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

by Alan M. Clark

  The two women left the White House, and sat together in a tavern for a light meal of bread and cheese. Emily had a glass of bitter. Polly abstained in the face of powerful craving.

  Once they’d finished most of their meal, Emily looked at Polly earnestly. “For some time now, I’ve needed someone to look after, someone who would also help look after me. I lost my husband, Devin, to drink. He stays at another doss house in Flower and Dean Street. He’s of little help to me—a shilling from his army pension at the end of each month, is all—and I am tired of being alone.”

  Polly noted that Emily had only the one glass of bitter.

  She isn’t against drink. Still, I shall not feel good allowing her to see me drink.

  “Most everyone I know looks out for themselves alone,” Emily said. “I’m glad we found each other, and that you’re willing to help and be helped. The world has grown so much more dangerous than when I was a child.”

  Emily looked upon her with such trust and spoke to her so warmly, that Polly felt as if she’d gained a sister. The woman clearly felt they had much in common. Emily needed Polly to be her friend, confidante, and protector, and offered the same in return. Polly knew that two women against the dangers of London didn’t amount to much, but their combined strength had to be better than what she’d had. As alone as she’d been for so long, strangely even while with those she loved, Polly valued the offer highly and wanted to be worthy of it.

  She resolved that she would indeed give up drink. That had to be done if she wanted to break from her cocoon and have a good life. She’d gone long periods without alcohol before, and knew that she could give it up for good. Polly would prove her worth to Emily, and therefore to herself. She imagined that with the confidence that would give her, she might also then prove herself to Papa, and eventually to her children. She might even become worthy of all that the Heryfords did to protect her. Somehow, she would find a way to gain her family’s trust and to make up for all the ways she’d wronged them. These thoughts came on with such clarity and purpose, and contrasted so greatly with the odd thinking and poor decision-making of her time with the Cowdreys, that Polly looked back over the summer in wonder at her bizarre behavior. Even so, something stood in her way.

  I must not only quit drinking, I must also find a way to better myself so that I will not go back to it.

  Yes, something within Polly stood in her way. She became determined to ferret it out and be done with it.

  She grasped Emily’s hands across the table. “We will help each other,” she said.

  Emily squeezed Polly’s hands. “We can but try.”

  They left the tavern, and set out in opposite directions along Osborn Street to secure clients.

  * * *

  Keeping in mind that the Bonehill Ghost could change form, and had turned up even when Polly was sober, she reminded herself to avoid looking her clients in the eye as she resumed soliciting.

  On Thursday, August 30, Polly went to her room at the White House about four o’clock in the afternoon with a young Irish client. The room was paid up until five o’clock, after which she’d have to pay a penny to hold the room for the night or get out.

  While thrusting himself into her, the Irishman explored her torso and head with his mouth, nuzzling and licking her face and breasts. When he pulled back a bit to look her in the face, she immediately looked away. He seemed to think little of her avoidance and went back to working on her breasts. Moments later, he pulled back again to look at her and she responded the same as before.

  Defiantly, he twisted about, trying to catch her gaze, yet she kept her eyes turned away.

  “Why won’t you look at me?” he asked, his face red with outrage.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Polly said, “I can’t.”

  “Do I offend you?” He seemed to have forgotten they engaged in an intimate act.

  “My shame,” Polly said, thinking the simple response would suffice.

  “I require you should look at me,” he said, his spittle peppering her face. “I cannot find release without it.”

  Polly feared the worst: She’d become trapped in the tight space with the demon. Mr. Macklin was Irish! How had she forgotten that? He’d finally found a way to pin her with his gaze, but she would not give up her soul without a fight.

  “No!” Polly shouted and tried to push back. Although flimsy, the wall behind her held firm. She had no way to escape from the angry monster.

  He reared back and boxed her right ear, as Bill had done to her left ear on two occasions. Polly cried out with the pain and looked up. The eyes appeared blue, not red. She squinted against the agony in her head.

  “Open them wider if you don’t want more.”

  Preferring the risk of looking the Irishman in the eye to prolonging the man’s abuse, Polly opened her eyes wider and softened her expression.

  Within moments, the man writhed in an ecstasy of release.

  She’d been fortunate; he was merely an angry man, not the demon. He paid her, backed out of the room and left.

  Polly couldn’t hear with her right ear. Experience told her that the hearing would eventually return.

  As she lay in the fetid bedclothes, giving time for the agony in her head to subside, an uncharacteristic thought occurred to her: I punish myself.

  For most of her life, Polly had believed that all her suffering, mild or harsh, had been in some way retribution for her sins. She’d thought that if God were not doling out her punishments, He certainly allowed for them by demonic forces. Since Mr. Macklin had not shown up to deliver each blow, the Lord must have also permitted the natural misfortunes of circumstance to find her easily. Yet when she’d sought His grace, she’d never seen any indication that He welcomed her efforts. Never had there been any respite from hardship or trouble.

  Not all suffering is punishment, and most of the misfortune I brought upon myself. If the Lord values my soul, it could be He has forgiven me. Perhaps I have His grace already, and the change Mrs. Hooks spoke of is indeed possible.

  The card from which Polly had read the penitent prayer had rotted away long ago, but she still carried the words in her head and heart. If God had indeed forgiven Polly, her torments were punishments of her own choosing. Her inability to forgive herself, and nothing more, was what encouraged the Bonehill Ghost. Within that notion, she felt a kernel of truth wriggling to break out.

  Polly knew that seeing herself in a better light was the key to improving her life. To gain that brighter view, she’d have to be forgiven for many things.

  Her need for an escape from the troubles and pains of life had led her to alcohol. She’d been dishonest and scheming, not to hurt anyone, but to maintain an avenue to alcohol as her means of flight. Even as a healthy young woman, doing piece work, she’d needed that escape—possibly more so then.

  My means of escape trapped me long ago.

  At present, what led her to drink as much as anything else was the forgetfulness intoxication provided; a much-needed respite from a memory overflowing with her failures to herself and her wrongdoing to others.

  Yes, she’d have to be forgiven for many things, but perhaps most importantly, she’d have to find a way to pardon herself.

  How can I, after all my grasping, greedy, uncaring deeds?

  Others had been forgiving. Mrs. Hooks could easily see what Polly had done to herself. Surely the Heryfords knew she’d had a hand in creating the strife in her home, yet they defended her because what Bill had done to her was wrong. Mrs. Hooks and the Heryfords seemed to believe Polly capable of goodness, whatever her past—a past they never even paused to consider. Their unquestioning acceptance of her spoke of a greater forgiveness.

  The more she thought about the idea that God had forgiven her, the more excited she became, until, quite unexpectedly, notion became conviction.

  My torments are my own, and that means I can do away with them. I must begin to expect the best from myself as Mrs. Hooks and the Heryfords did.

&nb
sp; How?

  Again, the matter came to how she saw herself.

  Alcohol is not the problem. The need to be comforted is the heart of my troubles.

  She wondered if the solace she’d sought for so long in the bottle might be had from another source, one without a corrupting influence.

  She’d got something like that in her relationship with Tom, some hope for the future perhaps.

  When she’d begun her marriage, Polly had hope. In her experience with Bill, she hadn’t set out with dishonest intent. When their union began, she’d believed herself capable of good. The grind of life, including the unexpected cruelty of her husband, and the need for escape had taken the hope away.

  In a moment of wanting more than anything to have that hopefulness back, she realized the solace she’d always craved was hope. Yet she knew that what had allowed for such optimism was a dangerous naivety. Could one be had without the other?

  Yes, if I choose to see the good and don’t allow myself to be driven by dread. She thought of Emily’s desire to find the good, even in the worst situations.

  Polly knew that to prove herself capable of that, she must embrace what small gains she could to improve her life and her nature. I can build hope by holding to the goodness of life whatever the hardships, just as Mrs. Hooks said she’d done. Time will give me what I need, if I persist.

  Eventually, I’ll find a way to forgive myself.

  Despite the ache in her ear, Polly found her hopeful thoughts exhilarating, and she became determined to find a way out of the life she’d created. Even so, a surge of pain in her ear hampered her ability to focus on the matter.

  She writhed in the filthy bedding, trying to rub off her agony.

  Further questions and answers would have to wait. Polly needed distraction. She got up and paid the Indian deputy of the lodging house a penny to hold her room, then left the White House with the goal of meeting up with Emily at the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborn Street.

  Even with her new pledge of abstinence, as she waited on the corner, trying to stay out of the rain under the overhanging upper floor of a building, Polly did little but think about having a drink for the pain in her ear. While she did her best to resist the idea, she was glad she’d said nothing about her drinking or her decision to quit to Emily. The woman had no expectations in that regard.

  42

  Storm

  Lightning flashed and thunder boomed in the distance. The rain came down in sheets, thinned to a drizzle, and then became heavy again. Miserable, Polly waited for Emily on the corner at dusk. The pain in her right ear sharpened each time the wind blew across the opening. She cringed with the deep ache, and dissuaded herself from going for a drink twice. If she did have a drink for the pain, she decided, that wouldn’t be the same as seeking comfort from intoxication. Still, she’d resist the urge as long as possible.

  A horse-drawn vehicle, perhaps an omnibus, approached the intersection, moving along Osborn Street at a fast clip. The driver seemed to have little control of his team of horses. Likely, they were spooked by the thunder and lightning. Polly checked to see if anything came toward the crossing along Whitechapel Road. Although relieved to find she wasn’t in the line of oncoming disaster, she backed up against the nearest building to avoid getting splashed as the massive carriage drew near.

  The passengers on the vehicle’s roof looked to be miserable in the rain, their heads down and shoulders hunched. One among them, a woman, cried out and stood as her bonnet was caught by the wind and thrown down at Polly’s feet. The woman seemed to argue with the driver as the vehicle passed through the intersection and kept going.

  Polly bent to pick up the bonnet. All black and made of straw, with trimmings of velvet, the stylish little cap seemed none the worse for exposure to the weather. As the pretty thing reminded her of the one she’d seen Mrs. Hooks wearing just a few days ago, she realized that her new sense of hope had begun during her conversation with the woman.

  Mrs. Hooks has sent me this hat, she thought. Despite her pain, she smiled as she took the foolish notion even further. It’s a sign of the good that will come into my life now that I am changing.

  She removed her threadbare and hopelessly stained cloth bonnet, then shook the water off the straw one and placed it on her head.

  Finally, about eight o’clock in the evening, Polly’s head and heart lifted to see her friend appear among the foot traffic along the street.

  Emily seemed happy to see her as well. “What a pretty new bonnet.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you done well?”

  “Yes,” Polly said. “I’ve held my room, but no more. I do have my night’s doss.” She had indeed earned her four pence along with the damage to her ear, and currently had seven pence in her pocket. She wouldn’t trouble her friend with a full recounting of events.

  “You can earn it again before bedtime. Let’s have a drink at the Frying Pan.”

  Polly instantly weighed the risk of another visit from the Bonehill Ghost against the need for relief from her pain. After all, Mr. Macklin didn’t show up every time she drank. Emily’s suggestion had quickly become permission. “Yes, I’ll have a drink.”

  Troubled to have so easily dropped her commitment to abstinence, Polly told herself that if she expected to quit drinking, she’d need a good night’s sleep, something that would be impossible while enduring the pain in her ear.

  “Tomorrow is the last day of the month,” Emily said. “I’ll meet with Devin and he’ll give me a shilling of his pension. I’ll take you to the Beehive and we’ll have a good meal.”

  Polly nodded at the invitation. She remembered that August 31 was the birthday given her by Martha Combs, Sarah Brown, and Bernice Godwin, so long ago.

  Yes, tomorrow I’ll be reborn. I’ll be able to commit to abstinence then.

  She almost expressed her thoughts to Emily, then decided against bringing attention to the anniversary since the date wasn’t her real birthday.

  The two women set out during a lull in the rainstorm to walk to the Frying Pan pub.

  * * *

  The going rate for a quartern of gin was three pence. Polly quaffed the four ounces in one draft.

  “Careful,” Emily said, “you don’t want to find yourself foolish. You ate your supper?”

  “Yes,” Polly lied.

  “Let me get you another,” Emily said, “and then I’m off to make my rounds.” She fetched two more quarterns.

  Polly paced herself while she talked with her friend.

  Finally, about half-past ten o’clock, Emily got up to leave. “Shall I see you in a few hours?”

  “Yes, about two in the morning at our usual spot.”

  Emily ran out into the rain and disappeared in the gloom. A flash of lightning illuminated her briefly as she moved south along Brick Lane.

  Polly quaffed her gin, and got up to fetch another. The pain in her ear had diminished with each glass, but not by much. She sat for a long while, nursing her drink, taking little notice of the activity within the pub as she looked out the window, watching the discouraging rain. By midnight she’d finished her glass of gin and knew that if she didn’t buy another drink, the management would eventually ask her to leave. As the rain lightened to a drizzle, she saw a black man standing in the wetness out front of the Frying Pan.

  Polly got up, exited the establishment, and approached the man. She avoided looking him directly in the eyes. “Will you take four pence?” he asked with a West Indian accent.

  “Yes,” Polly said. “Shall we go to my room?”

  The man pointed across the street to a small tool house beside an entrance to a back court. The structure had a broad eave and a roof of tin. Rain water poured off the metal in a sheet that provided a thin curtain of privacy. “Few will be out in this weather.” He gestured up and down the empty, rain-soaked street.

  “What if the rain slackens?” Polly asked.

  “I like the risk.”

  Polly
and the man slipped beneath the curtain of water. He turned her to the wall.

  Good, she thought, he won’t expect me to look him in the eyes.

  He opened his trousers, lifted her skirt and satisfied himself. Giving her a kiss on the cheek, he pressed four coins into her hand and walked away, adjusting his clothing.

  The transaction had been so painless and quick, Polly had confidence she could readily repeat the process. She walked back into the Frying Pan for another quartern of gin, and sat drinking the sharp liquid until the management of the pub began to give her the evil eye.

  Exiting the establishment during a lull in the rain, she noted an orange glow in the sky to the southeast. Some part of the city burned.

  The downpour increased and Polly became chilled to the bone. Hoping for a warm, dry place to wait out the storm without having to return to the White House, Polly walked west along Thrawl Street to Wilmott’s lodging house, and knocked on the kitchen door.

  Mr. Bonfils answered. He looked her up and down, asked, “Do you have your doss?”

  “Yes,” Polly said. The lie didn’t sit well with her. She had only one penny in her pocket. Having paid for the room to be held at the White House, she had no intention of staying the night at Wilmott’s.

  Although drunk, she knew that if she had any hope of expecting the best from herself, as Mrs. Hooks and the Heryfords had, she’d have to become honest with herself and others. That sort of integrity would be required to reach the life she imagined. Yes, she must stop lying, but as with the drink, she would begin her abstinence tomorrow.

  As soon as Polly entered, Mr. Bonfils held out his hand to receive payment.