South Quay Warehouse in the London Docks.
Housing colonial produce, including a huge number of casks containing brandy and gin, the enormous warehouse, one hundred and fifty yards long, had burst into flames and, fuelled by the exploding casks, had released gigantic tongues of yellow and bluish flames into the night sky, producing a vivid heavenly glow over the entire East End of London which, whilst now waning, still lingers even at this late hour.
Allied to this drama, there had been a storm. Accompanied by peals of thunder and flashes of lightning, the rain was sharp and frequent, but being Friday evening, it had not dissuaded men from seeking their nocturnal pleasures, nor a certain class of sisterhood intent on gratifying those needs.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Polly steps out of the doss-house at 18 Thrawl Street and, upon seeing the windswept rain, groans, “Right bleedin’ summer this ’as turned out t’ be.”
Turning up the collar of her overcoat and correcting the tilt of her bonnet, she waddles along the murky narrow cobbled street and sees a shabby, hefty man, Jacob Crowley, splashing through a puddle, coming towards her.
Holding a piece of sodden note-paper, he inquisitively gazes at the dingy houses on his side of the street.
Polly pauses, eyeing him suspiciously, “Yer not from ’round ’ere. Lookin’ fer somewhere, are yer?”
Crowley glances at the piece of note-paper, “Eighteen Thrawl Street.”
Polly smirks, “Bed fer the night, is it?”
Irritated by her query, Crowley snaps, “Wot’s it t’ yer?”
Polly feigns indifference and shrugs her shoulders “Been there, nothin’. Not even a bleedin’ floorboard t’ lie on.”
Crowley crumples the piece of paper in his hand, “Mate gave me this address.” He tosses it over his shoulder, “ [84] Fat lot o’ good ’e’s been, eh?”
Polly stifles a cough, “Fancy a drink?” She grins suggestively, “Or somefink else, maybe?”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Concealed by a small upturned cart in a darkened yard with the lower part of her overcoat, skirt and petticoat up about her waist, Polly stands stooped over a stack of oatmeal sacks with legs apart. Just behind her, Crowley feverishly thrusts back and forth, wheezing.
Rhythmically in tune with his movements, Polly gazes at the small silver coin in the palm of her hand and smiles.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
It is little wonder then that the prostitutes of the neighbourhood are forced to seek relief from their wretched existence in the local taverns. And there are many to choose from in Whitechapel. One on every corner, in fact. A lot of these blighted women have a preferred public house they like to call home. In Polly Nichols’ case, it is ‘Ye Frying Pan’ tavern, situated on the northern corner of Thrawl Street and Brick Lane.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Oblivious to the drizzle and drunkenly supporting one another, merchant seamen Straker, Griggs and Burrill lurch along Brick Lane towards ‘Ye Frying Pan’ tavern, noisily singing a maritime song.
“It were down by Swansea barrack
one May mornin’ I strayed
A-viewin’ o’ the soldier lads
I spied a comely maid,
It were o'er ’er red an’ rosy cheeks
the tears did dingle down,
I thought she were some goddess fair,
the lass o’ Swansea town.”
Emerging from Thrawl Street, a trotting pony, harnessed to a two-wheeled cart, hastily turns the corner by the tavern and, confronted by the rowdy trio, shies in alarm, shuddering the cart.
Two tall wicker baskets, one full of cabbages and the other containing cauliflowers, topple from the rear of the cart and, upon striking the ground, hurl their contents across the filthy cobbled street.
The bearded driver, Aaron Kosminski, mid-fifties, tall and lean, strains at the reins, halting the pony. Looking back over his shoulder and seeing the scattered vegetables, he groans, “ Aaah, na!”
Leaping from his wooden seat, Kosminski strides to the rear
Housing colonial produce, including a huge number of casks containing brandy and gin, the enormous warehouse, one hundred and fifty yards long, had burst into flames and, fuelled by the exploding casks, had released gigantic tongues of yellow and bluish flames into the night sky, producing a vivid heavenly glow over the entire East End of London which, whilst now waning, still lingers even at this late hour.
Allied to this drama, there had been a storm. Accompanied by peals of thunder and flashes of lightning, the rain was sharp and frequent, but being Friday evening, it had not dissuaded men from seeking their nocturnal pleasures, nor a certain class of sisterhood intent on gratifying those needs.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Polly steps out of the doss-house at 18 Thrawl Street and, upon seeing the windswept rain, groans, “Right bleedin’ summer this ’as turned out t’ be.”
Turning up the collar of her overcoat and correcting the tilt of her bonnet, she waddles along the murky narrow cobbled street and sees a shabby, hefty man, Jacob Crowley, splashing through a puddle, coming towards her.
Holding a piece of sodden note-paper, he inquisitively gazes at the dingy houses on his side of the street.
Polly pauses, eyeing him suspiciously, “Yer not from ’round ’ere. Lookin’ fer somewhere, are yer?”
Crowley glances at the piece of note-paper, “Eighteen Thrawl Street.”
Polly smirks, “Bed fer the night, is it?”
Irritated by her query, Crowley snaps, “Wot’s it t’ yer?”
Polly feigns indifference and shrugs her shoulders “Been there, nothin’. Not even a bleedin’ floorboard t’ lie on.”
Crowley crumples the piece of paper in his hand, “Mate gave me this address.” He tosses it over his shoulder, “ [84] Fat lot o’ good ’e’s been, eh?”
Polly stifles a cough, “Fancy a drink?” She grins suggestively, “Or somefink else, maybe?”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Concealed by a small upturned cart in a darkened yard with the lower part of her overcoat, skirt and petticoat up about her waist, Polly stands stooped over a stack of oatmeal sacks with legs apart. Just behind her, Crowley feverishly thrusts back and forth, wheezing.
Rhythmically in tune with his movements, Polly gazes at the small silver coin in the palm of her hand and smiles.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
It is little wonder then that the prostitutes of the neighbourhood are forced to seek relief from their wretched existence in the local taverns. And there are many to choose from in Whitechapel. One on every corner, in fact. A lot of these blighted women have a preferred public house they like to call home. In Polly Nichols’ case, it is ‘Ye Frying Pan’ tavern, situated on the northern corner of Thrawl Street and Brick Lane.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Oblivious to the drizzle and drunkenly supporting one another, merchant seamen Straker, Griggs and Burrill lurch along Brick Lane towards ‘Ye Frying Pan’ tavern, noisily singing a maritime song.
“It were down by Swansea barrack
one May mornin’ I strayed
A-viewin’ o’ the soldier lads
I spied a comely maid,
It were o'er ’er red an’ rosy cheeks
the tears did dingle down,
I thought she were some goddess fair,
the lass o’ Swansea town.”
Emerging from Thrawl Street, a trotting pony, harnessed to a two-wheeled cart, hastily turns the corner by the tavern and, confronted by the rowdy trio, shies in alarm, shuddering the cart.
Two tall wicker baskets, one full of cabbages and the other containing cauliflowers, topple from the rear of the cart and, upon striking the ground, hurl their contents across the filthy cobbled street.
The bearded driver, Aaron Kosminski, mid-fifties, tall and lean, strains at the reins, halting the pony. Looking back over his shoulder and seeing the scattered vegetables, he groans, “ Aaah, na!”
Leaping from his wooden seat, Kosminski strides to the rear
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