“Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive”
The events that I will relate are ‘neither fish nor fowl’. Although very important to Narnian history, much of what follows takes place in the ‘great wen’ that was Victorian London. Nevertheless, it is an important chronicle in the history of Narnia. Back then London was a place of boisterous self-confidence and utter misery. Prosperity lived cheek by jowl with wretchedness. We will begin, however, a world away from the slums and bustle of that capital.
It was a fine spring in Narnia, with the expectancy of summer in the air. That world was young then and everything lay before it. Jadis, the old iniquity, was banished from the realm. The tender land blossomed like the first garden. The exuberant sun burst from its hiding place each morning ready to spread warmth like a benison upon the world. Rainclouds did their work in the cool of the late evening, swelling the plants and trees without putting them through a deluge.
One such day found young Prince Frank and his brother, Alfred, riding in the forest. Frank was an athletic and merry chap of seventeen. His sibling was sixteen and a little more earnest. They had left their small sisters playing a competitive game of skipping (that involved a seemingly endless song).
As children the princes learned that it wasn’t right to ride upon talking beasts (unless asked). There were plenty of other horses however and the boys had mastered the art of riding at an early age. “Hup there, hup,” Frank urged his mount as they entered the woodland. Now, in those days, nothing malignant lurked in Narnian forests outside of nature. Of course there were bears, spiders and wolves but nothing with any particular design to cause harm. As far as the young princes were concerned, the forest was their playground.
They were a mile deep into the trees when Alfred heard a noise. “Stay,” he called out. He pulled his horse up. He thought that he had heard people.
“What is it?”
“Listen,” said Alfred, cupping his ear with his hand. “Are those not voices?”
Frank nodded, “You’re right. Light voices. Tree spirits?” They were friendly with all of the local dryads and naiads.
“Could be,” Alfred turned his horse. “Slowly, come on.” They quietly trotted east, several hundred yards. In front of them, wearing thick, unlovely shawls were two figures.
“Girls!” exclaimed the heir to the throne, incredulous. They had of course seen their own sisters but, at that time, there were no other humans in Narnia. They had longed to meet other children of Adam and – if they were honest – females in particular.
“Charity suffereth long, and is kind”
I now want to take you back a little, to explain just how those girls escaped the grim world in which they lived.
Just a five minute walk from my house is an old, brick-built building, now derelict. It is a large and ugly place that most recently served as an adult education centre. It was originally built in the 1840’s as a parish workhouse. Like many municipal buildings of that period, its architecture is more a sign of the builders’ self-importance than their good-taste.
The union workhouses were meant to provide shelter and employment for the poor. Do not be deceived however; the boards’ intentions had little of the warmth of philanthropy. They were hard, cruel places designed to discourage vagrancy and improvidence. Long hours of menial labour, communal living, poor food and cheap clothes were the lot of the ‘deserving poor’ that lived in them. The respectable gentlemen that governed the system knew that keeping the poor ‘down’ would be a warning to others. Any hint of true philanthropy would surely have encouraged idleness and dissipation.
We are perhaps fortunate to have a rather more enlightened system; or so we think. Walk to any underpass, or piece of wasteland, even in a small town and you may find the homeless. Living in boxes or, if they are lucky, tents. Occasionally they embarrass us by having the temerity to sit outside shops and ask for money. Perhaps they will set up home in public parks and gardens and make us feel uncomfortable at the sight of their misery. We may think we do well remembering them at Christmas with charitable giving, but what of the other fifty-one weeks of the year? Cold and hunger do not only kill during the festive season.
We must now ‘rewind’ to Monday the third of September in the year 1888, and to the “Bowling Street Workhouse” in London. Such properties were the swinging bricks that served as the beating hearts of the Poor Law. Mrs Clutch was the presiding spirit of the institution and she was a ‘terror’ on idleness. She lived up to her name by keeping a tight grip on her charges. ‘Keep ’em in order’ was her motto. Inmates should be kept busy at all times. They should have just enough food to keep them going. Exhaustion by nightfall was her aim.
Maisie Jenever had been admitted yet again to the workhouse, two weeks before. Her weakness was gin and it had blighted her life. Should we judge her harshly? For what sort of life had she led? That she should seek oblivion in cheap spirits would surely be no surprise if we knew her story.
Lizzy and Ann Jenever were teenagers which, in that age, meant young women. Places would easily be found for them as domestic servants. They knew though that their mother would track them down and make their lives miserable once more. They’d been in that particular workhouse twice before and were familiar with the routine. They even found favour with Mrs Clutch, which was never an easy thing to do. They dared not discharge themselves as their mother would either object or follow. Instead, they had resolved to slip out.
They were both bright, lively girls who were accustomed to having little and expected nothing. Who could wonder if they had fallen into the vicious ways that desperation can bring on? As yet however they remained decent at heart.
Although the premises were locked at all times it wasn’t hard to slip away if one was observant enough. On the second Monday, Lizzy and Ann carried bundles of laundry through to the wash-house. At the stroke of ten there was a knock on the back door as there had been, on that day, for five years. Mister Chubb, a local butcher and particular friend of Mrs Clutch, regularly called round for a glass of ‘something warming’. One of the small boys, serving as porter, saw him through to the best parlour. In a matter of seconds the girls took two unwashed, shapeless shawls from the laundry piles and slipped out of the door. Lizzy took a last look at the battered lion’s head door knocker that had recently started floating in and out of her dreams. “C’mon,” said Ann, taking her by the arm. “We’ve got to get by the lodge yet”.
“…the ancient, inalienable right of free-born people of the United Kingdom to go to the pub”
The two girls walked three miles across the grimy London streets. Mud, and worse, caked to their shoes and straw clung to the hems of their skirts. It was a warm day in early September and summer seemed inclined to linger even on the murky streets of the metropolis. They made for an old neighbourhood in the hope of finding a familiar face that might help them. Eventually they came to a road that had seen better times. Tall, spindly dwellings that had once been home to those of the middling sort now housed whole families with but one or two rooms between them. It was by no means the worst area of the capital but it was a long way from being the best.
The ‘Flying Footman’ public house– known to its patrons as ‘Old Mercury’ (1) – was to be found there. The chipped, painted board outside showed a bewigged Footman in the frock coat of a bygone era. The neighbourhood hadn’t seen such a gorgeously attired servant for many a year. The tavern was sandwiched, uncomfortably, between a boarding house and a bakery. It was a stout, bowed little ale house that looked like it might pop out from the midst of its neighbours at any time.
The taproom was steamy and smoky. A harassed looking pot-man wiped his hands on his apron and looked doubtful at the girls. “Halloa, what can I do for you? Dog’s Nose (2) is it?” he said, winking.
“We don’t want a drink,” said Lizzy hurriedly.
“Well we ain’t a charity, so there’s no point begging,” the man warned. He was a middle-aged chap with the most marvellous garden of grog-blossoms (3) that spread from one cheek, across his nose, to his other cheek.
“No, no. We’re looking for someone who drinks here,” Ann explained.
“Oh aye, who’s that then?”
“John Standring,” Lizzy replied. “Big fellah; worked for a stone mason”.
“Standring…” the pot-man pondered, scratching a damp armpit thoughtfully. “Oh, I know. He’s long gone, sweetheart. Must be three or four years back now. Are you his girls then?”
Dismayed, Anne asked, “I don’t suppose you know where he went?”
“Sally!” the man called over to the landlady. “Sally! You remembered John Standring; used to drink here?” There was a pause and then a nod. “Do you know where he went? Whitechapel or Spitalfields wasn’t it?”
Sally – the daughter of the alehouse – was (let me be polite) comfortably built and disinclined to hurry herself in anything. She poured a pot of ale before passing judgement. “Spitalfields,” she declared.
“Spitalfields,” the potman echoed. “If he’s still there, like”.
“All are of the dust and turn to dust again”
The girls had been born in Spitalfields and had lived there until the tender age of seven. Their parents had been living apart at the time. A brawl, over unpaid rent, between their Mother and the landlady had occasioned their ‘moonlight flit’ (4). Clumps of the landlady’s hair were left lying on the stairs as evidence of their combat.
The pair began the long trudge across town to Spitalfields. Such cheap shoes were not designed for that trek and they could feel every cobble and lump on the way. They decided to make for Flower and Dean Street in the hope that they might find an old friend of their mother’s. It was one of the grimmest slums of that time and was packed with cheap lodging houses. Policemen preferred to walk in pairs and turned a blind eye to many crimes for fear of their lives.
It was late afternoon when Lizzy and Ann reached Spitalfields. They were surrounded by half-remembered places. “Isn’t that where Dad got the grapes?” Annie asked, pointing to a nearby shop. “I think so,” her sister replied. She looked at a poster, pasted to a wall, and stumbled over the words. “Murder of Martha Tabram (5),” she read. To any child brought up in that district, killings were not uncommon.
A tall, lean man began haranguing a passing porter who ‘cocked a deaf ‘un’ (6) to the message. An elderly fellow, he was dressed respectably and all in black. His choice of colour reflected the moral turpitude that he saw all around him. His only hint of brightness was the heavy gold watch chain that stretched across his waistcoat.
Mr Godbehere was a stern moralist, a man of God and hot against sin. He would rail against vice in all its forms: lust, drunkenness, covetousness. The sternness of his face matched that of his heart. He would walk the streets of Whitechapel ensuring that its denizens knew of the Lake of Fire that awaited them. I should say however that his morals never put a penny in a person’s pocket. Nobody ever found gainful employment through Mr Godbehere. No unfortunate woman knew him to be of practical help; no drunkard reached the road to sobriety through that gentleman’s efforts. He held to scripture and his duty though and gave of both freely. “Girls, beware, I beseech you. Do not walk these streets for the devil himself does. Go home; pray, seek forgiveness, for the pit awaits sinners”.
Lizzie and Annie hurried on. Their moral education was not wholly neglected in the workhouse, even if their bellies and happiness had been. Mr Godbehere did make one pertinent point though: a poster proclaimed the recent murder of one Mary Nichols. (7)
It was well into the evening when the girls found Jenny Boyle, making her way back from work to her lodgings. They didn’t notice her at first, as she was walking behind a seaman. Mrs Boyle was thinner and more stooped than before, but she was still recognisable. “Jenny!” Lizzie called.
The laundress paused. “Yes, love?” Her red arms and rosy face betrayed her trade for both were regularly boiled by steam and water. Jenny’s hair escaped in a dozen places from a wisp of bonnet, springing up like wire wool.
“Oh Jenny, we haven’t seen you for years! We’re Lizzie and Annie Jenever – Maisie’s daughters”.
“Maisie… Maisie Jenever. What are you doing here?” she asked. “Your Ma is never here is she?”
Annie shook her head. “No, it’s just us.”
“My, how you’ve grown,” she marvelled. “How is your Ma?” She made a gesture with her arm as though raising a glass. “Is she still on the Blue Ruin?” (8) Both girls nodded gravely. “It’s understandable,” Jenny said reflectively. “She had a good body when not in drink”.
“Jenny, we need your help. We’re looking for our Dad”.
The woman looked piteously at them. “Oh my loves, I’m so sorry. I’ve got bad news for you about your old man.” She looked down and twisted a corner of her greying apron.
Annie felt her heart leap into her mouth. “What news?”
“I’m afraid that he’s passed away. Must be four or five months ago now.” She saw them both blanch.
“How… how did it happen?”
“He was drunk, my love. He fell into the river. They never even found the body. I’m so sorry!”
“…a strange sort of young gentleman”
With night fallen, the girls wandered aimlessly through the streets of neighbouring Whitechapel. A lamplighter was about his business but there was still a paucity of light. “I think we ought to find somewhere to kip down, quiet, and decide what to do in the morning” Lizzy suggested.
They passed a building with a sign that read ‘Jewish Working Men’s Club’. A fellow stood lounging on its steps, idly watching a sailor weaving by. “Good evening, girls,” he said as he noticed them. They nodded but didn’t reply, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. They could see that he was smartly dressed in a long dark coat with an astrakhan collar, hard felt hat and button boots. (9) The light from the hallway sparkled on his gold chain and horseshoe pin. “Hold on a moment,” he called, stepping down onto the street. The pair stopped and looked at him. “Will you take a warning from me?”
“How’d you mean?”
“This is a dangerous enough place for young women at the best of times. Get yourselves home as quick as you can,” he said portentously.
“Yes, we will do.”
“I’m just warning you for your own good; there’s a devil on the loose”.
They thanked him and hurried on, checking behind them to see that they weren’t being followed. “I think he meant well,” Ann observed.
“Maybe he did an’ all. He’s right though; we need to doss down (10)“. If they had a little money they could have found a bed in a cheap lodging house, at any time into the early hours of the morning. Being penniless however meant sleeping rough.
They were just considering the merits of a dark yard when they saw a young man approaching. When I say a young man I mean a boy of thirteen with all the confidence of a fifty year old. He might have been taken for the son or grandson of Mr Dicken’s very own Artful Dodger.
“Halloa ladies,” he said, tipping his billycock hat with a swagger. It was once a smart hat, if a tad too large for the boy, and had a greasy band.
“Evening,” Annie answered.
“What are you girls doing then?” he asked directly.
“T’aint none of your business,” was the tart reply.
“Course it is, this ‘ere is my manor (11). Ain’t you heard of me? Clem Pincher; I’m at your service. Pincher by name but not by nature I always say.” There followed another doff of his hat. “I’m Clement to my Ma (she’s Romish) (12), Pincher to my pals and nothing to the peelers (13)“. He looked the two girls up and down. “So, are you casing the joint (14) or what?”
“No, we aren’t!” Lizzy objected.
“Thought not, you ain’t the type. So, what are you up to? Looking for a doss?”
“Yes,” Anne admitted, “but we haven’t got the necessary (15)“.
“Tell you what, I reckon I can help you,” said Pincher, rubbing a smart, spotted handkerchief across his grimy nose. He’d relieved a tipsy gentleman of that burden that very afternoon.
“Can you?”
“I know a woman who’ll probably put you up for the night,” he suggested.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I reckon so. Mother Molly’s a good sort; got a cosy ken (16) on Brady Street”.
“Why would she help us?” Lizzie asked.
“She’s the matronly type; always has a couple of swell morts (17) staying with her. If you want I’ll take you there now.”
Suddenly very wary, Lizzie said, “No, you’re alright. Just leave us to it.”
“Don’t be daft,” the lad objected. “You don’t want to be sleeping out here.”
“We won’t be,” retorted Lizzie. “We’re off home. Thanks for your help but no thanks!”
“What’s your problem?” Pincher asked, suddenly truculent. “A fellah offers you a doss for the night and you get snotty”.
“Just push off, will you,” Lizzie told him. “I know the sort of woman who always has a couple of girls staying with her. We’re not as green as we’re cabbage-looking (18). Go on, get out of it.” It was a very wise decision for Molly Hopkins to keep a fancy house (19). She would exploit pretty but desperate girls, often newly arrived in town from the countryside. She was, in the language of the day, an Abbess (20).
“Pair o’ baggages,” Pincher said disparagingly.
“You’re a regular gal-sneaker (21), ain’t ya,” Annie mocked.
“Saucy Jacky”
The man walked around in something of a daze. His head throbbed and he could feel his heart almost rattling his ribcage. Every face looked ghostly as it loomed towards him in the lamplight. There was something waxen and doll-like about each and every one. For they weren’t real people; he knew that. Even the one that he’d had a conversation with – the one that sold him the liquor – didn’t really exist. Nobody existed except himself; that was the great mystery and joke that he alone knew. No-one but he could think and sense and feel. The rest were toys waiting to break. In his moments of clarity he doubted this great truth but thankfully such occasions were becoming rarer. He undid the buttons of his heavy pea-jacket for the night was not cold and he had an unwelcome sweat on.
Lizzie looked doubtfully down a dark passageway that led to the rear of a commercial property. “Let’s take a look down here, Annie.”
“Go on then. It’s as black as Newgates knocker (22). Give us your hand,” Annie reached out for her sister. They edged down the narrow, unlit passage.
The seaman watched them from the cover of an archway across the street. He couldn’t think clearly at all. He was watching one girl but perhaps it was two; he couldn’t be sure. Every movement made the hammering in his brain worse. He wanted to sit down and hold his head for fear that he might fall off and roll away down the dirty street. “Moabites and Midianites,” he whispered.
The girls came to a crazy old gate that was just a patchwork of pieces nailed on higgledy-piggledy. There was less original wood than there were repairs.
Ignoring his headache, the sailor looked carefully up and down the street. The policeman, on his beat, would be some time yet. He felt inside his thick coat for the knife that he kept there. His mouth was dry, his tongue cleaving to its roof. He crossed quickly to the passageway.
“Give it a shove,” Lizzie said and, together, they pushed aside a piece of loose hanging board. “Let’s have a look-see,” she said, poking her head inside.
“One, two, buckle my shoe,” whispered the seaman as he saw the girls push through the gap. “Buckle me, you won’t buckle me,” he went on. There was a flare of light that shone through the cracks in the gate and lit the end of the passage. There must be others in that yard, the sailor concluded. He turned on his heel and headed back briskly, “one, two, won’t buckle me, Moab and Midian (23)” he said. The pain in his head was now unbearable. Nobody would die that night.
Epilogue
The girls never knew that they had been in such terrible danger. Their names would have been remembered from generation to generation. They’d have been tragic footnotes in history for researchers to investigate and theorists to argue about. Instead of which they stepped through a portal into Narnia.
On occasion real life mimics a fairy-tale. This story did actually end happily (although you may merely be happy that it has ended). Treated by King Frank and Queen Helen as if they were their own children, the girls soon fell in love with the young Princes. Within three years they were married in a joint ceremony presided over by the King himself. Alfred and Lizzie would go on to rule Archenland and the relationship between the two countries was a blessing to both.
There I will leave their story for now. I believe that I have the facts right even if I have had to imagine a little of the dialogue to flesh things out. There are several more journals and documents to read through so if I find anything else of interest I will, of course, publish it.
THE END
Notes:-
-
- Messenger of the Gods
- Hot stout, gin, sugar and nutmeg
- A tracery of visible blood vessels
- To leave without settling the rent
- Murdered 7th August 1888, now often discounted as a victim of Jack the Ripper
- Turned a deaf ear
- Murdered 31st August 1888, the first of the ‘canonical’ five Ripper victims
- Gin
- 9th November 1888, a description of a suspect given by one George Hutchinson – improbably detailed
- Somewhere to sleep
- His’patch’
- A Roman Catholic
- Police
- Watching the premises with intent to rob
- Money
- A dwelling
- young ladies
- Not as naïve as they may look
- A brothel
- A bawd; a brothel keeper
- A ladies-man
- The door knocker of the infamous Newgate prison
- A turn of phrase used in one of the many letters purportedly from Jack the Ripper
Theophilus writes a brilliant story! but shouldn’t it be “Workhouse”?