Alice in Sunder Land
Again, Alice opened her eyes and tried to lift her head. It was no use, each time that searing pain in her throat would force her back into the darkness of oblivion, until finally she just didn’t want to wake up anymore. She fought hard against it, but couldn’t stop herself sliding out of her restless slumber surrounded by quivering dull orange-brown brick walls. Worried faces spun round above her. I’m in the warehouse… Must remember, she murmured before seeing herself all chirpy like, going away from it with a basketful of oranges hanging on her arm. Suddenly, it wasn’t in her head but right in front of her: What is this? The future?
“Ere comes Orange Alice!”
Stupefied, Alice recognised herself flirting her way through the market, her laughter filling the air already thick with cries and calls.
“Fine fruit!” she was calling, “Three for a penny!”
She saw herself pull up sharpish at a bold headline, ‘The Whitechapel Murders’, before hurrying on all gay like, though fear haunted her eyes, even in full light of day. ‘I aint no prozzie’ the other her was saying, ‘so t’aint gunna ‘appen te me!’ What ain’t gonna ‘appen? Observing herself pass along a familiar route through Spitalfields, and with a now empty basket, the other Alice, a little breathless, retraced her steps. Clearly she was heading back towards the warehouse. As she continued to watch this…vision, Alice was suddenly there, in the cold air, the sound of her own clacking steps echoing on cobbled stone. Déjà vu? She listened intently. A sudden, scratching sound. Scavenging rat. She shuddered. Pulling her thick, cream woollen shawl tight around her shoulders, she turned into Hanbury Street. An icy chill nearly crippled her as she passed the spot where poor Beth had met her gruesome end. She averted her eyes but too late she couldn’t stop that image of Alf slopping his beer and making the most of his wide-eyed costers:
‘…er eyes forever ‘olding the identity of ‘im what put out their light…poor gel lyin’ there she was… wide open… innards exposed, to the elements…I saw ‘er.’
Drunken fool! Still his words loomed large almost blinding her way. She stumbled along trying to push them out with images of Ellen Terry. Only the greatest actress and fearless and, she wears wot she likes. . . I wonder if she’s got anyfing from the House of Worth . . . I’ll never ‘ave one o’ them . . .not even a velvet jacket. Her thoughts turned to Marie Lloyd, forcing hums and giggles at the memory of her saucy songs. She’s fearless en all! Alice started at the sound of her own heart, pounding its way out of her ears as the tip of a coattail flashed by . . . or was it a cat? Only a few steps now to the warehouse where Foreman Alf was waiting with that crusty meat pie and a hot brew - a thought that warmed her a little. Alice straightened bravely, ‘It ain’t gunna ‘appen te me.’ Stepping forward, she took hold of the knob. It turned creakily in her hand and, with a sigh of relief, she threw all her weight against it. A comforting meaty aroma escaped from within. The biting cold sliced through her bare neck - a searing pain. Alf’s shocked look as he caught her.
Was she standing, sitting or lying down? Just ahead of her, in the centre of the vast warehouse, a dazzling brightness, rather than a dim glow, hovered. She shielded her eyes, trying to make sense of things through her fingers: strange shapes stretching before her. Still, she was safe now - she was sure of it. But where was everyone? Alf? Her eyes gradually adjusted and she gaped in wonder at the source of that brilliance. An ornate chandelier. ‘Wossat doin’ ‘ere?’ It didn’t look right amidst the brick walls. The dark smudges gradually became more defined. Astonished, Alice surveyed the view: Where did all these clothes come from? Where am I? Where’s Alf?
“If you please, Miss, can you tell me where I am?”
The elegant, finely dressed young woman ignored her and continued to admire herself in a long mirror. Alice screwed her eyes at her askance.
“You ain’t real!”
Then, she caught sight of a tag on the floor. She studied it closely: B-l-i-t-z Vintage.
Then a voice came from somewhere in the clothes:
“Hey, nice outfit . . .now that’s what I call vintage! Did ya borrow that from your Nan?”
Speechless, Alice looked up. She shrank back in horror from the pasty-faced, lanky youth. His jet-black hair smoothed back off his face accentuated ice-blue eyes sitting in hollow sockets supported by sharp cheekbones, themselves angled down towards his blackened lips. Alarmed, Alice wondered if he was the resident ghost. Tiny metal skulls dangled from one ear. On his legs some kind of dusty black leggings, on his torso a long singlet topped off with a black, leather jerkin of some sort. Fear gripped her tongue and permitted no words to greet this apparition before her. How would ‘e know my Nan? My Nan’s long dead.
“I’ve got some nice outfits I know you’ll love” the lanky youth continued, “Follow me.” Alice hesitated then, a few steps forwards, a few steps back, hands clenched, unsure if it was safe to follow this spectre.
Am I the only one who can see him . . .he might do something horrible to me?
His insistent voice jolted her out of her thoughts.
“Come on, luv, I’ve got lots to show you.”
Following cautiously at first, Alice soon forgot her fear replacing it with awe as they wandered through many strange fashions, the likes of which she’d never seen before. The tall, black-clad, liquorice-haired, deathly pale youth was now stood by rows and rows of dresses. She felt his piercing eyes studying her, as he waited for her to catch up.
“Got a nice little vintage section ‘ere for you darling,” he swept a long bony arm over a railing of clothes, “Victorian with a touch of Gothic.”
Alice had never been so close to such a rich collection. She desperately wanted to run her hands over the smooth satin corsets, feel the lace trims, handle the full skirts just to hear them rustle but I ain’t washed me ‘ands yet. She clasped them behind her back lest she should give in to temptation. She almost did when she came upon the jacket of her dreams tempting her from a mannequin in the middle of the aisle. Alice stood entranced by its deep purple hue clasping her hands even more tightly lest she should give in to its velvetyness.
“Try it on, luv.” The lanky boy broke into her thoughts. “It’ll show off your tiny waist perfectly.” He said, producing one from somewhere behind him. He showed her the back. Alice blushed as she reached out to feel the plush velvet then quickly drew back her hand remembering herself. She couldn’t remember seeing such a jacket with such detailing on the back – like the lace-up bit on a corset.
“Try it on,” he urged, “I guarantee you’ll look great . . . a proper Goth . . . be back in a minute . . . gotta sort a customer out.”
Alice gave in. Me ‘ands ain’t that dirty . . . a bit orangey maybe. She gingerly threaded her slender arms through the sleeves of the jacket. Then drew it up around her. She felt transformed. Like a proper lady. Ow come I ain’t never seen them posh ladies wear one like this . . . the height of fashion, surely. Lanky boy reappeared looking at her approvingly.
“You look great, a proper Goth.”
Alice’s questioning look spurred him on:
“Go an’ ‘ave a look if you don’t believe me I’ll be over in a minute – another customer.”
Alice followed his pointing bony finger laden with silver metal, to a mirror in the middle of the shop floor and started to move. “If you like it, I can give it yer with ten per cent off.” he called as he disappeared again down one of the many aisles. Jolted out of her reverie, Alice realised that she could never afford such a beautiful jacket. I’m only trying it on she reasoned and made her way ever so slowly – the longer to relish its velvety luxuriousness – towards the centre pillar where the long mirror was fixed. She jumped at Lanky boy’s sudden re-appearance at her side. Where’d ‘e come from? Am I goin’ too slow?
“Whoa sorry luv, didn’t mean to scare yer.”
As they turned together towards the mirror the lights started to dim.
“Weird. That ain’t never ‘appened before.” Lanky boy looked at the chandelier. The lights were starting to flicker. They’re not blowin’ out. Alice automatically went to pull her shawl around her, but, no shawl. Jagged images stabbed at her. She was confused. Lanky boy called to someone she couldn’t see:
“Si! Sort the lights out will yer mate . . . they’re doin’ funny things!”
“Yeah, alright mate!” She couldn’t tell where the reply came from.
“S’alright luv . . . nuffin . . . to worry about . . . Si will sort it out.” He shot her a chilling smile. “Let’s get over to that mirror shall we? After you.”
“You look absolutely gorgeous, luv.” He assured her before turning to the mirror. Alice managed a weak smile, but secretly encouraged by his words turned to see a new her. She gasped putting one hand to her mouth as she caught the deathly pallor of Lanky Boy, his eyes and mouth hollowed in horror as he stared first into the mirror, then at her beside him, then again into the mirror. Scared, uncomprehending, Alice looked there for answers. All it showed was him standing, the skull hanging from his ear shaking with him. Her eyes shifted to his right. But there was nothing there. Just a deep purple velvet jacket hanging in mid-air.
©Danielle Chinnon 2017
“Ere comes Orange Alice!”
Stupefied, Alice recognised herself flirting her way through the market, her laughter filling the air already thick with cries and calls.
“Fine fruit!” she was calling, “Three for a penny!”
She saw herself pull up sharpish at a bold headline, ‘The Whitechapel Murders’, before hurrying on all gay like, though fear haunted her eyes, even in full light of day. ‘I aint no prozzie’ the other her was saying, ‘so t’aint gunna ‘appen te me!’ What ain’t gonna ‘appen? Observing herself pass along a familiar route through Spitalfields, and with a now empty basket, the other Alice, a little breathless, retraced her steps. Clearly she was heading back towards the warehouse. As she continued to watch this…vision, Alice was suddenly there, in the cold air, the sound of her own clacking steps echoing on cobbled stone. Déjà vu? She listened intently. A sudden, scratching sound. Scavenging rat. She shuddered. Pulling her thick, cream woollen shawl tight around her shoulders, she turned into Hanbury Street. An icy chill nearly crippled her as she passed the spot where poor Beth had met her gruesome end. She averted her eyes but too late she couldn’t stop that image of Alf slopping his beer and making the most of his wide-eyed costers:
‘…er eyes forever ‘olding the identity of ‘im what put out their light…poor gel lyin’ there she was… wide open… innards exposed, to the elements…I saw ‘er.’
Drunken fool! Still his words loomed large almost blinding her way. She stumbled along trying to push them out with images of Ellen Terry. Only the greatest actress and fearless and, she wears wot she likes. . . I wonder if she’s got anyfing from the House of Worth . . . I’ll never ‘ave one o’ them . . .not even a velvet jacket. Her thoughts turned to Marie Lloyd, forcing hums and giggles at the memory of her saucy songs. She’s fearless en all! Alice started at the sound of her own heart, pounding its way out of her ears as the tip of a coattail flashed by . . . or was it a cat? Only a few steps now to the warehouse where Foreman Alf was waiting with that crusty meat pie and a hot brew - a thought that warmed her a little. Alice straightened bravely, ‘It ain’t gunna ‘appen te me.’ Stepping forward, she took hold of the knob. It turned creakily in her hand and, with a sigh of relief, she threw all her weight against it. A comforting meaty aroma escaped from within. The biting cold sliced through her bare neck - a searing pain. Alf’s shocked look as he caught her.
Was she standing, sitting or lying down? Just ahead of her, in the centre of the vast warehouse, a dazzling brightness, rather than a dim glow, hovered. She shielded her eyes, trying to make sense of things through her fingers: strange shapes stretching before her. Still, she was safe now - she was sure of it. But where was everyone? Alf? Her eyes gradually adjusted and she gaped in wonder at the source of that brilliance. An ornate chandelier. ‘Wossat doin’ ‘ere?’ It didn’t look right amidst the brick walls. The dark smudges gradually became more defined. Astonished, Alice surveyed the view: Where did all these clothes come from? Where am I? Where’s Alf?
“If you please, Miss, can you tell me where I am?”
The elegant, finely dressed young woman ignored her and continued to admire herself in a long mirror. Alice screwed her eyes at her askance.
“You ain’t real!”
Then, she caught sight of a tag on the floor. She studied it closely: B-l-i-t-z Vintage.
Then a voice came from somewhere in the clothes:
“Hey, nice outfit . . .now that’s what I call vintage! Did ya borrow that from your Nan?”
Speechless, Alice looked up. She shrank back in horror from the pasty-faced, lanky youth. His jet-black hair smoothed back off his face accentuated ice-blue eyes sitting in hollow sockets supported by sharp cheekbones, themselves angled down towards his blackened lips. Alarmed, Alice wondered if he was the resident ghost. Tiny metal skulls dangled from one ear. On his legs some kind of dusty black leggings, on his torso a long singlet topped off with a black, leather jerkin of some sort. Fear gripped her tongue and permitted no words to greet this apparition before her. How would ‘e know my Nan? My Nan’s long dead.
“I’ve got some nice outfits I know you’ll love” the lanky youth continued, “Follow me.” Alice hesitated then, a few steps forwards, a few steps back, hands clenched, unsure if it was safe to follow this spectre.
Am I the only one who can see him . . .he might do something horrible to me?
His insistent voice jolted her out of her thoughts.
“Come on, luv, I’ve got lots to show you.”
Following cautiously at first, Alice soon forgot her fear replacing it with awe as they wandered through many strange fashions, the likes of which she’d never seen before. The tall, black-clad, liquorice-haired, deathly pale youth was now stood by rows and rows of dresses. She felt his piercing eyes studying her, as he waited for her to catch up.
“Got a nice little vintage section ‘ere for you darling,” he swept a long bony arm over a railing of clothes, “Victorian with a touch of Gothic.”
Alice had never been so close to such a rich collection. She desperately wanted to run her hands over the smooth satin corsets, feel the lace trims, handle the full skirts just to hear them rustle but I ain’t washed me ‘ands yet. She clasped them behind her back lest she should give in to temptation. She almost did when she came upon the jacket of her dreams tempting her from a mannequin in the middle of the aisle. Alice stood entranced by its deep purple hue clasping her hands even more tightly lest she should give in to its velvetyness.
“Try it on, luv.” The lanky boy broke into her thoughts. “It’ll show off your tiny waist perfectly.” He said, producing one from somewhere behind him. He showed her the back. Alice blushed as she reached out to feel the plush velvet then quickly drew back her hand remembering herself. She couldn’t remember seeing such a jacket with such detailing on the back – like the lace-up bit on a corset.
“Try it on,” he urged, “I guarantee you’ll look great . . . a proper Goth . . . be back in a minute . . . gotta sort a customer out.”
Alice gave in. Me ‘ands ain’t that dirty . . . a bit orangey maybe. She gingerly threaded her slender arms through the sleeves of the jacket. Then drew it up around her. She felt transformed. Like a proper lady. Ow come I ain’t never seen them posh ladies wear one like this . . . the height of fashion, surely. Lanky boy reappeared looking at her approvingly.
“You look great, a proper Goth.”
Alice’s questioning look spurred him on:
“Go an’ ‘ave a look if you don’t believe me I’ll be over in a minute – another customer.”
Alice followed his pointing bony finger laden with silver metal, to a mirror in the middle of the shop floor and started to move. “If you like it, I can give it yer with ten per cent off.” he called as he disappeared again down one of the many aisles. Jolted out of her reverie, Alice realised that she could never afford such a beautiful jacket. I’m only trying it on she reasoned and made her way ever so slowly – the longer to relish its velvety luxuriousness – towards the centre pillar where the long mirror was fixed. She jumped at Lanky boy’s sudden re-appearance at her side. Where’d ‘e come from? Am I goin’ too slow?
“Whoa sorry luv, didn’t mean to scare yer.”
As they turned together towards the mirror the lights started to dim.
“Weird. That ain’t never ‘appened before.” Lanky boy looked at the chandelier. The lights were starting to flicker. They’re not blowin’ out. Alice automatically went to pull her shawl around her, but, no shawl. Jagged images stabbed at her. She was confused. Lanky boy called to someone she couldn’t see:
“Si! Sort the lights out will yer mate . . . they’re doin’ funny things!”
“Yeah, alright mate!” She couldn’t tell where the reply came from.
“S’alright luv . . . nuffin . . . to worry about . . . Si will sort it out.” He shot her a chilling smile. “Let’s get over to that mirror shall we? After you.”
“You look absolutely gorgeous, luv.” He assured her before turning to the mirror. Alice managed a weak smile, but secretly encouraged by his words turned to see a new her. She gasped putting one hand to her mouth as she caught the deathly pallor of Lanky Boy, his eyes and mouth hollowed in horror as he stared first into the mirror, then at her beside him, then again into the mirror. Scared, uncomprehending, Alice looked there for answers. All it showed was him standing, the skull hanging from his ear shaking with him. Her eyes shifted to his right. But there was nothing there. Just a deep purple velvet jacket hanging in mid-air.
©Danielle Chinnon 2017