Spectre From My Past

Those Lawler Girls

I know time is a one-way street -- it only moves forward. But I find myself constantly hopping back and forth through the years. It could be because I'm forever leaving projects partly done and must backtrack to finish them. It might also be my love of history that tugs me backwards. Or perhaps it's my penchant for genealogy that draws me to the past. I suspect it's all those things.

At any rate, now that I've finally completed Those Lawler Girls and sent it off to knock on publishers' doors, it's time to move on ... or more accurately ... back.

Ten or so years ago, I began a historical novel to acknowledge the tragic life of my great-grandmother, Alice Maria Hopkins. She lived her whole life in one of the poorest slums of East London during the time of Jack the Ripper. She had 3 romantic partners and 9 children, only 3 of whom lived past age 5. At 38, she fell down a flight of stairs, killing herself and the unborn child she was carrying. Everything I learned about her through my research broke my heart. She was definitely dealt a bad hand.

I thought that if I told her story, that might somehow bring meaning or closure to her short, hard life. However -- though I've unearthed much about her -- there are too many gaps in information to aim for a factual narrative. The best I can do is fashion a historical novel based on her experiences. So that's what I've been doing. But Lady of Bethnal Green is one of those projects that is forever getting pushed to the back of my desk, while I write something else I feel more confident I can sell. (This is the ongoing fate of most of my favourite pieces of writing.)

Well, I'm running out of procrastination time. Besides, my writing group regularly asks when I'm going to get back to that novel. Apparently, they like what they've read so far. My cousin, Tracy, who -- like me -- is into genealogy, asks if I could please change the ending to something happier. It's as if she thinks I can alter our great-grandmother's sad life with the stroke of my pen.

Last night I read what I'd written so far (18,000 words), and I was surprisingly encouraged. I noted a couple of places where additional scenes would flesh out the story more, but otherwise I can pick up where I left off and get back to writing in earnest. And this time I intend to finish.

I have done so much research for this book that the setting is as alive in my mind as is my own time. My British cousins (Laurie and Kairen -- also genealogists) directed me to the Ripper Street television series, which is not only highly entertaining but a perfect source of information. I have rooted through the public library and surfed the Internet too, but the source I value the most is a small book I bought called The People of the Abyss by Jack London. Basically, this little publication recounts Jack London's undercover experiences in the rookeries of East London. He was like a news journalist of the time. That's not historical research; that's first-hand reporting. London provides factual information, in-depth descriptions, conversations, a glimpse into people's attitudes, and his own editorial interpretations of the conditions. I couldn't ask for more.

My challenge writing such a sad story as Lady of Bethnal Green is to bring the characters to life so that the novel isn't one endless string of disasters and heartbreak. I had to identify a reason for my protagonist to keep on keepin' on. It was my mother who unwittingly provided me with that motive. Mom's father was one of Alice Maria's three surviving children. When he and my grandmother divorced in 1939 (my mother was 9), my grandmother was so bitter, she destroyed everything my grandfather treasured, including (according to my mother) a photo of Alice Maria. Mom said it appeared to be taken in a photographer's studio. Alice Maria was standing with her hand on the back of a chair, looking regal.

That boggled my mind, so I said to my mother, "How could that be? The woman was impoverished. What was she doing in a photographer's studio and how could she possibly look regal?"

My mother's reply was simple -- and to her, perfectly obvious. "She knew she didn't belong there (in the slums)."

Whether that was the truth or just wishful thinking on my mother's part is immaterial. It provided me with a focus for my novel. (Thanks, Mom.)

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And now a wee peek to spark your interest.

(excerpt ...

Jane Dawe is the protagonist. She works in a button factory. Clara Moffat is Jane's mother. Clara also has two younger daughters. Clara is a pivotal character and this excerpt is her backstory.)

Clara Moffat was a practical woman. During her thirty-three years in the world, she had learned one thing for certain. Life was what it was, and a person should just get on with it. No amount of dreaming could change things, so she swept wishes and what-ifs out the door with the morning dirt. That is not to say she allowed life to toss her about like a leaf on the wind, for she did not. In fact, she steered her own course as much as a person in her circumstances could.

She and William Moffat lived together, but they were not married. Still, it suited Clara to use his name. It gave her respectability without binding her to him—should she decide her fortune lay elsewhere. Of course, William was free to go his way too, but that didn't overly concern her. There were men aplenty in Bethnal Green.

She might have been more of a romantic if her first intimate encounter hadn't been forced upon her, and if she hadn't become pregnant as a result. Though Clara's parents claimed Jane as their own on the baptismal papers, it didn't alter the fact that at fifteen, Clara had become a mother. While she went out to work, her mother tended to Jane, but it was a temporary arrangement. Her parents made it clear that the sooner Clara could manage on her own, the better, so when she became pregnant by William Moffat, it was for the sole purpose of moving on.

William was no better off than most who lived in the Green, but he had a trade, which meant he'd likely always have employment. It was small security, but Clara perceived it as a foothold.

For ten years she'd been taking in washing to augment the family's income, but unbeknownst to Mister Moffat, she'd been keeping back some of her earnings for herself. It wasn't to spend on clothes or sweets or trinkets, but to squirrel away for some future need. Clara didn't yet know what that would be, but when the situation presented itself, she would be ready.

Her days were long and full. Up before anyone else, she lit the stove and made the gruel. Once Jane and William were on their way, she roused Emily and Catherine. After they were fed and dressed and the lodgings put straight, Clara's day began in earnest.

“Fetch the water and put it on the boil, but be sparing with the coal, girls,” she told her daughters. “It needs stretch a long ways. When the water's hot, pour it into the tub.” She wrapped herself in her shawl, picked up her basket, and lifted the latch on the door. “If Mister Digby brings his laundry by afore I'm back, get the soap and washboard out and start scrubbing his shirts. Remember to leave the dirtiest of the lot to last. The soap and water go farthest that way.”

Then she let herself out into the morning. Daylight had arrived without enthusiasm, and the dull grey sky pressed down on the people in the street, rounding their backs and slowing their step.

Not Clara though. Tall and straight, she moved briskly about her business, greeting those she passed with a smile or friendly word, for she knew everyone in the Green. She went directly to the costermongers and shrewdly picked through the produce. At the end of winter, there wasn't much to choose from—just a few old root vegetables. She selected three beets. They were soft and the tops were wilted, but they would make a change in the soup. She haggled with the seller over the price—for that was expected, and when the two had struck a bargain they were both dissatisfied with, she continued on her way. Several more stops found her adding oatmeal, slabs of beef fat, eggs, and flour to her basket as well.

Normally Clara would turn for home after visiting the vendors, but this morning, she had one more piece of business to attend to.

Thanks for reading. See you next month.