‘Shall I pour you a cup?’ asked Ettie, eyeing the shawl which Celia carried in her hand.
‘Yes, please, and thank you for this,’ Celia answered, handing the shawl to Ettie. ‘I can’t explain how much that simple gesture – your loaning me this shawl – meant to me.’
‘It was cold,’ said Ettie. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’
‘No, Ettie, not anyone. But a friend: that’s who’d do such a thing.’
Ettie gave Celia her tea, and they both sat staring into the blazing fire which was roaring away up the chimney.
‘Do you have a particular friend, Ettie?’
Ettie turned her cup round and round in its saucer. ‘I did, but I’m not sure any more. I haven’t really seen her for a while.’ She glanced over at Celia. ‘How about you?’
‘The same as you – perhaps that’s why we can be friends. Perhaps it was meant to be.’
They sat and drank their tea in introspective silence, each thinking about friendship and what might have been.
Ettie stood up and refilled Celia’s cup. ‘Thanks for not asking me why I’m here,’ she said, sitting down again.
‘There’s nothing to thank me for,’ said Celia emphatically. ‘I invited you and you’ve come.’
‘I was going to my mother’s, but when I found myself in the streets close to where she lives I was too scared.’ Ettie stared into her cup. ‘The streets felt so strange. All those terrible murders.’
‘Who can blame you for being scared?’ Celia comforted her. ‘I’m only glad that my house was close by, so that you could come here when you were frightened.’
She didn’t notice Ettie blush at the misunderstanding she was allowing to continue.
‘I just wish you’d have woken me, so you needn’t have spent such an uncomfortable night.’
‘I’m very grateful.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Celia with a wave of her hand. ‘It is I who am grateful, for your company.’
‘Those murders,’ Ettie said, shaking her head slowly, her gaze fixed on the glowing coals in the grate. ‘It’s as though the whole of London is, I don’t know, trembling. There’s a terrible atmosphere. It’s as though everyone’s asking – who’ll be next? Ettie rubbed her hand over her eyes. ‘The last time I was in Whitechapel, the local girls were all so upset. They even said they were glad of the bully gangs for once.’
‘Bully gangs?’
‘The protection gangs who take money from the brides,’ said Ettie. ‘They beat the girls up if they don’t bring in enough…’ The moment she realised what she was saying, Ettie stopped speaking, as suddenly as if she had been gagged.
‘So you know Whitechapel?’ asked Celia, clearly surprised.
Ettie nodded and managed a weak smile. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I know Whitechapel all right.’
‘And the girls who work there. You know of them?’
‘Yes,’ Ettie replied flatly.
Celia beamed with pleasure. ‘This is wonderful,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘We really have so much in common. I just know that we’ll be really good friends.’ Celia bowed her head coyly. ‘When you said earlier, down in the kitchens, that if I ever needed employment, I could be a cook. Remember?’
‘Yes,’ said Ettie slowly, not really grasping the point Celia was making.
‘Well, actually, I already have work. I work in Whitechapel.’ Ettie nodded as though she suddenly understood. ‘You’re part of the anti-vice league. Of course. I remember that friend of yours, the one who came to Bow with you. Sophia, wasn’t it?’
‘Sophia, that’s right.’
‘She told Jacob – the Professor – all about it.’
‘Oh,’ Celia looked crestfallen.
‘What exactly do you do?’ asked Ettie encouragingly, glad to be on safer ground.
‘I wasn’t happy with the way the League worked,’ began Celia in a small voice. She paused briefly, then lifted her chin and spoke more confidently. ‘I do more practical work. Work where I feel I can be of most use; putting my skills and abilities into practice. They are, of course, nothing compared to your skills,’ she added hurriedly. ‘But I try to make what difference I can in the miserable world of the slums. And can only hope that my small efforts have some effect.’
Ettie frowned. ‘What do you do?’
‘I realise that it’s difficult for people to understand my work. That’s why I usually keep it a secret. But you mustn’t be alarmed, it’s quite safe, charity work, of a sort. I realise that the main concern of the women I come into contact with is how they will find the price of their next bottle of gin but I do what I can. You have to realise that they have been raised in a different way. I suppose what I mean is that they aren’t ladies like us.’
Ettie had to swallow hard before she could speak. ‘Shall I make some more tea?’
Celia shook her head. ‘Never mind that. I’ve offended you. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s obviously not a pleasant subject to discuss over tea. I thought you knew Whitechapel, that’s all.’
Ettie put down her empty cup on the side-table next to her chair and took a deep breath. ‘I do know Whitechapel. Very well,’ she said, looking steadily into the crackling flames. ‘And I might as well tell you; I can’t see any point in keeping it from you any longer.’ She turned her head to face Celia. ‘It’s not “ladies like us” you should be talking about, it’s “ladies like you”.’
‘What do you mean?’ Celia sounded confused.
‘I mean that I’m one of them. I’m a Whitechapel girl born and bred.’
‘You? But surely you can’t…’ Celia’s cheeks flushed red as she ran out of words.
Ettie saved Celia from further blushes. ‘We had different chances in life, Celia, that’s all. You started out with everything going for you; but people like me, we have to make our own luck in life.’
‘Oh Ettie, when I spoke about those women, I didn’t mean you. You’re different.’
‘No I’m not, I’m just someone who managed to get out of there.’
‘But you are different – you have special gifts. They mark you out.’
Ettie bit her lip, too ashamed to disclose any more of her secrets. Abruptly she changed the subject. ‘What worries me is that my mother’s still stuck there. The life we had there was terrible, Celia, I knew I had to get out and find something better, but my mum, she’s just as determined to stay put. But with everything that’s happened round there lately, I’ve got to get her out.’
‘I see,’ said Celia, unable to hide the bewilderment from her voice.
‘She’s got a terrible man staying with her. And the Lord only knows who she’ll take in next.’
Now Celia was startled. ‘Your mother has lodgers?’
‘You could say that,’ said Ettie, laughing feebly. ‘They certainly pay her.’ She stood up, went over to the hearth, and pointed at the padded log bin. ‘Shall I?’ she asked.
Celia nodded. ‘Please.’
Ettie threw a log into the grate and pushed it down into the fire-basket with the long, ornate brass poker, sending sparks dancing up into the soot-lined chimney. ‘I told you I was going to my mother’s?’ She didn’t wait for Celia’s reply. ‘I was going to make her go away with me. I don’t know how, and I don’t know where to. Just away. But I lost my courage last night and I came here. But I know I won’t be able to rest until I’ve got her away from that place. It’ll be easier now I’ve had a rest and time to think.’
‘Surely you’re not planning to go there now,’ said Celia, her voice full of concern. ‘There’s been talk of lynch mobs prowling the streets.’
‘It’s not them I’m worried about,’ said Ettie, sitting on the rug and holding out her hands to catch the warmth of the fire. ‘It’s him.’ She hesitated and, despite the fire, shivered as though she were outside in the cold again. ‘Jack the Ripper. That terrible name. It makes him, I don’t know, real. Like a real person.’
‘It’s almost,’ said C
elia, her voice distant, ‘as though everyone wants him to exist.’
‘You’re right,’ said Ettie. ‘I know exactly what you mean. It’s like when I was a little girl and my mum used to say to me, “Don’t yer be a bad gel, Ettie Wilkins, or the bogeyman’ll have yer arse for yer”. It was a way of keeping me down. Making me do what she wanted.’
Ettie turned round from the fire to look at Celia, catching the look of astonishment on Celia’s face at the sound of Ettie speaking in her old cockney twang.
‘You’ve got an important lesson to learn about life, Celia,’ she said in the voice with which Celia was more familiar, ‘Don’t believe all you see. And certainly don’t believe all you hear.’
‘You think I’m gullible?’ she asked.
Ettie shook her head, guilt prevented her from answering the question truthfully. Instead, she said: ‘It’s easy to believe all sorts of things if you listen to gossip or read the newspapers. They’re pointing the finger at everyone: foreigners, Jews, slaughtermen, sailors. Even doctors.’
‘My father’s a doctor,’ said Celia. ‘A surgeon. But I suppose you knew that without my having to tell you.’
Keen to keep away from the subject of her supposedly supernatural knowledge, Ettie stood up and went over to the piano by the window. ‘Do you play?’ she asked lightly, running her fingers over the ivory keys, hoping that Celia’s attention would be diverted from the spirits. ‘I love music. I used to love to hear my mother singing.’
‘I’ll sing for you,’ said Celia happily and began sorting through the piles of sheet music in the mahogany Canterbury which stood by the piano stool.
‘These are some of my mother’s favourites,’ Celia said, setting the first manuscript on the stand before her. ‘Listen.’
Ettie sat down in the big armchair by the fire and closed her eyes. She let the hauntingly beautiful series of melodies wash over her and the tones of Celia’s clear, high voice block out the fears of the outside world from which she at last felt she had escaped.
When Celia eventually finished playing she looked up from the keys and nodded her thanks as Ettie applauded loudly.
‘You’re very kind,’ Celia said modestly, ‘but I’m sure that after so many songs even your enthusiasm must be wearing thin.’ She held up her hand to still Ettie’s objections. ‘I think we should organise something for lunch. I know that all that singing has sharpened my appetite.’
Ettie and Celia walked down to the basement kitchen side-by-side as if the friendship between them was the most natural thing in the world. As they prepared and ate their food at the big, scrubbed kitchen table, Celia chattered away happily, telling stories of what sounded to Ettie like a magical childhood.
Long after they had finished their meal, Celia was still reminiscing, and Ettie was still captivated by her tales of ponies and picnics and sun-filled days spent by the river.
It was only when Celia happened to glance up at the narrow window set high in the kitchen wall that her expression grew clouded. ‘I can’t believe it’s that late,’ she said with a little shiver. ‘The nights really are drawing in; it’ll be dark again soon. I hate these gloomy November evenings.’ She reached out her hand to Ettie. ‘Come on, let’s go back up, the fire will need seeing to.’
Upstairs, Celia closed the drawing-room doors behind her, and crossed the room to the big, marble fireplace. She threw a log into the grate, then bent down and lit a taper from the sparks. Peering back over her shoulder at Ettie, she said shame-facedly, ‘I really had no idea it was this late, I’m so sorry, I was carried away. The day just disappeared.’ Shielding the taper with her hand, she stood up and went round the room lighting the gas-lamps.
When she had finished with the lights, Celia went over to the windows and drew shut the heavy brocade curtains. Then, turning to Ettie she said, ‘Really, all I seem to have done all day is sing and chatter away about my childhood. You must think me a terrible hostess.’
‘The very opposite,’ said Ettie gratefully. ‘You’ve been very kind to me. More than kind, in fact. I was just thinking that I shouldn’t take advantage. I won’t impose on your generosity any longer.’
Celia frowned. ‘It wouldn’t be imposing,’ she replied urgently. ‘Please, won’t you stay? You know I’m here all by myself. I’d really appreciate your company.’
‘What, you mean I can stay here the night?’
‘Of course. We’re friends aren’t we?’
Ettie smiled. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘There’s nothing to say,’ Celia insisted and settled herself back at the piano. ‘Come on now, Ettie, it’s your turn. We’ve got the whole evening ahead of us, so let’s hear what sort of a voice you’ve got.’
* * *
Celia knocked on the bedroom door.
‘Coming,’ called Ettie and let her in.
Celia had the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she concentrated on carrying the jug of hot water over to the bowl on the washstand without spilling it.
‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t fathom out the workings of the bathroom boiler,’ she said. ‘But I hope you can manage with this. And I’ve sorted out a nightgown for you. Although it might be a bit on the short side.’
‘You’re very kind, Celia,’ said Ettie, sincerely, wishing not for the first time that day that she hadn’t ever heard of spirit messages and gulling the public.
‘I told you before. Your thanks are totally uncalled for. I’m the one who should be grateful.’
‘No. I mean it, Celia. I really do appreciate this.’ She went over to the washstand and poured the steaming water from the jug into the brightly painted matching china basin. ‘I don’t think I’ll be staying with the Professor for much longer. This has given me the chance to think about what I’m going to do.’
The expression on Celia’s face was almost ecstatic. ‘I’ll train you to work with me,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘It would be perfect.’ She was so excited that she could barely keep still. ‘I’ve some money coming to me soon. From my mother. Not a great deal, but enough for our needs. We could take rooms in one of the ladies’ temperance hotels. It could be the base for our work.’
‘You’re a very generous person, Celia,’ said Ettie calmly, although she felt far from composed at this sudden outburst of enthusiasm for working in the slums. ‘But I think I’ve had enough of Whitechapel. For a while anyway. It’s too dangerous for the likes of me.’
‘I don’t know why. We’d be fine if we were together. I know a lot of the women there, Ettie. The brides. Because of my charity work I can move around quite freely. You’d be safe with me.’
‘Celia.’ Ettie turned from the washstand and spoke gently to her. ‘It’s not the brides I’m worried about. I’m a Whitechapel girl, remember; I’m from the same streets as them. I’m like them, they’re my friends. And, who knows, if I hadn’t got away when I did I might have ended up a bride too.’
She waited for Celia to say something, but she just stood there, her face a pale mask.
‘I don’t think that the Ripper’d be much fussed about whether I worked the streets or not. As far as that maniac’s concerned, I reckon I’d be just as much at risk as any other Whitechapel girl. That’s why I’ve decided to go there and get my mum, no matter what she says. I can’t stand the thought of her being in danger another single night. I’ll drag her out if I have to. Then we can try to start some sort of a new life together.’
‘While you get changed for bed,’ Celia said vacantly, ‘I’ll make us both a warm drink.’
* * *
The sound of knocking pounded in Ettie’s aching head. She tried to turn over, to bury herself under the deep feather pillows, but she could hardly move.
She heard the sound of the bedroom door opening, but she didn’t have the energy to open her eyes.
The voice she heard confused her already befuddled brain. She began to think that she was going off her head: the voice Ettie heard was Celia’s.
‘Not a very n
ice day I’m afraid,’ she heard her say in a cheerful, easy manner. ‘Perhaps it’ll brighten up this afternoon.’
There was the sound of something being put on the bedside table next to her.
‘This will be the second very late breakfast we’ve shared.’ Celia’s voice sounded very happy, and very close.
Ettie heard Celia move away from the bed. She concentrated hard on trying to work out what she was doing next. She heard the heavy swish of the curtains being drawn back and then Celia walking back towards her.
She felt the bed shift slightly as Celia sat down next to her.
‘What’s going on?’ Ettie mumbled. Her mouth felt as though it were stuffed full of rags. She opened her eyes wide enough to focus on Celia. ‘Where am I?’
‘You stayed the night, don’t you remember?’ Celia said, smiling down at her.
‘I remember,’ Ettie said and gave a tiny nod. She immediately wished she hadn’t. ‘Oh God,’ she groaned, ‘my head.’
Celia’s face crumpled in concern. ‘Don’t worry, Ettie. You’ll soon feel better when you’ve had some breakfast. I promise.’ She reached behind Ettie’s head and adjusted the pillows, trying to make her more comfortable. ‘I did it for your own good, not to hurt you.’
Ettie’s chest was rising and falling as though she had been running for her life.
‘I put a sleeping draught in the warm drink I fetched you last night.’
‘Who d’you think you are?’ Ettie yelled, not caring about the pain that seared through her head. ‘What gives you the right to do this to me?’
Celia looked imploringly at Ettie. ‘I was afraid you’d run off. Go out into the night to your mother. You said you couldn’t bear the thought of her being in Whitechapel another night…’ Now Celia was crying. ‘I wanted you to stay here with me. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do. But I was frightened for you.’
Ettie pulled herself upright and swung her legs out of the bed. She tried to stand but her head was swimming. She fell back on to the pillows and massaged her aching temples.
‘I’m sorry.’
The Whitechapel Girl Page 37