Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  “Perhaps,” she sighed, “but who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

  “Who knows?” Who knows, indeed? Certainly not I, or I would never have gone on that walk with Arthur that night. And maybe, just maybe, this story might have had a happy ending surrounded by a beautiful wife and loving children and grandchildren instead of a cold, lonely house in a small town.

  Chapter 5

  I believe we shall come to care about people less and less. The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It’s one of the curses of London.

  —Ambrose Bierce

  Thursday, August 30, 1888

  “London,” Arthur was saying, “is not just one city. Rather, it is many cities all with their own language and customs. Life is not the same in the West End as it is in the East End, and people are not at all the same. The concerns of both are far different. Whereas the East Enders are concerned with merely surviving from one day to the next, the Westies are more worried about keeping the East Enders in their place. I tell you, Albert, London is rife for a class riot, and all it will take is a spark to ignite this powder keg.”

  We had already walked a great deal that first night since Arthur had claimed me at Mrs. Hutchins’, and I had noticed that he seemed to keep a sharp foot away from the more affluent sections. “I suppose,” he said, “that in some ways I am a reverse class anarchist. It’s not that I hate the upper class or even the more wealthy merchant class. Rather, I hate the fact that they allow such squalor and poverty to exist within their very city. They sit in their fine homes and do nothing. Perhaps a few of the ladies conspire to raise a fund for clothes or food, but that is the limit to their charity. They do nothing to fix the society that creates such a gulf between the rich and poor that one cannot see the shore of one from the other.”

  “Don’t you think you are being an alarmist, Arthur? Surely things cannot be that bad?”

  Arthur stopped and stared at me. “Not that bad?” He shook his head. “Your naïveté overwhelms me. I had not thought to take you on this particular walk for some time, as I wanted you to see the beauty of London first, to fall in love with her the way I did. But perhaps to see the beauty, you have to see the ugliness first. Come along, we’ll grab a hansom at the corner.”

  “Hansom? Where are we going, Arthur?”

  “To the East End, Albert. We’re going to Whitechapel.”

  *

  The ride did not take long, and that was probably the most surprising part of the journey. Within a few short minutes, I detected a change in the scenery. Slowly, the houses became older and less welcoming. Their conditions became more worn, run down, and the character of the street travelers changed. They began to look dirtier, with clothes that were filthy with grime and dirt. Refuse piled in the gutters and the air became fouler. The entire area looked like something out of some Faustian view of hell. The cabman pounded on the roof and shouted, “This is as far as I go. You walk from here.”

  We got out of the cab and Arthur paid him. I did not like the sight of the cab pulling away into the night and leaving us stranded on these streets.

  “Stay close to me,” Arthur said, “and mind your movements and your speech. People in the East End mind their own business, but they can become very excited if they think they’re being provoked. Follow me.”

  I walked next to Arthur down what I came to learn later was Commercial Street, which was one of the darkest and most dangerous streets in the East End. It was a good thing that Arthur did not tell me that beforehand.

  “This is the result of our ‘Industrial Revolution,’ Albert.” Arthur’s voice was laced with venom. “Because of the factory and its incessant need for new labour, people have come here from every corner of the Empire. Only to find that work, when it is to be had, is hard and pays little. Food is precious here, far more valuable than life itself. People make do any way they can, often resorting to crime or worse.”

  “Worse? What could be worse?”

  “Ask the women who sell their bodies for pennies a night. All to get enough for another glass of gin or, if they’re lucky, a bed for the night in one of the plentiful ‘doss houses.’ Agh, they are awful places, Albert, full of disease and vermin, but often the only source of shelter or a hot meal for many women and men. Those who do not have enough for the price of a bed have to sleep sitting up against a wall, held in place by a single rope until the house manager lets it go in the morning and they all fall upon the floor.

  “In all the world, Albert, you will not find a place where man’s wickedness towards his fellows is more apparent than in East End and especially in Whitechapel.”

  I was forced to agree with him. As we walked, I could see the hopelessness and despair in the faces of those around us. Hygiene appeared to be unknown to many, and most of the women looked haggard and worn as they walked by. Even the children looked as if they had been abandoned. To my surprise, several of the people recognised Arthur and greeted him. He returned the greeting with warm hospitality, never once making anyone feel that he was talking down to them.

  “Arthur, do you know people everywhere?”

  “Of course, a good writer needs to know as many people as possible. How else does one acquire material? Always keep your eyes and ears open. Experience is the best writing teacher you will ever have.”

  The hour was already getting late, but there seemed to be a lot of people still in the street. Arthur saw my thoughts and said, “Time is different in the East End. The evening is the busiest, with most people either finishing their business or looking for a place to stay for the night. In the afternoon, it is something like Spain, I hear. Supposedly there the heat is so bad that most people sleep in the afternoon. Here, they rest up for the evening. Here we are, Albert, but before we enter, I must warn you. The people you will see are rough and some would kill you for a ha’penny. Mind your surroundings at all times and stay close to me. I can’t lose my Boswell so soon!”

  We were standing outside a bar. I could not call it a pub, as it was not friendly or welcoming in any way. It was quite simply a place for people to get drunk very quickly. No extras or frills. Hard liquor served fast. The sign above the door simply said, “The Ten Bells.” I swallowed hard and we went in.

  I was immediately assaulted by the sounds and smells of the place. It was a raucous bar with many people seeking shelter. There was a large room with a bar at one end and plenty of tables and chairs about. In the far corner, someone was playing a piano and singing a music hall song very loudly and off-key. The crowd was rough looking, and I immediately regretted being there.

  Arthur, on the other hand, didn’t appear uncomfortable at all. He shouted hellos to several people who waved back and raised their glasses to him. I firmly believed there was no situation that Arthur could be dropped into that he could not instantly master. “Come over here, Albert, there’s a free table.”

  We sat down quickly around a small table that had seen better days. Now that I had time to look around, I saw that the entire bar and its patrons had seen better days. Arthur shouted to the barman for two ales, and a rather worn-looking woman brought them over. She winked at Arthur and he plopped a few coins on her tray. Almost as if the sound had called them, two other women sat down at the table.

  “Arthur? You here again?” one of the women asked. She looked to be about thirty-five years old, but those had been hard years. Her hair had touches of grey in it and she was missing several teeth.

  “Rose! I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t been around here for ages.”

  “Now don’t be like that, Arthur! I saw you here myself not three days ago and so did Ginny here, didn’t you, Ginny?”

  The other woman nodded. She did not speak, and I wondered if she was capable of it. She appeared to be quite drunk and barely aware of us or the conversation. Perhaps she was pretty once, a long time ago, but pain had carved deep lines in her face and her eyes were lifeless.

  “You, my dear Rose, are mistaken. Perhaps you h
ave been having too much of Noddy’s special gin . . . or perhaps not enough?”

  “Are you buying?”

  “I would be happy to buy a round for such excellent companions.” Arthur turned to the barman. “Noddy! Two specials!” The barman looked at the women at our table and shook his head. I don’t think I have ever seen so large a man in my life. I instantly resolved never to cross this man.

  The glasses appeared quickly and, just as quickly, the women downed their contents. “Gin,” Arthur said to me, “Noddy has the best in the East End.

  “So, my dear ladies, what has been happening lately? Any news?”

  Rose smacked her lips. “Ain’t you the strange one, Arthur? Paying good money just for gossip.”

  “I am by nature a curious man.”

  “And your silent friend here? Is he a curious man too?”

  “This is Albert. He is my friend and under my protection. That is all you need to know about him.”

  The women laughed and made “ooohhhh” sounds over this.

  “Well, you’ve heard about poor Martha, I suppose?” Rose asked.

  “Who?”

  “Martha Tabram! Found dead not even three weeks ago. Stabbed hundreds of times, she was.”

  “It wasn’t hundreds,” Ginny said. “She was stabbed thirty-nine times. Get it right.” She was finally speaking. She was either warming up to us or was too drunk to care.

  “Hundreds! Thirty-nine! What’s it matter? Dead is dead. Carved up and left out like a Christmas goose in George Yard.”

  “Who did it?” I asked.

  “Cor! It talks!” Rose said and broke out laughing. Ginny wasn’t laughing.

  “She was with Pearly Poll on August sixth. They picked up a couple of soldiers. They separated and Poll’s alive. Martha ain’t.”

  “Soldiers?” Arthur said. “What kind of soldiers?”

  Rose moved in closer. “Weren’t no soldiers. Least, not the way I heard it. They weren’t no toffs neither. They were part of the Nichols Mob.”

  “What? I thought they’d been broken up!” said Arthur.

  Rose and Ginny laughed. “Cor, Arthur,” Rose finally said, “you ain’t from around here, are ya? Nobody breaks up the Nichols Mob. They been worse than ever lately. They want money from everyone and don’t care how they gets it. We’ve all had to work the streets harder than ever just to keep up. And some of us don’t got the looks for this any longer.”

  They looked over to another table where two women were sitting, drinking. They were quiet and looked as if they were enjoying their last meal. Both of them were older women, far past their prime, and without any measure of attractiveness.

  “Ones like ‘Dark Annie’ over there,” Rose said, “she was lucky to make her doss money before. How’s she gonna get by now?”

  “What did the police say?” I asked.

  Even Arthur had trouble not laughing this time. “Albert, the police don’t care. The East End could burn down before they would do anything. Just as long as it stays within the East End.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Rose agreed. “You’re a young one, ain’t ya, Albert? Not just young in age like Arthur here, but young in mind. You ain’t seen the way life is here.”

  Suddenly she grabbed my hand.

  “Leave! Don’t stay here, don’t come here again, don’t even think of this place. It’s worse than mud, it’ll suck you under in a tick.”

  Arthur reached over and gently took Rose’s hand from mine.

  “Now, now, Rose,” he said, “don’t be frightening him so. The worst crime is ignorance. You know that.”

  Ginny screamed.

  “The worst? What would you know about crime? Look at you! Nice clothes, full bellies, coins in your purse. What do you know about starving and doing whatever you have to just to live until tomorrow? Letting strange, disgusting men screw you in dark alleys just to have enough for a stick of bread? What the hell do you know?”

  Rose put her arm around Ginny. “Calm down, Ginny. This ain’t the place for this, you know it. Everyone’s staring.”

  Indeed, almost everyone in the room had stopped what he was doing and was looking at us; this included a young woman at the far end of the bar who seemed very interested in us. She was just about five foot two and a little stout. Her hair was reddish-brown and her complexion was clean and fair. She was easily the most attractive woman in the room. Before I could point her out to Arthur, she came barreling down the room.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded to Arthur’s back. “You know you aren’t supposed to be here! I—”

  She stopped as Arthur turned around to face her. She was suddenly very confused. “My apologies, sir, I thought you were someone else. I . . .” Her eyes narrowed as she looked Arthur in the face. “Arthur? Arthur Machen? Is it really you?”

  “Indeed it is. And who may I ask are . . . ?” Arthur stared at her and slowly recognition came to his eyes. “Mary? Mary Jane? As I live and breathe! It is you!”

  Arthur leapt up and immediately hugged the woman, much to the chagrin of my tablemates.

  “She gets them again.” Rose grumbled. “Bloody Mary Kelly.”

  Mary was laughing and hugging Arthur, and they were nearly dancing a jig together.

  “I cannot believe it’s you!” Arthur laughed. “How long has it been?”

  “Oh, nearly twenty years at least. You look well, Arthur, maybe a little too well?” She laughed and patted his stomach.

  “Yes, indeed,” he answered, “married life does agree with me. Albert!” he shouted, and I nearly jumped at the sound.

  “Please allow me to introduce you to Mary Jane—”

  “Kelly,” she finished for him, as if she were afraid that Arthur would reveal a secret.

  “Well, she is one of my dearest childhood friends. Her family lived in Carnarvonshire in Wales for a short time and we were playmates. Mary, this is my very good friend, Albert Besame.”

  “How do you do?” I asked Mary and gently took her hand.

  “Very well now,” she replied, “now that I see Arthur again. I had no idea you were living in London or I would have come calling long ago.”

  “Me? What about you? I had no idea what happened to you after I went to school.”

  “Oh, my family went back to Ireland soon after. My brother, Johnto, is a member of the Second Battalion Scots Guards back in Dublin!”

  “No! He was such a little thing, but always the one for the army toys. Sit down, sit down. I want to hear everything you’ve been up to and especially what you are doing here.”

  Mary sat down, and Rose and Ginny sidled up to me.

  “They’ll be talking for a while. Why don’t you come to the bar with Ginny and me? Buy us a round?”

  I didn’t really want to join these women for much of anything, but I had the feeling it might not be wise to resist.

  “Well,” I said, “maybe one. I don’t have much money.” Which was very true. Arthur had jammed a few coins in my hand earlier that night, over my protests.

  I had my glass of ale in my hand, so I asked ‘Noddy’ for two gins for the ladies. Once again, they downed them faster than anything I’d ever seen before and started looking at me.

  “Listen,” Rose said, “Arthur’s going to be busy for a while. Knowing Kelly, she’ll probably take him home with her. What say we go somewhere for a little ‘companionship’?”

  She was fiddling with my shirt while she talked and trying her best to look seductive. Ginny looked bored but would probably do anything that Rose said.

  “Um, I’m not really . . .”

  “Why don’t you leave the poor lad alone, Rose? You’re too much woman for him to handle anyway,” a voice from behind me said. It was smooth and I could tell it was fairly cultured, but I had never heard it before.

  “Oh, here’s the world-famous painter, then? Mr. Walter Sickert come slumming again. And where’s your brother, ‘ey?”

  A well-groomed man sidled beside Rose. He had light
hair and was thin, but he had that ‘bohemian’ look about him. He was just a bit taller than I and looked to be probably around Arthur’s age.

  “Rose, Rose, Rose. You do know how to start trouble, don’t you? You know full well that my brother is with Annie Crook now. Why would you want to mess that up?”

  “For a bit of fun, maybe. Why should she get someone good? She’s just a clerk in a sweets shop.”

  Sickert’s face grew stern. “That’s enough, Rose. Why don’t you go somewhere else for a while.”

  “Why? ‘Cause you say so?”

  Sickert sighed. “If I buy you a drink, will you go away?”

  Rose smiled. Ginny just stood there.

  “Fine. Noddy! Two ‘specials’ . . . to be served at the other end of the bar.”

  The ladies ran down to the glasses and downed them again. I turned to Sickert. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

  “Think nothing of it. You looked as if you needed rescuing. Of course, anyone that Rose sets her eye on needs rescuing. Name’s Sickert, Walter Sickert.” He held out his hand.

  “Oh, pleased to meet you,” I said, grasping his hand firmly. “I’m Albert Besame.”

  Sickert snickered. “Please. I already know one Albert too many. May I just call you ‘A.B.’?”

  “Certainly. It sounds as if you don’t care for this other ‘Albert.’”

  “Let’s just say he has caused me no share of grief recently. But that’s neither here nor there. I see that your friend has taken an interest in Mary Kelly.”

  I looked back at the table where Arthur and Mary were still talking, but they weren’t laughing. Mary looked very serious and Arthur appeared as if he were in pain.

  “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Sickert said.

  “Oh? Yes, yes, she is,” I answered.

  “You should see her with her clothes off.”

  I was more than a little stunned to hear that. “Pardon me?”

  Sickert laughed. “I’m a painter, dear lad. She’s posed for me a number of times. She is a funny one, though. Got some airs about her. I met her once in Paris, where she said she was travelling with a rich man. Didn’t last long, if that was the truth at all. Here, see that rather sour-looking fellow against the wall? Next to that horrible landscape painting?”