A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper

by Alan M. Clark

  “Thank you,” Polly said to Estell.

  “Yes, Mrs. Nichols. You’re very welcome. Anything I can do to help.”

  Estell had played her part quite well, Polly thought. Still, Bill’s curt response to the young woman had her worried he’d seen through their pretense. Having turned off Jane Street onto Broadwall and heading back toward the Peabody buildings, Polly expected them to turn into Meymott Street to head for the Salvation Smithy. Bill continued toward home, and she decided not to question him.

  * * *

  As the year progressed, Polly’s children grew, seemed happy, and did well in school. Her printing business ran a bit slower. She didn’t mind the extra time. Estell became a good reader and began to compose written language well. Bill remained largely indifferent to Polly, yet he obviously found her useful since he made no effort to diminish her role in his life. He had ceased to talk about finding a new lodging. If he saw the Heryfords, he turned away from them. Polly found time to speak with Paul and Susan when Bill wasn’t around. She would always be grateful to them for what they had done to help her.

  Polly and Tom spent as much time as possible together. Although at first he showed no concern that she didn’t want to drink, with time he began to press her to join him. When she refused, he seemed troubled, but he wouldn’t talk about the matter with her. The further along in her pregnancy she became, the more troubled he seemed to be and the more he drank. That gave her a clue.

  “I’ll have to be away when the baby comes, as before,” she said, “but you know I’ll return to you soon as I can.”

  Tom didn’t answer.

  “You know I’ll come back, don’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Tom. I have you, the children, and no more.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but what do I have? What if the child is mine, a little brother or sister for Nancy?”

  “How will we know?”

  “If he should have my likeness.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Yes, perhaps.” He sighed. “I have nothing to complain about. I knew what I were doing.”

  Clearly he didn’t trust her, but to explain that she loved him, seemed to Polly an awkward response while he was in such a mood. She let it go.

  * * *

  As before, a month before the birth, Polly complained about discomfort during sex. They ceased to bed one another. On January 2, 1879, close to the time in which she believed the child was due, she said goodbye to Tom.

  “I’ll come back in a month,” she said.

  He gave no indication that he wanted to say anything. Troubled, Polly turned away, and began walking home. Glancing back as she moved along Jane Street, she saw him watching her with a great sadness on his face.

  * * *

  Henry Nichols was born on January 15, 1879. Although Polly realized she couldn’t make a determination until his features developed further, she liked to think he was Tom’s.

  Susan Heryford became quite helpful with both Eliza and Henry, as long as Bill wasn’t expected home.

  Two weeks after the birth, she left her two youngest with Susan and walked to Jane Street to see Tom. No one answered. Discouraged, she went on to market to fetch bread, cheese, mutton and potatoes.

  Several later attempts to visit the Dews convinced her that they had found a new lodging elsewhere.

  Desperate, Polly went to the Salvation Smithy, and spoke to the master blacksmith, a sweat-slicked, blackened man.

  “Gone south,” he said. “Don’t know where.”

  “He left no word where he’d be?”

  “No,” he said, turning away.

  Polly’s heart seemed to sink through the dirt floor at her feet. She turned toward home, a bleakness in her outlook. All that she’d come to look forward to was gone.

  27

  Exhaustive Search

  For several months Polly hoped that once Tom and the girls had settled, word would come letting her know their location. He couldn’t read or write, but he might have Estell compose a letter for him. Although she didn’t think she’d ever given the Dews her address, if they sent correspondence to Polly Nichols at the Peabody Estates, Duke Street, the message would probably reach her.

  By early summer, that small hope had fled. Polly loved her children and counted herself as fortunate to have a home and plenty to eat, but without Tom’s touch, his companionship and loving gaze, Polly felt incomplete, as if she had nothing of her very own. She decided she must search South London for the Dews.

  At first, Polly left Eliza with Susan Heryford. Carrying young Henry with her in a sling, she made short expeditions on foot to make inquiries at smithies close to home in Southwark. She imagined that when she found Tom, he’d be glad to see his son. Then she noticed that Henry had developed the same brown spots within the blue of his eyes that Bill had, and she could no longer fool herself that the infant belonged to Tom.

  She managed her lies to Bill and Mrs. Heryford well, and kept up her responsibilities to her husband, the children, the household, and her printing clients. She made sure to locate along her routes suppliers of printing needs, as well as markets for food, and to avail herself of their goods when needed to save time on her outings and help provide an excuse for her activities. Having had no luck finding the Dews by the autumn of 1879, she began to expand her search of South London, trying to visit all the smithies she could find. Since Henry had begun to take solid food, she left both of her youngest children with Susan for longer hours. As wintry weather came on, she prepared a large fire in the stove early in the morning after Bill left for work on the days she would be gone so that the flat didn’t become too cold in her absence. Even so, Bill complained about the chill when he came home in the evenings.

  As Polly began to neglect her printing duties in early December, she came up with a plan to put her press temporarily out of service. The large wooden lever, used to apply pressure when printing, had a small crack that she’d noticed ever since the device had first come into her possession. She’d often thought the flaw would become larger and the handle would eventually break in two, yet that hadn’t happened. Polly pushed a knife into the crack and twisted as she applied pressure to the lever. She worked at the thin opening for over an hour, her arms and hands becoming sore, sweat trickling down her face and back, until finally, the crack began to expand. Another hour passed before she got the lever to break in two. For good measure, she removed what remained of the lever, and bent the metal fitting on the end where the device was designed to meet the screw of the press.

  “I’m certain what Papa can repair it,” she told Bill that evening.

  “That will take some time,” he said with a look of frustration. “I’ll speak to those who have orders placed.”

  “I’ll leave the little ones with Estell,” Polly lied, “and take the lever to Papa tomorrow.”

  On her visit to her father, Polly took the time to begin her search through Camberwell.

  Because Mrs. Heryford suffered loneliness and needed a sense of purpose, she was easily deceived. Her husband worked at Waterloo Bridge Station for ten hours at a time most days of the week. Her boys were grown and had left home. One had married and lived in Westminster, and the other had found a position as a waiter at an inn in Tottenham. The promise of having little ones to care for seemed to have an attraction that allowed Susan to overlook Polly’s increasingly flimsy excuses for going away and having to leave her children behind. With time, Susan even took on the duty of taking in the older children when they came home from school in the early evening if Polly hadn’t returned.

  The press remained out of commission for a mere two months, and so by spring of 1880, Polly was neglecting her clients and Bill heard their complaints.

  “Having to carry around an infant as well as a two-year-old,” Polly complained, “has given me such pains in my arms and back that the work is difficult. Please be patient with me while little Henry is so young.”

  Since s
he’d given him no reason to believe she’d been drinking for well over a year, and she had never shown herself to be lazy, Bill seemed to believe her. Although cautious about interpreting his moods, she thought a pleasant change had come over him. He smiled more frequently and a spring appeared in his step. Had he received a raise in his salary? If he had, she knew he would keep the news to himself.

  Bill knew other small printers to whom he gave the printing jobs that Polly couldn’t complete.

  She pushed herself to reach as many smithies as possible each day she went out to search. The need to find Tom, having become more powerful than what she had for drink, occupied her thoughts day and night. She mechanically moved though her hours at home while her mind continued to scour South London for her love. Good rest and sleep became rare and increasingly difficult to find. She held down her growing frustration and presented the most happy and smiling face she could to her family.

  Although Bill had shown little concern about her behavior, she felt the need to provide explanation for her emotional distance. “I have felt a bit ill of late,” she told him.

  His face darkened with concern, and she decided that the lie had been a mistake. “Just light-headed, my thought hard to hold onto. I’m certain it will pass soon.” Then, she thought of something to add that might easily put him off the trail of the truth. “My monthly turns have ceased again and I might be with child.”

  Bill nodded with a slight smile, his concern put away.

  In truth, her monthly flow had ceased two months earlier, and yet other signs of pregnancy had not followed.

  Having to travel farther and farther afield to check locations through the summer months, and continually pushing herself each time to look into just one more before going home, Polly began returning too late to fix supper.

  Still, with mere suggestions that she might try harder, Bill was slow to anger, and seemed willing to ignore her erratic behavior. Polly thought perhaps he feared that if he gave room for his anger to be expressed he might find himself beating her, and end up arrested by the police. On the occasions when she’d prepared no supper, he went out to gather food from street vendors with little complaint. The children were pleased to eat the food from the street.

  Polly had difficulty keeping all her lies to Mrs. Heryford straight. Susan began questioning her about the outings. On an evening in late summer the older woman had finally had enough. Polly had returned from Bermondsey to collect her children about six o’clock in the evening.

  “Dear,” Susan said, pausing and clasping both Polly’s hands as they stood on the landing between their flats, “I love your children and enjoy keeping them, but I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that you aren’t honest with me about your reasons to go out and to be out for such long periods. I have shown tolerance because I know you’ve suffered and need my help. I do wish you would confide in me.”

  Polly wasn’t prepared for the reaction. If she’d had to face anger, she would have been able to respond. The sadness in Susan’s eyes said that the woman still thought the best of Polly. The realization that she did not feel the least bit worthy of such goodwill became a pain in her chest that took much of what little strength remained to her. The landing seemed to spin about for a moment, and she reached out to the wall to steady herself.

  Susan took her by the arm. “You should come in and sit.”

  “No,” Polly said, “I don’t have time. You’ve been good to me and I’ve abused your trust. I’m truly sorry for that, yet I’m too weary to speak to you of my problems at present. I’ll tell you what has happened soon.” Although she didn’t think she’d do that, for the time being, the statement might help forestall the matter.

  “When you’re ready, then,” Susan said. She patted Polly’s hands affectionately. “Percy and Alice are in the courtyard playing. I told them not to be long.”

  Polly had not seen the older children when she came in. With Percy thirteen years old and Alice at age eleven, they were old enough to take care of themselves in the afternoon. She gathered her toddler and infant from the Heryford flat and went to her flat to prepare supper.

  Traveling some miles on foot each time she went out to search, several days a week, even at the cost of many of her other responsibilities, Polly wasn’t merely physically exhausted, she was wrung out emotionally as well. At some point between starting a pot to boil on the stove and cutting potatoes, she collapsed on the floor.

  * * *

  “Percy and Alice said they couldn’t wake you,” Bill said, when she came around much later.

  Polly found herself in bed. She saw darkness outside her bedroom window.

  “They still fussed over you when I came home,” he said, his manner strangely sweet. A flowery fragrance came from his clothing.

  “The potatoes?”

  “They took the pot off the stove. I fetched meat puddings and we had a feast. They’re getting spoiled.” He rubbed her arm softly.

  Polly didn’t want her husband’s tenderness, she wanted Tom’s. Despite the time—at least a year—that had passed since last she’d seen him, she missed her lover as much as ever. Even so, the thread of hope she’d had of finding Tom had finally broken. Polly knew she’d come to the end of her strength, and that she’d have to abandon the search. The Dews had moved somewhere else, away from South London. Polly would never find them.

  She groaned and turned over, away from Bill.

  Polly heard his steps as he left the room.

  She wanted a drink, but, for the present, she’d sleep.

  28

  Bed Rest

  When Polly awoke, she found a short, plump woman she didn’t know sitting beside her bedstead feeding Henry from a small bowl. Eliza sat in a crib beside the door, playing with what looked like a red felt elephant. Polly had never seen the toy or the crib before.

  “I am Nurse Flake,” the woman said. With a small mouth and nose, fair skin, and large brown eyes, she looked something like a porcelain doll. The beautiful, dark hair on her head was done up in a bun. “Your husband has employed me to watch over you for the week. You are to remain in bed, and I’ll do everything for you.”

  Polly ached all over. The emptiness in her stomach needed filling. She groaned and sat up.

  The nurse set the bowl down on the table beside the bed next to a cup of water, then got up from her seat and lowered Henry into the crib. She moved to the cabinet on the other side of the bed, fetched the chamber pot, and placed it on the floor.

  Polly stepped from the bed, and squatted over the porcelain vessel to relieve herself.

  “Am I ill?” she asked. Her tongue felt thick and dry in her mouth.

  “We had a doctor in. He said you suffer from overwork, and prescribed a week of bed rest. You’ve slept for two days. I should think you’d be hungry.”

  Although Polly had felt a strong need, little urine fell into the chamber pot. The liquid had a dark yellow appearance and a strong, sour odor. Polly’s stomach growled even as she returned to bed. “And thirsty.” Her voice came out rough. She reached for the glass of water and the nurse stopped her.

  “Let me help,” Nurse Flake said. “You’ll be unsteady.” She lifted the glass and helped hold it, but pulled it away before Polly had her fill. “You mustn’t have too much at once.”

  Polly smelled a familiar odor on the woman. “What is the sweet fragrance?”

  “My beau bought me a fine French soap what has a scent—peonies, I think.”

  Polly remembered that Bill smelled of the peony scent when he’d awakened her. When was that, Polly asked herself, two days ago? Before or after he hired the nurse?

  Nurse Flake set the glass on the bedside table. “Don’t try to lift it on your own until you’ve got a bit of your strength back.” She handed Polly a mirror. “I’m sure you’ll want to tame your hair. I’ll just get some porridge for you.” Although she got up and left the room, she continued to speak loudly enough for Polly to hear her. “You’re lucky to have such lovel
y children.”

  Polly looked in the mirror, and absently straightened her hair. The small scar on her forehead stood out, its shiny oblong shape with the small lip on one side, catching the light. While considering the flaw, something about the nurse troubled Polly’s thoughts.

  “Are you married?” she asked, trying to make her voice loud enough to reach the next room. The words came out with a bit of croaking, yet evidently were heard.

  “Yes, I am, but when we discovered I cannot become pregnant, Harry left for Australia. He writes to me so I know he still lives or I might have remarried.”

  During a pause in the nurse’s words, Polly heard the clinking of a utensil against a bowl. She wished the woman would hurry back with the food.

  “Bill said he hoped I’d like your children, since I’d be spending so much time with them. I’m glad to say that I do.”

  Is he grooming her to replace me? Polly wondered. She noted that Nurse Flake didn’t refer to him as Mr. Nichols.

  When she returned, Polly wasted no time asking, “How do you know my husband?”

  The quickness and tone of Polly’s question seemed to surprise and fluster Nurse Flake. She stopped dead in her tracks, the bowl and spoon held loosely in her hands. Despite the gnawing hunger, Polly wanted to hear the woman’s answer right away.

  “I-well…I…um…met your husband many years ago…uh…when he stayed with his sister, Rebecca, for a brief time after dropping a crate on his foot.”

  What Polly most remembered about Bill’s injury of that time was the cane he used to help him get around on his damaged foot, the one with which he’d beaten her. Bill stayed with his sister following the thrashing her father had given him.

  “His sister and I have been lifelong friends,” Nurse Flake said, “and she called on me to take care of him in her home. As I recall, he wasn’t married at the time. Are your older children from another marriage?”