With breakfast behind him and a lengthy, itchy, scratchy journey ahead, Ethan was off. The path was not unlike the direction he took back from Bucks Row in the rain the night before. Starting along Commercial Street once again, he walked until reaching the corner of Whitechapel Road then paused to survey this urban terrain, an immersion in history, decidedly different in the bright light of day. Taking a left, he ambled through the center of town passing London Hospital along the way. The torment was mind-bending trying not to scratch, using mind over matter techniques; by any means necessary. Attempting to walk with a wider stance was unflattering, at best. At worst, it looked as if he’d had an accident. Lifting his legs in a marching mode made Ethan look just plain crazy! Ultimately, he decided to succumb to this overwhelming urge, freely scratching at his lower extremities, all of them, in public. Anyone witnessing him would assume the man had a personal problem. Adding to his discomfort was the annoyance of having to wear waterlogged shoes and socks, a squishing sound made with every step he took. It was all downright undignified.

Finally reaching Hutton Street he turned right onto the small road until he came to the tailor shop. It was quiet, appearing vacant of customers and proprietor alike. Wondering if it was open, it must have been. The door was unlocked. Much slower this morning, it would, no doubt, gain business throughout the day, at least he hoped so, for Clemens’ sake.

“Well, you don’t look like a rich man anymore, but at least you don’t look like a naked one!” The familiar voice of Clemens was heard from the back room of his shop. Emerging, cane in hand, he slowly made his way around the sewing machine, on his way to his first client of the day. “Glad to see you! I knew you’d be back!”

Until that moment Ethan had not realized his own fixation on the prosthetic leg attached to the old man, remembering his vivid nightmare. Equally intrigued by the oak cane, he tried hard not to stare at either piece of wood.

“Yes, a bit more fidgety of a man due to the fabric, I’m afraid.” Ethan replied, focused on looking into the eyes of the tailor as he stepped farther into the shop.

“I was wondering how you’d fare with the change. I’m not just a garment maker but a prognosticator! I knew you’d be seeking some resolution. Ah, dare I say your upper class attire will be your downfall, Mr. Bridgeman.” Mocking Ethan in a most jovial way, somehow Clemens also knew he’d get away with it.

Ethan smiled, accepting of the ribbing he received but in his mind he could still see the tailor in his dream laying prone on the ground, bleeding out from the severed leg. So embedded was the vision, he’d caught himself turning around, expecting to see the watchmaker Drakes behind him wielding a knife. Clemens seemed to know exactly who Ethan was and his purpose there. Impossible for anyone to ascertain his point of origin without confession, he quickly dismissed the notion, considering it borderline paranoia based on a bad dream, nothing more. Perhaps the old man’s wisdom and experience from so many decades of life enhanced his intuition, simply using the good sense God gave him.

“I was hoping perhaps you could direct me to a local shoemaker you may know, one not your triplet.” Ethan said, playing along with the tone set by the shopkeeper.

“And not a moment too soon it would seem!” The old man observed the current condition of Ethan’s formerly valuable shoes.

Looking down at his shoes, nodding in agreement, Ethan heaved out a sad sigh. “Yes, as you can see, I had a bout with last night’s weather during a roundabout.”

“And what, may I ask, would’ve had you out fighting the conditions that started so late last evening?”

Ethan again looked cockeyed at Clemens, wondering why he’d asked about his activities and how he knew just when the rain began to come down. Not wanting to draw any more attention to the subject, he changed it.

“Do you have undergarments for sale here?”

“Yes sir. Right there in the corner, we have them in stock.” Clemens pointed to the back of the store, noting that his customer did not favor the prior topic.

Feeling a little uneasy, a bit pressured, as if there was more to the irritation he felt than just his pants, Ethan needed to make this a short visit. He grabbed the first three pairs of undershorts and shirts he saw in his size, at least close enough to do.

“These will be fine, Mr. Clemens. Thank you, sir.”

Placing the garments on the counter, Ethan pulled the billfold from his pocket to make quick work of the transaction. He felt a sudden urgency to be on his way.

Sensing Ethan’s mood, the tailor took the money, returning his change without uttering a word. As he wrapped the clothing, Clemens spoke once more as he tied the package with string to secure its contents.

“The cobbler is on the corner of Whitechapel Road just past the hospital, across the street. You’ll find him a pleasant chap.”

Ethan nodded in appreciation of all the old man’s assistance but knew he could only extend the olive branch of familiarity just so far, feeling the necessity to keep his interaction brief and to the point, no prying questions allowed. A nightmare had gotten to him, perceiving it to be an ominous forewarning to keep the tailor at arm’s length for his own protection and Clemens, as well. With a wave of the hand, Ethan walked out the door, the bundle tucked beneath his arm.

Making his way back to Whitechapel Road in the direction from whence he’d come, he spotted the cobbler’s shop, having missed it passing by the first couple of times when he was either attempting to keep a low profile by looking at the ground or was too distracted, discreetly scratching some embarrassing part of his anatomy. Unlike the watchmaker’s shop or the tailor’s place, the cobbler shop had a window display of the products available. Ethan attributed that to the store being on one of the major thoroughfares prone to heavy foot traffic, as an enticement to prospective customers. Entering the store front he was met with a wide array of leather footwear to choose from, shelf upon shelf of this cobbler’s handiwork. Some shoes polished to perfection, others had a dull finish but he couldn’t help but notice the absence of signs denoting “manmade” materials, as was so often the case in his plastic fantastic century. It was a pleasant surprise. Pair after pair of shoes and boots staring at him, some with four or five grommets for men and far more for the women’s designs. A simpler style low-heel laced shoe was what he was seeking and, as luck would have it, they were here in abundance.

Within minutes of his entrance, Ethan had chosen two pair, a prompt purchase made as the sales clerk watched amused, bundling one pair of new shoes along with four pairs of heavy woolen socks, another hasty choice made. Utilitarian by nature, Ethan’s approach to the purchase was pragmatic, not a shopping spree. These items served a purpose, getting him out of what he was in. Even before leaving the shop he removed his damp footwear, donning a new pair of shoes and socks to match his scratchy suit, secretly longing to quickly slip on a pair of underwear, as well! Ethan examined his “doctor” shoes, concluding that they would need some tender loving care to be salvaged and restored to their former condition. It had occurred to him to leave them with this cobbler for repair but that would create even more interaction, perhaps stirring suspicion, soliciting more prying questions, so he’d decided against it for the time being, pausing to pop open his timepiece. It was just before eleven.

Carrying these articles in a store sack, along with the brown paper package from the tailor, Ethan did appear to be weighed down by the wares he’d bought to wear. Holding his wet shoes in hand, he began to head back in the direction of his lodging. Recalling that he had seen some additional housing along the way on Old Montague Street to be exact, Ethan remembered the place from his research, tenants routinely evicted for the lack of funds to pay the daily rent. He’d surely find a room available there, quite confident he would locate a suitable dormitory with a vacancy.

Ethan carried on, continuing to make his way along Whitechapel Road. Looking up to see a local police constable dead ahead, he was walking directly toward him, looking directly at him. The officer greeted Ethan by blocking his path.

“Morning, sir.” The bobby’s voice was cold and stern, all business and certainly curious about what business he’d been conducting in the area.

“Good morning, constable.” Ethan replied, trying to look nonchalant.

“You’re not from around here.” It wasn’t a question, more so an observation.

Officers were trained to spot suspicious characters on the streets, those who did not appear to fit in. Through experience they learned to deduce an intention as they approached someone, watchful for any reaction. Ethan seemed odd, out of place to the bobby.

“You appear to have your hands full, an armload, in fact.” The insinuation was obvious, an implicit accusation.

“I do, indeed!” Ethan tried to play it cheerfully, fighting an urge to scratch his lower extremities the more nervous he became.

“I’ve not seen you before.” Inspecting Ethan from head to toe, he continued on, “Just noticing those shoes you’re carrying. I have seen them in a store in the upscale part of London. Odd to see them around here. Strange to see a man dressed like you having those in your possession.”

Considerate of the policeman’s observation, Ethan attempted to explain.

“Of course, I clearly understand your confusion. I’m a doctor doing research in this area. I have dressed like this so the locals would be less apprehensive about my presence when approaching them and you don’t believe a single word I’m saying, do you?”

“You say you’re a doctor, sir? May I see your personal identification? Medical documents?” The bobby extended his hand to receive verification of this story.

Ethan put down the one package of underwear and the sack of socks and shoes so his hands would be free to reach into his vest pocket to retrieve then produce the papers that were actually tucked under a pile of clothing on the desk in his boarding room, for the sake of their protection. “Fuck me buggered.” He said in a low voice, nearly inaudible but the bobby heard it.

“Pardon me, sir?” The officer asked, assuming a more authoritative stance.

If Ethan didn’t know better, he’d think someone gave Colin the remote control to a video game and he was having one over on him! One in a series of unfortunate occurrences, this mishap told him it was not going to be a walk in the park research event thanks to this unavoidable human interaction. Dressed like a commoner and holding a pair of expensive shoes did look suspicious, walking with a scratchy groin and no personal identification? Blimey! Standing there for a moment, frozen in fear, lost in thought, Ethan had an epiphany when the building came into view just ahead of him.

“The bank!”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir?”

“Officer, look, I am sure you’ve heard this story before but truthfully, I’ve left my credentials at my residence. I can prove who I am! They can vouch for me over at the bank.” Pointing in the direction of the institution in plain sight, Ethan hoped the constable would be willing to take a short walk with him to resolve this inquiry. “My medical bag is in the vault.”

“That bank over there, you say?” The bobby turned to see where he pointed.

“Yes. Look, I understand your position, sir. If I were in your shoes, which look quite comfortable, by the way, I would also wonder why I was carrying these shoes. All I’m asking is that you take a brief walk with me to the bank and everything will be explained.” He punctuated his plea with the most innocent puppy dog eyes.

The constable stared at Ethan and began tilting, rocking back and forth from his toes onto his heels, squinting skeptically, as if it might cause him to read the man’s mind, intuiting true intentions while rubbing his chin with a thumb and forefinger.

“Alright sir, let’s go see about your bag at the bank, but no funny business.”

“No sir, none. Thank you, officer.”

Walking silently beside the constable, feeling like nothing more than a common criminal under arrest, conspicuous in the extreme, embarrassed by the ordeal, he’d do his best to get through it. Sensing the many eyes upon him, this was not the low profile he’d intended to keep in the East End. Far from it. Entering the bank, Ethan hoped the tellers and management were the same, and to his good fortune they were. The manager, Mr. Edgewood stood from his desk seeing the officer in uniform first but as he approached them, recognizing his companion.

“Doctor Bridgeman? Is that you, sir?” The manager inquired, a rather quizzical expression in his eyes. “Well, of course it is!” Extending his hand. “So sorry I didn’t recognize you...your attire.”

“Doing some historical research in the area, Mr. Edgewood. Trying to blend in with the locals a little better.”

“Ah, yes. The suit you wore yesterday was, shall we say, a cut above?”

“Do you know this gentleman, sir?” The officer asked, lightening his tone.

“Why, yes. One of our finest clients, a top physician of impeccable reputation.” Mr. Edgewood exaggerated his knowledge of the gent standing beside the officer. After all, money was money. For the Whitechapel district, this client’s deposit made the day before was monumental.

“Well, then doctor, this all seems to be a misunderstanding. Good day, sir.”

“Perfectly understandable. I thank you for doing your job constable and keeping the peace.” Ethan shook his hand and the policeman went on about his beat.

With the lawman beyond earshot, the inquisitive manager drew closer to Ethan.

“Is everything well, sir?” Edgewood asked in a hushed tone.

“Yes, yes. Fine. A misunderstanding, indeed. He thought I stole my own shoes!”

“Why are you dressed in this clothing, sir? What research are you conducting? If you don’t mind me asking.” Edgewood pried, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Long story.” Ethan shook his head. “Long story. I think it would be wiser to keep my medical bag with me at all times. May I close out my safe deposit box?”

“Will you be closing your account with us as well, sir?” Suddenly nervous, the banker cringed at the thought.

“No. I’ll still need to keep the account open.”

“Of course. Please keep it as long as you wish, Dr. Bridgeman. So glad to be of service. I shall return.” Relieved, he went to gather the necessary paperwork.

Retrieving the bag from the banker, withdrawing a modicum of funds to replace what he’d spent shopping, Dr. Bridgeman was on his way once more. Traveling the rest of the way with his fancy shoes hidden inside the bag, Ethan did not expect any further delays in his plan but then he hadn’t expected the ones that already occurred. Making his way onto Commercial Street, nearing his current lodging Ethan planned to make a few adjustments to his wardrobe before going shopping for a new roof to place over his head.

“Arthur. Arthur!” A female voice wafted across the street. He failed to respond, not recognizing his own 19th Century name.

“Oh, shit! Is that me?” A shocking thought, he was afraid he’d said it aloud.

Ethan looked back to see Maggie, his server from the Ten Bells Pub, addressing him by his fictitious name. Dodging the horse drawn carriages as they passed, she’d lifted her skirt to keep from dragging any remnants of a filthy street along with her. The gentleman paused, awaiting her arrival as she ran across the road.

“Fancy meetin’ you here!” She began, excited to find him out and about.

“And what are you doing out this early?” Ethan inquired.

Her eyes seemed brighter than he remembered, that dark pub obscuring details of the woman he’d rediscovered in the daylight. Maggie had some facial lines and a bit of weight on her, yet there was a young maiden quality about her, as well. Her sparkling eyes appeared to burst forth from her round face as she smiled, obviously happy to make his acquaintance again, quite by chance.

“Just checkin’ my work days at the pub. I’m on tonight if yer stoppin’ by.”

Walking alongside him required two steps to each one of his, as she was only slightly above five feet tall. He slowed his pace to accommodate her own.

“Well, if I get moved in time it’s in the cards, yes.”

“You’re movin’?” Maggie exclaimed with concern and a hint of sorrow.

“Just out of this place. Too many leaks. There are a few places on Old Montague I saw. Hopefully I’ll find a vacancy.”

“You will. I know most o’ the lords who manage ‘em...they always have a few open. I can show ya if ya like.”

“I really wouldn’t want to impose.”

“No imposition at all, sir!” Ladylike as could be, Maggie curtsied.

“Well I’m grateful for your assistance, ma’am.” Tipping his hat in a reciprocal gesture, he continued, “I just have to collect the rest of my belongings.”

“Not ma’am. Maggie. I’ll come along with ya to help ya then.” Delighted to be in his company, happy to help, she’d taken a shine to him.

Ethan couldn’t resist cracking a smile at Maggie’s energy. She looked up at him in much the same way his 21st Century Maggie did handing him the review forms at The Valley.

“Come on.” Ethan gestured with his head. “It’s this way.”

Walking together through the entrance of his lodging passing by the innkeeper’s window, an old man stuck his head out, yelling at the tenant and his guest.

“OY! You can’t have any women in your room out of wedlock! Thems the rules or you’re gonna have to leave.”

Ethan calmly looked at the man then Maggie and finally back to the man.

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing I’ll be moving out then.”

Ethan continued walking toward the stairwell as Maggie followed, flipping off a rude gesture in the manager’s direction. Arriving in his room, he quickly tidied up, embarrassed by the water leakage and disheveled condition he’d left it in, especially self-conscious about undergarments hanging out the window to dry. He snagged them in an instant, tucking them into a coat laying on the desk.

“Oh, no. This won’t do. This is no place for a doctor.” Maggie said, both hands on her hips. “This won’t do, at all.”

Ethan looked completely puzzled, knowing he’d never said he was a physician during their chat the night before. Maggie seemed tickled by his little secret.

“How did you know?”

Nodding at the medical bag he had placed aside while scampering around doing clean-up duty, she’d actually noticed it first when running across the street and said nothing at the time.

“Of course.” Ethan shook his head. “Gives me away every time.”

“I’ve a few doctors as customers. I recognized it.” With that, she pitched in.

“You don’t have to do that.” Ethan said as she began handling his clothing.

“Ya don’t understand women very well, do ya? It’s what we do best.”

“Folding?” He wrongly guessed the intention of her comment.

“Takin’ care of men!” She promptly corrected him.

Grabbing up the rest of his belongings they began the trek over to Old Montague Street to rows of lodgings where Maggie knew several innkeepers. Along the way he told her his research required him to dress down and fit in, though he kept it all quite vague and non-descript. Then he told her the story of his run-in with a bobby, leaving out the money part and his nightmarish experience as it rained in his room. Maggie had never asked him anything personal either during the walk or in the pub the night before. She seemed to respect his privacy or simply did not care to pry.

Ethan asked how everybody learned to walk in the shoes they wore, referencing those nicer shoes he was more accustomed to, the ones that almost got him arrested. They also talked about itchy pants which were, by then, driving him out of his mind. There was not a thing he could do about it in mixed company, particularly in such close proximity. He had to grin and bear it. Maggie suggested he purchase the type of stockings worn over socks up to the knee. Ethan was drinking it all in, absorbing the minutia of local idiosyncrasies and colloquialisms of those who survived these times. So much of what was provided in the written history never really tapped into the experiences he’d already taken in over just the past two days.

Nearing the end of the road at the corners of Old Montague, Hanbury Street and Bakers Row were several lodging houses. Ethan and Maggie walked past a few that were closer, yet she did not even give them a second glance. He decided to trust her judgment. Apparently she had a specific location in mind. Where these three roads met was one particular place along Bakers Row which seemed well kept and freshly painted. There were some floral arrangements in the front, reminding him of ones adorning the façade of his flat in Oxford, the place he missed the most with all the comforts of home.

“Wait here.” Maggie instructed Ethan as she walked to the manager’s window. A stout man who looked to be in his fifties appeared at her beckon call, smiling at her as she’d waved. Although Ethan couldn’t hear their conversation it looked as if it was friendly and familiar. The man peered past Maggie at his potential tenant as he nodded in agreement. Calling him over, she introduced him to the innkeeper as Mr. Arthur Bridgeman, discreetly, not to give him away, preserving his privacy to the title of “Doctor”.

“Nigel here has a perfect room on the second floor for ya, close to the first floor kitchen n’ privy, a wash basin all to y’self in the room, love.”

Ethan was shocked by the powers this woman possessed. It all seemed too easy.

“How much per night, sir?” Ethan inquired.

“The room usually goes for ten but for a friend of, uh, Maggie, you can have it for sixpence a night, long as you like.” Nigel seemed a pleasant enough chap.

“Does it leak?” Ethan had to ask, prompting the confused expression from the man in the window.

Maggie burst into laughter, telling Nigel to ignore the question as Ethan pulled out the coins to cover his first night in a new, less humbling abode.

“Come on. I’ll show ya your room now.” Maggie took charge by taking the key from Nigel, conducting the tour on the way to his private quarters.

Walking into the building, Ethan was astounded by the obvious cleanliness and comfortable furniture in the public sitting area. The kitchen was fully supplied with hanging pots, cutlery and a wood stove along with cups and saucers for coffee and tea. Long wooden benches stretched along a table of the same length in the middle of the room with enough space for all the occupants. By the stairs to the upper floors was the back alley doorway to the privy or outhouse. The stairs to the second floor had lit candles fixed in holders on the walls. Directly ahead was Ethan’s room, just as they said, accessible to everything. The last thing he noticed before entering his room was the absence of an odor he thought he’d never escape in his former digs.

One of Ethan’s favorite classic films was “The Wizard of Oz” and his favorite scene was when Dorothy stepped out of the house after the tornado transported her to a magical world. Opening the door, she stepped from a black and white existence into Technicolor. Crossing the threshold into this room he felt like Dorothy entering Oz. He was met with finely polished wood flooring, a wool rug running the length of the room, an actual dresser to place his clothes in and the wash basin, a beautiful pitcher and bowl resting on top of a fine, fancy lace doily. The bed was an oversized twin with a wooden frame, an ornate oak spiraling corner design rising high at the headboard and slightly above the footboard at the end of the thick mattress, like a four-poster that hadn’t yet matured. It rested against the inner wall to the left of the entrance, rather than the outer foundation wall, protected from the elements should a leak occur. The bed cover and pillow were both down feather and the writing desk was beneath the window that faced Bakers Row for best lighting. A generous mirror hung on the wall. He had two candles available, unused, placed in cast iron holders, one located on the dresser, the other on the desk. It was paradise.

“Do ya like it here, love?” Maggie asked expectantly, knowing the answer.

“I am forever in your debt, Maggie.” He said. “How did you manage this?”

“I told ya. I ‘ave a lot o’ customers.” She smiled coyly, handing him the key.

“How may I repay your kindness?” Ethan offered without hesitation.

“Will ya be comin’ ‘round to the pub tonight then?” A leading question.

“The only place I trust to eat, yes.” An honest answer.

“Then ya can buy a round or two o’ beers at the end o’ me shift.”

“Done.” Ethan reached out to shake her hand. Maggie giggled and winked.

Walking her downstairs to the front door, thanking her profusely until she told him to stop, no need, they bid farewell, parting ways for the time being. Returning to his room to put things away and arrange his schedule for the day, Ethan was sure he was living in the lap of luxury. First things first: off came all the itchy clothing! Having locked the door, no need to worry Colin would come knocking (or anyone else for that matter) Ethan had a sudden urge to be naked. A normally modest man, he found the sensation liberating, to say the least, finally out of that clothing which had been tormenting its victim all day. Rubbing his hands over every itchy spot, he scratched until the itching subsided, a relief he had longed for and would not forsake for the sake of propriety. No one was watching. Looking in the mirror, he laughed. Ah, to be comfortable again. He decided to do his work then nap in the buff.

Laying out all his possessions on the desk including documents, money, journal and pencil, Ethan sat there for a minute, conducting an inventory of his belongings, another way to organize a cluttered mind. Having replenished his funds, he felt the security that having money at one’s disposal brings. He would happily buy Maggie a round or two, or dinner if she liked, with plenty to spare. Good to go to the pub.

This room was blissfully tranquil, a far cry from his former boarding house. Its walls were thick, insulating him from his surroundings. Opening the window, Ethan heard Maggie’s voice from a distance. Wondering if she remained on the premises, he gazed down upon the street below, spotting her instantly. She was still speaking with Nigel, the innkeeper, except their formerly cheerful banter was replaced with a tense exchange, the low murmurings of an argument in hushed tones. Maggie was flailing her arms, making a few rude gestures then she stormed off in a huff. Though unfamiliar to Ethan, he guessed it had nothing to do with wishing Nigel a good day. He wondered why she was so angry with the man but let it go, none of his business.

Ethan went back to his inventory once Maggie was out of sight. Within minutes he heard a small voice calling his name over and over again. It was the featherbed, an amazing down comforter and pillow. Last night was far from restful, spent curled up in a ball so to avoid the wet spots on either end of a mattress. He sought a sound and safe slumber wherein he could stretch his frame out fully and recharge before a second night of canvassing Bucks Row. Checking his pocket watch, now 1:42 p.m. it was time to take a nap. The quilt felt heavenly, caressing his exposed skin. In less than two minutes he was out cold.