please. Only a penny. I’m starving, sir.’
Bartholomew Tressing looked down disdainfully at the persistent waif and attempted to swat him away as though he were an inconvenient flying insect spoiling a summer’s picnic.
But the hungry child was too desperate to be put off so easily. ‘Please, sir? Go on. Please.’
Bartholomew calmly raised his silver-topped cane and struck the pathetically skinny child a sharp blow across the side of his head.
Celia smothered her cry with her gloved hand as the boy fell senseless to the ground. She stood there, horrified, yet unable to move or even look away from what she was witnessing. Her father, using the toe of his boot as a lever, rolled the boy over.
The child’s arms flopped about across his body like the limbs of a broken doll.
‘Shame,’ Tressing said, wiping clean the bloody end of his stick on the child’s ragged shirt. ‘He had an appealing little body.’
‘Come on, Bart,’ said Derringer, ‘even you can’t be that heartless.’
Tressing raised an eyebrow. ‘Squeamish?’ he said with a half smile. ‘Come along, gentlemen, we have the whole evening before us.’
Glad to leave such a potentially incriminating scene behind them, Tressing’s companions followed him hurriedly along Brick Lane towards the Whitechapel Road. All their voices, except Tressing’s, were decidedly subdued.
As soon as she dared, Celia came out of the shadows and rushed over to the injured child. Kneeling down in the gutter beside him, she took his bone-thin hand in hers.
‘Can you speak?’ she whispered.
The boy lifted his lids slowly and met her gaze with large, staring eyes. He moved his lips; his voice was so weak that she could only just make out his words. ‘Help me,’ he moaned.
‘I’ll help you,’ Celia said, dabbing at the blood flowing from the side of his head with Ettie’s tear-dampened handkerchief. ‘I’ll fetch someone. Where do you live?’
‘Street,’ he gurgled, as blood bubbled from his lips and nostrils.
‘You have no one?’
The orphaned child managed to shake his head.
Celia pulled off her cloak and draped it over the boy. ‘I’m going to find someone,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll be back. As soon as I can.’
She ran along towards Thrawl Street faster than she would have thought possible, ignoring the calls of passing men, not caring what anyone said or thought. She had to get to the Frying Pan: someone there would know what to do.
It was with relief that she found Ada chatting at the bar with Patrick.
Ada was soon standing next to Celia, looking down at the pathetic, half-naked child. Even though Celia had left him for only a few minutes while she fetched help, her cloak
had been taken, as had the boy’s own tattered shirt.
‘It’s Timmy Blake,’ Ada said with a sigh, sitting herself down on the damp cobbles and brushing back the boy’s blood-matted fringe from his forehead. ‘Least it was Timmy Blake.’ Ada gently drew down the boy’s eyelids.
She looked up at Celia. ‘We’re too late to help the little mite now.’
‘My God,’ wailed Celia self-pityingly, ‘can I do nothing right?’
‘Don’t you blame yerself, love,’ said Ada kindly. ‘Been on the streets since Iris, his ma, passed away last Christmas. Terrible death she had. In labour for five days before her and the baby died.’
‘Oh, Ada, all this has got to stop,’ wailed Celia. ‘The lives these people lead. Children dying. Something must be done.’ She dropped on to her knees next to the filthy woman.
‘Maybe if there’d have been someone like you around to help her stop having more babies… who knows, perhaps then this little fellah might have had a better chance.’
Celia buried her face in her hands. ‘But is it right, Ada? Is it?’
‘Ssshhh, don’t upset yerself.’ Ada put her arms round Celia, and rocked her while she sobbed into the bride’s putrid-smelling shoulder as though she would never stop.
PART THREE
Summer 1888
It was a gloriously sunny, truly beautiful summer’s day. Ettie stood by the window looking down at the laughing groups of young men and women parading through the park. She sighed deeply, blowing out her breath through pursed lips. She was fed up. And the thought of another evening spent moaning and swaying in that wooden box, in front of a circle of open-mouthed, enraptured dupes, was more than she could endure.
‘Jacob,’ she said, turning away from the window to talk to him.
‘Mmmm?’ He didn’t look up, but continued writing in the leather-bound notebook on his desk.
‘You busy?’ she asked, hoping that her cajoling tones would at least gain his attention.
‘Mmmm.’ Still he continued writing.
‘Fancy coming for a walk?’ she asked, all bright smiles – although she actually felt ready to slap him for being so neglectful of her.
‘You go,’ he answered, then paused while he recharged his pen. ‘But don’t be late: we’re working, remember?’
‘How could I forget?’ she mumbled to herself.
Disappointed, but not surprised by his reaction – she had grown used to him only ever being interested in her when it suited him – Ettie jammed her hat on to her mass of glossy dark-brown curls, stamped out into the hall and slammed the door behind her.
He probably didn’t even notice her go, she fumed to herself. What did he think she was, a marionette? A wax doll from one of his freak shows? It was all right for him: he was happy to work all the time. Apart from the times when they made love, work was all that he seemed interested in – that and his rotten books and ledgers. But she didn’t feel like working today. She wanted to go out and have a laugh, like she used to. She thought of Maisie and the other girls. She missed them, all of them, with their easy companionship and raucous laughter. They knew how to enjoy themselves all right. And she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her mum. She thought about Billy: pulling the locket and chain he had given her from inside her blouse, she kept her hand on it for a few moments as though it were a good-luck charm.
Glad of the chance to enjoy the fresh air and sunlight, she strolled along, not realising how far she had walked: lately she’d spent most daylight hours indoors practising, or asleep recovering from work the night before. All that was missing, she thought to herself, was a bit of company. Beautiful summer days were meant to be shared.
As she got near the Poplar Recreation Ground, she heard loud hurrahs and cheering: before her was all the company she could ever want. There was a huge crowd of milling people, all laughing and pushing forward, all intent on having a good time. Ettie tucked her locket safely inside her blouse, held on to her hat, and raced towards the park. She’d always been quick on her feet, and she didn’t intend missing out on a bit of fun.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked a young lad who was giving out leaflets to passers-by, her breath coming in short, panting gasps. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s a hot-air balloon, miss. A great big bugger of a thing, it is. Gonna fly right up in the air. No one ain’t never seen nothing like it never before. Look at it!’
She squinted into the sun, looking in the direction of the boy’s pointing finger. She shaded her eyes with her hand, making out the immense shape of the brilliant, multi-coloured dirigible being inflated ready for flight. ‘Who’s in it?’ she asked the child, still staring at the immense expanse of billowing material. ‘Who’s going up?’
‘There’s a pilot to drive it, and what they call “four local notables”. Ain’t yer heard nothing about it?’
‘No.’ She shook her head as she answered the boy, but her attention was still focused on the air-filled wonder.
‘No.’ The boy chuckled to himself. ‘Course yer ain’t. A posh lady like yerself’s hardly from round these parts.’
Ettie frowned and looked down at his grubby, eager little face, searching for a clue about herself. Had she really changed so much?
‘Wish it was me going up there,’ he said, pointing up into the clear blue sky. ‘Know what I’d do? I’d fly right up in the air, right away from this shit-hole – begging yer pardon – if I had the chance. It’s so beautiful, ain’t it? Like yerself, miss.’ The boy smiled cheekily and handed Ettie a leaflet.
‘There yer go, miss. Have a butcher’s at that.’
She returned his smile and pushed forward, joining the queue as it snaked into the recreation ground.
As she waited, she looked at the paper the child had given her. It read:
Today only! An extraordinary performance of a wondrous phenomenon. The ascent of the famous Dalling Brothers’ hot-air-filled balloon. Thrill to the spectacle of men in actual flight.
The ascent will be followed in the afternoon by a concert featuring popular songs and dancing. Dramatic interludes of a most fascinating nature will be enacted by the celebrated Dalling Brothers’ theatrical troupe – see moments of melodrama and excitement, romance and fear. The Dalling Brothers’ noted dog and monkey circus will be performing tricks such as have never been seen before. Slack and tightrope acts of great daring will continue throughout the day and evening. The grand finale will be a spellbinding display of fireworks, the like of which has never before been created in England.
Admission sixpence to include view of the ascent. Threepence after the balloon has gone up.
Ettie laughed, thinking how Jacob would approve of such showmanship. There she was, pushing through with all the others to pay her tanner, yet the balloon could be clearly seen above all their heads, straining on its ropes, ready to be released. She would have to remember all the details to tell him. It was a shame he wasn’t there, she knew he’d have loved it.
A shout suddenly went up: ‘All in the park that wants to see the ascent.’
Ettie was shoved unceremoniously through the gate with the last of the stragglers at the end of the line. Once inside she clambered on to the already packed stand to get the full, sixpence-worth of view. What she saw and heard was a great roar of flame, nearly, but not quite, matched by the roar from the excited, cheering on-lookers. The fire seemed to shoot up into the gaily coloured cloth of the balloon; somehow it didn’t burn it, but just made it flap and billow as though it were alive. The cloth dragged at the basket, which in turn bucked and reared like a startled pony as the belly of the balloon swelled and stretched, showing the full exuberant glory of its elaborate patterns and jewel-like colours.
The horde of small boys who rushed forward to grab the sandbags which the pilot was tossing on to the ground from the wicker gondola, were chased back by two of the showmen waving long, knobbly sticks in warning.
Then, in a split second that everyone somehow seemed to miss, the
balloon was suddenly free of its moorings and up and away it went, beginning its ascent into the sky. Once they realised what was happening, a great whoop went up from the spectators as they cheered it on its way. They intended to enjoy every farthing’s worth of the sixpences they had parted with.
Along with the rest of the crowd, Ettie craned her neck and watched as the balloon went higher and higher, floating away into the cloudless blue of the afternoon sky. As Ettie squinted up into the heavens she remembered the leaflet boy’s words. ‘I’d fly away, if I had the chance,’ he’d said.
And that’s what she had done, she’d flown away. The child was right, she didn’t belong in the East End any more. She was no longer the grubby, ragged Whitechapel girl. She’d changed, she was different. So what was she doing back here? She’d only been kidding herself when she said she was going to see her mum. Look at her: here she was in the recreation ground. She wondered if she’d ever really had any intention of going back to Tyvern Court. But where did she belong now? She bit her lip and looked around her at the shouting, roaring crowd. It was then, at that moment, that she knew she had been stupid ever to think otherwise – the only place she belonged now, the only place she wanted to be, was with Jacob.
* * *
‘You’ll never be able to guess what I’ve seen. Never.’ Ettie slipped through the door, past Jacob and into the sitting room. ‘You’d have loved it, real showmanship, just like you’re always rabbiting on about.’
She unpinned her hat, pulled it off, and shook her hair free, then turned round to him, grinning with delight.
‘Where have you been, Ettie? I’ve been desperate.’ His face was passive, belying his words.
‘Were you?’ Her grin faded to a frown as she plonked herself down inelegantly in one of the armchairs by the hearth.
‘Yes, of course I was.’ His voice had taken on a harsh, angry tone. ‘We were meant to be working tonight. Remember?’
The Whitechapel Girl Page 25