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Dear all,
I've turned out a bit of loose, associative prose that may or may not be the start of something more substantial. Would be very curious to hear what anyone thinks.
Cheers!
Harry
At The Gate
7.30 p.m., Monday February 25, 1957. St. John’s Hospital, Chelmsford, Essex
An old woman stands in the rain. At the gate. In the rain. At the gate in the rain. Gate to the hospital. Decaying Victorian redbrick splendour. Former workhouse. Dressing station. Barracks. Warehouse barracks infirmary workhouse dosshouse workhouse casual ward maternity ward mental ward head case mental home whorehouse asylum infirmary whorehouse
Mortuary
NO
Not yet
It’s chucking it down. Bleak, forbidding redbrick walls, getting sodden in the rain. Stain spreading slowly down. Red brick, darkening. Neglected. Saggy guttering. Wind shudders the skinny trees. Hammering on the windows. Cats and dogs. Raindrops, drip drip drop. Hair, streaks of black and white plastered to wrinkled forehead. Hooded grey eyes, staring, straight ahead. Dead ahead, staring, straight, into space. Dead. No! Not yet. Staring at the sodden brickwork; darkening, red rotting brickwork. Cracked walls. Quiet wards. Ticking clocks. Sagging beds. Creaking floorboards. Muffled moans. Sleeping sighs.
Woman just stands, staring, still. Up at the lighted windows. Lights on, flickering, candlelight, nightlight, black night, strip light; lights on, no one home. Left home. Left alone. No home. Broken windows, leaky roof. Peeling walls, bare boards. Empty cupboards, ash-filled hearths. Broken windows. Locked doors. Blocked chimney, cold ash in the grate. Kettle with a melted spout. The Fisherman’s Widow, on the wall. Waiting, in vain. Waiting, in pain. Broken promises. “Whatever shall we do for the rent?” Door locked, key missing. Pull back latch through broken pane, can you reach? Don't cut yourself, there is glass, sharp, shards, stuck in the frame, will cut you, cut you, cut you up, cut you open, slash you up, rip you up, you filthy stinking whore
"I am down on whores", he said.
rip out your innerds, chuck your guts over your shoulder, you filthy dirty rotten stinking degraded
“Unfortunate”, they said.
What a cruel, stupid waste. Once you were pretty, young, carefree. What a waste. Gone bad, gone wrong. Unfortunate. Gone to the dogs. Gone destitute. “Don’t go wrong and turn out like I have”, she said. Just twenty-five. She said. “What chance do you have?”, she said. A makeshift cradle to a pauper’s grave.
The old woman stands at the gate in the rain. Sodden headscarf knotted tight. Crimson scarf. Darkening. Knotted at the throat. Tight. Tighter. Darkening. Wet. Too tight. Cutting in. Checked silk neckerchief “knot pulled tight and around to the left-hand side, the lower edge frayed as if by a sharp blade. Not so long, but very sharp. Such as a slaughter man
butcher boot-maker hairdresser porter plasterer cabman carman cat's meat man
might use, but well ground down. Possibly jerked by the assailant from behind; a sudden assault giving no opportunity to cry out. No signs of medical skill are evidenced in this instance …”, they said.
"I ain't a doctor
I ain't a Yid
Nor yet a foreign skipper"
he said.
Standing, speechless, by the hospital gate in the rain. Big, fat, splashy raindrops. Teasing. Laughing. Look at her, standing there. At the gate. In the rain. Old woman. Scarf cutting into her neck. Checked scarf. Red neckerchief. Choking. Turning red. Raindrops, drip drip drop, along the bridge and off the end of her nose. Bignose. Hooknose. Roman nose. Caesar. Caesarean
NO
Not that
“There were no injuries about the body until just about the lower part of the abdomen. Two or three inches from the left side was a wound running in a jagged manner. The wound was a very deep one and the tissues were cut through. There were several incisions running obliquely across the abdomen. There were three or four similar cuts running downwards, on the right side, all of which had been caused by a knife which had been used violently and downwards. The cuts must have been caused by a long-bladed knife, such as a surgeon
sailor master tailor saddler scavelman sumpter gaoler stringer stripper Jewish tailor
might use. Moderately sharp, and used with great violence”, they said.
Big nose, big hooked nose. Jewish nose. They're everywhere.
"The Juwes are the Men that will Not be Blamed for Nothing"
it said, on the doorjamb, in a round schoolboy hand.
“My name is Nothing”, she said, as she went out into the night.
“Good night, old ****!” she cheerily waved, staggering off towards her grave.
Standing at the gate in the rain. Jerking forwards now, knee up knee down, with the air of an automaton – a broken puppet, stings about to snap, doesn’t realise the puppet master is long gone – she hobbles through the rain; through the gate in the rain, towards the sodden red Victorian brick, inside, into the warm, back inside, a friendly, tired voice says “come on in love, you’ll catch your death, it’s warm and safe indoors …”
“You will be comfortable”, she said.
Then she starts walking, through the gate in the rain, jerky, like an old wooden doll, through the hospital gate, and in through the big glass doors, swing doors, red light of the winter sunset falling in horizontally with her, throwing a swathe of luminescent scarlet across the blue and white tiles, mosaic of a woman’s head; caring, haloed, saintly, Holy Mary, Save Our Souls, we are all poor sinners here. Then a friendly voice: “Hello love, can I help you? What’s up love? Come inside, we’ll look after you.”
“You will be alright for what I have told you”, he said.
He said,
"I ain’t a doctor
I ain’t a Yid
Nor yet a foreign skipper
Merely your light-hearted friend
Yours sincerely,
Jack the Ripper"
I've turned out a bit of loose, associative prose that may or may not be the start of something more substantial. Would be very curious to hear what anyone thinks.
Cheers!
Harry
At The Gate
7.30 p.m., Monday February 25, 1957. St. John’s Hospital, Chelmsford, Essex
An old woman stands in the rain. At the gate. In the rain. At the gate in the rain. Gate to the hospital. Decaying Victorian redbrick splendour. Former workhouse. Dressing station. Barracks. Warehouse barracks infirmary workhouse dosshouse workhouse casual ward maternity ward mental ward head case mental home whorehouse asylum infirmary whorehouse
Mortuary
NO
Not yet
It’s chucking it down. Bleak, forbidding redbrick walls, getting sodden in the rain. Stain spreading slowly down. Red brick, darkening. Neglected. Saggy guttering. Wind shudders the skinny trees. Hammering on the windows. Cats and dogs. Raindrops, drip drip drop. Hair, streaks of black and white plastered to wrinkled forehead. Hooded grey eyes, staring, straight ahead. Dead ahead, staring, straight, into space. Dead. No! Not yet. Staring at the sodden brickwork; darkening, red rotting brickwork. Cracked walls. Quiet wards. Ticking clocks. Sagging beds. Creaking floorboards. Muffled moans. Sleeping sighs.
Woman just stands, staring, still. Up at the lighted windows. Lights on, flickering, candlelight, nightlight, black night, strip light; lights on, no one home. Left home. Left alone. No home. Broken windows, leaky roof. Peeling walls, bare boards. Empty cupboards, ash-filled hearths. Broken windows. Locked doors. Blocked chimney, cold ash in the grate. Kettle with a melted spout. The Fisherman’s Widow, on the wall. Waiting, in vain. Waiting, in pain. Broken promises. “Whatever shall we do for the rent?” Door locked, key missing. Pull back latch through broken pane, can you reach? Don't cut yourself, there is glass, sharp, shards, stuck in the frame, will cut you, cut you, cut you up, cut you open, slash you up, rip you up, you filthy stinking whore
"I am down on whores", he said.
rip out your innerds, chuck your guts over your shoulder, you filthy dirty rotten stinking degraded
“Unfortunate”, they said.
What a cruel, stupid waste. Once you were pretty, young, carefree. What a waste. Gone bad, gone wrong. Unfortunate. Gone to the dogs. Gone destitute. “Don’t go wrong and turn out like I have”, she said. Just twenty-five. She said. “What chance do you have?”, she said. A makeshift cradle to a pauper’s grave.
The old woman stands at the gate in the rain. Sodden headscarf knotted tight. Crimson scarf. Darkening. Knotted at the throat. Tight. Tighter. Darkening. Wet. Too tight. Cutting in. Checked silk neckerchief “knot pulled tight and around to the left-hand side, the lower edge frayed as if by a sharp blade. Not so long, but very sharp. Such as a slaughter man
butcher boot-maker hairdresser porter plasterer cabman carman cat's meat man
might use, but well ground down. Possibly jerked by the assailant from behind; a sudden assault giving no opportunity to cry out. No signs of medical skill are evidenced in this instance …”, they said.
"I ain't a doctor
I ain't a Yid
Nor yet a foreign skipper"
he said.
Standing, speechless, by the hospital gate in the rain. Big, fat, splashy raindrops. Teasing. Laughing. Look at her, standing there. At the gate. In the rain. Old woman. Scarf cutting into her neck. Checked scarf. Red neckerchief. Choking. Turning red. Raindrops, drip drip drop, along the bridge and off the end of her nose. Bignose. Hooknose. Roman nose. Caesar. Caesarean
NO
Not that
“There were no injuries about the body until just about the lower part of the abdomen. Two or three inches from the left side was a wound running in a jagged manner. The wound was a very deep one and the tissues were cut through. There were several incisions running obliquely across the abdomen. There were three or four similar cuts running downwards, on the right side, all of which had been caused by a knife which had been used violently and downwards. The cuts must have been caused by a long-bladed knife, such as a surgeon
sailor master tailor saddler scavelman sumpter gaoler stringer stripper Jewish tailor
might use. Moderately sharp, and used with great violence”, they said.
Big nose, big hooked nose. Jewish nose. They're everywhere.
"The Juwes are the Men that will Not be Blamed for Nothing"
it said, on the doorjamb, in a round schoolboy hand.
“My name is Nothing”, she said, as she went out into the night.
“Good night, old ****!” she cheerily waved, staggering off towards her grave.
Standing at the gate in the rain. Jerking forwards now, knee up knee down, with the air of an automaton – a broken puppet, stings about to snap, doesn’t realise the puppet master is long gone – she hobbles through the rain; through the gate in the rain, towards the sodden red Victorian brick, inside, into the warm, back inside, a friendly, tired voice says “come on in love, you’ll catch your death, it’s warm and safe indoors …”
“You will be comfortable”, she said.
Then she starts walking, through the gate in the rain, jerky, like an old wooden doll, through the hospital gate, and in through the big glass doors, swing doors, red light of the winter sunset falling in horizontally with her, throwing a swathe of luminescent scarlet across the blue and white tiles, mosaic of a woman’s head; caring, haloed, saintly, Holy Mary, Save Our Souls, we are all poor sinners here. Then a friendly voice: “Hello love, can I help you? What’s up love? Come inside, we’ll look after you.”
“You will be alright for what I have told you”, he said.
He said,
"I ain’t a doctor
I ain’t a Yid
Nor yet a foreign skipper
Merely your light-hearted friend
Yours sincerely,
Jack the Ripper"
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