A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (16 page)

“No more drinking in the daytime,” he said after they had become comfortable. “If you want to have a drink, have one with me in the evening.”

When Polly didn’t respond, he frowned and turned away to look out the side window.

The cab moved forward.

Bill didn’t drink often. The last time he’d had a drink, he beat her.
Men who drink are more often the ones who beat their wives and family,
Polly thought,
and other men.
More violence occurred in pubs than anywhere else in the city. No, Polly had no desire to drink with Bill Nichols.

19

Pursuit

The third visit Polly made to Tom’s room occurred between Christmas, 1876, and the new year.

Before Estell went out with her niece, she looked at Polly skeptically. “You needn’t think I don’t know what you two are up to.”

Polly thought the fourteen-year-old girl pleasant and friendly, and hoped she hadn’t got on her bad side.

When the girls had gone, Tom said, “Estell likes you, but worries that, should your husband find us together, he’ll make trouble for us all.”

He poured a small amount of gin into a glass and handed it to Polly. He then took up a glass of his own.

Polly took a sip. “I worry too,” she said, yet she didn’t often contemplate the terrible scenario he’d suggested. Polly concerned herself with the details of her deception. If she kept those in order, the larger aspects would work themselves out. She thought the time to be about one o’clock in the afternoon. The lesson times for each of her children differed and varied a bit through the week. Polly required them to stay together, to see each other home. They always arrived shortly after five o’clock, Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. If Polly finished her gin within the next hour, the smell would be off her when the children got home. Her husband came home around half past seven each evening.

“We have been careful,” Tom said. “We shall be careful, but I’ll understand should you want to break it off.”

She noted that Tom didn’t treat her like a possession. With their first few meetings, although she’d enjoyed herself, she’d sensed something odd about the man, a peculiar twist to his outlook upon which she couldn’t quite put her finger. At present, she realized what had troubled her: He treated her like a friend. That was an unusual relationship for a man and woman, in her opinion, but one that she’d come to value greatly.

Despite her troubles, Polly was happier than at any other time in her life. Tom wasn’t such a drunk that he couldn’t get along in the world. When she awoke in the mornings, she had her Thursday afternoons with Tom to look forward to, at least for the next few months, until the new baby came.

“I don’t want to break it off,” Polly said.

* * *

On a Monday in January 1877, Polly chose to go farther down Broadwall to the Bull in the Pound pub to have a glass of stout. On her way home, she saw Bill walking toward her. He clearly saw her, and she knew escape wasn’t possible. The smell of stout on her hadn’t had a chance to dissipate completely. Hopefully, the cold air would dampen the smell.

“You’re home early,” she said, trying to sound companionable.

Bill got in close to her and leaned over to smell her breath, then straightened with an angry face. “I have forbidden drinking in the daytime,” he shouted.

A woman tossing rubbish out the window of a gutted second-story room across the lane stopped and leaned out to listen. Bill glanced up at her, and quickly returned his eyes to Polly.

She didn’t respond, but, then, he hadn’t asked a question. Bill backed her up against the wall of the nearest building, an ancient wooden structure that groaned slightly when she bumped into it. Polly kept her eyes down.

Bill spoke in low, growling tones. “Last Thursday I slipped and fell in a great spill of ink. I were miserable in my clothes. Richardson took pity on me and sent me home. Again, you weren’t there in the early afternoon, though you had work to do. I hid my spoiled trousers so you wouldn’t find them because I didn’t want you to know I was looking in on you. I wanted to find out how often you went for a drink.”

“I am no shirkster. My work gets done in good time,” Polly said, still looking down. “I earn a good income. You have nothing to complain about.”

Bill lifted his arm to strike, but she looked up, her gaze fixed steadily on his eyes. He hesitated, glanced to his left to find the woman in the second-story window still watching, and dropped his arm.

“I will do the bookkeeping for your printing from now on,” he said. “If you don’t have the funds, you can’t drink.”

Polly wasn’t concerned about the bookkeeping. Bill might be good with money. He wasn’t clever with math.

He took her roughly by the arm and led her home.

20

A Promise of Lessons

The following Thursday, when Polly arrived at the Dews family room, Estell answered the door. Polly entered and saw Tom sitting at the table, whetting a knife on a flat stone. Estell struggled to dress Nancy.

Polly sat next to Tom and turned to the older girl. “Do you miss Poplar?” she asked.

“No,” Estell said flatly.

“You don’t miss family there?”

“Tom and this little one are all I have.”

Nancy whined, her arm folded wrong inside a sweater sleeve.

“If you give up the fight,” Estell said impatiently, “you won’t get hurt.” She looked up at Polly. “She hates wool because it’s scratchy.”

“How did you get on in Poplar before you came to live with Tom?” Polly asked.

“Get on?” Tom said. “Ha! She thought she were a flue faker.”

Polly glared at him.

“I pretended I were a boy,” Estell said proudly. “Got on with a master chimneysweep right after Mum died.”

Tom looked up from his work. “She didn’t last a month. Got stuck in a flue and had to lose some clothes to get out. When he saw she were a girl, he let her go.”

“The job wasn’t too hard, mind you,” Estell said. “Bad luck, is all.”

“Did you go to school?” Polly asked.

Estell shook her head.

“We never had time for that,” Tom said.

Again, Polly glared at Tom. “I’m speaking to your sister.”

He rolled his eyes, continued with the hissing rhythm of his sharpening.

“I could teach you to read if you don’t know how,” Polly said.

Estell’s eyes grew large. “Truly?” she asked, grinning.

“One hour each time I visit.”

Tom huffed.

“It’s for her own good, and yours,” Polly said.

He smirked and finally nodded his approval. Estell’s grin grew larger.

“Now, leave us be,” Tom said.

“We’ll have your first lesson in an hour when you return,” Polly said. She looked to the shelves to find a book and saw none. “It won’t be much without books, but we’ll make a start.”

Still smiling, Tom’s sister grabbed a basket, a sack, and the makeshift pram and went out with Nancy. Polly heard Estell’s voice as she spoke quietly to her niece, and then the squeaky wheels of the baby carriage on the paving stones, going up the lane.

Tom tested the sharpness of the knife, touching the blade to his fingernail and sliding it sideways. “Nearly done,” he said.

Polly’s thoughts returned to the troubles with her husband. “Life with Bill ought to be settled and steady if I should allow it,” she said, ruminating aloud. She meant that her drinking got in the way of her happiness, yet she didn’t want to admit that, even to Tom. “The children are happy at home and in school. They are well-fed and clothed. Our home is better than any I should’ve hoped for. So why do I risk everything?”

The question got out before she had thought through the possible answers and whether she wanted to share them with Tom.

“I’m not worth it,” he said, without looking up. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were free. You must make this decision on your own.”

Polly liked his answer. She didn’t want a different husband. She’d become comfortable with Tom being her friend as well as her lover. He was a sweet man.

But her question had two parts: why did she continue to drink when the habit upset her husband, and why did she risk everything to be with a drunk?

She wouldn’t address the primary question about her drinking, even within her own thoughts, but the secondary question had a ready answer.
Because Tom treats me better than Bill ever will, and I’m lonely, as simple as that.

Tom clearly thought that what he offered wasn’t worth her risk. Polly would let him think that. She put her hand to his stubbly face and gave him a kiss. He continued sliding the edge of his knife softly over the whetstone.

“Bill be damned,” Polly said. “My children are all I care about at home. If we’re discovered, what harm should come to them?”

Tom tested the blade on his fingernail once more, set the knife and the whetstone aside, and turned to her.

“Your husband might sue for divorce,” he said. “He could sue me, though my debts should discourage that.” Polly frowned, and he smoothed her brow with his hand. “The idea doesn’t trouble me,” he said. “He could take your children away. You might never see them again.”

Tom got up from the table and moved toward his bed.

Polly chewed her lip. Although she had no doubt that Bill would earn enough to keep the children well, she had to wonder if their lives might be somehow incomplete without the love of their mother.

Would they miss me?

The children were growing up. John, currently eleven years old, had expressed a desire to live with his grandfather and begin an apprenticeship. Papa was considering the matter. If not for the pregnancy, Polly could see a time in the future when the children no longer needed her and she might leave Bill.

“Let go your troubles,” Tom said. He had taken off his clothes. “Come to me.” He held out his hand, and when she took it, he pulled her close and undressed her.

The clean bedclothes felt good against her naked flesh. Tom felt good too. When he touched her—the way he touched her—Polly’s chronic loneliness always fled.

* * *

On a Thursday in March, as usual, Polly left Tom’s room to get home about half an hour before the children would return from school. She found Bill waiting for her. He smelled her breath, but the odor of the gin she drank had had a chance to dissipate.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

Polly didn’t want to lie, so she ignored him. She moved to the stove to start a fire to cook supper.

Bill grabbed her by the arm and turned her. He backed her into the corner of the room.

“You’ll tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Although Polly kept her eyes on his face, she didn’t respond.

His features twisted with frustration and he raised his hand to strike her.

“Go on,” she scoffed, thrusting her swollen abdomen at him, “
hit
me.”

Her gumption obviously surprised Bill.

“It won’t help,” she said, “but you’ll feel better, just like
the last time
you
beat
me.”

His angry face sagged a little.

“You
did
feel better afterward,” she asked, “
didn’t
you?”

He dropped his arm and stepped back, his eyes and mouth wide.

So, his shame over the miscarriage would be her ally.

“I didn’t know you were knapped last time,” he said.

“Well, that makes
all
the difference,
doesn’t
it,” Polly said viciously, knowing she went too far.

The rage returned to his voice. “You
cannot
talk to me that way.” She thought he would finally strike her. Still, he continued to back away. Frustration turned his pudgy features into those of a petulant boy. He tried to rally his face to express anger again, yet his eyes remained defeated. “You will
not
drink again. If you do, I
shall
beat you. I’ll be more careful, but I
will
beat you. I have the right to teach you a lesson.”

Bill pushed past her and exited their rooms, slamming the door behind him.

Polly fought to keep herself from laughing. Considering that her husband was a troubled man, she thought her glee unbecoming. Although she seemed to have won a victory over his worst inclinations, she knew the matter was far from settled.

She said a prayer for Bill Nichols, followed by the penitent prayer.

21

A Need for Worry

Polly took books, paper, and pencils to the Dews family lodging to help her teach Estell to read and write. Clearly impatient as he waited through the first lesson, Tom paced quietly. Even so, he didn’t show an ill-temper.

“Thank you, Polly,” Estell said.