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

by Alan M. Clark

  “Is permission ever denied?” a young woman asked. Her pale face, haggard with worry, was a mirror of Polly’s own concern.

  “No,” the matron said impatiently, “but the process of release is a lengthy one.”

  Polly wanted to ask how long the process took, but had not gathered the words to voice her question before the matron turned and left the room.

  When Polly was a child of seven years, she noted that her Aunt Della always appeared troubled. She had a tendency to stare into the distance, even when there wasn’t anything to look at, and to become quiet and remote. On one occasion, Polly watched the woman slip into a more frightening state. Aunt Della’s eyes glazed over, her arms began to quake, and her fingers to twitch. Polly placed a hand on her aunt’s forearm to steady her. The woman cried out as if she’d been harmed. Aunt Della apologized for frightening Polly once she’d calmed down. Later, Polly told her mother, Caroline, about the incident. “My sister was in the workhouse for a time,” her mother said. Polly had asked what that was like, and Caroline merely shook her head and said no more about it. That had left too much to Polly’s young imagination.

  If I stay, I’ll know what others have known. The thought produced an uncomfortable rhythm in her breast.

  Despite her dread, Polly’s experience of the workhouse so far had not been bad. Perhaps things had changed since her aunt had sought relief. Given the chance, the institution itself might convince her that the old stories were tall tales.

  I have nothing and nowhere to go. If they accept me, they’ll feed me and keep me warm. But at what price?

  As the moments stretched on, she tried to decide whether to wait or attempt to flee.

  While she waited, she hoped her application would be rejected.

  32

  The Workhouse

  At the beginning of 1883, Polly had been in the workhouse for nine months. She spent her days at labor, sewing or picking oakum, the latter task the more unpleasant of the two. While seated on a hard bench for hours on end, she unraveled tarry rope that had been cut into one-foot lengths. The monotonous toil left her hands with sore joints, and with tender skin, constantly cracked, and bleeding. She suffered severe back and joint pain until her body settled into the routine, after which she endured with a permanent dull ache in her spine.

  Yet the workhouse wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Older inmates explained that changes over the years had brought improvements to the institution. Although a dull, lifeless place, filled with hopeless and disheartening faces, the labor wasn’t so different from the piece work she’d done so much of in the past, and the environment had given her stability of a sort, and a respite from the drama and apprehension of her life. Having had little to drink for several years, alcohol had little power over her, though the craving had not left her entirely. She missed Tom, her father, and her children. Telling herself that what she endured was worthwhile, Polly had stayed longer than she’d thought she would, perhaps out of a sense that she owed penance for having abandoned her children.

  For all that, in early March of 1883, the relentless monotony of life in the workhouse seemed to catch up with her and the place felt increasingly like a prison. Despite the impression of being imprisoned, Polly knew she could leave at any time with reasonable notice to the staff. She knew she missed out on life every minute she remained, but at first she fought the desire to leave.

  The mindless daily labor gave her too much time to think. Polly visited again the fantasies of reckless behavior she’d had in her youth, those of becoming a pickpocket, a palmer, or a highwayman, and her favorite fancy of becoming drunk and running naked through the streets. The appearance of Mr. Macklin chasing her in the daydream discouraged her little. Her urge for drink had risen up and quickly became insistent.

  She couldn’t help imagining a new life on the outside. Surely Papa did well enough again that he’d help her out until she found a way to earn her keep. Finding work would take time, and Polly knew she’d want to drink right away. Again, she considered prostitution. Her monthly curse had ceased to visit long ago, so she had little fear of pregnancy. She thought through imagined scenarios of her approach to men as clients, the sexual acts they might get up to, what might happen, and how she’d respond. Even those imagined transactions with abusive clients seemed life worth living compared to her current drab existence.

  By the end of March, she’d made up her mind. She wrote to her father, and began the process of release from the Lambeth Workhouse.

  * * *

  Papa took her in.

  Polly immediately set out to earn what she needed to have a drink. Having repaired her clothing as best she could, she looked for a good spot from which to solicit, one near Papa’s room, yet not so close that he would likely happen by.

  Polly took up a position out front of the Hour Glass pub at the corner of Queen’s Row and Westmoreland Road. She feared that as soon as she felt vulnerable, the child within her would demand protection again. A man, on his way into the establishment, jeered at Polly and made obscene gestures. The girl did emerge within Polly’s mind, but seemed to stand naked and unabashed, her dignity having withered away. The child had lost her innocence. What troubled Polly most about the loss was how quickly she turned her thoughts away from it.

  The first man to respond readily to her overtures was a drunken fellow emerging from the pub. A laborer of some sort, he seemed even-tempered and relatively clean.

  “You’ve little experience,” he said. “I can tell. For what I want, I have a threpney bit.”

  Polly knew she could get a glass of gin, a full quartern, for three pence. “Yes,” she said.

  Her client took her to the small paved yard beside the pub and pushed her up against a stack of crates against one wall. He got her skirts up, began rubbing his penis in the cleft of her backside and quickly spilled his seed without penetration. Polly thought that easy money.

  The next client took her while inside the busy Horsely Tavern at midday. He’d surprised and delighted her when he paid the fee for a drinking box. She thought he intended to feed her a meal or buy her drinks before they found a secluded spot elsewhere to complete their transaction. He reached under her skirts as soon as they sat down in the booth. With the opening to the drinking box two feet wide and the walls barely five feet tall, she feared they’d be seen. When he began choking her, she hoped the patrons saw and stopped them. Polly tried to cry out. He applied enough pressure to prevent that, and let up periodically so she could catch a breath. He penetrated her vagina while struggling to keep her on the bench-like seat.

  Thankfully, he found release faster than her last client. When done, he sat up, put his clothing back together, promptly paid her, and left. Polly pushed her skirts back down and exited the tavern. She’d got much worse violence from her own family before. Still, the experience had upset her so much she immediately found a pub, and spent most of what she’d earned on a glass of gin.

  With time, she maintained her intoxication well enough that she ceased to care what sort of man she found or what he did to her.

  * * *

  “If you’re going to drink like that,” Papa said when she came in late, stumbling drunk, “I needn’t give up my bed for you. Tonight you sleep in the army cot.”

  He’d borrowed the decrepit contraption from a neighbor three weeks earlier when Polly had come to stay with him. During the first week, she’d made an effort to sober up before returning to Papa’s room at night. Once she understood that he knew she was drinking, she’d dropped all pretense.

  “I can’ sleep in ’at t’ing,” she slurred.

  “If it’s good enough for a Royal Army officer, it’s good enough for you.”

  Polly grumbled, yet lay down on the thing. She wiggled restlessly trying to get comfortable and the cot collapsed. She lay in the wreckage, unwilling to get up. Papa made no move to help her.

  * * *

  The following Sunday, while Polly nursed a bad hangover and Papa glowered and
cursed her, she decided that if she offered him some of the money she’d earned to help pay for food and lodging, he might treat her better.

  “I don’t want your tarnished coin,” he said. “I don’t know where you’re getting your money, and I suspect you wouldn’t be proud for me to know.”

  “I’m working at the Ellis Shirt Manufacturers,” she lied. “I’ve done piece work for them. Now I have a position.”

  “A flam not worth the breath it took,” Papa said, giving her a look of disgust. “I don’t believe you, girl. I know you too well.”

  “What have I ever done to you to deserve such mistrust?”

  Papa merely shook his head.

  Though she knew full well the answer, she preferred to play innocent. “You have no sympathy for me?” Polly cried. “I’ve worked hard all my life, and for what? I worked hard for you when I were young, and what did you give me for it? A beating if I complained. And what do I have now?”

  “You have what your lies have got you. You have a demon after you.”

  Polly swung her fists at Papa. He dodged out of the way. She went at him again, and he shoved her. She fell into a heap on the floor.

  “I’m sorry to say you’re no good. I want you to find other lodgings right away,” he said, “and be gone tomorrow.”

  “I will, and gladly!” Polly shouted.

  She exited the room and walked along Maydwell Street toward the Surrey Canal, her anger slowly subsiding. Polly recognized her words to her father as a shameful sign of ingratitude. Thinking of the times Papa had saved her from Bill’s abuse only made her feel worse. One more night with him, she decided, and then she’d find a room of her own and leave him in peace.

  * * *

  Stumbling home drunk late that night she fell by the side of Albany Road. At first, she wasn’t willing to get up. Then she thought of the cot, which Papa had repaired, and how much more comfortable that would be than the gritty stone footway. She got to her feet and made her way home. As usual, she banged on the door for her father to let her in.

  She’d become insensible on the doorstep by the time he opened the door. He grumbled several curses at her and got into his bed. She went in, and collapsed on the cot.

  In the night, Polly awoke with a need to visit the privy. Locating the box of matches and the lamp on the bedside table, she lit the candle within, then moved out through the back door and into the facility.

  Sometime later, she found herself asleep, still sitting on the pot, and didn’t know how long she’d been there. The candle still burned in the lamp on the seat beside her.

  She took up the lamp and made her way back inside. Lying down on the cot, she felt as if the life drained from her limbs by the moment. She reached out to set the lamp on the table and let go of it. A metal clang reached her ears, but curiosity didn’t grip her. Her eyes had already closed. Blessed sleep waited just beyond.

  * * *

  Papa shrieked and began to wail. Polly opened her eyes to see bright flames licking at his bed clothes. She got up and threw her blanket onto the fire. Her father scrambled to escape on the other side of the bed.

  Polly’s blanket burned.

  Papa got the padlock off the front door and they tumbled out into the street crying repeatedly, “Fire!” He ran back in, and Polly watched as he lifted first the ewer and then the basin on the cabinet beside the window and threw water from them onto the flames.

  Neighbors on either side came out of their rooms. Some carried vessels that held water. They approached the doorway to Papa’s room and handed the vessels to him one at a time. Within a few minutes the fire was out. Some of the neighbors began to retreat back into their homes, while others stood around watching and talking. They looked at Polly, who stood by, watching dully. Despite the thick cloud of her intoxication, the meaning of their stares got through to her, and the shame became all-consuming. Briefly, she thought she saw a set of glowing red eyes, watching her from the onlookers. When Polly tried to get a better look, they were gone. She crouched down on the pavement, her arms draped over her head, and watched for her father.

  Blackened, he finally emerged from his room. The hair had burned off the left side of his head and left the skin an angry red. The damage made his expression all the more fierce as he walked straight to Polly, lifted her by the collar, and struck her in the face several times.

  * * *

  Polly awoke in a bed in a strange room, perhaps that of one of her father’s neighbors. She discovered an aching new gap in her teeth.

  She got up, looked around, and found no one in the chamber. Daylight came through the window. The door was unlocked, and Polly walked out.

  Shame and grief snapping at her heels, Polly fled back to the Lambeth Workhouse.

  33

  Bargaining

  Polly had been in the workhouse for less than a month when she received a post from Tom Dews.

  Dear Polly,

  Please forgive me. I left because I was harmful to you. I believed your father would take you in. After talking with him, I know I was wrong.

  I drink in moderation now and am working every day at the Spratling Smithy in King and Queen Street. I have not been drunk in a year. I crave your company more than ever, whether you drink with me or not.

  You cannot be happy in the workhouse. Please consider coming to me at your earliest convenience. I have a room at 22 Morecombe Street. If you will keep house for me, I will earn enough for us both and you will not need employment.

  My neighbor, Mr. Frederick Barnes, has kindly written this for me to you.

  Yours, with deep affection,

  Tom Dews

  Polly didn’t know if she should trust Tom any more than she trusted herself, yet the workhouse had already worn her down again and she wanted out. Despite the shaming experience she’d recently had with her father, her desire for alcohol had not gone away and she knew that she would eventually drink again.

  She remembered the times she and Tom had had on Jane Street, how he’d set the example in how much to drink and she’d not exceeded that standard. If he had returned to that discipline—if she could return with him to that discipline—Polly felt she might learn to live again.

  Better to drink with one who cares for me than to do it alone.

  * * *

  Tom welcomed her to his room on Morecombe Street rather formally, his approach to the reunion sober and deliberate rather than jubilant. The room held the usual items: a rope bed with straw mattress, a wardrobe, a cabinet, with basin, ewer, and chamber pot, and a table and chairs. He had organized his possessions and cleaned the surfaces in his room, all of them swept and dusted. The effort won her heart.

  For supper Tom had boiled a chicken and then reduced the liquid to a rich, concentrated broth. He toasted bread, and they dipped the slices into the chicken reduction.

  Tom offered her a drink of whiskey which she declined. Although she knew she would drink again, Polly wasn’t ready. With full stomachs they eventually found their way to his bed. His touch remained the same, warm and caring. Polly let go of her sordid past, at least for a time, and allowed herself to love and be loved.

  * * *

  After that first night, Polly took over the cooking and housekeeping.

  She wasn’t able to keep her past at arm’s length for long. Certain incidents haunted her: having asked God to take the life of a child in her womb, abandoning her children, setting fire to her father’s home, and her years-long dishonesty toward Bill. Burning guilt from all the wretched things she’d done while drunk kept her from wanting to drink again. Tom extended the invitation whenever he took a drink. True to his word, he drank in moderation, and never insisted that she join him. Still, believing her abstinence disappointed him, Polly kept a slight emotional distance between them.

  “We aren’t the same, Polly dear,” he said one early spring evening in 1884, after they had been together for close to a year. “I long for a return to what we had on Jane Street.”

  “Ye
s,” she said sadly.

  “If you had a drink with me—a daffy would do it—I’m certain we’d find ourselves again.”

  “A daffy would just make me ill-tempered. I always want more.”

  “As do I, yet we have each other, and in the past that were enough to keep us on the straight and narrow.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid of drink. Give me more time.”

  Tom nodded, and dropped the subject.

  * * *

  In late summer of 1885, enough time had elapsed since Polly had set fire to her father’s home that she was able to consider the incident without too much pain. Examining several more of her dishonorable acts, she discovered that the shame of them burned less acutely as well. With that realization, on August 27, the day following her true birthday, she knew her desire for drink wouldn’t be held back much longer. Polly decided she’d wait to have a drink with Tom until the evening of August 31, the date her childhood friends, Martha Combs, Sarah Brown, and Bernice Godwin, had given her as a substitute birthday.

  In her mind’s eye, Mr. Macklin took a draft from the bottle chained around his neck to toast her decision to drink.

  You’ll have no cause to trouble me, she told him, for I’ll drink in moderation.

  On the evening of the 31st, she assured herself that she would go slowly as she had a small glass of gin with Tom. With the drink in her, she lost all reticence, and the distance between them melted away. They laughed and talked for a long while and then went to bed.