Marmalade

By C.M. Gordon

What if I were to tell you my deepest darkest secret, what would you think of me?

Jessica Matthews wants to tell you her life story. She is in fact the real Lady Mamalade, and thats only a small part of her revelation. So at the age of eighty, she decides its time for the world to know her true life story.

She begins reminiscing the time when she was sixteen years old and living in East London back in 1908, struggling to deal with her abusive mother. She craved to be a star, but her life was far from the glitz and glamour. Instead she had to deal with dire conditions and a world that was so cold toward her. What she reveals will shock you, but you will find out what she really was like as a person, who was her family, why she was famous, and what was the meaning behind the name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496998736

C.M. Gordon

C.M. Gordon has been writing for about fifteen years now. It all started when she studied creative writing back in high school. She gave herself a desire to write her own book. So for a while she would practice, practice, and practice. She did so for many years until she established her writing style. What the author loves most about writing is bringing the characters to life, as if she can meet them in person. She likes having that vision; it makes reading more enjoyable. She currently lives in West London, United Kingdom and work for a company in finance. The author hopes that you enjoy reading her book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

What if I were to tell you my deepest, darkest secrets? What would you think of me?

I sat and listened to some of my old records I recorded a long time ago. As I sat in my favourite chair, the music instantly brought me back to my youth. I opened a photo album and looked at some of the photos of me as a young girl. I did have some good times, but there were other times when it was bad. My past, which could be described as glamorous, dazzling, and fascinating, has caused much speculation with the media and has been thrusted into the entertainment world of today.

Now, in the year 1972, many of the stories I have heard about me are outright lies, which has led me to wonder whether anyone is truly interested in my story of what actually happened.

The question is this: do you want to know about my life, really? Well here it is.

I was born in 1892 and grew up in a small terrace house on Old Montague Street, Whitechapel, East London. I lived with my mother and brother. I didn’t know my father then, so my mother raised my brother and me by herself. We lived in Whitechapel and were poor when I was growing up. I always dreamt of being a singer and dancer. Being on stage and performing in front of thousands of people was all I could think about. I would make up routines and sing at home, but being poor meant it was to be only a dream. No one would take a chance on me to fulfil it, so I had to work hard for my family. I didn’t even go to school because I had to work.

Fortunately, my life started to change on a cold January morning in 1908, when I was sixteen years old. Let me tell you the events that led up to it. But let me warn you I was very very angry and bitter about my upbringing, so I might come across as irritable.

I woke up in a damp, dingy old house and didn’t know where I was. I had drunk heavily the night before, as I did have a habit of doing that. I turned over and saw a grotty, smelly man sleeping next to me. I panicked; I knew I had to get out of there immediately, so I quietly slid out of the bed. I didn’t want him to wake up, whoever he was.

When I opened the bedroom door, it creaked loudly and woke him up. To my surprise and horror, the man was Royal, my boyfriend at the time. He was pleasant, hardworking, and popular with all his friends. He had short brown hair and a small frame because he worked as a chimney sweep. After we were together for about a year, he told me he wanted to marry me and for me to bear his children. I wanted children and a husband, but I really didn’t like him. When he tried to kiss me goodbye, I felt physically sick, and my mouth filled with vomit. I can still smell his breath on me as I write this.

I knew he was in love with me, but he had no chance with me. I tried to keep my distance from him as much as possible and avoided all invitations to be with him.

‘Will I see you later?’ he asked, running his dirty, sticky fingers through my hair.

‘I’ll try and come ’round sometime. Bye.’ I spoke quickly to avoid a lengthy conversation with him. I just wanted to get out of there as fast as my legs could carry me. I focused on the front door like an athlete focuses on the finishing line of a race.

As I raced down the stairs, he yelled out to me, ‘I love you, Jessie Matthews!’

Even the sound of his voice made me shudder. I hated the sound of his voice.

I had made about five pounds that night; well, really I stole some money from Loud Lenny, the town drunk at the Black Bull Tavern on Whitechapel Road. All the locals called him Loud Lenny because, whenever he drank excessively, he had only one volume.

Times were tough back then in Whitechapel, and I saw no other options but to take money when people weren’t paying attention. I had to do that to cover the rent. I wasn’t a thief all the time; I worked at the St Pancreas Workhouse, doing laundry, sewing textiles, and cleaning up and cooking in the kitchens. Starting at six in the morning, I was paid seven shillings and four pence for ten-hour days and worked from Monday to Saturday. Andrew, my younger brother, also worked his hardest; he didn’t go to school. He was a street sweeper. There was no hope for us poor souls – just more woe. The poor were very poor and the rich – well, they were very rich.

It was always busy in Whitechapel, not like today. Whitechapel High Street Road was dirty, overcrowded, and dusty. The streets were harsh, smelly, narrow, and overcrowded, so walking through the streets during the day when they were heaving with people was a risk. I had to push my way through crowds of people. As I approached High Street that day, people were walking and milling about people doing their daily routines, buying and selling groceries at the fish mongers, bakeries, and jewellery and market stalls. Young boys were selling newspapers that told of the tension in Europe again, especially among Germany, Austria, and Russia. The news had little effect on me, I must admit, but in years to come it did. The suffragettes, demonstrating with their billboards, shouted at the top of their voices, reminding me that I wasn’t allowed certain privileges that the men had. Other headlines showed the excitement for the forthcoming 1908 Olympics, which were to be held in London for the first time.

I bought a paper, and as I was reading it, one of the urchins from the streets ran right into me, and I nearly fell to the ground. After I caught my balance, I noticed the boy’s face, which was filthy with several teeth missing. A small bread roll had fallen from his jacket to the floor, and I assumed he had stolen it. He apologised and continued running with the rest of his street friends, the baker running after them yelling for them to stop. Everyone turned to look but did nothing to stop the boy.

As I walked on, I saw a man in dark clothing trying to drum up attention by ringing a bell. He was selling livestock and three children. One of the children being sold had a birthmark on his head similar to that of my friend’s son. The sign that was hanging around the boy’s neck read, ‘Boy for Sale’. I instantly recognised him, for I knew his mother, whose name was Jasmine. I remembered when this child was born, when he took his first steps, and I knew Jasmine always had Luke – that was his name – by her side. When she was cleaning as a housemaid, he was there; when she was out buying bread, he was there. After the death of her husband and she became destitute like me, she always said that I needed to work hard to achieve what I wanted. Because she was older than I was, I looked to her for guidance.

‘Luke, where is your mother?’ I asked the boy, and he burst into tears. My heart melted away. I had the money I had acquired over the past few days, and I wondered whether I should do the honourable thing. I asked the bell man how much it was to buy Luke.

‘For you, love, about four pounds,’ he said. ‘Do you want him for house duties?"

I rejected his price, and he told me to push off.

‘Sir, I could pay two pounds. Is that enough to take him?’ Again, he rebuffed me and told me to push off.

‘I know his mother,’ I said. ‘Where is she?’

‘If you must know, you nosy cow, his mother, the tramp, died of influenza.’ He turned away from me.

‘Has he no other family?’ He ignored me and continued selling his stock.

I hoped he rotted, but what was I to do? If I did buy Luke, I would be responsible for feeding and clothing him, and I wasn’t even able to look after myself, let alone Luke. What about my family? How would they feel about another mouth to feed?

‘Please, Jessie,’ Luke pleaded, ‘help me.’ He was crying relentlessly – even now his face haunts me. I felt like such a failure, like nothing I did was of any use to anyone. I had really tried to better myself, but it was always out of my reach.

‘I will, Luke, I will. Don’t worry.’ It was so hard for me to walk away, and I kept seeing his scared little face. I even resorted to asking people on the street for money to buy him, but I got the normal response of either indifference or ‘push off.’

Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, I caught a putrid smell in the air, which was coming from the around the corner of the street. As I walked closer, I saw dead bodies lying in a heap on a cart. I noticed in amongst the pile a hand that flopped out on the side of the cart that bore a ring like Jasmine’s wedding ring and realised the horrifying truth that it was Jasmine. I cried, as I couldn’t believe that she had been just dumped there. I ran away and sat on a bench, weeping for what felt like an hour. I needed that time to grieve.

Reflecting on my life so far, I wondered why it was that others lived so simply and apparently with few problems, while people like Jasmine, Luke, and me were suffering. I yearned to achieve more, but I wasn’t well educated, so it was hopeless. The only thing I could do was sing and dance.

In my despair, I heard someone from above yell ‘heads up!’ I looked up and someone in an upstairs window poured onto the street a bucket of yellow liquid and some solids. That smell was even worse than that of the dead bodies. A tramp who everyone knew as Terry the Tramp – he had been rich until he lost all his money to poor investments, but he still wore the same clothes as he wore when he lived in his mansion – walked into the contents and cursed as he tried to clean off his shoes. It did make me laugh inside, I must admit.

As I said, life was busy and lively in Whitechapel.

As I wiped my tears on my sleeve, I smelt the aroma of fresh bread. My plan that day was to buy some bread from my favourite bakery to eat with drippings and some soup for dinner. As I went inside the baker’s shop, Mr Murphy, the baker, was laying some loaves on the counter.

‘Have you heard the news?’ he asked me. Mr. Murphy had a habit of telling me the news whether I was interested or not; nine times out of ten I wasn’t interested. I think he just liked to chat, so I humoured him by pretending to seem intrigued.

‘What news?’ I replied, fiddling with some coins in my hand. After the morning I’d had, I just wanted to buy my bread and get out of there.

‘Another one of those girls died last night.’

‘Oh, no. Where?’ I asked with a sigh.

‘Two streets down. I wonder if he’s back.’

‘Who?’

‘You know who. The Ripper. Surely you must know that.’

‘Oh, him. You think he’s back?’ Really I just wanted my bread and to leave, but he kept talking.

‘Well, who else could have killed them girls off in the same manner?’

‘Yeah, but maybe it’s a copycat.’

‘No, I’m sure it’s him. I can feel it in my bones.’

The baker spoke with such enthusiasm that I couldn’t take him seriously. He did make me smile, I have to say. He was heavy built with salt-and-pepper hair, and he was tall and spoke with a thick Yorkshire accent. He was so obsessed with the Jack the Ripper case that it made me think maybe he was the Ripper himself. He had easy access to knives so he could have been the one.

‘What has the police said or done about it?’ I asked.

‘The police haven’t said anything, but I already have my suspicions of who it could be.’

‘You seem convinced, so who?’

Murphy motioned for me to come in closer. He looked left then right, making sure no one could hear, and he whispered,

‘Well, between me and you, I think the Ripper is—’

Just then the shop’s doorbell rang and he moved away from me.

‘Good Morning, Mrs Wilkes,’ he said to the new customer. ‘How do you do today?’ Mr Murphy was finished with me, concentrating on more important customers.

Mrs Wilkes, the old bag, always thought she was superior to others because she was old. She hated there being other customers in the bakery whilst she