The Whitechapel Girl Read online

  As the first ill-tuned notes of the piano fought against the cracked tones of Ada’s teeth-grinding vibrato, Florrie leaned across the table and said to Alf: ‘Your Billy’ll be upset over Ettie Wilkins. Her buggering off with that strange bloke. Living with him down Bow way, they reckon.’

  May’s lip began to quiver, but her tears were stilled when her attention was caught by the entrance into the pub of her little brother, Tommy. She sat still until he was in grabbing distance, then made a lunge for his ear. She was right on target.

  ‘Ouch!’ he moaned, wriggling vainly to escape her clutches. ‘Let go!’

  ‘I’ll give yer let go,’ said May, giving his ear an extra tweak for luck. ‘Now, we’re all fascinated to know, what the hell do yer think yer doing in here?’

  Alf rolled his eyes and Florrie grinned, pleased with this diversion.

  ‘Are you going to answer me or what?’ hissed May through her teeth.

  ‘I ain’t doing nothing. Now let go,’ complained Tommy; He looked pleadingly at his brother. ‘Tell her, Alf.’

  ‘So what are yer doing?’ asked Alf. ‘What are yer up to this time?’ He sounded as bored as he looked at the prospect of yet another family ruck brought on by the antics of the youngest of the Bury clan.

  ‘I’m just getting old Maggie Philpotts her jug of mild,’ squealed Tommy, waving the china jug to verify his story. ‘She give me ha’penny to fetch it.’

  ‘See, May, he don’t mean no harm. Let the kid go,’ said Alf.

  ‘You’re only sticking up for him cos he’s as bad as you was at that age,’ butted in Florrie with a happy nod.

  May leant across Tommy to get closer to the interfering Florrie and said in soft, menacing tones: ‘And you can keep your two-bob’s worth to yerself and all.’

  Florrie rearranged her ragged shawl pertly round her shoulders. ‘Charming, I don’t think,’ she said, all tight-lipped indignation.

  Dragging back as far away from his captor as she would allow, fanning his hand back and forth across his face, Tommy spoilt May’s moment of authority: ‘Cor blimey,’ he grimaced, ‘you stink of gin, May. And I bet Mum don’t know you’re in here either.’

  ‘I think it’s time to go, Maise,’ said Alf, taking charge of his little brother’s now very red ear.

  ‘I had better be getting back,’ said May to Alf as she squinted a silent threat at Tommy. ‘Mum’ll be wondering where I am. Them rabbit skins won’t pull ’emselves.’ She pushed back her chair, stood up and walked towards the door. ‘See yer later, Flo, Alf,’ she called, barely able to make herself heard over the increasing din – the result of the drinkers foolishly making the mistake of cheering Ada’s first song. She was now in full, throat-warbling flight.

  ‘I’ll make sure he gets old Mags her drop of ale,’ Alf shouted. ‘And that young fellah-me-lad here keeps his trap shut when he gets home.’

  * * *

  Billy peered round the open door into the clamour of the bustling workshop. His governor, Cyril Reed, was standing at the big sawbench talking to one of the joiners. Billy took his chance and slipped inside, making for the stairs that led up to the massive timber storeroom which stretched the whole length of the building. He’d nearly reached the top when he heard Cyril’s unmistakable holler over the whining of the saws.

  ‘Oi! Bury. Down here.’

  Billy dropped his head and climbed slowly back down to the workshop. Nobody stopped what they were doing, but he could feel all his workmates’ eyes on him as he walked across the big, high-ceilinged space towards the boss.

  ‘Yes, Mr Reed,’ he said politely, as soon as he was within a distance when he wouldn’t have to shout.

  ‘In my office, Bury.’

  Cyril Reed pushed open the door of his office, in reality little more than a paper-strewn cubby-hole, and nodded for Billy to go inside.

  Billy stood, hands behind his back, next to his boss’s small wooden desk – a surprisingly ornate Davenport that Reed had made as his apprentice piece many years ago.

  ‘Cuppa?’

  ‘Yes please, Mr Reed.’ Billy couldn’t believe his luck – he’d thought he’d been in for a right rollicking, and here he was being offered a cup of tea.

  ‘Put the kettle on then, Bury,’ he said, pointing at the spirit stove which stood on the sawdust-covered window-ledge. ‘I think it’s time we had a little chat.’

  With a sinking heart, Billy went about preparing the tea while Cyril Reed gave him the benefit of his experience regarding young men’s responsibilities to their employers.

  After what felt like hours of his governor talking non-stop while they drained two potsful of tea, Billy was relieved that Reed at last seemed to be winding down.

  ‘So I hope yer think I’m being fair, son,’ he said. ‘After all, I took yer on here as a favour to yer old mum when yer dad, God rest his soul, had his accident down the docks. We was born down the same turning, yer know.’

  ‘Yeah, so yer said,’ Billy said, dreading that he was about to launch into one of his marathon explanations of the Reed family history. He would have preferred a straightforward rucking to that, any day.

  ‘But we ain’t got time to go over all that now,’ said Reed, much to Billy’s relief. ‘There’s too much work out there to be getting on with.’

  Billy took his opportunity: he stood up and made his move towards the office door, but he wasn’t quick enough.

  ‘Before yer go, son,’ said Reed. ‘I want to know that yer’ll take what I’ve said to heart. Yer’ve been a good lad up till now. But I dunno what’s got into yer these past few weeks. Yer a grafter, just like yer old man was before yer. So I only hope that yer gonna pull yerself together and follow his example and not take the wrong road and wind up like yer Uncle Davey. And like that Alfie of yours looks like doing.’

  Billy shuffled around uncomfortably and ran his finger between his collar and his neck. It was warm in the crowded little room.

  ‘I can see yer hate all this talk about families and turning out right, lad. And that yer reckon I’m making too much of yer going down the pub for a few pints; but if yer don’t buckle down, I’ll have to let yer go. It’d be the same whether yer was Myrtle Bury’s boy or Queen Victoria herself’s young ’un.’

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ said Billy into his chest.

  ‘Well, if I do catch yer slipping off again, me lad, there’s plenty as’d be glad of yer job. Especially with work the way it is these days.’

  Billy nodded, shame-faced at what he knew was the truth. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It really won’t happen again. I promise.’

  ‘All right, let’s see if yer mean what yer say. Show me yer interested. There’s a load of timber been delivered what wants stacking and I reckon my back shouldn’t have to put up with all that carrying and loading at my age. If yer fancy earning a few bob extra, get it up to the storeroom before yer catch up with the rest of yer jobs. If yer do it quick enough, I’ll see about letting yer do it regular. Go on, get on with yer.’

  ‘Thank yer, Mr Reed,’ said Billy. ‘I’ll get right on with it.’

  ‘And in future yer wanna make sure that yer get some grub down yer if yer going to go drinking.’

  ‘Yer, right, thanks Mr Reed.’ And with that Billy was out of the office, into the yard and hoisting the first pile of boards on to his shoulder before Cyril Reed had the chance to offer him any more advice.

  He climbed up into the storeroom, heaved the timbers from his shoulder on to the stacks and then took out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. He walked over to the dusty mullioned window and looked out on to the rooftops of the adjoining houses. A sleek, glossy pigeon with its chest- and neck-feathers puffed out in full courting fettle was striding and bobbing round a female bird. She, however, was determinedly indifferent to the male bird’s advances, and continued pecking at some unseen morsel while he wore himself out with his unheeded dance.

  ‘Don’t waste yer time on her, mate,’ Billy advised t
he strutting bird. ‘She’ll only break yer heart.’

  Chapter 8

  Ettie let out a loud sigh, and dropped down heavily into the armchair. She was eating better than she had ever done before, she was certainly cleaner, and they had sorted out the sleeping arrangements – she and Jacob now shared the big brass bed, with a bolster chastely and firmly placed between them. But after nearly a week of solid learning, she was as exhausted as if she’d been fur-pulling night and day for a month.

  ‘It’s me brain, Jacob,’ she complained. ‘It ain’t used to all this stuff. I can’t do it.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said harshly. ‘Why do you think I picked you? Now concentrate.’

  Ettie rubbed her hands over her face. ‘I should’ve gone and seen May before now,’ she said irritably. ‘And,’ she lowered her voice. ‘I’m worried about me mum.’

  ‘I know, Ettie,’ he said, less gently than she might have hoped. ‘But one thing at a time. Work first, then pleasure.’

  ‘I don’t think worrying about me mum’s anything to do with pleasure,’ she said without looking at him.

  ‘Now guessing the cards. Like the trick we did at the gaff.’

  Now she was looking at him. ‘So yer mean…’

  ‘Not “yer”, Ettie.’

  ‘Oh, all right. So you mean it was a trick when I wrote down that it was the two of hearts, then?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So it wasn’t magic?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say that. It was magic, Ettie, real magic, but not the magic you mean.’

  ‘Eh? I mean, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Listen, Ettie. People want to believe that magic exists. And, with a little help from me, from us, they can.’

  ‘What sort hof help would that be, then?’

  Jacob smiled at her efforts to emulate his speech. ‘You are a good student, Ettie, quick.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she insisted, flushing happily at his praise. ‘Tell me whatyer… what you mean.’

  ‘I’ll tell you a story,’ said Jacob, and squatted next to her chair. As he spoke, he described his visions in the air with his hands. ‘There was a famous travelling menagerie. And, throughout the whole of Europe, wherever it stopped, crowds would gather to see the wonders it had to show. But one day the menagerie came to a town which already had a visiting circus camped in the main square. The crowds had had their fill of wild beasts, so the menagerie earned no money in that place. The performers and their creatures went hungry.

  ‘The circus and the menagerie became enemies, keeping their plans secret, trying to reach the next town first.

  ‘Then, one day, the menagerie’s elephant died. What could they do? It had been the star of their show. How could they possibly compete with the circus who still had such a creature?

  ‘The owner of the menagerie knew exactly what to do: he had to work his magic on the crowd. He waited until the circus camped in a field on the outskirts of a big and prosperous town. And, as they worked, he watched them. He looked on as they set up their tents and enclosures, listened as the circus people boasted of the enormous crowd they would get that night and how they would earn plenty of money now that the rivalry from the menagerie was no more.

  ‘Then he spied on them as they put up their brightly painted posters around the town, heard them crowing that theirs was the only show with a live elephant. He mingled with the townspeople who cheered as the tumblers rode by on their prancing ponies through the streets, calling to the people that the circus – the only show worth seeing – was in town.

  ‘When the circus parade had finished, the owner of the menagerie went back to his camp and dressed in his finest scarlet livery, then he made his own way through the streets.

  ‘“Come and see the only dead elephant in the land!” he called.

  ‘I was working with the circus. And I can tell you that we did no business in that town. No business at all until that great creature had rotted entirely away from its huge skeleton. And even then it was still a major attraction. People paid money to gaze upon the heap of huge bleached bones. I learnt a lot from that experience, Ettie, and so should you.’

  Ettie frowned, puzzled by the meaning of his strange story.

  He smiled. ‘Always find something different, something to tease the wearied appetites of the public. People always want a new sensation, and the successful showman gives it to them. And the public also always wants beauty. So even if we have holes in our boots, Ettie, we must weave our magic and let them see only what they want to see. Beauty, that is what they want.’

  ‘Least I’ve got something right,’ she said, and held up her legs, showing Jacob the almost entirely worn-out soles of her boots. ‘Bet yer ain’t seen no holes like these ’uns.’

  ‘I only meant metaphorical holes, Ettie.’

  ‘Gawd, I don’t know if I’ve got any of them,’ she said warily.

  ‘You don’t need them, Ettie,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘We’ll go out and buy you some new ones.’

  ‘What, proper new, or off-the-boot-doctor new?’

  He laughed. ‘Proper new. Now, go and find yourself a cape from the trunk, and we’ll see what we can buy for those feet of yours.’ Ettie didn’t need a second chance. She was in the bedroom before he had even finished speaking, all thoughts of missing her friend and worrying about her mum forgotten. She knew exactly which cape she would wear. She had been through the piles of clothes several times, admiring their faded beauty, planning which skirt would look pretty with which bodice.

  Within moments she was standing by the front door, impatiently waiting for Jacob to pick up his hat and dandified cane. ‘We going or what?’ she yelled along the hallway.

  Jacob pulled on his gloves and closed the door behind them. ‘A lady never acts in such a manner, Ettie,’ he reminded her. ‘Don’t forget what you have been learning. Modulate your tone. Please.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ she said grinning happily, and dropped a wobbly curtsey.

  In the street, Jacob held out his stick and hailed a passing hansom.

  Ettie was so dazzled at the prospect of riding in a cab that she didn’t utter a word, modulated or otherwise, while Jacob instructed the driver through the trap-door in the roof.

  ‘Marshall and Snelgrove, thank you driver.’

  With a click from the cabman’s tongue and a shake of the reins, the hansom jerked away.

  ‘I ain’t never been in no cab before,’ she whispered to Jacob.

  ‘You don’t have to whisper, Ettie. But,’ he gestured slightly with his hand, ‘remember you don’t have to bellow.’

  ‘Yer can afford cabs,’ she said quietly. ‘Yet all this week yer ain’t done a stroke. Not a single show in a gaff or nothing.’

  ‘I told you, Ettie, I have a little money. Enough for our needs.’

  ‘Then what we doing all this work for?’

  Jacob answered her slowly, an unmistakable tone of irritation in his voice. ‘I told you, I want to build a reputation here as good as the one I had in Paris.’

  ‘If yer was doing so well over there, why didn’t yer stay in Paris then?’

  Jacob drew in an impatient breath. ‘I also told you that I had to leave Paris in a hurry.’

  ‘But yer never said why.’

  ‘Have you ever been to Marshall and Snelgrove’s store, Ettie?’

  ‘Yer know I bleed’n ain’t,’ she said, deliberately choosing her words to make him wince. Just as he had deliberately changed the subject yet again.

  * * *

  ‘All this cloth yer’ve bought me is so lovely, Jacob,’ Ettie said under her breath. She was intimidated by the splendour of the shop and had waited until the shop assistant had left them to return a bale of muslin to the shelves before she had dared to speak.

  ‘I’m glad you approve,’ said Jacob, fingering a swatch of lemon-yellow watered silk.

  ‘And don’t think I ain’t grateful, but what am I gonna do with it all?’

  ‘The intention was for you to
make something decent to wear. You cannot perform without the appropriate props. And, lovely as you look in those, they do not give the impression of success that we need to convey.’

  ‘Sodding hell,’ she said more loudly than she’d intended. She looked around sheepishly and dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘I was hoping you wasn’t going to say that,’ she said glumly, and sucked on her teeth.

  ‘Why is that? Is something wrong? Don’t you care for the colours? The fabric?’

  ‘They’re all handsome. Honest.’ She looked round to see if anyone else was in earshot. ‘Look, I know it’s stupid, but I can’t sew.’

  Jacob gave her a disbelieving look. ‘You can’t sew?’

  ‘I never had no need to, did I?’ she said, her voice rising in volume with anxiety. ‘Only thing I ever did with a needle was darn me drawers. I never had nothing except what Mum got from the toot stall. And then I didn’t always keep it for very long. If it was any good, it wound up down the pawnshop, to pay for her gin.’

  The horrified expression on the returning shop assistant’s face was enough to prevent Jacob from uttering another word.

  Chapter 9

  ‘I didn’t think you were ever coming, Celia,’ pouted Sophia grumpily. ‘Do you realise how long I’ve been waiting for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ panted Celia, patting the rise and fall of her chest with her white-gloved hand. ‘I had to wait until Father left for his club. I thought he’d never go.’

  ‘I accept your apology. And you’re here now – I suppose that’s what matters.’ Sophia consulted the marcasite fob-watch pinned to her bodice. ‘Come on, we should go in. It’ll be starting soon.’ The friends stepped from the bustling street, busy with the evening homeward-bound traffic, into the cool, marbled entrance hall of the meeting rooms. Their silk skirts rustled expensively as they brushed past the rows of chairs in the crowded, yet hushed auditorium.

  ‘I love your bonnet, Celia,’ trilled Sophia, as she nodded her thanks to the admiring, sober-suited gentlemen who gave up their seats for them. ‘Very pretty with your fair curls.’