The Whitechapel Girl Read online

  Jacob moved away from the fire and sat down slightly behind her on one of the big, plump armchairs by the hearth. ‘Where is he now?’ he asked softly. ‘Your little brother?’

  Ettie stared into the flames and swallowed hard. ‘I dunno,’ she said quietly. Then, quite suddenly, she leapt to her feet and spun around to face him, her arms held wide. ‘This place!’ She couldn’t keep the wonder from her voice. ‘I ain’t never been in nowhere so big and airy. The height of this ceiling…’ She nodded towards the closed door at the far end of the room. ‘What yer neighbours like then?’

  ‘That room is mine,’ said Jacob, without looking round.

  ‘So yer weren’t kidding then?’ She waited, judging his reaction. ‘Yer really have got more than one room?’

  Jacob nodded.

  ‘Just for yerself, eh?’ Ettie shook her head, still unable to take it all in. She was now grinning fit to burst. She was captivated by it, all of it. She moved around the room again, peering at the wonderful things, like a bee flitting from one sweet-scented, pollen-laden bloom to the next.

  ‘Yer a Jew, ain’t yer?’ she asked, holding up a small amber jewel, turning it around to catch the firelight.

  ‘And what do you know of Jews, Ettie?’ Jacob took a cigarette from an elegant silver box which stood on one of the carved side-tables dotted around the room. He offered the box to her. She shook her head.

  ‘Not much,’ she said casually, and raised herself on tiptoe to examine a phrenology skull standing high on a shelf.

  Jacob rested his cigarette in the ashtray, stood up, lifted the object down and handed it to her. He sat down again, took up his cigarette and watched her as she examined the china model, turning it this way and that, tracing the painted lines with her finger.

  ‘A Jew woman lived in our court once,’ she said, weighing the model in her hand as though it were a cabbage she was being asked to price on a fruit and veg stall. ‘Shared a room with one of the Irish families. The others in the court didn’t like her, cos of the sweating, see? Not that she ever had a sweatshop. She didn’t have much of nothing, like the rest of us down there. And anyway, whether they hated the sweaters or not they was always glad enough of the work when they could get it.’ She bit her lip, deep in thought. ‘But it’s a tough way to earn a living. That’s why they hate the people who run the sweatshops, see.’ Her voice relaxed. ‘Well, like I was saying, they thought she should’ve been with her own kind. So one night she’s sitting on the front step sewing. Right clever at it she was. Did all these little lacy stitches. Right clever. And this gang, yer know, the bullies, comes round. One of them walked up to her and head-butted her. Just like that. Split her nose open like a mouth he did. All the blokes in the gang laughed themselves silly. Never saw her no more. Disappeared that night and that was that.’

  She felt him staring hard at her. ‘I’ve been going on, ain’t I?’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Me mum’s always on at me. “Yer a right little chatterbox you are, Ettie Wilkins.” She’s always saying that.’

  Still he stared at her.

  She frowned, and rubbed her face with her ragged sleeve, trying to erase the smuts and streaks of dirt which, she was all too aware, were probably to be found on her cheeks. ‘My mush dirty, is it?’

  He shook his head, then said. “Well, a little.’

  ‘So what’s the matter, what yer looking at?’

  ‘You, Ettie,’ he replied simply. ‘You are very lovely.’

  ‘Me?’ she laughed, a snorting little expulsion of air.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘Yer barmy.’

  Ettie handed the model back to Jacob, who replaced it on the shelf in exactly the spot from where he had taken it.

  ‘Sit down, Ettie. Please.’

  ‘No, the chairs are so nice and everything and me clothes are all… yer know.’ She cast her eyes down at her patched and faded skirts. They were stiff with years of ingrained dirt and food, each mark showing its long history of owners. ‘It’s a smashing place yer’ve got here,’ she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere and cover her feeling of humiliation.

  ‘This,’ he gestured dismissively around the room. ‘This is nothing.’ Jacob stubbed out his cigarette and went and stood at the fireplace with his back to her. His voice sounded oddly strained, distant somehow, when he spoke. ‘I have been to places that you could hardly imagine, Ettie. I have seen and done things that most men only ever dream of.’

  ‘Aw yeah?’ Ettie was torn between giggling and being scared. ‘Like what then?’

  ‘Like…’ he paused. ‘Many things.’ Then he turned and was looking directly at her. ‘I have seen the Indian Rope Trick performed,’ he said, his eyes shining at the memory. With his fine, long hands he described the images in the air. ‘First a rope is uncoiled. Then,’ he snapped his fingers. ‘Presto! It is made rigid. It becomes a rod of iron.’

  ‘Aw yeah. How do they do that then?’ Ettie asked, cynically.

  ‘This action is performed by an Indian man of magic – a fakir,’ he explained.

  ‘By a what?’ she sniggered.

  Jacob raised his eyebrows, ignoring her suggestive tone. ‘A fakir,’ he repeated. ‘Then, a small boy clambers to the very top of the rope. Like this, hand over hand. And then,’ he snapped his fingers again. ‘Quite suddenly he is gone. The boy has completely vanished.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Ettie sounded rather more impressed than she had before. ‘That’s clever.’

  ‘But that is not all. The fakir then takes a huge and sharp sword. A cutlass. Which he then passes back and forth in the air above where the boy was last seen. The child’s pathetic cries pierce the eardrums of the awe-struck crowd.’

  ‘I should think so. Poor little sod.’ Ettie was now totally absorbed by the story.

  ‘But,’ Jacob continued. ‘No severed limbs fall to the ground. No blood is seen.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Then the fakir goes to a large basket he has left behind the crowd. He opens the lid. All eyes are on him. And then, out springs the boy, unharmed and ready for the next show.’

  ‘Where d’yer see that then?’ she said, one corner of her mouth lifted in an unsure smile. ‘Not down the Whitechapel Road, I’ll bet.’

  ‘I was privileged to see that wondrous performance in the grand city of Bombay.’ Seeing her puzzled expression, Jacob added. ‘In India.’

  ‘Aw yeah, right,’ said Ettie, still completely in the dark.

  ‘But I have seen equally marvellous things, Ettie, much nearer home. I have seen the Green Man dance in the deep forests of Europe. The followers of his cult, drunk with the fruits of the vine, prancing and carousing, following him through the trees into the secret woodland glades before they…’

  She yawned, interrupting him. ‘Gawd, I thought I could talk,’ she said, stretching and scratching at the back of her now almost unpinned hair. ‘But you win the bleed’n prize.’ Her eyes had begun to droop – she was tired from standing for so long and the room was unfamiliarly warm.

  Jacob smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Ettie, you’ve had a long day. But there are so many things I want to tell you about all the wonders I have seen. And I have seen so very much.’

  ‘Yer sure?’ she asked, scratching her head uninhibitedly and trying to hold on to the protective cynicism she had learned in the slums. ‘Sounds like yer was half cut to me. Chopping up little boys what come back to life. Honestly!’

  ‘Some might say that what I saw was an illusion. Some might claim that all of us there experienced an hallucination. If so – what of it? Does that make any difference to what I felt when I stood there in that crowd of totally believing onlookers?’

  Jacob’s long words and his musings were confusing Ettie, and with the discomfort she already felt from standing in the heat, she was beginning to wonder why she had ever come here. Perhaps Billy and Maisie were right after all. What did she know about this man? He might even have escaped from somewhere, the way he was going on.

  ‘Why did y
er leave Paris then?’ she asked as nonchalantly as she could manage. ‘That’s where yer said yer was, wasn’t it? Paris?’

  Jacob didn’t answer her. He just stood there and stared, far away in the foreign land that was his memory.

  ‘I said, why did yer leave Paris?’ she repeated more loudly.

  He looked startled, almost as though he were surprised to see that Ettie was in the room with him, but he quickly regathered his composure. ‘Paris,’ he said slowly, as though the word was an incantation. ‘I thought it better to leave that city.’

  When it was clear that he had no intention of explaining further, Ettie tried another question. ‘Was yer on the stage there? Talking to the spirits like yer do now?’

  Jacob’s expression changed. He was suddenly animated again, enthusiastic as he’d been before. ‘If you are to join me and become a famous medium, Ettie…’

  ‘Me? Famous? A medium?’ The growing suspicion that she really was in the same room as a madman was creeping over her like a fever.

  ‘Why not? As I said, if you are prepared to work hard with me, Ettie, then you can achieve anything you want. And I mean anything. The future is ours for the taking. I promise you.’

  ‘I don’t really know about that, Jacob,’ she said warily.

  ‘I do, Ettie. I know what you can be.’ A smile played over his lips and his gaze held her. ‘You saw what happened back there at the gaff tonight. You have a gift, Ettie, the crowd loved you. You will be more than my assistant. You will be my partner. If you stay with me.’

  ‘Partner?’ She looked round the room with a sigh. It was the plushest place she had ever set foot in, but she had to be sensible: she noted that there were two ways out, two escape routes – the door and the window. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Yer said yer wanted an assistant. Now yer going on about me being a partner.’

  With cool deliberation, Jacob said, ‘Ettie, I am entirely serious.’

  It was a full minute before Ettie replied. ‘In for a penny, I suppose,’ she said shrugging. Then she shook her head and added, in what she hoped was a light, humorous tone, ‘But I still ain’t sure that yer ain’t half bonkers, if yer want to know the truth.’

  Jacob laughed. ‘You really are disarmingly honest,’ he said.

  Ettie shrugged again and tutted loudly. ‘It’s a right turn out, innit, all this? I feel like I’m dreaming.’

  ‘You’re not dreaming, Ettie.’ He reached out, took her hand and startled her by shaking it firmly – just like the men in the market did when they struck a deal, except he didn’t spit in his palm first. ‘And this is business. Our business.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Now, our first job.’

  ‘Yeah, what’s that then?’ she said as eagerly as her exhaustion allowed.

  ‘A good night’s sleep.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ she smiled, full of relief.

  ‘But not like that. We need to clean you up.’

  ‘Bloody cheek! I know me clothes are dirty, but I go down Goulston Street Baths regular,’ she said haughtily. Tuppence warm, penny cold.’

  ‘And how often do you bathe?’

  ‘Like I said: regular.’

  ‘How often?’

  Sheepishly she studied the scuffed and peeling toe of her boot. ‘When I can afford it.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Like I said, when I can afford it. Water and wood for laundry and baths is a luxury where I come from. Not like you with your gaslight and coal scuttles. We only ever have oil or candles and old bits of wood we can scavenge, down Whitechapel.’

  Jacob ignored her sulky pout. ‘Your teeth,’ he said nodding towards her mouth. ‘Let me see.’

  ‘Here, leave off. What do yer think I am, a bleed’n horse?’ She wriggled angrily as he took her face in his slender yet powerful hands.

  ‘I’m surprised,’ he said, peering into her mouth. ‘Your teeth are very good. Especially for someone who’s grimy, smelly, and has a head full of lice.’

  ‘What?’ she fumed.

  ‘Never heard of tooth powder, I suppose?’ he said, still addressing his attention to her wide, full mouth.

  ‘Tooth powder?’

  ‘And you could certainly do with fattening up a bit.’ He stepped back and rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘That hair of yours will be quite beautiful once it’s seen a bit of soap and hot water. Now, get those things off.’

  ‘Aw, I see yer game. Right.’ She folded her arms defiantly. ‘I should’ve known. I’m bloody stupid, me. Seventeen years old and I still don’t know what’s what.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry, mate. Sorry I didn’t use me loaf.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, Ettie.’

  She glared at him furiously. ‘Fell for it, didn’t I? Yer no different from none of the others, are yer? Least they don’t give yer no old flannel first, they just grab yer straight off.’

  ‘Ettie…’

  ‘This what yer want is it?’ She grasped the front of her blouse and ripped it open, exposing her greying cotton underthings stretched taut over her breasts.

  ‘Please.’ Jacob took a step forward and reached out to her.

  The slimy missile hit him in the face before he even realised she had spat at him.

  ‘Yer’ll have to carry on wanting, won’t yer? Cos yer ain’t having it.’ She pulled her jacket round herself, covering her body the best she could. ‘Now get out of me way before I kick yer in the balls. Yer dirty bastard.’

  ‘Ettie. Please,’ he said, wiping the saliva from his cheek. ‘You misunderstand my intentions. I merely wanted you to take a bath.’

  ‘Bath? What? In here?’ She gestured wildly round the room. ‘Where is it then, this bath? Under the table? Yer really do think I’m an idiot, don’t yer?’

  ‘No,’ he said levelly. ‘But I do actually have a small room with a bath and running water. Several of the larger houses in the street have them. That is why I took the lease. I’ll show you.’ This time it was he who gestured. He pointed towards the door. ‘Just along the corridor. And, I assure you, Ettie, it has a lock on the inside.’

  * * *

  ‘You’ll be sleeping in here.’

  Ettie stood next to Jacob, in the doorway to the bedroom, her body and hair wrapped in big white towels. She felt wonderfully drowsy: not only tired now, but lulled by the absolute luxury of the hot scented bath. She hadn’t known that such wonders as baths even existed – but she still had her wits about her.

  ‘What, in the bed?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Of course. You are my guest.’

  ‘And where are you sleeping then?’ she asked, suspiciously.

  ‘Back in there. I can manage on the armchairs for now. We’ll have to sort out something more permanent tomorrow.’

  She sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. ‘Blimey! It’s ever so soft.’ She made a few experimental bounces on the deep feather mattress.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘You ain’t kidding I think so.’ She tried bouncing a bit higher. ‘The only bed I’ve ever had was on the floor with a blanket chucked over me.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope that this is the first of many pleasant new experiences for you, Ettie. Now, let’s see.’ He lifted the lid of a trunk which stood at the foot of the bed and began rummaging through its contents. He produced a lavender-ribbon-trimmed nightgown. ‘Theatrical props,’ he explained, when Ettie raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Now, if you can stop jigging around and stand up for me.’

  Ettie stopped bouncing and did as he asked. She stood very still while he held the lawn nightgown up to her, judging the fit. It was much too short.

  ‘That’ll have to do until tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Do?’ Ettie rubbed the soft material against her unusually clean cheek. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  He smiled. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to find something in there to wear for a day or so?’ he said, closing the lid of the trunk. ‘Until we can organise some new things
for you.’

  Ettie clutched the nightgown to her as though it were a talisman. ‘New things?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘Of course. You’ll need the right clothes if you are going to become a famous medium.’

  ‘Aw. Right,’ she said flatly, letting the nightgown drop on to the bed. She stared hard at her clean pink toes. The evidence was all pointing to the horribly clear conclusion that this man was not her saviour after all: he was, as she had suspected in the back of her mind, a raving lunatic.

  ‘Good night, Ettie,’ he said very formally, and turned to leave the room.

  ‘Good night, Jacob,’ she said as he closed the door behind him.

  Jacob turned down the gaslight and settled himself by the fire with a rug over his knees. He stared into the glowing embers and soon he was lost deep in thought: recalling the past and making plans for the future. But his reverie was very soon disturbed.

  The door from the bedroom opened.

  He looked up.

  It was Ettie standing in the doorway with the counterpane draped around her shoulders. ‘I ain’t never slept by myself before,’ she said shyly. ‘D’yer think I could sleep on one of the chairs in here with you?’

  Chapter 6

  Dawn would soon be breaking in the square outside, but Celia was still sitting in the deep-buttoned library chair, flicking through the pages of the pamphlets she had begun reading the night before: the literature from the anti-vice organisation of which her father was so publicly a member.

  On her pretty, porcelain-doll-like face, there was an unusually determined expression. She had made her decision: seeing those terrible pictures had forced her to decide that she must act at last; she had to do something about the world which allowed such hypocrisy, cynicism and cruelty to exist. And if, to help change things, it meant reading the material which had so perturbed and confused her, then that is what she would do. She could think of no other guide available to her. And what if it did disturb her – it was not for her benefit, it was for others. She had a purpose, though she wasn’t yet sure exactly how to go about her campaign. But she knew that she had to learn all she could to arm herself with the tools she needed. She was determined to begin her fight against evil and corruption. And no one, not even her father, would stop her. She took another pamphlet from the pile and began to read, but she was disappointed: all it contained was yet another call to close down the brothels and the invitation to join a midnight protest march. Celia tossed the pamphlet on to the pile of others she had read with a weary sigh. What good would closing down those places achieve? The pamphlets themselves admitted that as soon as the women were moved from one establishment they simply moved to another, and the men rapidly followed. She was looking for guidance to help her find a way in which she could actually do something, make some contribution to the women’s lives that would make them think differently and so avoid taking the path to corruption in the first place. All she had read so far were the usual well-meaning, but hardly earth-shattering, pleas and suggestions. What she was looking for was the merest hint, just a glimmer would do, of how she could make things change. Really change. And that would certainly involve more than taking part in midnight protest marches.