A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (15 page)

Judith had been satisfied drinking moderately, but that practice had always been a struggle for Polly. She thought possibly that was the difference between them about which Judith had spoken. Polly needed the feeling that drink gave her and always wanted to be deeper in her cups, while Judith enjoyed mild intoxication, and could take it or leave it, depending upon the needs of her life and responsibilities.

Paul Heryford, the head of the family that lived in the flat next door to that of the Nichols, stepped into The Hogs to pick something up one afternoon in October while Polly sat in the pub having a drink. She did her best to disappear into her seat and ignore him. Two days later, following supper and bedtime for the children, Bill asked, “Were you at The Hogs Tuesday?”

Polly tried to remain calm. “Yes,” she said, “I’d finished the handbill for Dr. Fulsome’s Liver Cleaner…” She grinned, knowing Bill thought the advertisement funny. Thankfully, his lips curled up in a lopsided smile, and she knew her tactic had disarmed him a bit. “…and the children weren’t expected from school for a couple hours, so I had a glass of bitter. How did you know?”

“Paul Heryford saw you there.” After a moment, he said, “Don’t make a habit of it.”

She’d been right. The only anger he’d ever shown concerning her drinking was when he believed she drank his own. Her father got upset with her because he understood and disdained the drive for intoxication within Polly, but Bill didn’t know about her craving. She promised herself that she’d drink no more than two glasses of bitter or stout per visit to the pub.

During her next visit, which occurred in November, a fellow approached. A mere silhouette against the far windows, she couldn’t identify him until he stood beside her.

Recognizing Tom, she said his name too loudly.

His eyes grew wide and she cringed with embarrassment. Poly didn’t want to frighten him away.

What a foolish thought!

“You remember me,” he said.

“Why, y-yes,” Polly said stumbling over her words. “You saved me from, uh,
Angus
.”

Tom looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh, yes, at the Compass Rose.”

Polly nodded, not trusting herself to speak any more.

Again, he wore heavy trousers and a loose linen shirt. His fat black hammer hung from his belt. She concluded that Tom was a metalsmith of some sort.

“May I sit with you?” he asked.

Still silent, although her unease slowly lifted, she gestured toward the seat across the table from her.

He pulled the hammer from his belt and placed the heavy tool on the table top. Polly wondered why he’d bring such an implement to the pub.

“We haven’t truly been introduced. I’m Tom Dews.”

“Mrs. Nichols. Polly.”

Taking his seat, he set his glass of stout down a bit hard and some of the contents sloshed out onto the worn and pitted table between them.

He must have noticed her looking at the tool. “A fine hammer. Cost me a pretty penny. I never leave it behind.”

Polly remained silent. She’d already become comfortable with his presence.

“What are you doing here in the middle of a clear, spring day?”

Polly surprised herself with honesty. “I’ve need of a drink from time to time. My children are in school and I have a bit of the afternoon to myself.”

The surprise faded quickly, and she experienced an odd sense of familiarity with the man.
I know nothing about him!
Yet, she had made love to Tom numerous times within daydreams.

“I have the same need, but must
take
the time to satisfy it. I do so when few of the boisterous lushingtons are about.” He gestured around the relatively quiet pub.

Polly understood—she didn’t like the idea of becoming loud while drunk because she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Her drinking had for many years been a lonely pastime.

Tom raised his glass in a toast. “To your health, Mrs. Nichols.”

Polly raised hers and they both took a drink. They placed their glasses back upon the table empty.

“Allow me to get you another,” he said.

“Thank you. The bitter, please.”

He took both glasses to the bar and returned with them full.

“And when you don’t have time for drink, what are you doing?” Polly asked.

“I work the smithy beside the saw mill, the Salvation Smithy,” Tom said. “My apprentice has the forge—thinks I’ve gone to price coal.” He winked.

Polly smiled for him and he grinned. She noted that he had all his front teeth. While Tom became more handsome by the moment, his eyes looked a bit haunted. His attitude spoke of a man who hid his drinking. Perhaps he was as lonely in his drinking as she was in hers. Polly found herself wanting to open up to him. She didn’t see any reason not to.

“As long as I’m not the worse for drink, my husband won’t mind. He doesn’t know how often I come here, though.”

“We do what we mus’, while our families fume and fuss.” He smiled tightly. “My wife left me because of my drinking. She didn’t take our girl, Nancy. My young sister, Estell, come from Poplar to live with me. She keeps Nancy while I work. We live in Jane Street, just beyond the sawmill.” He pointed toward the southeast.

Polly knew that Jane Street was a two-minute walk away.

“I once owned the Salvation Smithy where I’m now employed. I took the name from the Salvation Army because my business is saving the soles of horses.” He smiled. “But I started a fire one day as burned much of my business. Nobody knew I were drunk, and I should have done the same sober. Were an accident. Just unlucky. Had too much debt afterwards and had to sell. That’s when my wife left, went back to her family in Birmingham.”

Polly found his candor surprising and pleasant. She understood the bad luck that sometimes came with drinking and how family fixed blame unfairly. “The truth is that if Bill knew I came here so often, he’d do me down. He beat me so bad once when I was pregnant, I lost the baby girl. He felt bad for that, I think, but I’m afraid if he finds out, I’ll be in for it.”

“A man shouldn’t do that,” Tom said. He had a stern look about him that would have been frightening if Polly hadn’t already seen him smile so much. She noticed that he’d also placed fingers on the handle of his hammer.

“You mustn’t worry overmuch,” Polly said. “My father gave him what for with his fists. Broke his nose.” She smiled.

“You lost your girl, though.”

“Yes,” Polly said sadly. “I have two sons and a daughter, another child on the way.” She finished her glass of bitter. “I must go. The children come home from school soon.”

“Perchance, I might see you here in the afternoons. I leave the shop to my apprentice about one o’clock on the days when business is light, and come here.”

Yes, he is lonely.

Polly also saw that he had an interest in her. Pleasant, handsome, and sympathetic—she couldn’t have designed a better man. Yes, he was a drinker, and at times had been a drunk, but then the same could be said of Polly. She could do with feeling less alone in her weakness toward drink.

Although she’d told him about her husband, Tom clearly had hopes she might join him in bed. Polly didn’t want to admit to herself that she desired the same thing, yet she did think about the fact that she couldn’t become more pregnant.

“The conversation makes the drinking more pleasant,” she said, “but perhaps we ought to meet at a pub farther away from my home. I’m in Peabody D-block.”

“Lucky you,” he said. “Well, there’s the Bull in the Pound farther down Broadwall.”

“Farther still.”

“The Hat and Feathers, then, Gravel Lane.”

“Yes,” Polly said, smiling. “I’ll be there on Thursday afternoon.” As she left, he grinned. That told her that he thought she’d committed to go to his bed with him. She supposed he was right.

18

A New Routine

Polly met with Tom Dews twice at the Hat and Feathers Pub, both times on a Thursday in November. The second time, she’d followed him back to his room in Jane Street. His sister and daughter were out at the time.

Tom Dews performed well in bed, but more than that, he showed interest in Polly’s enjoyment of sex. Even so, she was less interested in the sex than in his gentle caresses.

Tom’s ground-floor lodging in Jane Street didn’t amount to much. The single room had two beds, a cupboard, a small wardrobe, a table with a bench, and two chairs. A small fireplace in the eastern wall was used for heating and cooking. Shelves stood out from the walls on either side of the hearth. The north and the west walls each held windows. Curious that little light came through the western-facing one, Polly lifted its blanket curtain to take in the view and saw the stained bricks of the neighboring building mere inches away.

Tom’s fourteen-year-old sister, Estell, ran the Dews household as if the dwelling were a palace and she’d had a decade of experience. She regularly washed the clothes for the two beds, and clothing for Tom, two-year-old Nancy, and herself. In addition to cleaning, she made improvements to the room. The southeast corner had damage from a leak. The roof had been repaired. The floorboards beneath were rotten and the walls missing chunks of plaster. The December day when Polly met Estell, the girl was scrubbing the mold off the damaged corner and applying a coat of blue paint, even to the exposed lath. She had laid scavenged boards across the hole in the floor.

“Very good to meet you,” Polly said to Estell.

The girl looked her up and down, smiled crookedly and said, “I’ll suppose you’ll have to do.”

“I hope so,” Polly said, showing good humor. She looked over Estell’s touch-ups on the corner. “Tom is lucky to have your help.”

“Yes, he is,” Estell said.

Tom raised his brows, and nodded. “Now, off to market,” he said, swinging his hammer in mock threat. “You and Nancy go and get that…um…thing we talked about.”

Estell grabbed the handle of a small wagon beside the door and rolled the thing out onto the street. Polly hadn’t noticed the contraption before, and her curiosity must have shown.

“It’s a child’s toy wagon,” Tom said. He tapped his hammer into his open palm. “I added to it to make a carriage.”

Estell situated Nancy in its crude seat, and began pushing it, joining the foot traffic moving east.

She might not think me an intruder if I didn’t have a husband.

Polly preferred not to think much about her betrayal of Bill. The wary manner with which the girl treated Polly, though, left her feeling chafed.

I’ve needed such tenderness as I get from Tom. It will wash away some of the bitterness inside me. I’ll be a better wife and mother for it.

Estell will get used to me, and Bill won’t find out about Tom.

* * *

On a Tuesday in mid-December, Polly stopped by The Hogs pub for a quick glass of bitter. Bill approached her table as she finished her drink. She didn’t see him until she set down her glass. Her startled response got her a stern glare from her husband.

“I brought you work yesterday as you’re to get done by Friday,” he said, taking her by the arm and drawing her up out of her seat.

“It’s only Tuesday,” Polly protested, then regretted her words for fear they might provoke him to strike her.

He spoke in low tones, perhaps to avoid embarrassment, as they passed other patrons of the pub and walked to the threshold to the outside. “As slow as you are with the press, you ought not take time in the middle of the day to have a drink.”

Of course he would think that.
Women do not work as hard or as well as men,
he’d once said, and she was happy for him to believe that. Polly had found time-saving methods in the use of the press. She’d hidden her efficiency from Bill so she could use the time saved to do as she pleased.

The cold, though bright, hazy day outside The Hogs pub blinded Polly for a moment and her eyes watered. As her vision began to return, she saw a hansom cab standing at the kerb. Bill pressed her against the wall of the pub and looked down at her. Thankfully, he blocked the worst of the light. Bill’s head became a mere silhouette against the bitter sky, his features unreadable. He lifted a hand toward her face and she flinched. She got close to pushing him aside and bolting, but his movement slowed, and he carefully wiped a tear from her cheek.

“There’s no need to cry,” he said. “I forgot the key to the leaf drawer and came home to fetch it. We are using gold leaf in the printing of an invitation. It’s quite beautiful. Richardson sent me in a hansom cab.”

Although he sounded casual, he still pressed against her to show his power. She told herself to relax, yet felt herself stiffen further.

“When you weren’t home, I thought I should find you here. Is this becoming a habit?”

Polly shook her head.

He let out a sigh and stepped back. “I’m sorry I frightened you. Let me take you home.” He gestured for her to enter the cab, then turned and spoke to the driver. “Peabody Building, D-block.”

Polly had always wanted to ride in a hansom. The interior was clean, the horsehair seat softly cushioned, the view out the front and sides largely unobstructed, but sitting next to Bill, she couldn’t enjoy the experience.