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?’
Ettie stood up, folded her arms and rocked back on her heels. Regarding his stern expression, she said, ‘You mean I’m working tonight, don’t you?’
‘Well, it was you who chose to speak out and give personal messages,’ he said, his face now uncomfortably close to hers as he loomed over her. ‘It was you who decided to stop being the Silent Beauty and take over the whole act.’
‘Well, I am the one with the talent,’ she said, determined to meet his gaze without flinching.
‘I don’t think I’m sure what you are implying, Ettie.’
They stood there, confronting each other, like boxers making ready to begin the first round.
Ettie felt uneasy. She dropped back down into the armchair, crossed her legs and jiggled her raised foot, making her petticoats – swish rhythmically.
‘It’s no good,’ she snapped. ‘I try to talk to you, and you don’t listen. I saw the most wonderful thing today, I wanted to tell you all about it, share it with you, and you had to go and spoil it. All you want to go on about is work.’
‘If we didn’t work, Ettie, you would have no money to spend on seeing whatever frippery you’re jabbering on about, now would you?’
‘Don’t you have so bloody much of it.’ She practically spat the words out. ‘Frippery?’ She concentrated for a moment on picking at an imaginary loose thread on her bodice, then she spoke. ‘You’ve changed,’ she said quietly.
‘So have you, thank God.’
She looked up at him standing over her. She thought that he looked so serious, so cold. ‘You don’t seem to like me very much any more, Jacob.’ She said the words sadly.
‘It’s time you were getting ready,’ he said, going over to his desk and opening one of his notebooks. He ran his fingers down the page of neatly entered appointments. ‘Celia Tressing is due here for a private reading in a little more than half an hour.’ He didn’t look up as he spoke. ‘Then we are expected at the Brownlows’.’
‘I said, I don’t think you like me any more.’ Ettie stood up and went over to him. Very gently she touched the back of his neck. She wouldn’t let him ignore her.
But he pulled away from her, making her feel that her touch might somehow taint him. He might as well have struck her.
‘Ettie, stop being so melodramatic.’ He stood up from the desk to confront her, but she turned her back on him. She couldn’t let him look at her. She was humiliated.
‘You know, I was wondering today about where I belonged,’ she said, biting back her tears. ‘I thought I knew. I thought I belonged here with you. But I’m not so sure any more.’
‘Ettie, don’t.’ He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Now you really are being ridiculous. Do you want to go back to those slums I dragged you from?’
‘No. No I don’t,’ she said, sniffing back her tears. ‘But you just remember I can always earn my living if I want. I don’t need the likes of you.’
‘And I need you, do I?’ He was shouting now, something he rarely did. ‘Girls like you, Ettie, are ten a penny. I don’t need anyone. Do you understand? And, even if I did, I could find a replacement whenever I wanted.’
‘Good.’ Her voice shook with emotion. ‘And why don’t you just do that, eh? You go and find someone else. Cos I’m going to see me mum. I’m going to move her out of that bug-hole and find somewhere nice for the both of us. You might think I’m worth nothing, but at least I can afford to get us a decent place to live. I can afford that all right.’
‘I won’t dignify that remark by asking you how you can afford it.’ His face looked ugly and strained with temper. ‘I think you planned to argue with me this evening, Ettie. That you want an excuse to leave now you are a success.’
‘Don’t talk such rubbish.’ Her voice was sneering.
‘It seems lately that you think everything I say is…’
‘Shit?’
‘What?’
‘You heard, Professor Protsky.’ Her lips curled in contempt as she jabbed him sharply in the chest with her finger, emphasising each word as she spoke. ‘Shit. Want me to spell it out for you, do you?’
As she slammed the front door, Ettie, and all the tenants in the house, could hear Jacob yelling after her. ‘Go on, go back to the gutter where you belong. You were right when you said it: you’ll always be a Whitechapel girl; you’ll never get it out of you. Never. Get back to where you belong.’
It was as though Ettie had never been away as she stood in the shadows of the archway leading into the court and watched the scene before her. It was dusk, but the light had an unnaturally vivid quality and the grubby evening air felt more than usually oppressive, made heavy by the threat of the storm which had been gathering since the afternoon. A pair of scrawny hens pecked idly round the broken flagstones at the dusty weeds, pausing occasionally to turn their heads to one side to regard, with their black, beady eyes, the half-naked children with whom they shared the little open space in the centre of the court. A tiny boy sat thoughtfully absorbed in his task of collecting drips in a rusty can from the communal stand-pipe. When his tin was half full he carried it carefully to the other children, who mixed it with dirt making a thick, sticky mud which they fashioned into crumbling pies. Every so often a sudden, vicious but short-lived squabble broke out over the ownership of the piles of discarded oyster shells with which they decorated their muddy creations.
Around the edges of the court, the women were gathered. They either sat on chairs brought out from their rooms, or perched themselves on the warm stone street-door steps. All fanned themselves with the hems of their pinafores, as they chatted and half-heartedly scolded their offspring. Now and then a child would be cuffed round the ear for overstepping the unspoken rules of life in the court, but more often than not the adults didn’t bother, having been made too sluggish by the heady mixture of sultry summer heat and gin.
Ettie stood there and watched. Her mother had claimed she couldn’t move away because she would miss the company of these women who she called her dearest friends. But she wasn’t out with them now, of course, because, as she and Ettie both knew, for the last year or so she had hardly bothered to leave her bed – except to buy her supply of gin or to get a jug of soup from the mission kitchen.
Ettie closed her eyes. She felt exhausted, as though everything had become too much effort. She felt as though she could sit herself down on one of the steps and let everything just wash over her. If only she didn’t care about her mother. But the trouble was, no matter how cruel and negligent Sarah had been, Ettie still did care what happened to her.
But it still took every bit of her strength to push herself away from the wall of the arch and step out into the court itself.
‘Come on girl,’ she said to herself. ‘Move your lazy self.’
It was hard coming back, but she knew she had to make a determined effort to try and persuade her mother to move before it was too late.
‘Hello everyone,’ Ettie said, trying a smile on the assembled women, hoping she sounded brighter than she felt. ‘How are you all doing? All right, are you?’
A woman sitting in the far comer looked up briefly in Ettie’s direction, then turned back to her lap and carried on with her poorly paid piece-work of shelling peas into newspaper. ‘He’s in there, yer know, love.’
‘What, Mum’s lodger, Nora?’
‘That’s the bloke. And he’s right pissed and all. I’d be careful if I was you, girl.’
‘Ta.’ Ettie didn’t move. She stood there and thought about what she should do next. ‘Maisie Bury about?’ she asked.
‘Down the Frying Pan with the others,’ Nora replied, still mechanically splitting the pods and extracting the tender peas from within.
‘Ta,’ said Ettie again. ‘See you.’ And turned to walk back out of the court. As she did so she heard the women’s voices behind her.
‘Fancy telling her that. Toffee-nosed cow like her. Yer should have left her. Let her go in and have him give her a seeing-to. She deserves it, leaving her old mum while she goes off with her fancy. Poncing about in all fancy gear. That frock’d keep me for a year.’
‘Aw, shut up,’ said Nora wearily. ‘I wouldn’t wish that wicked bastard that Sarah’s got herself hiked up with on no one.’ She waved a pea-pod at her neighbour. ‘And nor would you if yer told the truth.’
‘Leave off, Nora. You saying it’s all right for him to do that to her mum, but not to her? What’s so special about that little madam, then?’
‘Yer just bleed’n jealous,’ said Nora, still getting on with her work.
‘Jealous? What, of that little tart? You are having a laugh, ain’t yer? At least the gels round here are honest whores. Not like that little hypocrite.’
Ettie couldn’t make out Nora’s reply because of the other woman’s hollow, spiteful laughter that echoed round the court. But she’d had heard more than enough anyway.
‘Ain’t seen yer round here for a while, girl,’ called the bride known as Mad Milly, as she waved extravagantly to Ettie from across the bar. ‘Come over here and see yer old mate.’
‘Thought yer’d had enough of these parts,’ said Florrie, hurriedly downing her drink before she joined them at the table in the hope of a free refill. ‘What yer doing back here, then?’
‘She’s come back to earn a few bob, ain’t yer, Ett?’ Milly gave Ettie a big, friendly wink and shoved her matily in the ribs.
Ettie returned her smile easily; she felt comfortable back with these women and their uncomplicated ways. ‘It’s good to see you, girls,’ she said. ‘Now, first things first. Who’s having what?’
The three women were soon laughing and joking, sitting there as though it was the most natural thing in the world for Ettie to be dressed up to the nines while she chatted away with her old mates. Florrie and Milly filled her in on what had happened to everyone since Ettie had last been in Whitechapel, and had her almost collapsed with laughter as they told Ettie about Ada’s latest escapades with the local constabulary: the story concluded with Ada blacking a young constable’s eye and getting locked up in the local nick for her trouble. But the women also talked about their more serious concerns about life in Whitechapel – the growing unemployment, the general, worsening, lack of money, the hated Charrington’s campaign to drive the girls off the streets, and even their fear of anarchists, riots and Fenian bombs. But, for all their breathless chat, not once did either of them mention Sarah Wilkins. The two women knew that the increasingly downhill path Ettie’s mother was taking was not a topic for light bar-room conversation – there were some things that were too painful to discuss in public when you were sober. That could wait for a more suitable time.
As Ettie sat down and began dishing out yet another round of drinks, Milly jumped up and waved at someone coming in the door. ‘Look,’ she called out. ‘It’s Maisie. Over here, girl. Over with us.’
Ettie left the table and went over to greet her friend. She held out her arms and hugged her.
‘I saw yer walking past in the court,’ May said coldly, holding her cheek away from Ettie’s proffered kiss, and looking pointedly at Ettie’s fine clothes. ‘So long since we’ve seen yer round here, I was surprised I recognised yer. Thought yer’d forgotten all about us lot.’
‘Course I haven’t forgotten you, May.’ Ettie pulled up a seat for Maisie from the next table.
‘Could have fooled me,’ said May, settling herself down. ‘And yer mum.’
‘Shut up moaning, Maisie,’ said Florrie, flashing a warning with her eyes.
‘No, Florrie,’ said Ettie. ‘Yer don’t have to defend me. She’s right. It has been a long time – too long – since I’ve been back.’
‘Be a bleed’n sight longer if it was me,’ said Milly, belching loudly. ‘Yer wouldn’t catch me hanging round here if I had any choice.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Wouldn’t see me for sodding dust, yer wouldn’t.’
‘How about some more drinks?’ asked Florrie, cheerily. The conversation was all getting a little too close to the bone for her liking: she didn’t want Ettie getting herself all upset and doing a daft thing like leaving the pub before she’d spent all her money on them.
‘Yer on, Florrie,’ said Ettie, smiling as she looked knowingly at her own suddenly empty glass which she’d only just had refilled. ‘Let’s have ourselves a little party, shall we?’ She looked anxiously at Maisie as she spoke.
‘Go on then,’ said May, and sat down, only a little grudgingly, next to Milly.
Ettie squeezed through the crowded bar to the counter. While she was waiting to be served she called to her friends over her shoulder, not caring who heard her. ‘I’ve missed you lot, you know. All of you. And everything else round here.’ She paid the landlord, soaking her sleeve in the puddles of beer on the counter. ‘Well, maybe not everything, eh Patrick?’ she said, shaking the drips from her arm and laughing as she made her way back to the table, balancing the glasses on a tin tray.
‘There you are ladies,’ she said, with a mock genteel curtsey. ‘Get that down you.’
‘I was just trying to think what exactly it was yer could have missed round here,’ said Milly, frowning and shaking her head. ‘I’m buggered if I can think of anything.’
‘Well, apart from you mob, of course,’ Ettie said, then she thought for a moment. ‘And I’ve missed the laughs and when we used to go down the market together.’
May stared pointedly at Ettie’s dress, with her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. ‘Don’t look like yer need no market to me,’ she said.
‘It’s having a good old rake round the barrows that I miss,’ she said, her face as bright from the happy memories as from all the gin she’d drunk. ‘You remember, May, when we used to see what we could get for a farthing? Buying a bit of trim to go round our bonnets. Wondering for ages what colour ribbon to buy. And remember that peacock feather I got once?’
‘Yeah, yer mum went flaming potty, didn’t she?’ said May sourly. ‘Made yer throw it out in case it brought yer’s all bad luck.’
‘You know I never did throw it out. I kept it hidden under me bedding. It’s probably still there.’
‘Well, it ain’t done yer no harm so far, Ett,’ said Florrie, draining yet another glass. ‘If what yer’ve got is bad luck, than let’s all have a bit, eh girls?’
‘Ain’t done yer mum much good, has it?’ said May spitefully. She fiddled unnecessarily with her hair, pushing pins back into place that hadn’t even moved. ‘Now my mum’s a different matter. With our Billy doing so nicely for himself, she’s doing very nicely out of it and all. Doing her right proud he is. She wants for nothing. No wonder he’s got so many girls after him. Lining up for him they are.’
Ettie nodded silently and gulped at her drink.
‘Why don’t you shut up, May?’ said Milly. ‘Yer right getting on me tits. There’s hardly any comparison, is there now, between how Myrt’s treated you lot and how Sarah’s treated Ettie.’
Florrie was looking worried: if a fight broke, it would spoil what promised to be a long night of free drinks, so it was with real relief that when the door opened she saw a big strapping lad with red hair come in through the wreaths of blue tobacco smoke. With him was a tall, skinny chap of about the same age.
‘Look, May,’ she said, nudging the stem-faced Maisie. ‘Here comes your Billy boy. And he’s got that dozy Cecil with him from the wood-yard.’ Florrie leapt to her feet and shouted: ‘Play us a song, Cec.’
‘Yeah, go on, Cec,’ Patrick called from behind the bar. ‘Get this lot dancing and make ’em good and thirsty for plenty more of my beer.’
With much cheering and back patting, Cecil and Billy pushed their way over to the girls. Billy stood behind Milly, facing Ettie. Cecil stood next to him.
‘If you girls’ll do us a dance, I’ll play,’ said Cecil, holding up his battered concertina and grinning his great gormless grin.
‘Well, if that’s all yer want off us,’ beamed Milly. ‘We’ll have to see if we can oblige.’
‘Righto!’ Cecil pulled the little handles of the mother-of-pearl-inlaid squeeze-box and stretched it to its wheezy full width. Then, with a flash of his hands, the music started.
Florrie was first up, sending her chair crashing to the ground as she leapt forward and began skipping around the circle of drinkers who had stood back to watch the show. Soon even Maisie had joined in with the others as they laughed and whooped, jigged and leapt to the wild playing and clapping of the drinkers. They held hands and pulled out in a ring, their skirts flying, their feet whisking up ever bigger flurries of sawdust from the floor as Cecil urged the squeeze-box into ever more complicated tunes and rhythms.
When he stopped for a brief swig of his beer, Ettie took the opportunity to grab his arm. ‘Cecil, is it?’ she gasped.
‘That’s right,’ he said, grinning with pleasure at being spoken to by such a pretty girl. ‘I’m a mate of Bill’s, from work.
‘Well, I’m puffed out, Cecil,’ Ettie told the still-beaming young man. ‘I haven’t been dancing for months, see, and I’m that tired. Here, I’ve got a few bob left, get in a couple of quart pitchers of beer between us.’
‘Patrick,’ called Milly to the barman, her booming voice unaffected by the dancing, ‘sing us one of them sad songs, while we all have a blow. Go on.’
Urged on by his customers, Patrick leaned on the counter and began to sing, in his sweet, mournful tenor, songs from his childhood of the hills and green of the home he had left behind across the sea.
A barmaid helped Cecil carry the big glass jugs of foaming beer over to the girls and Billy, who had sat himself next to Ettie. They plonked the pitchers down on the stained and ringed wooden table top that was already awash with spilled ale.
Tears filled Ettie’s eyes as Patrick’s songs, combined with the drink, took their effect. She turned round as she felt something brush her arm.
‘Yer still wear it then, do yer?’ Billy asked quietly.
Ettie touched the locket at her throat. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I never take it off.’
‘Speak up you two,’ snapped May. ‘I can’t hear yer.’ She leaned closer to her brother. ‘Or have yer got secrets yer wanna keep, Bill?’
‘Fancy some fresh air, Ett?’ asked Billy, ignoring his sister.
Ettie nodded and stood up, letting Billy guide her towards the door.
As they stepped out on to the pavement from the warm fug of the bar, she shivered. ‘I didn’t realise how hot I was in there,’ she said, avoiding looking into his eyes.
Billy took off his coat and put it round her shoulders.
‘Yer did that for me once before,’ she said in almost a whisper.
Billy sank his hands deep in his pockets and leaned against the pub wall. ‘Yer looking good, Ett,’ he said gazing aimlessly up and down the street.
‘Ta.’
They stood quietly, not speaking. Then Billy suddenly called a brief, ‘All right, then?’ and nodded at a man passing along the other side of the road.
The silence fell between them again.
‘This is very smart,’ said Ettie, stroking the strong tweed of the jacket – as much for want of anything better to say as any comment on Billy’s dress sense.
‘I ain’t doing too bad for meself,’ said Billy, kicking at a stone – anything to avoid meeting her eyes.
‘So May was saying.’
‘I’m earning all I need and I’ve still got plenty to take home for Mum. We’ve got them extra rooms now, yer know. The whole top of the house and one downstairs.’
‘I’m glad, Bill,’ said Ettie. ‘I bet she likes that.’ She sighed sadly. ‘I was hoping to do something like that for my mum one day.’
‘She’s in a bad way, Ett, your old mum.’
‘It’s that bloke she’s got there. He frightens the life out of me.’
‘Yer know yer can always depend on me, don’t yer, Ett? If yer want him sorted out or anything. I’ll get Alfie and we’ll go up there and show him what’s what.’
‘To tell you the truth, Bill, I don’t know what I want. Part of me says, yeah, just get the no-good bastard out of there. But last time I suggested it, Mum wouldn’t hear of it. I was going round there tonight anyway to try and persuade her again, but Nora told me he was indoors – that’s what I’m doing here. I was scared, like a stupid bloody kid.’
‘I meant what I said, Ett. Yer ain’t gotta be scared of no one while I’m around.’
‘Ta, Billy, but that last time I talked to Mum, she as good as told me it was nothing to do with me. Him being there is what she wants – so she reckons.’
‘Whatever you decide, Ett, I’ll be there for yer. I mean it, I’ll sort out anyone, no matter how tough he thinks he is. And that goes for that Protsky geezer and all. He don’t impress me.’
Ettie couldn’t bring herself to meet Billy’s urgent stare.
‘Ett. What is it? He’s not upset yer or nothing, has he? I’ll kill him if he has.’
‘No,’ Ettie snapped. ‘He ain’t. What makes you say that anyway?’
‘Nothing. I just wondered why yer was really here, that’s all.’ The man Billy had acknowledged earlier had come back. He was standing across the street looking over at them.
‘How do you mean, why I’m really here? I told you – I came to try and sort out my mum.’ Ettie glared at him, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment that he could read her feelings so easily.
Billy sounded agitated. ‘Look, I know this ain’t exactly the right moment to go off, but I can’t explain all the ins and outs, Ett, I’ve just gotta go. That fellah over the road has been pulling some strokes or other with Alfie, and now Alfie’s gone and got himself well into debt with him. I’m gonna sort it out before it gets too out of hand. If it wasn’t important…’
‘You always was the sensible one, Bill,’ said Ettie tenderly. ‘Sensible or not, I know I wanna get all this sorted out and this bloke out of the way before our Tommy gets wind of it – yer know what a big shot he thinks Alfie is. I don’t want him getting no ideas.’
‘From what May said, I thought you’d be too busy fighting off all the girls to worry about your brothers,’ said Ettie.
‘I dunno what’s got into that gel, Ett, honest. She lives in a bloody dream world, that one.’
‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Billy.’
‘I know I don’t, but I want to. I don’t want yer thinking I was up to anything dodgy.’
‘I know that’s not your way, Bill.’
The door opened behind them, making them both jump.
‘Yer must have a bad conscience you two,’ said May, poking her head round the door. ‘Now, are yer coming in for another drink or what? We’ll all be going home soon.’
‘Ettie’ll be there in a minute, May. We’re just having a little chat then I’m off to see a fellah about a bit of business.’
‘Suit yerself,’ said May. As she let the door slam, the music faded again to a muffled beat.
‘She doesn’t approve of me any more,’ said Ettie, handing Billy back his jacket. ‘And to think she used to be my best friend.’
Billy flicked his coat over his shoulder, his finger hooked under the collar. ‘She’s jealous, that’s all, that she ain’t a beauty like you,’ he said. ‘That’s what it is.’ He smiled and chucked her gently under the chin. ‘I’ve gotta get off, Ett, but promise me yer won’t be a stranger and that yer’ll let me know if yer need any help.’
‘Ta, Bill. I will. Night night.’ She swallowed hard, it was more difficult saying goodbye than she would ever have believed. ‘See you next time I’m over?’
‘Try keeping me away.’ He studied the ground for a moment then said, ‘If yer get fed up – yer know, with what yer doing – I’ll be waiting here for yer, Ett. I’ll always be here for yer.’ Then he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the lips. Before she could say a word he’d sprinted after the man who was just disappearing down Flower and Dean Street.
‘That’s me cleaned out, girls.’ Ettie put down the tray of drinks and tossed her empty purse on to the table.
‘We might as well go when we’ve finished these then,’ slurred Florrie. ‘That old bastard never lets yer have nothing on the slate,’ she complained loudly, making sure that Patrick’s stony-faced wife could hear her. ‘How yer getting home, Ett?’
‘Don’t know, but I know I can’t go back to Jacob like this.’ She giggled tipsily. ‘I think I’m a bit pissed. I’m not even sure I’d be able to find him if I wanted to.’
‘Blimey, Ett, how can yer be pissed? Yer’ve hardly drunk enough to wet yer whistle.’
‘I know, Mill, but I’ve not had no booze for so long and, anyway, Jacob’s not used to seeing me like this.’
‘Well, yer can’t come home with me,’ said May primly. ‘Me mum wouldn’t like it, having an unexpected guest.’
‘Hark at her!’ Milly shrieked with laughter. ‘What, d’yer need an invite to stay round yours now?’
‘I’m not asking you to take me home,’ said Ettie, trying not to laugh as she attempted to focus on the tight-lipped Maisie.
‘Good,’ snapped May, glaring at the still almost hysterical Milly.
‘But I would like to know what’s got into you, May. You used to be my best friend. Remember?’
‘She’s only jealous,’ said Florrie. ‘It’s obvious. Don’t let her upset yer.’
‘That’s what Billy said and all,’ sighed Ettie, ‘that yer was jealous, May. Is it true?’
‘Is it true? Me, jealous of you? Maisie almost exploded from her seat. ‘Who the bloody hell do you think you are?’ she fumed, leaning across the table, her finger pointing into Ettie’s face.
‘I’m Ettie Wilkins,’ giggled Ettie.
‘That’s right,’ yelled May. ‘Ettie Wilkins, a Whitechapel girl, just like the rest of us.’ And with that, Maisie stormed out of the pub, leaving Ettie unsure whether to laugh or cry.
‘Looks like it’s kipping under the arches for me tonight,’ Ettie said eventually, leaning drunkenly against Milly’s shoulder.
‘Not with us around yer, Ett.’ Florrie poked Milly in the side. ‘Whip round,’ she informed her, nodding at the empty glass she was holding up. ‘Chuck out yer mouldies.’
Florrie and Milly rummaged through their pockets, dug out some coppers from somewhere, and tossed the farthings and halfpennies into the glass.
Florrie counted out threepence three farthings on to the table. She stood up, staggered over to Cecil, and grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Leave off that row for a minute,’ she said snatching his squeeze-box from his hand. ‘And give us a farthing.’
Cecil smiled dozily and handed over the money without a qualm. Florrie nodded her thanks. ‘All right, yer can get on with yer playing again now, sweetheart,’ she said, and made her way back to the table with her spoils. She flopped down on to her seat. ‘Gawd alone knows how that dozy great streak of nothing manages to play that music,’ she said, shaking her head in wonder. ‘Still, he’s got a good heart, and he must be all right if he’s a mate of Bill’s.’ Then she handed the money over to Ettie. ‘There y’are, darling. Plenty. Yer can spend the night in Thrawl Street if yer game.’
‘I’ve kipped in the common lodging-houses plenty of times before, Flo, when Mum’s booted me out. It definitely won’t be the first time, but,’ she looked sadly towards the door, ‘it is the first time Maisie’s ever treated me like that. Good job I’ve still got mates like you two, eh?’
Florrie gave her an angelic, gap-toothed grin. ‘I think I might join yer. I don’t feel like going home tonight.’ She winked at Milly.
‘Yer on, girl,’ said Milly, repaying her with a suggestive smile.
Ettie sighed, with the maudlin self-pity brought on by all the gin and ale she’d swallowed. ‘You’re good friends to me, you two. The best friends anyone could ever have.’ She looked towards the door again, thinking of May. ‘I hope we’ll always be friends.’
‘Time we was leaving,’ said Florrie, heaving herself to her feet. ‘It’s been a right good night. Don’t let’s get all miserable now.’
Milly took Florrie’s arm and walked out of the pub ahead of Ettie. Their procession across the bar was accompanied by loud cheers and ribald remarks.
‘Yer only jealous cos I’ve got meself a lady friend,’ responded Florrie from the doorway, and treated them all to an obscene gesture and a loud beery belch as she stepped out into the street, her head held high and her bonnet tipped rakishly over one eye.
‘I’m glad yer’ve cheered up, Flo,’ said Milly, admiringly, patting Florrie on the arm. ‘You had the right hump earlier when yer posh mate didn’t show up tonight.’
“Who’s that then?’ asked Ettie, swaying slightly as she spoke.
‘No one,’ grinned Florrie.
‘Some posh tart, a nurse they reckon, hangs round here sometimes.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Ettie suggestively, getting into the mood for teasing Florrie.
‘Our Flo thought she was well in there and all, didn’t yer Flo?’ said Milly.
Florrie shrugged non-committally.
‘Patrick said he saw her earlier. She went in the pub, looked round, and then run out again. Funny cow she is, Ett. Gawd knows why, but she helps the brides out. Gets rid of their trouble for ’em. She could work in some nice clean place, but she comes down here. Half barmy, if yer ask me.’
‘That’s a good ’un coming from you, Mill,’ said Florrie affectionately. ‘Bleed’n raving, you are.’
With their arms linked as much for support as friendship, the three women managed to walk in a reasonably straight line towards the common lodging-house at Number Eighteen Thrawl Street. They swerved now and then to avoid bumping into the brides who, with hands on hips and the flash of an occasional ankle, lounged against the walls.
There’s so much life here,’ said Ettie, growing increasingly sentimental. ‘So much going on, even this time of night. It’s like a bloody church where I’m staying.’
‘And I bet yer ain’t got nothing like that in Bow neither,’ said Mad Milly, pointing along the road to the hurdy-gurdy player. ‘Time for another little dance, I think, girls.’
But Florrie was having none of it. ‘Come on, Milly, hear that clock striking quarter past? That miserable bastard of a deputy’ll have let all the beds if we don’t get a move on.’
‘Can’t wait to get in bed, eh darling?’ said Milly, elbowing Florrie and almost knocking her into the gutter.
Although so close to the pub, it was just before one when they eventually got to the common lodging-house in Thrawl Street. They stumbled to a halt and bashed on the heavy cast-iron knocker.
‘Come on, open the bleed’n door and let us in, yer miserable old sod,’ bellowed Milly.
Florrie put her finger to her lips. ‘Ssshh, not so loud, Mill, he won’t let us in.’
The door creaked open and there, standing in front of them, was the deputy. He was a fat, ugly man who seemed to thrive on the misery of others. He smelt of a mixture of stale food and wood-smoke from the hours he spent sitting in the little side room which served as his office, watching the comings and goings of the unfortunate lodgers, eavesdropping on them as they sat huddled in groups in the big, dank communal kitchen, listening for any information to use against them.
For a moment he was stuck for words, and just stared in surprise at Ettie’s fine and comparatively spotless clothing. Then he shook himself like a big, tangle-coated dog. ‘Yeah,’ he snarled as he wiped his nose on the back of his broad, hairy hand. ‘What d’yer want?’
Realising the impact she’d had on him, Ettie drew herself up to her full height and, chin in the air, she used her finest tones as taught to her by Professor Jacob Protsky: ‘We are seeking lodgings for the night, my good sir. Now, kindly show these ladies and myself to our rooms.’ With that she brushed past the open-mouthed deputy and into the passage. But it wasn’t going to be as easy as that.
‘Hold on,’ he growled, grabbing her shoulder in his great furry mitt. Where d’yer think you’re going?’
We do have the price of a bed,’ said Florrie, in a comic imitation of Ettie’s diction and brandished the coppers they’d raked up between them in the reluctant deputy’s face.
Without another word, the malodorous man snatched the money from Florrie and stomped away along the dark corridor.
‘Yer wouldn’t think he had a living to earn, miserable old bleeder,’ complained Milly, as they went down the unlit wooden stairs to the cavernous kitchen in the basement. ‘Bet the owners don’t know he gives everyone such a hard time. They’d have him out of here right on his arse, if they did.’
‘Ignore him. Let’s have a cuppa tea and get off to bed,’ said Florrie, flopping down in a chair next to the big cast-iron range. ‘Blimey it’s hot,’ she protested, rubbing her scorching leg as her skirts touched her calf.
‘Then move, yer dozy cow,’ said Milly, spinning the chair round on its back leg, with Florrie still sitting on it, and drawing it up to the big scrubbed pine table standing in the centre of the flagstoned basement.
Ettie watched the two women teasing each other: seeing how they cared for each other made her feel very lonely.
‘Now then,’ said Milly, rubbing her hands together as she surveyed the room. ‘Who wants to club in a bit o’ tea and sugar with us?’
Two elderly women proffered blue paper screws of tea dust, which they dug out of their layers of tattered clothing. They said nothing, just gathered eagerly round the table near the three newly arrived women.
‘Lovely,’ said Milly, adding her own and Florrie’s stores of tea, and then tipping their combined rations in the big earthenware pot.
‘I’ve got a drop of milk to share,’ said a young woman. She was really no more than a girl, but was obviously in an advanced stage of pregnancy. ‘And some sugar.’
Ta, sweetheart,’ said Milly, taking the milk can from her. ‘But yer be careful. Yer don’t wanna go giving all yer stuff to strangers. Yer look after yerself.’
‘When are you having your baby?’ asked Ettie, pulling a chair out for the girl to join them.
When Ettie spoke, the girl first looked surprised, then suspicious. ‘Blimey, the way yer talk. Yer ain’t from round here, are yer?’
‘Aw yes she is,’ laughed Florrie. ‘She’s a Whitechapel girl through and through, but she’s got herself a fancy fellah and some education, ain’t yer girl? Tell her about how yer went on the stage.’
Milly scowled at Florrie and gestured with her head towards the two elderly women.
Florrie understood immediately. ‘And don’t bother trying to rob her when she’s asleep,’ she called in their direction, jerking her thumb at Ettie. ‘We did all our money in the boozer tonight. Got it?’
Ettie instinctively put her hand to her throat where her necklace nestled safely beneath her blouse. But the elderly women didn’t notice; they were too busy mumbling about Florrie’s unfair accusations, though they didn’t push their luck arguing with her, especially not with Mad Milly around. And anyway, they were as keen as the young girl to hear Ettie’s story of how she had met and moved in with her fancy man – they thought they might pick up a few ideas themselves.
‘It’s like something out of a book,’ said the girl, putting her thick china mug down on to the table, when Ettie had finished her story. ‘I wish something like that could happen to me.’ She looked down and stroked her swollen belly. ‘Ain’t much chance unless I get rid of this,’ she said ruefully.
‘Wasn’t there anyone who could have helped you?’ asked Ettie. ‘No one you could go to?’
‘What d’yer think she’s in here for?’ rasped one of the old women. ‘Cos her maid’s got the night off?’
‘I didn’t think. I’m sorry.’ Shame-faced, Ettie poured the girl some more tea.
‘Oi, fair does, gimme some of that. Don’t let her have it all.’ The other old woman shoved her cup towards Ettie.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘It’s a while since I’ve shared like this.’
‘Well, get back where yer belong,’ she hissed, leaning over Ettie and spraying her face with saliva thick with tea and pipe tobacco.
‘Shut yer gob, granny,’ said Florrie in a low warning voice. ‘This is where she belongs, with her own. With her friends.’ Then she turned to the girl. ‘And you sit back down and all, darling. Don’t let that old cow frighten yer.’
Knowing that Florrie and Milly weren’t to be messed with, the two women filled their cups and retired to a bench near the range.
‘Thank the girl for her milk,’ Florrie instructed them.
The old women mumbled something which might have been their thanks.
‘Take no notice of them old bats,’ said Milly, patting Ettie’s shoulder. ‘It’s being hungry: gives ’em the hump.’
‘I do remember what it’s like, Mill,’ said Ettie, staring into her tea. Then she looked up at her two friends. ‘I don’t know what to do about Mum,’ she said suddenly. ‘It’s so stupid. Now I’ve got the money to help her she won’t let me. There’s something wrong. She must be scared of him. Really scared. She’s never cared before who stayed there, so long as she got her gin money. She knows I’ll give it to her but she still won’t get shot of him.’
‘I’ve heard a lot of talk about him,’ said Florrie, more seriously than she ever usually spoke. ‘He’s a strange one and no mistake.’
‘You don’t have to tell me, Flo. I lived there with him.’
‘Flo’s right though, Ett. I ain’t being nasty or nothing, and no disrespect to Sarah, but what does he want yer mum for? Be honest, love, she ain’t no beauty no more, is she?’
‘Milly!’
‘It’s all right, Flo, Milly’s only telling the truth. And it’s what everyone thinks anyway,’ said Ettie, embarrassed at her friend’s discomfort. ‘Mum’s in a real state. I know that. The only thing I can think of is that he must want a place where he can do as he likes. Where he can lie low. Somewhere that no one bothers him. Ettie shook her head, refusing Florrie’s offer of a pinch of snuff. ‘He knows she’s too weak to sort him out.’
‘Well, why don’t yer get someone to chuck him out?’ asked the girl.
‘I’ve gone over all this before,’ said Ettie, smiling kindly at her. ‘Believe me. But she refuses to let me do anything. Up till now, anyway.’ Ettie searched up her sleeve for her handkerchief. The girl’s eyes widened at the pretty lace-trimmed square as Ettie dabbed at her nose. ‘She actually spat in my eye the last time I tried to persuade her to let me get rid of him.’
‘At least yer tried,’ said Florrie, soothing her.
‘Not hard enough though, Florrie. Why doesn’t she want me to help her?’
‘It’s no good crying, Ett. Be honest with yerself,’ said Milly, tenderly. ‘She’s too far gone for anyone to do anything. She’s been knocking it back for so many years her brain must be pickled by now.’
‘I know, that’s why I’ll have to do something,’ Ettie said. ‘Get my courage together and go there, whether that bastard’s there with her or not. I’ll have to get to the bottom of it.’
‘Why don’t yer ask Billy to go with yer?’
‘I’ve thought of that, more than once, and he’s offered to go with me; but when I said to Mum I’d get rid of the lodger – I told yer, she went barmy.’
‘I reckon she’s scared he’d come back when there’s no one there to help her and finish her off to get his own back,’ said the young girl. ‘Sounds like she wouldn’t be free of him unless someone does for him good and proper.’
‘We’ve all thought that,’ said Milly, angrily. ‘But none of us was stupid enough to say it, was we, when we could see Ettie’s so upset?’
The young girl blushed and dropped her chin to her chest.
‘Leave her alone, Milly,’ said Ettie. ‘It ain’t her fault. And she’s right in a way. Murdering the bastard’s probably the only way to get rid of him for good. And Billy’d sort it out for me as well, if I asked him. He’s got the connections.’ She laughed wryly. ‘Good job I’m not the type to take advantage of my friends, eh?’
‘So yer do still like Billy, then?’
‘Yes, Flo, I do. But it’s not so simple. And now I’m living with Jacob…’
‘How about if we go with yer to yer mum’s?’ asked Milly, brightening at the thought of a row. ‘He could hardly take on the three of us, now could he?’ She studied her nails casually. ‘I’ve got rid of one or two fellahs in me time.’
‘I could help,’ said the girl, sensing an opportunity to get herself back into their good books.
‘Even if we was planning to do anything as barmy as Milly here’s suggesting, we wouldn’t let yer come. Not in your condition,’ said Florrie gently. This is a right hard bastard we’re talking about. Knock a man down with one blow, let alone a little scrap like yerself.’
Ettie took the girl’s hand. ‘Ta, it was a kind thought, but like she said, this one’s no ordinary bloke.’
Living up to her nickname, Mad Milly suddenly lifted her skirts and scrambled across the table top. ‘Look who’s here,’ she shrieked, and grabbed hold of the woman who had groped her way down the dark stairs and into the basement. Milly waltzed her wildly round the room. ‘It’s Polly Nichols, as I live and breathe,’ she said when they finally came to a stop. ‘I ain’t seen yer for months, girl. How are yer?’
‘Pissed as a pudden!’ leered Polly giddily, swivelling her eyes as she tried to fix her stare on Milly.
‘Yer all know Mary Ann – Polly – Nichols, don’t yer?’ said Milly, showing off her friend like she was a prize exhibit at a cattle show.
‘All too well,’ said a voice from the stairway. It was the deputy.
‘I don’t know how yer got past me this time, Nichols, but I’ll tell yer again, yer ain’t staying till I’ve seen the colour of yer money. Got it?’
Polly swayed towards the man and threw her arms round his neck.
He shied away from her boozy breath. ‘Gawd help us, woman, yer’ll suffocate me.’
‘Can’t I give yer the money tomorrow, darling?’ she rasped in what she thought was a seductive lisp. ‘When I’ve done a bit of business. I’m dead on me feet.’
‘No money, no bed. Now out.’
‘Let me…’ Ettie began to offer her the price of a bed for the night, then remembered that she wasn’t even paying for her own lodging.
‘Go on. Yer know she’ll be good for it in the morning, yer bloody tight sod,’ shouted Milly. ‘Let her stay.’
‘Aw no. I know her of old,’ he said firmly. ‘And she’s got more chance of being asked to kip in the bleed’n palace with the Prince of Wales himself than of staying here for the night. And any more out of you, and you can piss off and all,’ he threatened.
The two elderly women sat on the bench tutting disapprovingly, while thoroughly enjoying the free entertainment.
The deputy stuck his hands on his hips. ‘So, what’s it to be? Fourpence or out?’
‘We can’t help yer, Polly, sorry,’ said Florrie shrugging, ‘We’re boracic, the three of us.’
‘It’s all right,’ hiccuped Polly, ‘I’ll soon earn the money for me bed.’ She sashayed round the room, flicking her skirts at the pucefaced deputy. ‘Look how lovely I looks tonight. She tilted her black straw bonnet to a more saucy angle on the side of her rat’s nest of tangled brown hair.
‘Lovely? She must be drunker than she looks,’ sputtered one of the elderly women. ‘She looks a right bleed’n wreck.’
Polly scoffed at the elderly women while scratching savagely at her bodice, doing her best to get at the fleas which fed beneath her thick layers of clothing.
‘I already told you once to shut up and mind yer own business,’ warned Florrie, pointing at the old woman who’d foolishly made the comment about Polly. Then she turned to the deputy. ‘I suppose it’s all right if we give her a cuppa tea before she goes?’
But Polly didn’t wait for the deputy’s answer. ‘No thanks all the same, girl, I’ll have to go and have me bit o’ jolly before I passes out.’ She screwed up the side of her face in a drunken attempt at a wink and went staggering towards the stairs which led up to the street. ‘Jolly Polly, eh girls?’ she called over her shoulder as she grabbed hold of the rickety banister rail.
‘Leave some of yer things with me, I’ll look after ’em for yer,’ one of the old women from the bench croaked at her.
‘That’s bleed’n right,’ Polly shouted from the head of the stairs. ‘And have yer nick me drawers?’ She stumbled back down the stairway and into the kitchen so that they could all get a good view, then she lifted up the skirts of her brown linsey frock, exposing her grey woollen petticoat and flannel drawers. ‘Only got these the other day. Nearly new they was.’ Then she did a groggy little jig, striking the metal tips of her boots on the bare flagstone floor, then tottered up and away again, into the darkness of the streets on the look-out for the price of a bed for the night.
The women sat talking for a while longer, going over yet again what could be done about Sarah Wilkins’ lodger. But still they came to no solutions. No matter what they suggested, Ettie wasn’t convinced that anyone could do much, with her mum or with her lodger.
‘It’ll be a bit of a comfort to know that you two were at least keeping an eye on her for me,’ said Ettie wearily. ‘I’ll treat you both.’
‘We’ll do what we can,’ said Florrie doubtfully.
‘Maybe I should chuck it all in and just come back home,’ said Ettie despondently.
‘I thought I was the one who was meant to be mad,’ chuckled Milly. ‘Don’t act so flaming daft, Ettie Wilkins. What good would that do – both of yers being in the shit?’
They sat in gloomy silence for a few long minutes, then Florrie said, ‘Well, the tea’s all gone,’ and upended the pot to prove her point. ‘Who’s for bed then, girls?’
They made their way to the dormitory with Florrie and Milly walking ahead, arm-in-arm and talking in low, affectionate whispers. Behind them, they heard the rough, familiar voice of one of the other local brides who had just come in after her night’s work. She was shouting, in a drunken, loud-mouthed holler, at the deputy who had stayed in the kitchen to make sure the oil-lamp had been put out and the fire damped down for the night.
‘I saw that Polly Nichols on me way round here,’ they heard her say. ‘Pissed as a fart, she was. I tried to get her to come back here with me, but she wouldn’t. Said you’d told her to bugger off. But she said to make sure I told yer that she was gonna do well for herself tonight and earn a right pretty penny.’
‘She was well gone when she left here over an hour ago,’ they heard the deputy reply. ‘Gawd knows what state the trollop’s in now. Who’d be interested in going with her when she’s like that?’ The woman spoke again. ‘I dunno. And that’s why I said to her, “Yer barmy,” I said, “working in that state.” I mean, anything can happen to yer, can’t it?’
Celia flinched as her father told the butler to fetch a second bottle of claret from the cellar – alcohol made his moods even more unpredictable than usual. When supper was over and he insisted she accompany him to the drawing room, where he drank several glasses of brandy, her nerves were on a razor’s edge.
She had been hoping that he would go out and leave her alone, but he had been insistent that she go with him. But at least evenings spent in the drawing room didn’t usually finish in the same grotesque way as those in the operating room. More often than not, he wanted his daughter as nothing more than a target at which to fling all his opinions, invective and general bile about what he considered to be the ills of modern times. This night proved to be no exception.
He waved the newspaper angrily at her before tossing it indignantly to the floor.
‘Unemployed?’ he fumed. ‘Unemployed? Bloody newspapermen. Why don’t they say what they mean? Why not tell the truth for once? Why make up a new word when it’s just another damned fancy term for idleness? Damned do-gooders interfering with the natural order of things. Going where they have no business, stirring people up.’
He reached down and picked up a random loose sheet from the paper and waved it menacingly at Celia. ‘Homelessness? Poverty?’ He screwed the paper into a rough ball and flung it across the room. ‘Drunken beasts, more like. Of course they’re poor.’ His voice was rising to an alarming pitch. ‘Who’d give work to those miserable creatures? The constabulary would have done us all a favour if they’d have finished off the lot of them when they had the chance last year in Trafalgar Square. When I walk to the bloody club they’re there in front of me. Sleeping in the park, if you don’t mind. The royal park. How’s a man expected to walk the streets to his club in peace?’
He stood up, swayed unsteadily, and stumbled over to the bell set in the wall to ring for Smithson.
‘Fetch my malacca cane,’ he instructed the ferret-faced man when he arrived in the drawing room. ‘The pearl-topped one.’ He paused and frowned, staring fixedly into the middle distance. ‘I’m off to the club. The vermin won’t stop me going out for the evening.’
‘Shall I summon a hansom for you, sir?’ asked Smithson, inclining his head obsequiously.
‘No!’ he turned on the butler, his face vicious. ‘I intend to walk there. To stroll at my leisure. I won’t be driven off the streets of my own city by scum.’
Smithson nodded and smiled ingratiatingly as he left the room.
Tressing kicked out at the screwed up ball of newspaper, but missed it and fell forward at a stumbling run.
Celia didn’t even think of laughing.
The butler returned with the cane and handed it to his master.
Bartholomew held it at arm’s length and grasped the ornate, pearl-topped handle. Then he withdrew the long slender blade from its secret sheath in the cane and ran his thumb along its length to test its edge.
‘Needs sharpening, man.’ His words blasted out at the butler. ‘Can you do nothing without orders?’
When her father finally left the house, Celia went to her room on the pretext of retiring for the night. She sat patiently on her bed, filling her journal with the day’s trivia, until she was sure that Smithson had started on his own pastime for the evening: his goal being to empty down his throat the contents of the brandy decanter which the eagle-eyed butler – and Celia – had noted her father had forgotten to replace in the Tantalus.
With her blond hair hidden by her hood and her bag of instruments and medicinal compounds secreted under her cloak, Celia slipped out of the front door and into the night, an anonymous figure in black. She waited until she was two squares away from her house before she stopped a hansom.
‘Where to, miss?’ asked the cabman, touching his finger to the brim of his hat.
‘Whitechapel,’ she answered simply.