UNCLE GEORGE       [Part 6 f 10] 

By Richard Banks

All this is very dramatic and exciting but at the same time very much yesterday’s news. I need to focus on the here and now and after making yet another journey to the tip I phone Ally and ask her to join me for the weekend. I need her to see the house and give her approval to it and all the things that will be needed to improve it. I also want to show her the local branch of the insurance company she works for. Even if she can’t get a transfer there there’s other firms nearby that might have vacancies she could apply for, or failing that she could commute into London like I might be doing. The future, uncertain as it is, is exciting and I can’t wait for it to get started. The past is over and done with and although tales of Uncle George may become a cherished part of family folk law they are not going to distract me from what is more important.

          Three days later I pick-up Ally from the station and take her back to the house. While she unpacks I order a take-away. When she comes back downstairs I can see she’s less than impressed, but then I tell her about all the improvements I have in mind: double glazing, central heating, a new kitchen, new everything I tell her, furniture, carpets, the lot. What we can’t afford from the sale of my flat we will pay for by taking out a loan; another forty to fifty pounds might be needed but what’s that compared to the average mortgage. She agrees on the condition that she gets to choose the décor and the kitchen, plus she must have the two piece suite she saw in Debenham’s. Ten minutes later she’s added a new bed to her list and we spend Saturday morning buying it and disposing of the old one. By tea time we have booked-in visits from two double glazing companies for the following Saturday and spoken to the wife of a heating engineer who says he will phone me back. Suddenly it’s too late to do anything else, tomorrow’s Sunday and, unlike London, there’s nothing much open.

         “Good,” says Ally who’s now determined to see the positive in everything. “You can show me the countryside and the stretch of beach where you say that storehouse is. Fancy your uncle being mixed-up in a big money smuggling operation. Do you think that some of what went missing might still be there?”

         “No chance of that after twenty years. Anyway,” I say, “I have next to no idea where this storeroom is.”

         “But you do,” she says, “it’s close to Gratham Wood. That’s what that reporter chap said. We’ll soon find it on Google.”

         We do, and an hour later we’re stood on the beach outside a large derelict building, sprayed with graffiti and minus a front door. We venture in but there are no windows and, away from the door, its soon becomes too dark to see. There’s a torch in the car, which I wasn’t going to mention, but Ally does and, despite my protests, she insists we retrieve it and continue our search.

         “For what,” I say, “anything valuable will have disappeared long ago,” but she tells me not to be a wuss, so we venture in a second time and pick our way across a floor strewn with broken glass and other debris. Something scuttles by which I’m guessing is a rat, but my intrepid companion continues on undeterred, shining the torch in a wide arc in front of her.

         “Any chance you’re going to tell me what exactly you’re up to?” I ask.

         “Keys,” she says, “hasn’t it crossed your mind that the keys you found in the kitchen might be for here.”

         “Hardly,” I say. “I didn’t know anything about this place until a few days ago. Anyway, as you may have noticed, the front door is missing so there’s no way we can test your theory.”

         “But there are two keys,” says she, “and one rather larger than the other. If your Uncle was keeping a watch on the storeroom it’s more than likely he had keys, and the one’s you’ve found don’t fit any locks in the house. So what if one key was for the front door and the smaller one for a room within?”

         “Which I’m seeing no sign off. Look there’s the back wall. This is just one empty space.”

         “What about over there?” She’s shining the torch to her right where the side and back walls should be meeting but don’t, at least not at ground level.  “That’s our room,” she shrieks. “What did I tell you.”

         While I’m touched that she wants to make this room mine as well as hers I’m struggling to match her enthusiasm for a shadowy shape that looks not much bigger than my father’s garden shed. When we get over to it the ‘room’ turns-out to be a large metal cupboard, solidly attached to the ground and outer wall. There’s a handle on the front which when turned to the right frees two doors that part and swing open towards us. We peer in at four shelves piled high with an assortment of rubbish spilling out of decomposing cardboard boxes. It’s no Aladdin’s cave but Ally isn’t giving-up yet. She means to see every square inch of this cupboard and nothing’s going to get in her way. Having dragged everything out onto the floor, including the shelves, she begins a forensic examination of the cupboard that at one point requires me lifting her up so she can peer into the top shelf.

         “It’s not here,” she mutters disconsolately.

         “Absolutely,” I say. “You’ve tipped everything out. When there’s nothing left, there’s nothing  to find.”

         “Not even a keyhole?” she agrees. “A keyhole for the key that might have got us into the space behind it.”

         She’s got a point. What’s in the seven or eight feet behind the cupboard? Probably something mechanical like an air conditioner or generator, but a something that someone occasionally needs to get to, but how? There’s no moving parts to make this happen except the handle that’s already been turned once to the right, but what if we give the handle a further turn to the right? What would happen then? The answer is probably nothing but if I suggest we give it a try I’ll at least get a few Brownie points from Ally for trying to prove her right. What I haven’t taken into account is that for Ally one more turn is never going to be enough.

         “What about two to the right,” she says when one fails to make anything happen. Then we’re into two turns right and one left and then one left and two right. The number of combinations seem endless, especially when, after awhile, you’re unsure what you have already tried. We’re becoming combination junkies when after thirty minutes our efforts are unexpectedly greeted with a loud hum that’s not coming from either of us. Was it two right, two left and three back I’m thinking, but it doesn’t matter now, there’s a click followed by more humming and the back panel of the cupboard starts to slide down to the floor. This is our eureka moment when we should be shouting ‘wow’ but the concrete staircase on the other side is only worth the “oh” we give it. There are eight steps down to a landing where a left turn takes us down another eight steps to a handle-less door that successfully resists Ally’s vigorous attempts to push it open - but she’s not seeing the thing she most wants to.

         “It’s there,” I tell her, grabbing the torch and pointing it at the keyhole in the door. “Have you got the key?”           

         Her hands are shaking so much she can hardly pick it out from the loose change in her purse, and when she puts it in the lock it doesn’t fit because she’s got it in the wrong way up. She takes a deep breath, says a word I’ve never heard her use before, and tries again. This time all that’s needed is a single turn to the right and the door swings inwards to reveal an intense blackness that the torch does little to pierce. We are about to venture in, regardless, when it occurs to the both of us that anyone spending time down here must have had more than a torch to light the way. Surely there must be lights overhead, and, to our relief, the switches that turn them on are found where light switches are usually to be found, at the side of the door. A dozen florescent tubes splutter into life and we find ourselves looking across a large space of similar dimensions to the one above. It’s empty except for a heap of cardboard boxes in the far corner to our left and, in mid floor, a table and chair. We examine the boxes first. There’s thirty of them and after finding nothing beyond the paper dividers that once fitted around the bottles, we make our way over to the table, which on closer scrutiny turns out to be a desk.  

         Ally sits down on the chair ready to pull open the several drawers on either side but she doesn’t get that far. On top of the desk is an envelope. It has my name on it and a message that reads: ‘The cupboard door closes automatically after ten minutes. If you don’t remember the combination grab this envelope and get out now!’

         We’re out in one of the longest, most traumatic minutes it still pains me to remember. Back above ground the sight of sunlight through the missing door has never been more welcome and, as we walk towards it, we hear a click followed by a hum, along with the heavy beating of our hearts.

          

Copyright Richard Banks

 UNCLE GEORGE        [Part 5 of 10] 

By Richard Banks 

         I arrive five minutes early to find him already there and halfway through a scotch and ginger. Suddenly apprehensive at what was to come, I sensed that he was too. We shook hands.

         “What are you drinking, Mr Jones? I have a feeling you may be needing one. You are, I take it, the beneficiary of your uncle’s will?”

         I replied that I was and that if he was buying I would have a Guinness.

               “Then that’s what you will have. To be sure, the lady at the bar is already pouring it. Bring it over Gladys when you’re ready, and another Scotch for myself. Now Mr Jones, what do you know about the London Run? And I don’t mean the marathon.”

         “Not as much as I would like to,” I said, fearing that my ignorance on that subject might dissuade him from sharing what he knew.

         He laughed. “Oh, don’t worry Mr Jones I’m going to tell you the whole story irrespective of what you have for me, although I’m anticipating that your visit to the bank yesterday is likely to be of interest. Anyway, I’ll go first and after that I’ll be wanting to hear everything you know. I’m sensing it may not be much but after all these years every last scrap of information is like gold dust to me.

         I settled into my seat and, on Gladys bringing over our drinks, he began his tale.

         “Twenty five years ago, Mr Jones, I was a young reporter on the Echo doing the usual round of weddings and lost dog stories and dreaming of that big scoop that would get me noticed by the dailies in London. I was aware that some low level smuggling had been going on, mainly booze, which almost everyone in these parts was in on, even the mayor took a few bottles. Well, what was the harm in it? Smuggling along the Wash has been going on since the Stuarts were on the throne. It was almost like we had an unwritten charter to do it. Then, in the late ’80s, things changed and what had been a side line for a few fishermen and those who took two or three bottles became an altogether larger operation. Serious criminals were now involved and little of what they brought in was being sold locally. That’s when I decided to become the daring young reporter who was going to uncover what was going on and reveal all in a front page exclusive that would make my name.

         It didn’t take a genius to work out that Frankie Beale was involved and that his usual crew were doing the legwork. One of these was a farmhand called Johnny Bragg who after a few pints tended to live up to his name. My idea was to ply him with a few drinks at the Green Man on a Saturday evening and coax him into blabbing out what he knew, but as he was seldom very far from his likely accomplices this was never going to be easy. However, when I saw him buy a round from a roll of ten pound notes I knew beyond a doubt that he and his pals were making more money than they knew what to do with. What’s more, Frankie Beale was also in the house.

         Usually he stood at the bar with the rest of them but this evening he was sat by himself showing little interest in the lager in front of him. A few minutes later it all starts to make sense; who should come in but Roy Callow, our recently appointed Inspector of Police who without so much as a sideways glance crosses the floor and disappears into a corridor where there are two doors, one into the Gent’s toilet and the other, marked ‘No Entry’, giving access to the private rooms of the pub. A minute or two later Frankie follows on and when I check-out the toilet neither of them are in there. So now I have the Inspector and one of the biggest villains in Norfolk together in the same room where, I’m guessing, Ernie Spall, the landlord of the pub is also to be found.

         If only I was a fly on the wall, but maybe, just maybe, if I put my ear to the keyhole I will hear what they are saying, but when I do there’s nothing to be heard. I peer in and see an empty room and on the other side of it a door into another room where I’m assuming the meeting is under way. I creep in and park myself down by the door. There’s a key in the lock but that don’t matter, I can hear everything that’s being said. Callow is not in a good mood and everyone is speaking louder than is good for them. As usual Johnny Bragg has been saying too much and Callow wants him given a good beating and dropped from the team. Frankie doesn’t like being told what to do but knows only too well that Johnny is more trouble than he’s worth. If there’s been any blabbing, he says, he will put a stop to it, even if it means putting an end to the dickhead who’s doing it. Just make sure you do your job, what we’re paying you for.

         Callow responds with a terse, ‘no problem’ and they move on to what Spall refers to ‘as the next big event’. There’s a consignment of brandy coming into Anderson’s, an abandoned wharf, on Sunday, some of which is to be taken by road two days later to Spall’s contact in London. The rest will be kept under lock and key until Spall secures another order.

         ‘Where are you storing it?’ demands Callow, but Frankie won’t tell him. ‘It’s safe,’ he says, ‘that’s all you need to know. Just keep the boys in blue out of our way, that’s your job, storage and transport is down to me.’ Callow snaps back and, as their voices become louder and more acrimonious, I retreat back into the corridor. I’ve been lucky, and I’m not even on their radar.

         Come Sunday, I watch from a safe distance as hundreds of boxes are unloaded from a barge. Beale’s men load them onto two lorries and drive off along the coast on a private road built by the businesses along there, most of which are closed down or moved on.  There’s no way I can follow on without being noticed but they can’t go far; the road’s less than a half mile long, and the only way inland and onto the road system, is where I’m hiding.

         The next day I take my dog for a walk along the beach looking for their storeroom. There’s no end of buildings at the back of the beach, mostly wooden sheds, much vandalised, doors missing or flapping open in the breeze. Then I come across a place larger than most with solid, breeze-block walls and a door with a padlock on it - a shiny, brass padlock that’s not long out of the shop that sold it. This could be it, I’m thinking, then I’m more than sure. The building has a minder, some fifty yards away but near enough to observe anyone taking too close an interest. But maybe he’s not a minder, maybe he’s just an old guy in a deckchair, reading the ’paper on a warm Summer’s day.

         I decide to make his acquaintance; it might look suspicious if I don’t, so I amble over to him and make the usual observations about the weather. That’s when I realise I might have seen him before, and, if I have, maybe he’s thinking the same about me. Perhaps he knows exactly who I am,  but if he does there’s not a flicker of recognition on his face. On an otherwise deserted beach he seems pleased to have someone to talk to, but not for long.

         ‘If you’re wanting a walk why don’t you try Grathham Wood,’ he says, ‘it has a lake, ancient woodland and a colony of beavers. It’s only five minutes away, down that path on the other side of the road.’

         I thank him for the information but say it’s time I was heading back. We bid each other goodbye; I turn-about and, in unhurried fashion, return to my car.

         So far so good but a story that started-off no more serious than some smuggled booze has now expanded to include police corruption. Any thoughts I had of tipping off the local bobbies and being on hand to witness the villains’ arrest has got altogether more complicated. I need advice from someone more experienced than myself, so next morning I waste no time in telling Bill Frindley, the Editor, what I have been up to. I’m nearly done when the News Desk ring through with breaking news: a young farm worker Johnny Bragg has been killed in a hit and run accident. For the first time since I joined the paper Bill seems stunned and less than sure what to do. No doubt he’s thinking who he can trust and who he can’t but to his credit his first concern is about me; if Beale has had Bragg killed then I too could be in danger.

         ‘Do you think the man on the beach knows who you are?’

         I say ‘no’, then ‘maybe’, I really don’t know.

         Bill says I’m to stay in the building and out of sight. If necessary I can bed down there for the night, but at 4.30 in the afternoon he summons me back into his office. He’s dug deep into his contacts book and spoken to a guy he once knew in Essex who is now in the Serious Crimes Unit of the Met. As the brandy is bound for London they will take the lead and follow the consignment all the way to London where Beale’s gang and those taking delivery will be arrested. The Met needs someone who knows the local area and can identify the targets to be followed.

         ‘Will you do it?’ says Bill.

         I tell him, yes. I know the lorries used at the wharf and where we can wait for them unseen as they come off the coast road and onto the B1158. This is shaping-up nicely, the cavalry’s been summoned and is ready to go, and I’m about to get the story that will make my name. What’s more, if Frankie and his crew end up in prison, which they surely will, they won’t be doing me any harm.

         At 11.30 the following evening I’m in the front passenger seat of an unmarked police car, just off the coast road, with three coppers who look every bit as desperate as the villains they’re pursuing. There’s a van further on with armed back-up inside that will be following in our wake and sometimes taking over as the nearest pursuit vehicle. We’re all set and when a lorry shoots past us I  know, for sure, it’s one of those I saw being loaded at the wharf. Twenty minutes later we’re on better lit roads and heading south. There’s nothing more for me to do now but enjoy the ride and get some photos at the other end. This is a dream come true, my ticket into Fleet Street.

         An hour later we’re on the A10 and passing through Ware when the lorry takes an unexpected left and accelerates away before taking another left into a suburban road and screeching to a halt. By the time we catch-up, the doors of the lorry are open and everyone inside has fled into the night. The support van arrives and the coppers spill out, guns at the ready, but with no one in sight their pursuit is as good as over. But it’s not done yet, I’m told, a police helicopter is being scrambled and a message has gone out to every police car within miles to be on the look-out. But no one knows how many men we’re looking for, what they are wearing or anything else about them. The cops try and put a good face on it. They have the contraband and there will be fingerprints, they say, no matter how careful those in the lorry think they have been there’s bound to be fingerprints.

         At first light the police break into the storeroom on the sea front but find only a dozen boxes inside. But there should be more, I say, much more, I saw them load-up two lorry loads of the stuff. Three of Frankie’s gang are apprehended next day but only one of them has left fingerprints in the lorry and he claims it’s a hire vehicle he sometimes uses for rubbish removal. Any other prints found in it will probably be those of pals who help him out from time to time. As for the storeroom the police keep talking about he knows nothing of it.

         It’s not looking good and despite pulling-in Frankie and everyone else likely to be involved no one’s talking. Ditto Callow and Spall. But Callow’s mobile has been taken from him, and what do you know, there’s a call on it to Frankie five minutes before the lorry was abandoned in Ware. Did he find out what was going on and warn Frankie who in turn phoned through to the guys in the lorry? The Met think so, and if they can find Frankie’s phone they will likely have their proof, but no one’s surprised when it can’t be found.

         It’s as satisfactory as a no score draw in football. A crime’s been prevented, the contraband seized, but there’s insufficient evidence to charge anyone with a criminal offence; a young reporter gets only half a story and Callow survives an investigation but agrees to resign, later reinventing himself and returning to Buremarsh as a genial member of the gentry. As for the man on the beach, three months later I see him again and follow him, all the way back to his home at Petherdale.    

         Yes, Mr Jones, the man I saw on the beach was your uncle and having ascertained his name informed my Editor who duly told the Met. A police raid on his home recovered a single bottle, and after a long interrogation he admitted his part in their unlawful importation.

         If, like the others, he had denied his involvement he would probably have got away with it but unlike them he was not a street wise criminal and soon confessed his guilt. However, one thing he wouldn’t do was name any of his accomplices even though he would have escaped a custodial sentence had he done so. Whether this was out of loyalty to Frankie and Co or because he thought time in prison preferable to the retribution that might one day come his way, I can’t say. What I do know is that in 1994, after serving eighteen months of a three year sentence, he was released. He returned to his previous life as a casual labourer whose periods of employment were now even less than before. It was at this time that I contacted him requesting an interview which he unsurprisingly declined. A pity that, there’s so much he might have said, things we may now never know. Two hundred boxes were recovered from the lorry, with a street value of sixty grand, but that’s only half of what I saw unloaded two days before, and who knows how much was in the warehouse from previous shipments. So what happened to it all, Mr Jones? Do you have something to tell me?”

         His long monologue was at an end.

         “No idea, Mr Cummings, my uncle left me his house and everything in it, his furniture, furnishings, a few books, even an unopened box of teabags, but bottles of brandy there were none. He was a poor man struggling to get by. Far more likely it was Frankie who kept hold of what was left, but how he did so I have no idea.”

         Cummings looks disappointed, but not altogether surprised. “If only I could prove that and put him away; even after all these years, there is nothing I would like better. What happened to Billy Bragg will always be on my conscience. I should have warned him that he was in danger but I didn’t. Otherwise I’m an old dog with a large bone he can’t crack. It should have ended so well for me, the arrest and imprisonment of the villains, including a senior policeman, and the recovery of valuable contraband. It should have been my big break, but it wasn’t. It was only half a story, and not until five years later was I able to escape the shackles of grass route journalism. Well, there’s no changing that, but nevertheless I need closure. So tell me, please do, how did you fare at the bank? Could it be, despite what you say, that your uncle once had some serious money, money he chose to count rather than spend, money he has now passed onto you. Is there something I should be telling the police, Mr Jones?”

         “Tell them what you like! There’s no money, it’s gone, where to I have no idea.” For a few moments I’m irritated by what he’s just said, then even more annoyed when I realise I have told him more than I intended. The man’s obsessed, there may be no getting rid of him now, but then, what do I have to hide, so I tell about the money in my uncle’s account, how he withdrew every penny of it in cash and did who knows what with it. I say I will get Matlock & Wells to write to the bank and get them to confirm what I have just told him. “Will that satisfy you, Mr Cummings, otherwise there is little I can tell you. My uncle and Frankie have occasionally been seen together, once with Callow, and that although nothing was heard of their conversation my uncle appeared less than easy in their company. One thing I’m certain of is that my uncle never made any serious money from the brandy otherwise there would have been no need for him to live in poverty for the rest of his life. The one occasion on which I’ve met Frankie he went out of his way to praise my uncle; if he ended up with the money in uncle’s account he would have had good reason for doing so. I wish I could tell you more but, after twenty years, I suspect that only a death bed confession is going to solve this particular mystery; unfortunately for the both of us Uncle died in his sleep.”

         Cummings looks dejected but appears to accept what I say. We finish our drinks and he gives me his private mobile number. “Let me know,” he says, “if anything else comes to light.”

          I assure him that I will, and we go our separate ways.

 

(To Be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks    

 

 UNCLE GEORGE    [Part 4 of 10?]

By Richard Banks 

On the Monday, after breakfast, I set-off with my uncle’s will, his death certificate and proof of who I was. The cashier at the Upshire Bank declared herself unable to deal with my enquiry and after disappearing ‘off-stage’ to consult a colleague showed me into the office of a Mr Woodrow whose weary expression indicated that my arrival had not, from his point of view, been well timed. He examined the documents I brought before declaring that any money belonging to my uncle could only be disclosed to his solicitor.

         “But surely,” I said, “you can tell me if the account is open or not. It seems a pity to waste your time and the solicitor’s if it’s been closed.”

         He nodded in a begrudging sort of way and, taking from me the bank’s letter, typed out the account number and examined the client details on his monitor. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck Mr Jones, the account was closed twenty one years ago, a pity that.”

         “Oh, why so?” I asked. “Much in it?”

         Mr Woodgrove raised a disapproving eyebrow. “That I couldn’t possibly say, Mr Jones but if I was to tell you that £30,000 was a significant amount back then you should not construe me as meaning that such a sum was in your uncle’s account when he withdrew it all in cash. Now, Mr Jones, if you will excuse me I have work to do.”

         So, uncle had walked out of the Upshire with a bag or suitcase full of banknotes. How had he got his hands on such a large sum and what had become of it? If this wasn’t a mystery nothing was, but my growing optimism that the Echo would be able to provide me with further information was all but quashed within minutes of entering their premises. The young guy on reception did not know the person signing their letter or what the interview was about, assuming it ever took place. No doubt, he said, it was something to do with a story they running at the time but what that was he had no idea. They only kept their back numbers for ten years. I could speak to the Editor when he was back in the office but as he had only been with the paper five years it was unlikely he would know any more than himself. Perhaps, he suggested, the best course of action would be for me to leave my mobile number, along with a note saying what I had just told him, and if Mr Thorpe could be of assistance he would, no doubt, give me a ring.

         I did as he suggested but with little expectation that a call-back, if it happened, was going to add anything to what I had found out at the bank. Was the Echo’s request for an interview linked to the money in my uncle’s account? I felt sure it was, but if the paper was unable to tell me this, who else could? The Beale’s? My imagination was in overdrive. Stick to the facts I told myself, but of these there were far too few.

         I was having lunch in a pub nearby when the ringtone of my mobile heralded a call from Matlock & Wells informing me that a life assurance policy lodged with them when uncle made his will would be adding a further £300 to his estate. If I was less upbeat about this than the solicitor’s clerk appeared to be it did at least bring me down to earth. The purpose of my visit was to decide what to do with uncle’s house and its effects. With only a few days left before my return to London I was better of getting on with that rather than chasing a pot of gold that in all probability no longer existed. I had a big decision to make and a girl friend I was rather fond of. Did we have a future together and, if so, did it lie in London or here? The time to find out was very definitely now, and that evening I made the longest and most important telephone call of my life at the end of which I was engaged and living in what was likely to become our first house.

         Unsurprisingly sleep didn’t come easily that night. The feeling of euphoria when Ally said yes was soon followed by the realisation that there was now even more to do than before. In addition to binning uncle’s clothes and linen I had also to dispose of much of his furniture. Some of it would come in useful until we could afford better but most of the rest would be giving the tip a bad name. We would be needing a freezer, a washing machine, a TV, none of which uncle had. The house would need rewiring and central heating installed. I awoke, with an aching head, to the ring tone of my mobile. After lying awake for most of the night I had overslept, it was 10am.

         “Mr Phillip Jones?” the voice was unfamiliar, businesslike, a certain tension in his voice indicating that for him this was an important call.

         “Yes, that’s me.”

         “My name is Fred Cummings. I gather from Eddie Thorpe at the Echo that you’ve been asking about a letter I sent to George Jones in 1994. No doubt you’ll be wanting to know why I  wanted to speak to your uncle. I have much to tell you and in return you might be able to fill in a few gaps for me. I suggest we meet at the Wheatsheaf in Craventhorpe. Are you free this afternoon?”

         I replied that I was, my commitment to the practicalities of setting-up home suddenly put on hold in favour of a treasure hunt that was almost certainly going to end in disappointment. But who would know, I told myself, and if Cummings had nothing worth the telling that would be an end to it with only an afternoon wasted. Having eased my conscience by dropping-off more stuff at the tip I set-off for the Wheatsheaf trying to suppress my boyish excitement for a mystery about to be revealed, or so I hoped.  

(To be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

         

 UNCLE GEORGE    [Part 3 of 10?]

By Richard Banks

I concluded my work for the day by burning the papers in the hearth and, after feeding myself again, made ready for the gig. We departed in John’s car about seven for a pub called the Green Man where there was live music most Saturdays. My first impression that he was a likeable sort of guy proved only too true, and it came as no surprise that he knew my uncle rather better than most people know their neighbours.

         “George,” he assured me, “was a grand old chap, always ready to lend a hand when one was needed. He did a lot of jobs for me and other people around here, only taking money to cover the cost of the materials he used. In return I would run him over to Cromer when he had business there, or to the Hare and Hounds on a Sunday when the bus there don’t run.”

         “So he liked a pint then, my uncle?”

         “Not particularly. But he liked the company there, fellows like himself if you get my drift.”

         “You mean he was...gay?”

         “Well, he never said as much, but there was no hiding it. Not that he ever attempted to, though it would have been better for him had he tried. It wouldn’t have been an issue in London, or even in Norwich, but in this backwater the folks aren’t exactly progressive.”

         “So they gave him a hard time?”

         “Yeah, much was said, sometimes to his face, other times in not so quiet whispers behind his back. When the farmers were hiring he was always the last to be asked. How he managed before he got his pension I’ll never know. It couldn’t have been easy.”

         “Did he ever mention me?”

         “Only once and then not by name. Said he had made a will and left everything to a nephew he hadn’t seen in twenty years. Said you were a bright boy with a curious mind who would exceed all expectations, including your own, if you were prepared to go the extra mile.”

         “Meaning?”

         “Work hard, I guess. That’s what I thought at the time, proud uncle hoping his nephew would do well and have the breaks he didn’t. Left school at fourteen your uncle and was often out of work. He would have been pleased to see you doing better.”

         By the time we arrived at the Green Man I was feeling more than a little guilty of being the beneficiary of a poor man whom I had done nothing to help in the twenty three years our lives had overlapped. Whatever else I did that evening I was definitely going to raise a glass in his honour and say a quiet, but sincere thank you to my uncle and benefactor.

         The pub was the largest within five miles and, on a live music night, full to the rafters. Under the stern gaze of its landlord, a former commando called Hikey, it had a surprisingly diverse clientele of all ages where the upwardly mobile rubbed shoulders with the rough and ready, and feuding biker gangs maintained an uneasy truce with each until off the premises.

         On discovering that John, like myself, was partial to a Guinness we got served and sat ourselves down at the last table with unclaimed seats. The Rocket Boys were a man down on their original line-up. Barely recognisable from their heyday they were still a good turn and going down well with the locals when, to my horror, I spotted my assailants of the previous day standing together near the stage. Having inadvertently made eye contact with one of them, he and the others were now returning my gaze with surly expressions that while not exactly friendly were at least an improvement on what they were showing me the previous day. Had Callow’s intervention been enough to ensure my safety? I was soon to find out.

         The Group’s first set over, the oldest guy among them beat a straight line towards me beer glass in hand. About fifty years of age he was someone you wouldn’t want to be upsetting. Tall and thickset he had the build of a man who spent much of his time lifting weights in a gym. His patronage of a tattoo parlour was also evident from the decorations on his arms and chest which the hang-loose vest he was wearing did little to hide. The hell’s angel face on his chest was scarcely less threatening than his own that, from below a shaven head, was staring, in unfriendly fashion, at everyone about him - everyone that is but myself who was now being favoured by his best attempt at a smile.

         “Hi, I’m Frankie Beale,” he said, extending his free hand for the shaking. “I gather you’ve already met my boys. Sorry about the misunderstanding. Now we know you’re George’s kith and kin it won’t happen again. A great bloke your uncle; we got on well. He knew my Dad way back, were in the same class at school. Always stood by his friends did George even when it did him no good. But that’s the sort of guy he was, and we did well by him when we could. Let me know if you need any help taking stuff down to the tip, I’ll send one of the boys over with the van.”

         Having no wish to renew my acquaintanceship with his sons I thanked him for his ‘kind offer’ but declared myself, as yet, undecided what to do with Uncle’s effects. He nodded thoughtfully and after further expressions of regret over, “the passing of good old George” returned to the company of his sons. Relieved to see him go I was, at the same time, puzzled by some of the things he had said. Even though I knew next to nothing about my uncle it seemed unlikely that he and Frankie had ever been friends. If that had been the case why hadn’t he come to the funeral? And what was he alluding to when he said that uncle stuck by his friends, ‘even when it did him no good’, a strange turn of phrase. Had uncle got too close to the Beale’s and suffered as a consequence? If Frankie had said a little more than he intended it was probably not a good idea to be asking him any awkward questions. I was at peace with the Beale’s, no point in risking that!

         It was not until we were heading back to Petherdale that John expressed surprise that I should know the Beale’s. On assuring him that I didn’t I recounted my encounter with Frankie’s sons and Mr Callow’s intervention.

         “Good grief,” he exclaimed, “you’ve had a narrow escape. It’s serious grief for anyone who gets on the wrong side of them. People around here don’t even talk about them in case they get to hear what’s said.”

         “Did my uncle have any involvement with them? It won’t go any further than ourselves.”

         “That’s OK mate. I know I can trust you to keep it to yourself, but there’s not much I can tell you. Your uncle knew Frankie Beale that’s for sure; I saw them talking in the street several times. Your uncle was never at ease when they were together. As to what they were saying I was never close enough to hear.”

         “And he never spoke of Frankie, or his sons?”

         “Never. He would have known better than most not to do that. The only other thing I can tell you is that I once saw Frankie give your uncle something from his wallet, probably money, but I can’t say for sure, so maybe what he said about doing well by George wasn’t so far from the truth. However, if I was you I would let it go, some things are best not to know.”

         It was, of course, good advice, and well meant, but not enough to put me off making enquiries at the bank and the newspaper. What could be the harm in that? 

 (to be Continued)

 Copyright Richard Banks

UNCLE GEORGE        [Part 2 of 10]

Richard Banks 

         Mother was right not to expect too much, but while it was no palace, and little in it less than twenty years old, it was clean and well maintained, a pot of paint and some brushes in the kitchen indicating that uncle had been busy at his DIY shortly before his death. The lounge in the front, no more than a metre back from the road, was both broader and longer than I expected, and upstairs there were two bedrooms, one big enough to take a double bed, and a bathroom with an emersion heater that supplied hot water to the sink and bath. Without central heating and double glazing it wouldn’t be worth much if I chose to sell, but no one could claim it had been neglected. On the hearth of an open fireplace there was a pile of logs and a scuttle full of coal. Never having made a fire before, I was less than certain how to go about it, but with an evening chill developing I determined, with the help of mother’s matches, to give it a try. Working on the principle of Daily Mirror first, followed by wood and progressively larger pieces of coal my efforts were soon rewarded by a decent blaze that very definitely warmed the air, providing one didn’t stray too far from the fireplace. Too tired to do much else but unpack and eat the remaining sandwiches mother had made me, I settled down for the night on the sofa pulling it close to the hearth and observing the fire slowly burn itself out.

         I slept well and on waking found the sun shining in my eyes through the middle of uncle’s thick woollen curtains that, despite my best efforts, could never be made to meet in the middle. The spartan chillness of his bathroom was even less to my liking and, once I had established that there was no food in the house a trip to the nearest supermarket quickly became number one on my ‘to do’ list.

         I had decided to stay in the house until the following weekend returning to London on the Sunday in order to be ready for work the following day. There was much to do and only eight days to do it in and find out what sort of place Buremarsh was. The sight of

my next door neighbour out back washing his car was the opportunity I needed, not only to find out where the nearest supermarket was, but to check him out, along with the rest of my neighbours. Were these people I wanted to be living cheek by jowl with? If not, the house would definitely go up for sale, but right from the start nothing could be clearer than that I was going to get on well with John. What’s more in the twenty or so minutes I spent talking to him I found out nothing likely to put me off my other neighbours, one of whom was only there at weekends. The good news didn’t end there. The village of Craventhorpe was only three miles away, a local beauty spot with two tearooms, a Waitrose and a large pub-restaurant called the Wheatsheaf.

         On arrival I was much taken with what I found, and having done my shopping and eaten brunch in the pub returned to Petherdale somewhat later than I intended. John’s Mini Cooper was missing but a note pinned to my back door invited me to join him that evening to see a local group called the Rocket Boys who had once had a top ten hit and been on Top of the Pops. Having added the word yes and pinned the note to his back door I started on my second task of the day which was the sorting of my uncle’s papers. Had my mother been present this would have been achieved in less than an hour but left to my own devices I was all for a more cautious approach. There might, I reasoned, be something of value among them, an insurance policy, premium bonds, evidence of a bank or post office account that no one knew about. If unlikely, it was not impossible and I resolved to look through everything at least once.

         I was also intent on solving a mystery, in finding out what my uncle had done that could not be spoken of. Whatever it was, he had done me a favour and if I could do something to restore his reputation that was, perhaps, the least I could do. Whatever his faults he had not been an idle man and, in addition to the paint pots found, his kitchen cupboards were full of brushes and cleaning products. He was also a man with a library of some thirty to forty books on art and art/history, including the catalogue of an art gallery in Swaffham. Evidently there was more to my uncle than might have been expected from an agricultural labourer of limited education.          

         It was one o’clock and with nothing much done I adjourned to the kitchen for a snack I neither needed or deserved. It was there, while rummaging through his cutlery drawer that I found the two keys that further delayed my sifting of his papers, one large and rusted while the smaller of the two was much like a key I used at work for the opening and locking of a metal security cabinet. That it served no such purpose in Uncle’s house was only too apparent, but nevertheless they both had to fit something so, on eating the pie and beans I had been cooking, I went from room to room trying in vain to find the locks they fitted. It was with a sense of annoyance at time wasted that an hour later I returned to the gathering up of uncle’s papers determined to do at least one useful thing that day before tea and the gig to follow. 

         Having put every last sheet of paper into a bin bag I worked my way through them all putting everything to be burned on the hearth and those papers worthy of closer scrutiny onto the rug behind me. Two hours later only two papers had made it onto the rug, a standard pro-forma from the Upshire Bank regarding an account on which the rate of interest rate had changed and a letter from the Cromer Echo requesting an interview on an unspecified subject for which the newspaper was prepared to pay ‘a sum to be agreed’. Curiously both papers had been dispatched within a few days of each other in September 1994. Was this the glimmer of a mystery that might also produce an unexpected windfall? Was the account still open? If so the capital sum it contained would be much increased by over twenty years of compound interest. As for the letter that was certainly worth looking into. 

 

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

  

 

UNCLE GEORGE       [Part 1 of 10] 

by Richard Banks

 

When I stood up in church and did the eulogy it was only too obvious to the dozen or so persons present how little I knew about my uncle. We had met only three times, at my christening and twice when I was a small boy not yet at school – at least that’s what I’m told. If so, then uncle would have been in his late fifties, an unmarried man, who my mother described as a confirmed bachelor. Father puffed hard on his pipe when she said that, always a sign that something had met with his disapproval, a something that might be shared with his brothers at the Feathers but nothing that could be said in the presence of the womenfolk. Not that they didn’t have chapter and verse on whatever it was but to them the good name of the family demanded that knowledge of the miscreant, and his misdeeds, be hidden away inside them, in a part of the brain labelled ‘private, keep out’.

         Thus in 2015 when the solicitor’s letter arrived informing me that Uncle had left me his house in Norfolk, and everything in it, mother was not as pleased as I thought she would be. The property, she said, would likely be rundown and in need of repair. Uncle George had no money, never did have, was nothing more than a casual labourer working on farms when there was work to be had. He only had the house because it belonged to his father who brought it up cheap as a sitting tenant. Nothing in it was likely to be worth a penny piece and I would probably have to pay someone to take it all away. As for his papers they must be burned unread. No good, she said, ever came from reading a man’s private papers. Indeed, she would come with me to make sure this was done. Given her aversion to lengthy car trips there was little prospect of her doing so and, once she had my assurance that I would do as she decreed, her involvement was restricted to the buying of a large box of matches.

          I set out, on a Friday morning from my bedsit in Clerkenwell for the offices of Matlock & Wells in Cromer with the uneasy feeling that they might have more to gain from my uncle’s demise than myself. However, by the time I pulled into the car park at the rear of their premises I was in a more optimistic mood. The day was unusually warm for May, a clear blue sky, and the sun shining brightly on a countryside bursting into life after a long winter. The thought occurred to me that if my uncle’s house was in reasonable condition it might be possible to both live and work there. Why not I thought. Other people do it, why not me? Almost all my work was done on computer and it mattered little where it and myself were located. Even if I did have to show up at the office once or twice a week it was definitely doable and, who knows, Ally, my girlfriend of nine months, might well be amenable to life in the country.

         My meeting with Mr Wells did nothing to dent my good mood and having been given a road map of the local area and the keys to the house I was soon out of Cromer and making my way down country lanes scarcely wider than the car. Nothing in London had prepared me for this and, as I slowed down to negotiated a bend in the road, what I feared might happen very nearly did. The roar of an on-coming vehicle was followed almost immediately by the sight of a red Jeep Wrangler coming full pelt at me. There was nothing do be done but slam on the brakes and, with the driver of the jeep doing the same, we screeched to a halt no more than a foot apart.

         Four young men dressed in army camouflage tops and slashed jeans spilled out onto the road and advanced towards me shouting abuse, the most vocal of them brandishing a crowbar. With the prospect of worse to come, and neither fight or flight being an option, I locked the doors and sat tight. It was time for soothing words, but my opening observations that everything was cool and that no damage had been done were not having the desired effect. A guy with a tattoo on his face was pummelling my bonnet with clenched fists while another was threatening to break my nearside window if I didn’t open up.

         It is at moments like this that you wish you had a Guardian Angel who would suddenly appear and make everything OK. Thankfully for me such beings do exist, although not usually at the wheel of a Ford Mondeo, clad in plus fours and a tweed jacket. Having pulled up behind the jeep my saviour was now striding fearlessly into the fray demanding an end to hostilities. Remarkably his intervention could not have been more successful, my assailants now as quiet and inoffensive as a turned-off alarm clock.

         “Get back in your vehicle,” demanded my deliverer and, without so much as a whimper, they did as they were told. Having dealt with them he proceeded, stern faced, towards me.

         “You’ll have to back-up,” he said. “There’s a passing bay thirty yards back. You will need to pull into it and let them through.” He was, evidently, a man used to being obeyed and although he spoke civilly enough he seemed no better disposed to me than he was to them. It was time to put myself on the side of the good guys so I thanked him warmly for his intervention. He looked a little surprised but made no comment except to say that he would walk back with me and that I was to tuck-in as close to the hedge as I could; they weren’t, he said, likely to be too careful on their way past.

         A minute or so later the jeep roared past with my benefactor observing their departure from behind my rear bumper. “Have you business here?” he asked, his voice wary but not unfriendly. Bearing in mind that his car was still parked in the middle of a narrow country lane I wasted no time in telling him that my uncle had died and that I had come to take possession of his house in the village of Petherdale.

         “So, you’re Phillip Jones’s, George’s kin. Yes, you’re not unlike him. The house is two miles along on the right, but there’s no village, Petherdale is a row of cottages built by a farmer of that name. There’s a driveway at the side and parking spaces at the back. I’m sorry for what happened back there. You’ve just made the acquaintance of the Beale boys. They’ve been having a little trouble lately with a gang from London. No doubt they saw your plates and concluded you were one of them. I’m Roy Callow, local councillor and JP. No doubt their father will be bending my ear tomorrow telling me it was all a misunderstanding. I’ll tell him who you are and why you’re here. You won’t be bothered again. So, welcome to the district of Buremarsh, Mr Jones. Wait here until I’m past and then take it steady to your destination.”

         A few minutes later he was by and I was on my way again, thankful that my journey was soon to end. Ten minutes later I was parked at the rear of Uncle’s house and using the key so often in his hand to open what was now my back door.

 

(To be Continued)

Copyight Richard Banks

 FIRST LIE 

By Richard Banks

Mother had told Charlie to always tell the truth and that bad things happened to people who told lies. He assumed that she held fast to this advice until one day Granny arrived wearing a new hat full of brightly coloured feathers that would not have been out of place in an Indian headdress. Her contention that it was new seemed unlikely as it was well known within the family that Granny did her clothes shopping in charity shops. What happened next was definitely a lie. When asked what she thought of the strange object on Granny’s head mother replied, without a flicker of guilt, that it was the best hat she had seen that year.

Charlie took a sharp step back, expecting his mother to be struck by lightening, but nothing happened. He watched her take another sip from her tea cup and waited for her to choke on a tea leaf, but nothing happened.

At the end of Granny’s visit mother saw her to the front door saying that she hoped Granny’s friend, Mrs Geraldson, was recovered from the flu and to thank her for the delicious cake she had made for the church fete. That was another lie, the cake was mouldy, and mother had thrown it in the bin.

These were lessons well learned and when Charlie broke a window in father’s greenhouse he was able to say without a twinge of conscience, “it wasn’t me, Dad, it must have been some other boy”.

 

The End.

Copyright Richard Banks

   ANNIE (a daughter, wife and mother)

By Richard Banks

Annie Eliza was born out of wedlock in 1841, the first child of George Smith and Ruth Chapman. Her father was a soldier in the 2^nd Regiment of the Queen’s Life Guards, stationed at Regents Park Barracks. The Regiment provided the mounted guard for ceremonial parades and processions in London, such as those for Queen Victoria’s coronation and marriage. Ruth, had come to London from Sussex to work as a domestic servant. George would, no doubt, have cut a dashing figure on horseback and Ruth was one of many young women exposed ‘to the all powerful redcoat’ and ‘succumbing to Scarlet Fever’.       

         Although the army actively discouraged marriage for enlisted men George and Ruth were given permission to marry a year after Annie’s birth enabling the three of them to live together in barracks and later in lodgings. One of the benefits of George’s employment was that Annie would have been educated at the Regimental School well before the introduction of mandatory schooling. The school sought to instil notions of discipline, duty and respect in line with military ideals as well as teaching practical skills that would have equipped their pupils for future employment. By the standards of the time the children also received a good academic education, including spelling, reading, writing, diction, grammar, English history, geography, arithmetic and algebra. George would have been paid two-pence a month for Annie to attend and one penny for each of his children that came after her.  

         Growing up in salubrious areas such as Knightsbridge and Windsor put Annie in close proximity to a world of privilege and wealth seldom glimpsed by other working class children. From a young age Annie would have learned to take a pride in her father’s position and espouse regimental values of honour and dignity. How she spoke and comported herself would have conveyed the impression, even in later life, that she was from a good family. 

         By 1854 Anne had been joined by five siblings. The family was living in lodgings near to barracks when epidemics of scarlet fever and typhus arrived in London. Within weeks four of Annie’s siblings died, sparing only herself and one sister, Emily. Despite the trauma of these deaths family life continued and George and Ruth had several more children, including a son named Fountaine. By now Anne was in her teens and almost ready to begin working life. 

         At the time of the 1861 census she was working as a housemaid in the Westminster home of an architect; a few doors away was living Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Her duties as a maid of all work were many and involved long hours. The pay was poor and it is unlikely she had very much free time. However, for the first time in her life she had her own room. 

         In 1862 tragedy again entered her life when her father, now in civilian life, working as valet to a former officer, committed suicide by cutting his throat. The reason or reasons why he did so are unclear but since leaving the army it appears he had become a heavy drinker. 

         In 1869 Annie’s life took an upward turn when she married John Chapman, a lodger at her mother’s house. He was a private coachman, a job that put him near the top of the hierarchy of servants. They lived reasonably well by working class standards of the time. Indeed it was observed that many coachmen and their wives harboured delusions of grandeur, especially those who, like John, worked in the West End of London. In 1870 Annie’s first child was born to be followed by seven more. 

         In 1879 John became head coachman to Francis Tress Barry, a man of considerable wealth with a country estate, St Leonards Hill, near Windsor.  John’s duties now extended to the supervision of the estate’s stable block. The family’s accommodation in the coachman’s house would have been a significant improvement on previous lodgings and Annie may well have employed a charwoman or day maid. 

         Barry’s house was only four miles from Ascot racecourse and in 1881 was visited by the Prince and Princess of Wales, plus other royals, attending the races. They were often to return for dinners and shooting parties. Living close to high society, and benefiting from John’s well paid employment, the family had all but become middle class – what could possibly go wrong? 

         The answer is to be found in a letter written in 1889 to the Pall Mall Gazette by Annie’s younger sister, Miriam. She wrote: ‘Just before I was six years old, my father cut his throat, leaving my mother with five children, three girls older, and one younger than myself.’

         All, she wrote, had signed the abstinence pledge to forgo ‘fermented spirits’ but her eldest sister [Annie] was unable to adhere to this commitment. ‘We tried to persuade the one given to drink to give it up. She was married and in a good position. Over and over again she signed the pledge and tried to keep it. Over and over again she was tempted and fell.’ Annie’s struggle, according to Miriam, had been a lifelong one and that she had inherited ’the curse’ of alcoholism from their father.          

         Her letter further states that of Anne’s eight children, ‘six of these have been victims of the curse.’ Indeed, all died within days or weeks of being born or suffered medical conditions likely to have been a consequence of Annie’s addiction. In 1882 after her eldest child, Emily Rose, had died of meningitis Annie began to acquire a reputation for public drunkenness. In the December of that year she was persuaded by her sisters to enter a sanatorium in Spelthorne, West London. One year later she was discharged and according to Miriam, ‘came out a sober wife and mother’.

         However, after a year of abstinence she was again observed wandering the St Leonards Estate the worse for wear. John was presented with an ultimatum by his employer, either to remove her from his estate or face dismissal. With two surviving children to consider, including one who was severely disabled, John and Annie agreed too separate. It was agreed that John pay her 10/-s a week maintenance and that she return to the family home in Knightsbridge. With the help and support of her mother and sisters there was still hope she could overcome her addiction, but within weeks Annie’s inability to stop drinking caused her to leave the home of her pledge adhering family. 

         It is likely she relocated to Notting Hill, a poor working class area, where she met a Jack Sievey and the two of them became a pair, probably on account of their mutual love of alcohol. In 1884 they moved to Whitechapel in search of work. Known as Mrs Sievey she was described by a friend as a respectable woman, never using bad language, clever, and industrious when sober. They lived in Dorset Street, a road the social reformer, Charles Booth, described a few years later as ‘the worst I have seen,’ on account of its poverty, misery and criminality. As Annie and Jack almost certainly had enough money between them to afford better lodgings it would seem that most of what they had was spent on alcohol. 

         In December 1886 her situation worsened when John’s maintenance payments ceased. Learning that he was gravely ill Annie set-off to walk the twenty-five miles to Windsor where John, now retired from Barry’s service, had taken a house. Their reunion was a brief one, John dying on Christmas Day. Back in Whitechapel she seemed genuinely remorseful although her grief may have had more to do with the loss of her maintenance money. Early the following year Jack Sievey deserted her, leaving Annie without a protector, imperative in a neighbourhood renown for its criminality. 

         Annie’s life became increasingly affected by drink, despondency and ill health that included tuberculosis. Nevertheless she attempted to earn money by selling matches, flowers and her own crochet work. Occasionally, she would return to her family who would give her clothes and, in Miriam’s words try to, ‘win her back, for she was a mere beggar’. Annie’s brother, now resident in Clerkenwell, was also approached for help and likely gave her money as well as buying her the occasional drink. Like Annie he was an alcoholic whose addiction later led him to steal from his employers. 

         In 1888 Annie began to spend her weekends at the Dorset Street lodging house of Crossinghams in the company of Edward Stanley, a brewery worker, who paid for their accommodation from Saturday through to Monday morning, also paying for Annie to stay there a night or two more. Their relationship appears to have been an exclusive one and Annie, trying to affect an appearance of marital respectability, purchased and wore rings which Stanley described as a wedding ring and keeper, ie an engagement ring.

         On 7 September 1888 Annie’s friend Amelia Palmer saw her lingering on Dorset Street looking unwell and apparently penniless. Asked if she would be going to Stratford Market to sell her crochet work Annie replied, ‘I am too ill to do anything’ and then, ten minutes later, when their paths crossed again, ‘I must pull myself together and get some money or I shall have no lodgings.’ By this time she may well have been sleeping rough on some of the nights she was not with Stanley. 

         On the evening of 7^th September Annie appeared at Crossinghams having apparently begged five pence. By 1.45 am when the kitchen was cleared of those unable to pay for a bed her money had largely been spent on alcohol and a meal of potatoes. With insufficient money to pay for a bed Annie wandered out into the night with no other option but to sleep rough. 

         Her murder in the early hours of 8 September 1888 was the second of five thought to have been committed by the serial killer, Jack the Ripper.   

        

                                                    ***** 

         It was generally assumed in 1888 that the Ripper’s five victims were prostitutes. That belief has persisted into modern times. The available evidence indicates that only one was. All had problems with alcohol which for four of them wrecked stable relationships contributing to their slide into desperate poverty. Sadly nothing of Annie’s tragic life would be remembered today had it not been for her brutal murder.

[Bibliography: ‘The Five. The untold lives of the women killed by Jack the Ripper.’ A book written by Halle Rubenhold and published by Transworld Publishers (part of Penguin Random House UK group of companies.]

 

Copyright Richard Banks