Our table was once more fully occupied: the couples were now more self-absorbed, the soft murmurings only occasionally punctuated by more general banter. The band trickled back onto the small dais after the interval, some players still sipping the remnants of their drinks; a loud chord - and they were embarked on a Tango, Jealousy.
“Shall we try this?”
Vicky grasped my hand and led me onto the floor; we swayed to the exciting yet inflexible rhythm, the flow cut by sudden staccato bursts, our bodies abruptly separating in an Open Telemark:
“This was all the rage at Cheltenham Ladies, last year.”
Time passed, the music became slower and softer, and the lights dimmed. Vicky’s conversation trickled to a halt, and we danced, entwined in each other’s arms; I inhaled her perfume, felt the soft warm body pressed against me, and couldn’t believe that this beautiful, unfathomable girl was mine. The dark mood of the early evening had vanished!
At one-thirty the coach was speeding through deserted streets, on its way back to The London; once again I had secured a place for the night on the floor of Bob’s room in the students’ hostel; the interior lights of the coach were switched off, and there was silence, broken only by an occasional murmur from the crowd of occupants; I held Vicky’s hand, and gazed sideways at her shadowy form; she reclined in her seat, absolutely still. Were her eyes closed? Was she awake? We were back in the East End of London - in a few minutes we would be home.
Chapter Ten - October, 1956
Sunday, 8th October: The day was drab and drizzly. The new academic term was due to begin tomorrow; I was in my new room, feeling lonely and dejected. The place was dark and cramped. Everything looked as though it had seen better days. I sat on the lumpy bed, surveying the hard wooden chair, old-fashioned wardrobe and chest of drawers, and the stained wash-basin with the dripping cold-water tap; on the battered desk by the window stood an angle-poise lamp, which would double as a bedside light.
My parents had helped me move. What extravagance - a taxi all the way from Clapham! They had only just departed. Now I reviewed my scanty personal possessions, which nonetheless filled all the empty spaces of the room: next to the lamp on the desk top, I had left my record-player, some records and a pile of books; on the floor stood two full suitcases, my duffle coat and college scarf draped over them, and the dented cardboard box housing my skeleton.
I had been accommodated on the second floor of the students’ hostel; from the grubby window, there was a view of a narrow back street, the wall at the rear of the hospital, and the statue of Queen Alexandra (inside the grounds) through the bare branches of the chestnut trees; a few urchins played noisily in the alley, chasing one another around two parked cars that had seen better days.
There came a knock on the door; on the threshold stood a beaming Bob Parsons:
“Thought I heard you moving in, Edwin ... Parents gone home? Well, welcome to the Hostel! You’ll remember my room’s just down the corridor … Why don’t you come and have some tea in the lounge, if you’re ready - it’s down in the basement. They generally serve tea at this time, at week-ends …”
My depression evaporated like mist in the morning sunshine: I sprang off the bed, ready for action. My unpacking could wait until later.
Friday, 13th October: The badminton team travelled on the Metropolitan Line to Euston Square, then walked down Gower Street in the soft evening light.
We turned into the gates of University College, and wandered across the courtyard. The place looked familiar: I realized it had been used for filming Doctor in the House, and recalled James Robertson Justice as the irascible surgeon, Sir Lancelot Spratt, striding vigorously from his Rolls-Royce across the wide open space, picking up his entourage along the way. We mounted the steps and passed through the columned portico into a hall; here a porter directed us to the basement and the badminton courts.
This was my second outing for the London Hospital team; my first match had been at home to Westminster Hospital in March, and I had won comfortably in two straight sets. Though not superstitious, I was nevertheless mildly concerned by the augury of the day’s date.
The University College captain welcomed us, and we were ushered into a room, where a large table was laid out for tea. Each team had four players - all men (there was no women’s team); there were to be four singles matches and one doubles; I had been promoted to Number Three in the singles, but would not be participating in the doubles.
The sandwiches were excellent, but I ate sparingly, kept off the beer, and drank only a few mouthfuls of tea: I didn’t want fluid sloshing about in my stomach whilst I played!
The changing-rooms were clean and modern. I changed quickly into my badminton whites, and experienced the luxury of depositing my clothes and sports bag in a locker with a functioning key. I felt tense and nervous as I joined the other players; the wide lofty hall held two badminton courts: the white lines were immaculate, the nets new, and the lights were strong without being dazzling. The home team provided an unlimited supply of new, good quality shuttlecocks; meanwhile, Henry Cork had brought the badminton club’s best racquets for those team members who didn’t have their own.
Two singles matches started simultaneously; one of the resting UCH players umpired the first match, and I umpired the second; my nerves soon left me, as I concentrated on scoring; fortunately, I wasn’t required to adjudicate any close calls, and both players appeared happy with my decisions. John Tillott, our Number Two, narrowly won in three sets: 10-15, 15-12, 15-13, but on the neighbouring court, Cork, our Captain, had crashed in two straight sets.
Now it was my turn.
“I’m Mr Cottle …” My opponent was tall and athletic, darting about the court during the warm-up session in a show of abundant energy.
I called “Smooth!” correctly, when the racquet was spun, and opted to serve first; I started with a gentle drop service, which my opponent couldn’t reach: 1-0. I repeated the drop serve, and saw the return hit the net: 2-0. I was 10-0 up before I lost my service; and won the first set 15-3. I felt happy and confident: I was striking the shuttlecock sweetly, my smashes were accurate and perfectly timed, and my drop-shots were well disguised. While we changed ends, I wiped my hands on a towel, and took a sip of water; I could see Mr Cottle being lectured by the UCH captain. My opponent served to start the second set, but I smashed the short service straight back at him: 0-0, change service; again I varied my serves smoothly, and was able to kill most of the returns.
I had reached 12-2, and appeared to be cruising to an easy victory, when I felt my energy begin to ebb away; I found myself slowing down, unable to reach easy shots; all at once my legs were leaden, I was bathed in perspiration, and my breathing had become laboured and erratic: I lost the second set 13-15.
I rallied briefly at the beginning of the final set; then my game collapsed completely, and I finished, defeated and utterly exhausted: 15-3, 13-15, 2-15.
UCH won the match 4-1!
I was partially revived by two pints of best bitter with the team, at a neighbouring pub.
“You might be better playing doubles next time …” Henry Cork suggested diffidently.
Friday, 27th October: The yellow-green fog swirled about me, creating haloes around the street lamps, and making it difficult to see from one lamp-post to the next. It had been an enjoyable evening: Chris Platt, Dan Ravenscroft and Andy Steele had held a house-warming party, having moved out of the students’ hostel at the beginning of our second year at medical school; they now rented a dingy flat in Chicksand Street, about half-way between Aldgate East and Whitechapel, and a brisk twenty minutes’ walk from the medical school. It was past two o’clock, and the night had turned cold (it was after all almost November), but I was still flushed with beer, and buoyed by the recollection of the general merriment, my new-found friends, and my several witty barbs; I had acquitted myself well, in my own estimation. I had been the last to leave.
At the end of their road, I hesitated, disorientated by
the fog; I could just make out the sign, Greatorix Street, and I turned right; the street appeared completely deserted. The lights cast a feeble glow, and I imagined the gas lamps of the Victorian era, when Jack the Ripper roamed these very streets. I remembered that once more we were in the midst of a spree of senseless, seemingly random murders: “RETURN OF JACK THE RIPPER - KILLER STALKS THE STREETS OF WHITECHAPEL”, “WHITECHAPEL SLASHER BRINGS PANIC TO EAST LONDON” ... The tabloid press was having a field-day, and had kept the story going from week to week.
Now my footfalls echoed on the cobbles, and I strained to hear whether other footsteps were following mine; I stopped in my tracks - total silence; I turned around - nobody within my range of vision. Nevertheless, I could feel the small hairs at the back of my neck standing erect, and my heart beating like a steam-hammer within my rib-cage. I resumed my walk, increasing my pace; at the next corner I strained again to make out the street name: Old Montague Street (wasn’t this where Jenny had lived - and died?); I crossed the road, and continued my journey, still painfully aware of my vulnerability, frightened by the emptiness of the streets, yet fearful of seeing another living soul. At last, after a further hundred yards, I emerged onto the Whitechapel Road; it was much more brightly lit, the shards of fog were less dense here, and appeared to be dispersing; no cars passed; the road and pavements were totally deserted. Though the silence remained eerie, I felt the thumping of my heart abate, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I turned left towards the hospital and the students’ hostel. I was almost half-way home …
It is two o’clock in the morning. I am exploring the streets around Old Montague Street, the scene of my former triumph; I head north up Brick Lane; now I am engulfed in a veritable pea-souper which drifts thickly through the streets. I can hardly see my hands in front of my face, as I turn right into Chicksand Street, deep in the narrow by-ways of Whitechapel. I am wearing my red wig and beard, in case I am spotted, though in this visibility the event is highly unlikely. Now would be a suitable scenario for a random killing, were the right opportunity to present itself, oh dear me yes.
But Hark! What is this? Some-one emerges from a house just ahead of me, and I almost collide with him. Could this be my next victim? Good Lord, it’s Edwin Scott! He staggers a little, and appears to be muttering to himself. I stop, rooted to the ground, but he hasn’t seen me. I allow him to disappear into the dense green fog. Then I follow as cautiously as a ghost. Though I am certain he hasn’t seen me, I note that he is becoming increasingly jumpy. He stops occasionally to listen for footsteps, but I stop in synchrony, and remain silent; though only a few feet behind him, I remain hidden by the swirling mist. I continue my cat and mouse game. This is fun, oh yes. If I had wanted to, I could easily have strangled him or slit his throat …
Chapter Eleven - November, 1956
Thursday, 2nd November: The term was in full swing; the New Lecture Theatre was filled to capacity, and there was an expectant hum of voices. The first two Embryology lectures had been cancelled: this would be the first time we’d hear the great Professor Buchanan speak; he was rarely seen at The London nowadays, and reputedly spent much of his time abroad.
A door near the front swung open, and a tall distinguished figure swept in; he took his place at the lectern; the lights dimmed, and there was an instant hush.
“The placenta (or ‘after-birth’) is a wondrous organ.”
One could almost hear the music in the background, to accompany the pleasant, well-modulated, yet authoritative voice. He was elegantly dressed in a dove grey double-breasted suit, with a mauve bow tie; a monocle was screwed tightly into his right eye, and he gazed at the audience through this with mesmeric intensity; his hair was thick and black, with a becoming greyness around the temples; his forehead was high; his skin handsomely bronzed; on the full lips there hovered a faint smile. He struck a dramatic pose, left hand behind his back, and swayed to the rhythmic cadences of his voice.
The slides were of excellent quality but seemed to come directly out of Hamilton, Boyd and Buchanan’s Textbook of Embryology. The lecture was peppered with amusing anecdotes; yet, as it progressed, the jokes became more florid, the points more random, and his swaying became more pronounced. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, almost embarrassed for him.
“Good grief - he’s pissed!” came a soft but clearly audible voice from the audience. It was Joe Knowles, in the row in front of me.
Professor Buchanan stopped in mid-sentence: for some moments he remained frozen, glaring intently at us, his gaze sweeping around the room. The tension was broken momentarily when he staggered against the table, upsetting the glass of water standing on it; he grasped desperately at the table for support, and managed to regain his balance; once more he was motionless, and the audience seemed to hold its breath.
Finally, after an aeon of time, he appeared to come to a decision: he coughed twice to clear his throat, shook his head angrily, turned on his heel, and strode out of the lecture theatre without another word, leaving the scene in pandemonium!
The players were in their shirt sleeves, collars undone and ties at half-mast; they concentrated on their shots, and spoke only to agree the score; they were proficient, got down well to cue, and appeared well matched.
I had been reading in the medical school library until seven o’clock, before walking back to the students’ hostel, where I had eaten a tepid supper. Now, seated in a comfortable leather arm-chair in the basement, I watched the two senior students knocking the snooker balls about; apart from the melodious chink of the balls, there was silence. The billiard room was spacious; the sole light, over the full-length snooker table, picked out the haze of tobacco smoke spiralling towards the low ceiling; the emerald green baize of the table was bright; all else in the room was in shadow.
Time passed slowly; the atmosphere was comfortable, peaceful and relaxed, almost hypnotic; from the common-room next door - encroaching on the stillness, though muffled by the heavy door between - came the sound of voices and laughter: it was ten-past ten, and the pubs had closed.
“My game!”
The players straightened up, chalked their cues, and put them carefully away on the rack; they ambled quietly out of the room, nodding to me as they passed, cigarette ends still dangling from the corner of their mouths …
“Would you like to try your hand, Edwin?” I had been getting up to leave, but found Sebastian Clark sitting in an arm-chair behind me; I had thought I was alone, and the unexpected voice startled me: he must have come in very quietly. Sebastian was clearly a competent player. He demonstrated how to hold the cue with the wrist relaxed, and how to sight down it as if aiming a rifle; he emphasized the importance of frequent chalking of the cue tip; he explained the rules of the game, and the system of scoring; he supervised me as I knocked the balls around the table. Finally we tried a game. I managed to pot just one red ball!
“Perhaps we’d better call it a day …”
To my surprise it was past midnight!
Wednesday, 15th November: “…Three No Trumps!”
I sat quietly behind Dave Wallis, looking over his shoulder at the cards, but careful not to disturb the players: “Kibitzing” it was called.
Hearts, the previous fashion in card games to have done the rounds of the medical school, had had its day - and now Bridge was the thing! I had played Whist in the past, and so had some inkling of card-play technique; however, the concept of bidding was totally alien to me, and I was trying to grasp the rudiments by observing the players, supplemented by the occasional word of explanation from Dave II.
“We’re playing Culbertson, an American system,” he had whispered, but it had meant nothing to me ...
Most lunch hours there was a Bridge school in the Athenaeum. The players sat in contrasting attitudes: leaning forward, cards close to chest; or languidly leaning back, chair tilted on two legs, cards fanned out in the left hand, a cigarette in the right. The staccato rhythm of the bids echoed around the table, interrupted by occa
sional gales of laughter; tobacco smoke curled lazily to the high ceiling; full ashtrays lay on an adjoining ledge, or even on the green baize top of the card table itself. Many of the players were senior students, with only a handful from my (second) year. The new first year students were too timid to watch - let alone play. Just as we had done countless aeons before, they sat in small groups, silent or chatting nervously, trying to establish their early friendships.
I felt relaxed, secure, mature, as I concentrated on the game: the rules, the bidding, the card-play. Perhaps I would be allowed to participate more actively in the not too distant future!
Chapter Twelve - December, 1956
Thursday, 28th December: I had taken the main-line train from Marylebone Station to Chalfont and Latimer. Outside the station, snow covered the ground; a vintage Rolls-Royce Phantom convertible stood in the forecourt; a window wound down, and Vicky Laidlaw waved, her face wreathed in smiles; the chauffeur opened the door for me, before lifting my suitcase into the commodious boot; noiselessly the big car moved off, holding the road well in spite of the icy conditions.
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 9