A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (10 page)

“That might be a good thing,” she said. She finished her stout and stood.

“If you want to talk about it,” Judith said, “I’ll be here Monday afternoons—at least for a while—I’m two months along already.”

“Thank you,” Polly said.

9

Something in Common

In mid-summer of 1868, Polly received an order for a chapbook about the life and crime of a condemned criminal, Thomas Wells, who would hang at Newgate Prison in August. Following the hanging of the Fenian murderer, Michael Barrett, in May, executions had ceased to be public events. She had assumed that would put the writers of gallows ballads out of business.

Looking over the materials her husband had brought her for the job, a hand-written manuscript and a small woodcut block for the front page illustration, she noted with discomfort the author’s name: Conway. The day she’d spent singing the man’s ballad about Theodore Pritchard with Kevin Lace and his friends wasn’t a good memory.

Over the next few days, as she went about the work of setting type, printing, folding, sewing and cutting two hundred of the books, Lace’s voice rang in her head, singing the song over and over. Thinking about the loss of memory and control she’d experienced that day at The Boar’s Tusk was an uncomfortable reminder of her problem with alcohol, and brought on a nauseating shame. She finished the job on her third day of working on the chapbooks, but the unsettling recollections continued. In an effort to feel better, she opened a small set of watercolor paints and brushes her father had given her for Christmas ten years earlier, fetched a cup of water, and hand-colored one copy of the woodcut illustration, a picture of one man shooting another in the face. Polly thought she’d done a good job, although, once dried, the front page puckered slightly.

She continued dreading the moment when the author would come to pick up his order. To keep from thinking about that, she began adding color to more copies of the picture.

Her husband got home late. Polly, the children, and her father had already eaten by the time Bill arrived. Papa and the boys were in his room. She had colored half the run of chapbooks, and they sat staggered on a shelf by the open window to dry.

“What have you done?” Bill shouted when he saw the colored chapbooks. “You’ve spoiled the lot of them.”

She cowered away from his angry eyes.

He grabbed Polly’s arms and spun her around roughly. “He’ll not pay for that!”

Polly scrambled backwards. He punched her in the face and she fell, striking her head against the lever of the press. He moved forward and kicked her. She blocked his foot with her thigh. “No,” she cried, reaching up with her hands to ward off more blows as he struck out at her face again.

Bill grabbed her left wrist and twisted. As she screamed with the pain, she heard little John, Percy, or both, begin to cry.

Papa hurried from his room. “You can’t treat her like that as long as I’m here,” he said.

Bill swung on Papa, but the elder man dodged the blow and raised his own fists. Polly’s husband knew of her father’s reputation among the costers as a good pugilist. He seemed to see the danger he’d brought upon himself, and lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. Papa backed off. Bill sat back on the bed and hung his head. Polly slowly got up from the floor, grateful for Papa’s help.

“Mr. Conway won’t pay for the chapbooks, Polly,” Bill said quietly. “But
you
shall,” he added ominously.

Polly realized what a horrible mistake she’d made. Of course, the customer had not asked for color and might therefore refuse the order. What had she been thinking? To fill an order properly, one gave a customer the required goods and service; no more, no less.

“We’ll just see about that when he comes for them tomorrow,” Papa said, his eyes still warning Bill off.

Polly soothed her sore cheek with gentle fingers. “Tomorrow, at noon.”

“I thought the color a charming touch,” Papa said.

Bill scoffed. “You don’t know the printing business. Now, get out of our room.”

Papa passed through the door into his room. Polly heard him calming the children.

“You shall spend every moment between now and noon tomorrow if necessary printing and binding enough of the chapbooks to make up for those ruined.”

“May I serve your supper?” Polly asked, averting her eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “Then to work, straight away.”

Polly prepared him a plate and returned to the grind of printing more of the chapbooks, toiling late into the night.

Both John and Percy slept with Papa. Bill slept, but got up around midnight and began helping her with the sewing and cutting of the books. “You’d better hope the customer is satisfied,” he grumbled.

They worked in silence for another three hours, finishing the task.

* * *

Polly awoke as Bill got up at eight o’clock in the morning. Papa had already left with his barrow and the two boys still slept.

“I shall be late if I don’t hurry,” Bill said. He dressed, grabbed a crust of bread, and left.

Polly got up, ate, roused her boys from sleep and fed them. She tried to put her room back in order after the tumult of violence and labor from the previous night. She feared the inevitable moment when a knock on her door signaled the arrival of Mr. Conway. She had stacked the colored chapbooks and hidden them under another stack of paper on a shelf of supplies in the corner so that he would not see them. Some of the chapbooks pressed late in the night were inferior to those done more carefully earlier in the day. She began to anticipate an angry reaction, perhaps even a refusal to pay for the product.

When finally that knock came, Polly felt a jolt as if her body might leap out of her skin. She gathered herself together, took several deep breaths and moved slowly to answer the call. Upon opening the door, she found a woman with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and a heart-shaped face.

“I am Mr. Conway’s wife,” she said. “I’ve come for the chapbooks he ordered.”

So relieved that she didn’t face another angry man, Polly leaned heavily against the door frame and held her hands to her chest.

“Are you feeling ill?” Mrs. Conway asked.

“No,” Polly said, “I didn’t sleep well.” She stepped aside and gestured for the woman to enter. “I am Mrs. Nichols. Polly.”

“Please call me Katie.”

Polly gestured toward a bundle of chapbooks tied with yellow string.

“Since executions are no longer for the public,” Katie said, “I argued against such a large order, but my husband said we needn’t change what worked in the past. I’ve tried to think of a way to attract more attention with the chapbooks.”

“My husband is often too proud to listen to my ideas.”

Katie smiled knowingly, and Polly knew they had something in common.

Inspired to think that her mistake might become a good thing after all, she said, “Have you thought of color in the woodcut illustration?”

“We can’t pay the price,” Katie said, shaking her head.

Polly’s hopes dimmed.

Still, the colored copies were a loss. If Katie could benefit from them, Polly might as well give them to her for free.

Perhaps if they sell well,
Polly thought,
she and her husband will be so happy with the results they’ll ask for the color next time and willingly pay for it.

Polly went to the shelf where she’d hidden the colored chapbooks and removed the stack of paper she’d put on top and set it aside. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I tried my hand at adding to the picture.” She pulled out a copy and offered the chapbook to Katie. “I completed your order without the color, but should you like, you may take the colorful ones at no charge.” She gestured toward the shelf. “I did close to one hundred of them.”

Katie looked at the copy handed to her.

Polly noted that the heavy stack of paper she’d placed on top of the stack of colored chapbooks had largely pressed flat the puckers in the illustration.

As Katie’s eyes became large, Polly realized too late that if the woman had created the artwork, she might be protective. Despite Katie’s friendly manner, Polly thought of Bill’s anger, and feared an accusation of impertinence from the woman.

But then Katie smiled brightly. “You made nearly a hundred like this?”

“Yes,” Polly said, much relieved. “Should they sell well, perhaps you’ll consider color in the future.”

“We ought to sell these for tuppence. We can but try.” Katie’s expression was delighted and hopeful.

She paid for the order. Polly tied the colored copies to the larger bundle of chapbooks and sent Katie on her way.

* * *

When Bill returned that evening, he smiled to hear that Polly had earned her fee for the printing.

“What has become of the copies you colored?” he asked, looking toward the shelf where she’d stored them.

Polly decided he would not like that she’d given them away at no charge. “I sent them away with the dustman today,” she lied, glad that Tuesdays were the day the raggedy dustmen made their rounds on Trafalgar Street.

Bill bristled, yet spoke quietly. “You might have used the blank side of the last pages for proofs.” He took a deep breath, clearly trying not to revisit his anger from the night before. Likely, he felt remorse for the way he’d acted.

“I’m sorry I didn’t think of that,” Polly said. “I felt so badly about my mistake, I just wanted them gone.”

Bill seemed to accept the explanation. He put a hand on her cheek and kissed her forehead, and, for a moment, Polly felt remorse for lying to him. The feeling quickly passed.

* * *

A week later, an unexpected knock came at Polly’s door. She answered the call to find Mrs. Conway standing in the doorway, beaming. “We sold nearly half the colored ones right away. They sold for a penny, ha’penny each.” She held out a hand to offer Polly three shillings.

A moment passed before Polly had recovered from her surprise. In that time, her thoughts immediately turned to how and where she’d hide the funds from her husband and her father. Realizing Katie still stood in the threshold, smiling and holding out her hand, Polly took the coins and said, “Thank you. My children are napping or I should invite you in.”

“I must return home anyway.”

“Please consider the color next time.”

“To pay the price is not a risk we can afford with the changes to executions. People gather for the hangings, but they don’t stay for long and sales suffer. I shall keep it in mind if things get better. Thank you for taking the risk for us, and trusting me.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Polly said, holding the warm shillings to her breast.

When Katie had gone, Polly hid the three coins under the loose insole in the left boot of her Sunday pair of high-lows. With that much money set aside, she might have a
greater adventure
, if she found the time. She thought of Judith Stanbrough’s offer.

10

Scheming

Three months later, in the autumn of 1868, Polly set a plan into motion.

“I must remain home on Tuesday to await a delivery of ink and paper,” she told her father on a Sunday, “but the larder is empty. Would you return from the street early tomorrow so I’ll have the afternoon to go to market?”

“I’ll miss out on at least a shilling’s worth of trade,” he said.

“I’ll speak to Bill about lowering your room and board fee for the week.”

Polly’s printing consistently produced a good extra income, and that fact wasn’t lost on Bill Nichols. That evening, he agreed to lower her father’s contribution to the household fund by one shilling for the week. Papa agreed to stay home Monday afternoon to look after John and Percy.

Monday brought a heavy overcast sky that left the city in twilight all day. Before going to market, Polly went to the Compass Rose with the hope of speaking with Judith Stanbrough. As she neared the pub, she worried, and, strangely, hoped that Judith might be too far along in her pregnancy to come so far for a drink.

Polly entered the establishment and made her way into the area where she’d seen Judith before. The green and blue tinted glass windows further dimmed the gray light coming in from outside, making mere silhouettes of the dark wooden furniture and the few desultory figures she saw seated and milling about. The stale tobacco and yeasty odor of the place from untold smokes and spilled drinks over the years, which she usually found somewhat pleasant, currently gave her an impression of decay.

Polly’s eyes adjusted to the interior, and she saw Judith sitting with a glass of bitter, reading a book by the light of a small lamp. When the woman looked up, Polly felt she’d become committed to a course that would lead to disaster. Despite her unease, she sat and asked, “How can we help one another?”

Judith set down her book. “Well, I can spell you and you can spell me. I can keep your children, and you can keep mine. Not at the same time, mind you. We want to give one of us at a time the chance to go for a drink. Mondays and Fridays my husband is gone to work the auctions. We each get a day.”