The Whitechapel Girl Read online

  That’s right,’ Ada told her for the third time. ‘I told yer. All the houses round here are divided up into rooms like that.’

  ‘But the ceiling can’t be as low as you suggest.’

  ‘Look, I’m telling yer. Me oldest boy’s not head and shoulders higher than me, and he can’t stand up straight.’

  ‘That’s right, dear,’ said Florrie, ostentatiously playing with her empty glass. ‘Ada’s boy can’t stand up.’

  ‘What do you do for washing and cooking? Do you have separate facilities?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know what “facilities” are, but I don’t suppose we’ve got ’em,’ laughed Flo. ‘But I do know we ain’t got no proper place to cook, not in Bernsley’s Court we ain’t. Except the range in the downstairs back of Number Four.’

  ‘That’s right. If we ever gets a bit of scrag-end down the market, the old girl in there does it for us.’

  ‘I love a bit of scrag-end stew,’ said Florrie, licking her chops. ‘I could murder a drop now.’

  ‘Or the baker lets us stick our bit of grub in his ovens when he’s finished baking for the day. But me and Florrie usually get’s a bit of hot something or other from down the soup kitchen or one of the missions.’

  ‘How ever do you cope?’ Celia was beginning to realise the enormity of any ambition to start a project to help these women. What could one person do?

  ‘A drop a gin helps,’ said Florrie craftily, looking sadly at her empty glass.

  Celia handed over more coins for another round of drinks, remembering to refuse a refill for herself.

  As Florrie slid the drinks across the table, she flashed a warning look at one of the other brides to keep out of her territory: she wasn’t about to share a find like Celia. ‘Yer musn’t think we don’t have nothing,’ she said proudly as she slid on to her seat. We do have the stand-pipe for water. That’s turned on most of the time.’

  ‘Leave off!’ said Ada. ‘Most of the time it’s a trickle of rusty brown piss.’

  ‘Still better than having a scummy tank like some of them have to put up with in the Buildings. And every house down our court’s got its own lav for the tenants’ own exclusive use.’

  ‘Aw, pardon me,’ mocked Ada, her tongue loosened by the gin. ‘I forgot we lived in a bleed’n palace.’

  ‘At least we’ve got a roof over our heads. I ain’t been near the spike for months,’ said Florrie haughtily.

  ‘The spike?’

  ‘For them what can’t even afford the common lodging-houses, dear. Bloody bug-holes, the lot of them. Shake whole box of Keating’s over them beds and they’re still running alive. And them spiteful, slave-driving bastards what run ’em. I hate them. Only half a step away from being stuck in the workhouse proper, they are.’

  ‘I’ve wound up in there more than a few times in the past,’ said Ada, surprisingly quietly. ‘And it made me appreciate the lodging-house I was in afore I got me room in the court, I can tell yer.’

  ‘But the court’s our home now, ain’t it, Ada?’ said Florrie.

  The thought of anyone speaking fondly of Bernsley’s Court astonished Celia. She could hardly make sense of this bewildering world where such a place was thought of as home. And then there were the horrors of the spike – whatever that was. For want of knowing what to ask next, Celia suggested the two women might like another drink. They agreed all too eagerly, and Ada was up at the bar almost before Celia had drawn breath. By the time the drinks had been bought and they were all settled once more around the table, Celia had thought of another, she hoped less silly, question.

  ‘As you share your room with your families, and you have no separate kitchens,’ she said, her brow creased with concentration. ‘Where do you keep your food?’

  Unfortunately this question was greeted by the two brides with astonished laughter.

  ‘Keep our food? Never been in the position to have enough to keep,’ Florrie finally managed to answer. ‘We goes round the corner for whatever we can afford, see? As we earn a bit we go round Ma Johnson’s. Screw of tea and a bit of sugar a couple of times a day – we have that with a bit of bread and scrape. Then taters and maybe a bit of gravy of a night. And like we said, perhaps a jug of soup from the kitchens, if it don’t run out before they get to yer in the queue.’

  ‘Yer can keep hard biscuits for weeks if yer ever have the means to get any,’ added Ada, looking at her again almost empty glass and deciding it was wise to be helpful. ‘They lasts, they do. Yeah, yer can keep them. Under the bed’s the place.’

  ‘Yeah, but then the rats have a go at ’em,’ said Florrie, sighing at the problem posed by it all.

  ‘That’s true. But anyway, we can never afford more than we can eat at one go, so what’s the odds?’

  The two women laughed good-humouredly, displaying their tobacco-stained and broken teeth.

  Celia took another tiny sip of the clear, sticky liquid. She shuddered. Even that foul brew couldn’t take away the taste of the deprivation of which the women spoke so matter-of-factly.

  ‘Mind yer, if I comes into a bit of luck, like,’ Florrie nudged her companion hard in her ample side and winked coarsely, ‘then I can have a walk along the Mile End Waste and buy a nibble of whatever I fancies off the grub stalls. Pigs’ trotters; plum duff; baked taters. Handsome!’

  ‘How do you “come into a bit of luck”?’ asked Celia, sensing that here perhaps was what she was looking for: the way in which she could assist the women to improve their terrible lot. Maybe she could see that they had more “luck” than usual.

  This time the women didn’t even bother to hide their amusement; they could hardly contain themselves. ‘Blimey, gel, where have yer been all yer life, up a bleed’n tree?’ Florrie hooted.

  Celia blushed at their raucous laughter and at her own stupidity.

  ‘We earn enough to treat ourselves at the grub stalls by going walking and getting ourselves a big spender. That’s how,’ Ada explained slowly, her cap bobbing around as she nodded for emphasis.

  ‘Walking? You mean…’ Celia wasn’t sure of the appropriate term.

  ‘Whoring,’ Ada said amiably, keen to be of assistance.

  ‘It’s that or having lodgers,’ added Florrie. ‘And yer never know if yer can trust strangers, now can yer?’

  ‘Yer right there, Flo,’ said Ada. ‘Look at the state Sarah’s got herself in with that big bastard.’

  Celia had to interrupt. ‘Lodgers? But where would they sleep?’

  Florrie leaned across the beer-sodden table towards Celia and held out her hand. Using her fingers to mark off the points in her explanation. ‘Look, it costs eight pence a night to rent the room for me and me kids, right?’

  This was all new to Celia, but she nodded anyway.

  ‘So, we sleeps in the bed.’

  ‘What, all of you?’

  ‘Christ, girl,’ said Florrie, her eyes rolling at Celia’s unbelievable stupidity. ‘I’ve only got three kids. And it ain’t like I’ve got an old man, like Ada here.’

  At the mention of her husband, Ada mouthed a foul curse under her breath.

  ‘There’s sodding nine of them all together in their room,’ explained Florrie. ‘But me, I’ve got room see. So if I likes, I can let me floor out to a couple for the night. That brings in a few pennies.’

  ‘But doesn’t it concern you, with your children there, having people, well,’ she paused delicately and lowered her voice, ‘sleeping on the floor?’

  ‘They don’t see nothing they ain’t seen before, that ain’t the problem. No, it’s like I said, yer ain’t always sure who they are. So, if the truth be told, I’d rather get a few bob from going out walking. It’s safer that way.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Celia spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice. ‘How did you first begin walking?’

  ‘Me mum,’ said Florrie proudly. “Taught me all she knew. Good old girl she was.’

  ‘Your own mother?’ Celia was doing her best not to pass judgement on these extraordina
ry women. ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Twelve, thirteen, I suppose,’ said Florrie looking at Ada for some sort of confirmation.

  Ada shrugged. ‘Don’t rightly know, to be honest, Flo. Don’t even know how old I am meself.’

  ‘Well, about twelve,’ said Florrie. That’s the usual age.’

  ‘I started when I was older,’ said Ada. ‘Cos it was something I could do of an evening if I wanted, when the kids was asleep. Most times they don’t even know I’m gone. And it means I don’t have to lock ’em in the room, see. That’s what I like. I used to have to lock me nippers in till I got back of a night. Had to do it for their own safety. Me old man never bothers about ’em, and they’d have wound up gawd-knows-where if they was left loose.’

  ‘Soon stopped that though, didn’t yer, Ada?’ chimed in Florrie. ‘When Marie’s kids got burnt up?’

  ‘Terrible that was,’ said Ada shaking her head sadly at the memory.

  ‘Burnt up?’ Celia repeated quizzically, thinking that they were speaking in slang.

  ‘Yeah, they reckon the candle burnt down and set light to the blanket they had slung over ’em,’ Florrie explained. ‘Poor little buggers.’

  ‘God rest their souls,’ muttered Ada. ‘I tried everything when I gave up sweating,’ she continued. ‘I earnt a decent couple of bob down hopping, but that’s only once a year, so it don’t last long. And there’s no charring round here to speak of, so yer have to go up to the City. It ain’t that far, but I couldn’t manage that walk and the work on an empty belly. By the time I got up there I was worn out. Then the thought of the walk back after all that scrubbing… Specially when it’s dark and icy of a morning.’ She shuddered at the thought of it. ‘So it was the workhouse or going on the game for me.’ She grinned contentedly. ‘I ain’t never looked back, have I, Flo?’

  When it became clear that Celia was not intending to buy them any more to drink, the women became restless and eager to go. Celia took the hint and stood up to leave.

  ‘Will you escort me to the main road?’ she asked, pulling on her gloves without remembering how the mudlark had soiled them. ‘I’m afraid I could never find my own way back.’

  ‘We’ll walk yer as far as the Waste. For a tosheroon,’ said Florrie, her eyes swivelling from all the gin she had swallowed.

  ‘How much is that?’

  ‘Half a crown, dearie. Two and a tanner. Half a dollar,’ Ada translated for her.

  ‘And yer can get us a pie and all, if yer like. Me belly thinks me throat’s been cut.’

  Celia looked at the fob-watch pinned to her jacket. ‘Goodness, it is very late. Will there be somewhere open?’

  ‘What, on the Waste?’ crowed Florrie, her voice becoming extremely loud. ‘Open all night, darling, then they still don’t close, case someone wants a bit of breakfast.’

  ‘Yeah, nice hot pie and a penn’orth and ’appence, that sets yer right up, that does.’

  Celia was feeling extremely hot. The atmosphere in the noisy crowded pub, coupled with the women’s rapid, impenetrable slang was making her dizzy. ‘Penn’orth and…’ she trailed off hopelessly.

  ‘Penn’orth and ’app’orth,’ explained Florrie, rubbing her broad middle. ‘Penn’orth of rum and ’app’orth of milk. No finer start to the day.’ She grinned at Celia. ‘Or end to the night.’

  Celia stood back and waited for Ada to lead the way out of the pub. She held her head high, ignoring the remarks tossed at her from the crowd as she made her way to the door. During the evening she had become almost used to such familiarity from strangers, had even grown to expect it. But, as she went out of the door, she hadn’t expected to find an almost naked child sitting huddled on the pub step. ‘I’m sorry,’ shrieked Celia, nearly toppling over as she narrowly avoided treading on the little girl.

  ‘She’ll be waiting for her mum.’ Florrie nodded at the little scrap and tousled her unwashed hair affectionately.

  ‘Come on. This way.’ Keen to get to the pie stall, Ada hurried Celia away from the hollow-cheeked youngster.

  As they scuttled along Brick Lane in the direction of the Whitechapel Road, Celia was scandalised to see so many children out so late, apparently unaccompanied. They were either sitting apathetically on the kerbs, or scavenging in the gutters under the gaslit stalls for rotten fruit and vegetables. A woman with a frail-looking baby at her breast pleaded with Celia for a few coppers for a night’s lodging.

  ‘She ain’t fussy about going in the spike,’ said Florrie, looking down her nose at the desperate woman.

  ‘Better than carrying the banner all night,’ said Ada pragmatically.

  ‘The banner?’

  ‘Walking the streets cos she ain’t got nowhere else to go,’ Ada explained, and flashed a knowing look at Florrie that spoke eloquently of her contempt for Celia’s stupidity.

  ‘And better than winding up dead like that poor bastard, whoever she is,’ said Florrie, nodding towards the newspaper man who was shouting the sordid details of the latest gruesome crime: yet another body with its throat slit had been found floating in the Thames.

  Celia stood quietly by the pie stall while Ada and Florrie ate their fill. The women licked every scrap of the rich, greasy gravy from their lips before wiping their mouths with the back of their grimy hands.

  Celia did her best not to show her distaste for their uncouth manners, continually saying to herself that it was all a matter of ignorance. She smiled warmly at them. ‘I really must be going now. I’m sure I can find a hansom so near the London Hospital.’

  ‘What? No rum and milk?’ complained Ada loudly, spraying Celia with fragments of pie as she spoke.

  ‘I’m sure that you ladies are anxious to get home.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ shouted Ada, made louder than usual by all the drink that Celia had bought her.

  ‘Yeah, yer just another snotty-nosed bitch when it comes down to it, ain’t yer?’ Florrie was incensed that something seemed to have gone wrong and it was beginning to look as though they might lose their mark and miss out on clearing every last copper coin from the stupid woman’s bag. ‘Just sniffing round here for a few cheap thrills, then clearing off when yer’ve had yer fun. Well, yer know what yer can do, don’t yer?’

  Celia looked shame-faced. ‘I sincerely hope I haven’t offended either of you. I only meant to come here to see if I could be of any help. You must forgive me.’

  A woman running a nearby seafood stall called over to them. ‘Here you are, darling. Come over here if yer wanna help someone. See if yer can help this gentleman. He’s having a bit of trouble getting his winkle out, ain’t yer lover?’

  Celia was hurt when Ada and Florrie joined in the mocking laughter, but she was determined not to be put off from carrying out her good intentions. ‘You can laugh and you can doubt my purpose in being here, but I will return to help in whatever way I can. I promise I will help you.’

  ‘What? Whether we want yer to or not, eh girl?’ the winkle woman roared, accompanied by more ribald remarks from her customers.

  ‘I can help you find a different path in life,’ Celia said. She could hear her voice rising to an ineffectual squeak. ‘A path of decency.’

  ‘A decent path eh?’ Ada shouted dramatically, enjoying all the attention. ‘Gawd blimey girl,’ she roared. ‘I ain’t been decent in me whole life. And I don’t mean to start now.’

  ‘Life doesn’t have to be like this, you know.’ Celia’s tone betrayed her desperation. ‘There are other ways in life.’

  ‘Maybe we like things the way they are,’ said a garishly made-up woman as she swaggered menacingly over to Celia from the pub doorway where she’d been leaning. She looked more than ready to raise her fists by way of protest.

  ‘Yer don’t understand, do yer?’ said Florrie. As she spoke, she glared at the mouthy interloper to warn her off. She was actually starting to feel sorry for Celia – she had treated them all night, after all. ‘See, it’s like… It’s like running that pie stall over there. So
long as there’s customers, it’s worth baking pies. No customers, no business, no pies. See, so long as the blokes come round, then we bake ’em more pies.’

  ‘Bleed’n hell!’ said Ada, not having any idea what her friend was talking about. ‘Hark at her.’

  The woman who had been ready to slug Celia earlier had lost interest in the chance of a fight and, instead, wove her way across the wide road to the railings outside the hospital, where she might draw a bit of late-night trade.

  ‘Don’t look so upset, darling.’ Florrie was now trying to comfort Celia. ‘I’ll give yer this, yer ain’t as bad as some of’em what come round here poking their noses in.’

  This was a line of thought that Ada could follow. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You’re right and all there, Flo. Them lady rent-collectors are right hard cows. Chuck you and yer kids out for owing ’em just a couple of coppers they would. Least you talk to us.’

  Celia stared down at the dirty flagstones, trying to find the words to explain to them, to convince them that she meant them only well. She knew she could do something for them. She could help them and she would. She would do something worthwhile in her life. And she wouldn’t let this one evening be the end of everything just because she’d made a few silly mistakes. She’d have to learn, that’s all there was to it.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ she said finally. To help you.’ Then she walked swiftly off towards the hospital to hire a cab.

  ‘Make sure yer bring plenty of dough with yer, dearie,’ Ada called after her. ‘We’ll make a night of it.’

  Chapter 16

  ‘It’s remarkable how well you have fitted into this new life, Ettie. I always knew you’d do well, no matter how doubting you were. But even I have to say how impressed I am with your progress.’

  ‘I wonder if my mum would be as impressed?’ Ettie put the toast back down on her plate and pushed it away from her.

  ‘Not hungry? I thought you’d be famished after doing the show last night.’

  ‘I can’t eat when I feel like this.’ Ettie wrapped the fine lawn housecoat round her more tightly. ‘Do you know I haven’t set eyes on my mum since we went down to Whitechapel for New Year’s.’