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

by Alan M. Clark

  The deputy of the common lodging, Mr. Bonfils, informed her that for the rate of four pence per night, Polly would share a bed with four other women. One of them, a woman about thirty-five years old, with dark, curly hair, busied herself scrubbing the floor with a wet coarse rag as Polly arrived in the room.

  “Emily Hollund,” the woman said, looking up from her work.

  “Polly Nichols.”

  Raw-boned and pale, her hands red and her face splotched bright pink, Emily looked worn down, yet the face she presented was warm and friendly.

  “I’ll not keep others’ pets for them, if I can help it,” Emily said with mock outrage. Seeing the question in Polly’s eyes, the woman added, “Chat, vermin, lice!”

  Polly smiled and they both chuckled.

  The bed had been stripped of its mattress and bedclothes, presumably by Emily. A bucket, containing water and another rag, rested on the floor beside her. Polly got down on her knees, took the wet rag from the bucket, and joined in.

  “Thank you for your help.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Emily stopped scrubbing for a moment and said, “Perhaps we can help each other further. Are you looking for work?”

  “Yes.”

  “We will go our separate ways, but if we should meet each day to have a meal and share what has happened, we’ll feel better about our efforts.”

  Polly smiled. As she realized that she liked the woman, she became suspicious; was Emily in fact Mr. Macklin trying to lull her into a position of trust?

  “Two o’clock in the afternoon in the kitchen downstairs?” the woman asked.

  No, Polly told herself, the demon would never be able to keep such a friendly face.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Emily smiled and returned to her scrubbing.

  “Thank you,” Polly said. She desperately needed a friend. She assumed that no one who knew her history cared about her, except, possibly, Papa. Scrubbing away at the corner of the floor, she thought about all that she’d done to hurt others. She remembered Papa saying that she’d got what she deserved. He was right, of course. Strangely, within the discouraging thoughts, she found encouragement: Mr. Macklin would not still seek my soul if the Lord no longer valued my spirit. There must be some hope for me.

  * * *

  Having met for midday meals over the course of three weeks, neither Polly nor Emily had had any good news about employment to share.

  Sitting at the dining table in the kitchen of the common lodging, while the cook cleaned up around them, they talked quietly.

  “Seems that getting a position is like wanting green eyes,” Emily said, laughing. “There’s no hope if you aren’t born with them.”

  Polly smiled. Getting to know Emily had been a pleasure. She had an odd way of looking at the world that gave her words an unusual humor. Polly liked the idea of having a friend and confidante, and wanted to talk openly about her thoughts of resorting to prostitution, but she feared Emily might not receive them well.

  “I’m thinking I should do well to take a room in the White House in Flower and Dean Street,” Emily said. “As netherskens go, there is no worse, yet it costs little and there a woman might share a bed with a man.”

  Surprised, Polly hesitated, then asked, “Do you mean a client?”

  “Yes.” Emily chuckled.

  Polly relaxed, and let go of her fear. “I thought I might turn to that too, since my funds are all but exhausted. What’s the cost of the rooms?”

  “A penny to hold the room, four pence for the night. The rooms have no window and hardly any door. The bedding is on the floor and wide enough for only one person. Of course, when there are two, one will be on top of the other.” Emily laughed.

  Surprised by the woman’s enthusiasm, Polly decided that her friend looked for the best, even in the worst situations, an admirable trait.

  She could not match Emily’s good cheer. Prostitution was a last resort, and the White House didn’t sound good. Still, the accommodations had to be better than sleeping rough.

  Emily’s eyes became wide and she smiled. “If we should meet nightly—”

  Knowing what was coming, Polly interrupted. “As we’ve done in the day while looking for employment?”

  Emily nodded and grinned. “—we will feel better about our efforts.”

  Polly nodded too. “Yes.”

  “We’ll be out late,” Emily said, “past when the pubs close.”

  “We want to give time for meeting and satisfying clients,” Polly said, “so if we set a fixed hour to meet, one of us might miss it. I should worry if you didn’t turn up.”

  “As I make rounds in search of clients,” Emily said, “I always end up back at the grocer shop on the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborn Street. You might do the same. If I saw you there at least once a night, I’d know you were safe, and that someone looked out for me.”

  “Still, I might worry if I didn’t see you all night.”

  “If that happens, we meet at the latest time and walk back to the White House together.”

  “What should that time be?”

  “Two o’clock in the morning.”

  Polly thought about that for a moment and nodded. She smiled to see Emily grin.

  The woman clearly liked Polly.

  She likes me because she doesn’t know me.

  Polly’s craving for alcohol had returned and increased daily. Even though drinking would further tempt the Bonehill Ghost, she had assumed she’d take up the habit again so she could stomach the clients. Having divined Mr. Macklin’s method for locating the soul, and surviving his worst attack so far, she tried to tell herself she could prevail again, but she had no idea what his next attempt might bring.

  If she did drink, Emily might see the unlikable Polly.

  If she knew me like my family does, like I do, she wouldn’t care for me at all. She trusts I’m likable. She doesn’t think I’ve done terrible things. As perhaps God does, she sees something good in my spirit.

  Polly decided that enduring the clients sober might be a worthwhile sacrifice in order to have and keep a friend.

  If that’s all it takes, then why haven’t I always done that? She didn’t have to destroy Tom’s love for her. Polly knew better than to drink with him, and did it anyway. Perhaps since she’d always eventually returned to drink, she’d thought there was no escape, and therefore no real purpose in prolonging the agony of unsatisfied need. Yes, and she’d been unable to see beyond that to believe she could change.

  Yet things were good when I wasn’t drinking, and the need did lessen. How could she prove to herself a willingness to avoid alcohol?

  By staying away from it long enough that it’s no longer a part of me. Yes, the only way was to see herself differently by becoming someone else, a person she might care enough about to treat well.

  The solution came easily enough. Just don’t drink again—Ever! She had some hope that continued abstinence might eventually ward off Mr. Macklin.

  Despite that, Polly couldn’t decide whether she’d commit to it. She wanted a drink even as she considered giving it up.

  Emily brushed bread crumbs from the worn tabletop into her hands and ate them. Polly swallowed the last of her coffee, grounds and all.

  O Lord, if Emily must suffer as I have, allow her to keep her humor. Amen.

  40

  Temperance

  On Thursday, August 24, Polly hurried across Whitechapel Road to get out of the way of a temperance procession. She gained the footway on the opposite side of the road too late. The group of mostly women, several hundred of them, having entered the road at Osborne Street, blocked traffic and pedestrians alike. Men and women following along the footway on either side of the road shouted obscenities and insults at the procession. Within moments the lane was clogged.

  Jostled along with the crowd, Polly watched the parade flow around a carriage stopped dead in the road. “Out of the way,” shouted the coachman driving the vehicle. The
lady seated calmly behind the coachman said something Polly couldn’t hear. The coachman dropped the reins, folded his arms and sat silently, looking defeated.

  Based on the quality of the clothing worn by many among the procession, Polly knew that some of the women came from a higher station. Rarely had she stood shoulder to shoulder with such finery. Distracted by the beautiful clothing, she stumbled along.

  A woman clutching a Bible to her breast as she marched glared at Polly.

  A banner, bearing the words, DRINKING LEADS TO NEGLECT OF DUTY AND MORAL DEGRADATION, flapped in the wind. The two women holding it aloft struggled to maintain their grip. The banner beyond that read, DRUNKARD, YOU ROB YOUR CHILDREN.

  The slogans stung, as Polly thought both statements reflected her own failings.

  Reading the next banner, Polly’s heart thumped painfully in her chest. “DON’T LET THE DEMON RUIN YOUR LIFE.”

  He was here, she knew it. Mr. Macklin hid among the parade and would grab for her any moment. She had to get out of the crowd. Flailing, she pushed forward.

  A plump woman in black silk satin spun on Polly with outrage. “Mind your elbows!” she said.

  Startled, Polly took a step back and blundered into the person behind her. She heard a sharp cry of pain, and turned to see a woman bent over and straining to move forward. Polly tried to see the woman’s face, but the brim of a straw bonnet obscured her view.

  “My ankle,” the woman said.

  Hearing the female voice put away some of Polly’s wariness, yet she feared that the turn of events was still somehow a ruse by the Bonehill Ghost.

  Knowing she’d harmed the woman, Polly tried to lift her. “Take my arm,” she said.

  The woman grasped Polly’s right hand and shoulder and leaned on her. Together they struggled to move through the marching bodies toward the edge of the procession. Gaining the footway, they pressed forward out of the gently buffeting current of humanity until they met the brick wall of a building. Polly leaned back against the hard, gritty bricks. As the woman stood upright her black straw bonnet tilted back and revealed the face of Mrs. Hooks.

  “Mary!” she said.

  The coincidence of meeting the master blacksmith’s wife in the workhouse infirmary, compounded with the present encounter, brought Polly’s suspicions to a boil. She glanced at the woman’s warm expression without looking her directly in the eyes, yet saw Mr. Macklin in Mrs. Hooks’s features no better than she had back at the infirmary. The immediate fear dropped off. Even so, Polly wanted to get away, and a moment passed before she recognize that shame drove the desire. Mrs. Hooks, a member of the Temperance Society, knew Polly to be a drunk!

  “Thank you, love,” Mrs. Hooks said, leaning back against the wall.

  “A pleasure to see you, Mrs. Hooks. I’m so sorry I stepped on you. You’ll be fine if you rest here a bit. I must leave you now. I-I have to, uh, find something to eat.” She tried to pull away, but Mrs. Hooks held on.

  “Please help me reach a quieter place to rest. I fear my ankle will turn again if I’m not careful. We could take luncheon together. Allow me to buy you a meal.”

  Although she had great respect for Mrs. Hook’s generous nature, Polly didn’t want to sit and talk with a Bible thumper. She felt hungry, though, and a meal paid for was as good as money in her hand.

  She looked at the signage along the street and saw the Dolphin public house less than fifty paces away. She knew they had a luncheon bar in the lower class section. The thought of a cold chop made her mouth water. “I don’t suppose a pub would do,” she said.

  “I’m no teetotaler,” Mrs. Hooks said. She nodded with a grin.

  Polly relaxed, and smiled. The procession had thinned, the end of it in sight. Carefully, the two women made their way to the pub. By the time they entered and found seats, Mrs. Hooks seemed to walk much more comfortably.

  The place had the stale, yeasty smell of alcohol that tickled at the edges of Polly’s desire. She pushed the urge away and said, “You sit and rest while I get something for you at the luncheon bar. They have pork pies and plates of hot meat. They have chops, vegetables, and bread.”

  “A cold chop and bread, I think.” Mrs. Hooks handed Polly a shilling, which she accepted with another flinch of shame. “A glass of water would be good too.”

  Polly got the same for herself. She paid the publican, and carried the meal to the table where Mrs. Hooks waited patiently, apparently content with her own company. Polly had two conflicting hopes as she handed over what remained of the shilling, a mere two pence: that Mrs. Hooks would tell her to keep the money and that the woman would accept the coins without any reaction. The latter being the case, Polly relaxed again and sat.

  The two women occupied themselves with their meal for a time. Mrs. Hooks set down her utensils before she’d finished her plate. “You look like you’re feeing much better than when last I saw you. I’m glad to see it.”

  Having abstained from drinking for a time, Polly knew she presented herself in a decent light. She also knew the image to be a sham. Just thinking about the woman assessing her brought back the throat-tightening shame. She set down her fork and knife as well, and lowered her gaze, her eyes lighting upon the ragged cuffs of her threadbare bodice with the stained undersleeves poking out from underneath. She knew the state of her clothing reflected that of her life.

  “I am better,” she said simply. Polly wanted to ask Mrs. Hooks what she might know about Tom Dews, yet she still didn’t want the man to find her. The memories of how Polly had harmed him remained painful. “But I’ve made a ruin of my life with drink.” She’d said the words quietly, and Mrs. Hooks didn’t respond immediately. As the moments passed, Polly began to hope that the woman might not have heard her. She glanced around the room at the other diners, men and women eating, drinking, talking, laughing. Seeing smiles, she had a sense that life went on without her, while she remained trapped within a cocoon of her shame and regret.

  “Please don’t think I wanted you here to talk about drinking,” Mrs. Hooks said. “I am for the Temperance Society. I am not with them. I believe they mean well and will do some good, but many of the women are insufferable, haughty haybags who choose not to see how hard life is for those of a lower station, let alone the unfortunate.”

  She laughed, and Polly looked up. She felt a smile grow on her face, despite her embarrassment.

  “I don’t begrudge anyone a little comfort,” Mrs. Hooks said. “My husband has a dram of whiskey every evening and no more. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I will listen, though, if you’d like to talk about it.”

  Again, Polly became aware that the woman gave with no anticipation of gain. Once more, she found herself speaking quietly. “I cannot have just one, and so I am better when I don’t drink.”

  “I’ve known others who feel the same way. They say they are trapped. It must be a frightful way to feel. Can you do without?”

  Polly realized she wasn’t on the defense, and answered honestly, “For a time. The desire comes back.”

  Mrs. Hooks reached across the table to take Polly’s hands. “You are a beautiful woman with life ahead of you. You can choose your own path. We all despair of a better way to get by at times and do things we regret. That doesn’t mean that’s all we have to offer life or each other. After I lost my mum and dad, I had nothing in the world but my uncle Jack. He was a kidsman. I joined his street company of eight or ten children. We were all around ten years of age. He called us the Buzzing Mites. We fell upon the old, robbed them, and took what we stole to Uncle Jack. He fed us, and we moved around, to keep clear of the constables.”

  Polly knew she gaped at the woman, and smoothed her features so as to not offend. She would never have believed Mrs. Hooks had such a background if the words hadn’t just spilled from the woman’s mouth.

  “After we grievously harmed an old man and he died shortly thereafter, I left Uncle Jack behind. I thought the shame of what I had done would destroy everything good i
n my life. I was wrong. Once I tried to do what I saw as good, my days got better. I have had my share of suffering, and even with that, life has been good. We can start again, anytime, and be who we wish to be. It’s not easy, yet it’s easier if you’re not bullied by the drink.”

  Although Polly wanted to accept what the woman said, she had difficulty believing that change could come so easily. Surely, after all she’d done, God would not allow the good in Polly’s life until she had paid for her sins with sufficient suffering. Just how much she must endure, Polly didn’t know.

  With all that, she could see that Mrs. Hooks, a good woman with a troubled past, clearly didn’t feel superior to anyone. Polly found herself looking upon her as an equal, and that provided a sense of hope. She didn’t know what to say but, “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Hooks squeezed Polly’s hands, released them, and stood. She tested her ankle. “It’s not bad,” she said. “I must go, or my husband will worry.”

  Out front of the pub, as they parted company, Polly gave Mrs. Hooks a fragile, uncertain smile. With a slight limp, the woman crossed Whitechapel Road and continued south. Again, she’d left a strong impression, just like she’d done in the workhouse infirmary. This time, though, Polly would think long and hard about the conversation before deciding what Mrs. Hooks meant. Something about her words tugged at Polly’s notion of being cocooned within her own remorse. If she encouraged that tugging, a tear might form in the cocoon itself. Then, like a moth, Polly might emerge a changed being.

  41

  The Price of Solace

  On Sunday, August 26, Polly and Emily each paid a penny to hold a room at the White House. Polly looked in on her room. A rancid smell of rubbish allowed to ferment greeted her when she opened the small door. Although not quite as tight as she’d pictured from Emily’s description, the room would easily provoke claustrophobia. Stains of various kinds streaked and mottled the walls. The bedding, coarse gray-striped ticking filled loosely with straw and stiffened with mildew and old sweat, lay in a jumble on the floor.