Like many writers, especially those with an interest in the darker side of the human condition, I have a fascination with Jack the Ripper. The killings were quite horrendous but I’m sure they are not alone in their violence, even for their time at the end of the 19th century. What endures is the mystery of who Jack was and that he was never caught.
I am always angered when the name of a killer becomes so much better known than the women he kills. This wee story is my attempt to redress this imbalance. Honestly, it’s not my best work. But I am writing and revising and it’s been a long while since I’ve been able to do this so I’m celebrating the effort, if not the results.
A REVIEW OF THE WHITECHAPEL MURDERS CONSIDERED AS A MUSIC HALL ACT
The first act is over before the audience realises the show has begun.
It is only when the Master of Ceremonies invites us to show our appreciation for Mary Nichols that we all turn to face the stage, just in time to see her leave, stagehands pulling down her skirts to preserve her modesty.
Next up is Annie Chapman, an experienced entertainer we are told, although none of us has ever seen her perform before. She stumbles onto the stage, showing her petticoats and winking at her beau, before launching into a half-hearted rendition of “Ain’t no one got a penny for a bed?” We have heard it all before, from younger and prettier girls than she. When she is done, she is dragged from the stage and someone in the audience boos.
A roar erupts from the crowd when two women climb onto the stage together; Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes. Elizabeth stands to one side, head down to hide her battered face, shuffling to a tune only she can hear. We pay her little attention. Who would be entertained by Lizzie Stride when Catherine Eddowes, loud and wild and screaming like a fire engine, shares a stage? Catherine passes out part-way through her act. At the end, as the women are each escorted from different sides of the stage, we can hear her shouting, “Good Night, Old Cock.” An audience isn’t a sentimental beast, but I swear I see a few shed a tear tonight.
In the intermission a few girls run across the stage, screaming with the larks of it all. Some are alone, some chased by dark figures with leather aprons and flashes of silver. We watch in slack-jawed anticipation, wondering which of them will be the next act. Then the lights blink out.
A candle flickers from centre stage, held by Mary Kelly who sings “Only A Violet I Plucked From My Mother’s Grave.” Her voice is nothing special. She’ll never make it to the West End, to the fancy theatres with velvet curtains and gas lighting. But her Irish brogue reaches out to us and touches our hearts and soon we are singing along, even if we don’t know the words.
The candle flickers and dies, and as the lights come back on and the Master of Ceremonies returns to the stage, Mary can be seen lying across a simple bed. Fred Abberline steps out from behind the curtain and pushes the reclining woman off stage.
It isn’t until the crowd stamps our feet and shouts for “More” that our host returns to the stage. We don’t want to believe him when he says Mary Kelly is the final act, that the impresario behind our entertainment has found no more girls to entertain us. Reluctantly, we turn away and go back to our errands.
Between you and me, I think he’ll return. He has a taste for theatre’s magic now and like all who entertained before, an artiste needs an audience.
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