A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (14 page)

“My father?”

“He’s here each night—should come home in a few hours.”

Papa hasn’t been hauled to the drum and locked up.

Would Bill send her away with the children to live somewhere else? If so, where would he live? No doubt he wouldn’t want to stay with Papa.

Polly thought of the tinplate toys for the children, hidden away in the back of the wardrobe. “Did the children have Christmas?”

“I don’t know. They were away with Mr. Nichols. I believe he is with his sister.”

Bill hated his sister, Rebecca. Polly knew he must have truly wanted to escape to seek her help.

Polly choked back shame as she thought of how she’d spoiled Christmas. She didn’t want to think about the children’s disappointment. If they hadn’t received their toys, perhaps she might yet see the surprised delight on their faces. She supposed that depended on how much they knew about what had happened.

“You’ve been here—” Polly began.

“Since that night,” Cynthia said. Crouched on the hearth beyond the foot of the bed, she poured hot water from the steaming kettle into the cups. “I lost my baby boy the day before, and needed to do some good for my own heart.”

Polly watched a tear fall from Cynthia’s eye and catch the firelight. The woman quickly wiped the droplet away.

“I’m sorry,” Polly said. She knew Cynthia’s husband was away in the Orient with the Royal Army. “Thank you for staying by me.”

Cynthia smiled miserably.

The Lord might not hear me,
Polly thought,
but an unselfish prayer couldn’t hurt if it came from the heart.

She thought her words through carefully before beginning.

Loving God, help Cynthia’s heart to become whole again. Care for our infants, taken before they had a chance at life.
Polly followed that with the penitent prayer.

16

Negotiations & Changes

For the following week of her recovery, rarely was Polly out of the sight of either Cynthia or Papa. She feared Bill would come home anytime and find the half pint of gin in the wardrobe. If he did, there would be no living with him. Polly didn’t believe she could create an explanation he’d swallow. Finally, following several days of worry, she found a moment when no one watched her. Polly quickly disposed of the gin down the privy.

Her father had found lodging a half mile away in Maydwell Street. He’d moved most of his possessions to his new room. On the 6th of January, 1876, Polly stood with Papa out front of the rooms in Trafalgar Street on the morning he would leave with the last load in his barrow.

“Bill will come this afternoon to fetch you and the household to your new lodging,” he said.

Polly had been away from her husband for two weeks. She feared the moment when she would be reunited with him. “I want to go with you,” she said.

He gave her a sympathetic smile. “There isn’t room for you and the children. You’ve cast your lot with Bill. I told him if he strikes you again, he’ll have me to answer to. Don’t be afraid to tell me about it.”

Polly nodded, looked at the paving stones at her feet.

“You have a demon after you,” Papa said.

Startled, Polly looked up to catch his eye.

He touched her face. “Don’t let him take your soul. Careful with the drink.”

Papa had rarely been tender with Polly, and the gesture caught her attention.

Did he mean the Bonehill Ghost or that alcohol was the demon? Since she’d awakened in her bed, with only the bruise on her belly, Polly had entertained some doubts about the reality of her recent dream involving Mr. Macklin. Having seen only the welt didn’t mean the demon’s attack and theft of her infant’s soul wasn’t real.

She wanted to know exactly what Papa thought. If he meant Mr. Macklin, she wanted to know how he knew. She would ask, but if he referred to alcohol as the demon, she’d find herself in a dreadful discussion about her drinking. Troubled, yet unwilling to risk opening up the subject, Polly merely smiled sadly and said, “Yes, Papa.”

He took up his barrow and moved westward along Trafalgar Street.

Although Polly had difficulty taking the notion seriously, she wondered if alcohol and the demonic Ghost were one and the same? Mr. Macklin was, after all, a drunk.

* * *

Polly had imagined Bill would glare at her and begin a punishing tirade of grievances and demands for change, yet when he arrived in the afternoon, he gave no indication that he wanted to reflect with her upon the hard feelings and violence that had occurred between them. Supporting himself on a different cane, seeming neither angry nor remorseful, Bill hobbled around calmly, inspecting her efforts to pack up their household. She wondered if the cane with which he’d beaten her had been damaged, or if he had decided for her feelings, or his own, not to carry the staff. Possibly, the owner had simply asked for the cane to be returned.

Bill had a few abrasions on his cheeks and a swelling on one side of his jaw. He also had a crooked plum-colored nose. Papa must have broken it.

For all her fear, the worst Polly got from her husband was a sullen indifference, which seemed to evaporate when she looked him in the eye and spoke. “How will we get our things to the new lodging?”

Although Bill seemed relieved that she’d spoken to him, his restless gaze gave her the impression he had difficulty looking at her. “I’ve hired a wagon,” he said. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Please prepare the children. We’ll all ride.”

* * *

Within the week, the Nichols family was situated in their new lodging. Bill had rented a flat of four rooms on the ground floor in D block of the Peabody buildings in Duke Street. The four-story brick building had been erected as part of an estate built in 1871 with funds donated by American industrialist and philanthropist George Peabody. Numerous blocks of the buildings were going up in several of what had been some of the worst rookeries in London.

Polly felt fortunate to have the opportunity to live in one of the fresh, clean, and spacious flats. The largest room of the four measured sixteen feet by ten feet, and the three smaller ones were each thirteen by ten. Bill paid the superintendent, Mr. Hess, and a porter, Mr. Silvers, to look the other way when the printing press was moved in. At least until the family grew and needed the space, Polly would have an entire room dedicated to her printing. The boys and Alice shared a bedroom. Since the largest room held the flat’s small stove and sets of shelves built into the walls, they located their kitchen and dining area there. The room also served as a parlor. At least part of the room that Polly used for her printing would become Alice’s bedroom in due time.

The landing outside the flat’s entrance provided a sink and a water closet that the Nichols family shared with their nearest neighbors, the Heryfords, a couple in their middle years with sons that were young men. The roof of the building held laundry facilities and baths.

On January 13, Polly had the chance to give the tinplate toys to her children. Her long-awaited delight blossomed as she watched her children play. John and Percy took their toys to the garden court that the Peabody buildings surrounded. Other boys of the buildings joined them, bringing their own toy miniatures.

“I am Gulliver,” John shouted.

“I am Gulliver’s twin!” Percy said.

Arm in arm, they stomped around the imaginary town they had built from sticks, rocks and leaves. The other boys made wee, Lilliputian voices, and ran their toys between John’s and Percy’s feet.

Alice found a friend who was fascinated with the horse and carriage. They spent most of their time playing with the toy indoors. Many tiny courtships occurred in that carriage and one passion-fueled murder and suicide.

Relieved to find the children had no resentment toward her, Polly suspected that since they’d slept on the night of December 20, 1875, they knew little about what had occurred.

Although he still had a limp, Bill went back to work.

A month after the family took up their new lodging, the superintendent, Mr. Hess, approached Polly while she rinsed clothing in the laundry. “May I hire you to print two hundred of this in Foolscap Folio?” He handed her a printed copy of
The Peabody House Rules
with two new rules added in script at the bottom of the page.

“Yes,” Polly said. “How soon?”

“Saturday?”

“That’ll be two and a tanner,” she said.

“All right, then.”

Once he’d gone, she read the list. Certainly, Bill must have received a copy when they’d arrived, yet he’d merely told her what regulations he thought she should follow, rather than offering it to her to read. The list included a rule that forbade opening a shop of any sort within the building. That included, she believed, a printing shop. Another rule stated that the porter and superintendent would be summarily dismissed if they received any sort of gratuity.

Plenty of mothers who lived within the building were willing to share the minding of children. All the tenants had employment. The gate to the garden courtyard which gave access to the building was locked at eleven o’clock at night. Each adult tenant had a key to the gate. The whole arrangement provided a feeling of safety to Polly. For her, the world had become fresh and new again.

* * *

As soon as they’d settled, Polly noticed that Bill seemed to treat her with more respect.

“What do you think?” he asked in late January, during a conversation about whether the boys should attend a school closer to home.

Polly had looked at him blankly for a moment, thinking that somehow he mocked her. “If it means they get to keep their friends,” she said after a moment, “they’re better off walking a little farther to get to school. But you ought to ask them.”

“I’ll do that, then.”

Polly couldn’t have found his response more surprising.

The boys decided to leave Saint Mary Magdalen National School, and attend instead Saint Andrew’s School.

One evening in February, fresh home from work at the printers, Bill asked, “Will you start supper soon? I’m famished.”

Polly hadn’t realized how late the hour had become, and immediately feared his disappointment and his wrath.

“I—I shall…yes, it won’t take a moment to begin.” She moved quickly to start water boiling on the small stove in the kitchen area.

Bill stopped her gently. “If you’re weary, I’ll go down to the square and fetch puddings and pies from the vendors instead. The children should be very pleased.”

Dumbstruck, Polly looked at the man silently. She didn’t recognize him for a brief moment. Realizing that her mouth hung open, she closed it.

Bill chuckled. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

Finally, her confusion vanished, and she found her voice. “That’ll be lovely, Bill.”

When his pleasant behavior persisted into the spring, she began to consider more carefully what motivated him, but at first, she saw no reason for the change.

A possible answer came to her slowly over the summer months. She believed Bill knew about the miscarriage, although they didn’t speak of it. She presumed he was aware that he’d been the cause. Bill’s change of attitude might be a response to regret for what he’d done, and perhaps that had shaken loose his complacency regarding their marriage. Polly happily accepted that idea as truth because the notion took some of the weight of responsibility off her shoulders.

With her role in the events of December 20, 1875, mitigated, she began to question the punishment she’d imposed upon herself. Was abstinence a fair consequence for her to suffer for her part in the disaster of that terrible night, or had Polly been too hard on herself?

Despite the suffering she had endured and certainly had a hand in bringing about, she wasn’t entirely convinced she should blame her drinking. Might Bill have got angry with her for another reason, as he’d done in the past? He’d struck her for questioning his decision to live with her father, for lack of speed in preparing food, and for adding color to material she’d printed. Indeed, he’d struck her not for drinking gin, but for drinking
his
gin when he clearly needed the alcohol for pain. He might make that sort of mistake at any time.

With those notions rattling around in her head, Polly began to think seriously about drinking again.

In September, she discovered she was pregnant.

17

Lonely Hearts

Morning sickness kept Polly from wanting to drink for a time. Then in the autumn, Alice began at Saint Andrew’s Infants School, and Polly had time to do what she wanted each day once her housekeeping and printing work were done.

Unlike Judith, Polly preferred not to travel too far to have her dram. Even with the promises she made to herself that she’d drink in moderation, she feared—or perhaps hoped—she’d become so intoxicated that she might have difficulty finding her way home. Polly chose The Hogs pub, where Broadwall met Hatfield Street, a mere three chains away from her building. Since Bill did not spend time in pubs, she thought he wouldn’t find her there. Even if he did, she’d persuaded herself that Bill had never been upset with her for drinking. If he found her, as long as she’d done her work and wasn’t the worse for drink, he wouldn’t become upset.