A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (32 page)

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.

“I hoped you’d allow me to stay and warm myself till the rain is past.” She saw two raggedy women and an old man seated at one of the tables within.

“I cannot allow that,” Mr. Bonfils said, folding his arms.

Polly gave a false smile and touched her head. “I’ll earn my doss soon enough, now as I have such a jolly bonnet.”

Mr. Bonfils scowled at her.

Realizing that the alcohol had loosened her tongue and that she’d as much as admitted that she was soliciting, Polly turned away and exited, ashamed.

She heard a church bell strike half past one o’clock in the morning as she headed south along Brick Lane to where the thoroughfare became Osborn Street and intersected with Old Montague Street. She found another client, a short, dark-haired fellow in a naval uniform, outside the Bell pub on the corner.

She avoided looking him in the eyes as she said, “Miss Laycock, four pence.”

He looked her up and down as Polly stood with as much grace as her intoxication allowed.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“My room?”

“So your toughs can roll me? No crinkum crankum is worth that. You come with me or there’s no deal.”

Polly agreed with some trepidation, and he led her east along Old Montague Street.
If he
is
Mr. Macklin come for another try, I’ll—

Polly had rarely allowed herself to dwell on what life would be like without a soul, yet a distracting question had formed unbidden.
Would I feel any different beyond relief that the fight was over?

She remembered Sarah Godwin’s description of one of the girls whose soul Mr. Macklin had taken.
She can no longer speak, and does nothing but stare into the distance all day.

Yes, I would be different; I’d have no hope of reward after death.
Somehow, the notion that she’d no longer need to redeem herself was a far worse immediate concern than the loss of reward.

With nothing to lose, my selfishness might lead me to terrible criminal acts.
The daydreams she’d had as a young woman of becoming a palmer and a dragsman were tame compared to what she saw as possible in a future with no soul. Without constraint, she might murder to gain money or something as simple, though necessary, as food and shelter. Polly turned quickly away from the thoughts.

When the Bonehill Ghost came for Polly again, she could only hope he had no new tricks. If she survived and continued over the next few years to change for the better, she was confident that he’d lose interest in her soul.

Until then, I must face whatever he brings to the fight.

The sailor gripped her hand at the entrance to Green Dragon Place—a thin back lane she knew ran south to Whitechapel Road—and led her into the alley. The lane narrowed and became a passage underneath the second floor of a brick building. With the late hour, no one was about. The sailor took Polly quietly from the rear, while standing in the low passage. Upon his release, his muffled cries echoed eerily along the brick tunnel.

He paid Polly and she headed for the Bell and spent another three pence on a quartern of gin. The Bell’s gin seemed stronger.

Three pence remained in her pocket. One more client and she would have her doss and enough remaining to buy one more drink for the pain.

The last drink I’ll ever have,
she told herself. Despite her drunken state, she remained committed to quitting forever and cleaning up her life. She felt the hope stirring within her, waiting for the pain in her ear to subside before helping her to move from the destruction of her old life into the new.

Even with all her hopeful thoughts, she knew that after each client, she’d had her doss and could have returned to the White House and slept. The pain in her head notwithstanding, Polly knew she’d prolonged her last night of drinking because she wanted more alcohol. Still, she would not allow that knowledge to dampen her enthusiasm for tomorrow.

43

One Last Client

August 31, 1888

Staggering drunk, Polly made her way along Osborn Street to Whitechapel Road to meet Emily. Thankfully, the rain had died down. She hugged herself against the chill in the air, thinking the night unusually cold for August. Much of the summer had been unseasonably cool.

Emily waited for her, a concerned look on her face. “You’re in a bad way,” she said, moving to help support her. “We must get you to your room right away.”

Polly pulled back and leaned against the wall of the nearest building. “I don’ have my doss. I’ve got it three times already and spent it.”

“I would offer you help, but I’ve had little luck tonight. You must have got all the clients there are. The deputy at the White House knows us too well or we could double up in my room. You know he won’t allow it.”

“Won’ be long before I have my doss again,” Polly said.

“Were you here earlier?”

“No.”

“I were afraid I’d missed you. I went to see the dry docks fire.” Emily pointed southeast and her face forgot her concern for Polly for a time. “I’ve seen blazes before, but I never knew fire could become so big, so alive. It flew high into the sky. The rigging of a ship were caught up in it, and sparkled like a spider web dripping with dew at sunrise. And, oh, the frenzy of firemen and their equipment as they hurried to put it out. You should have seen.”

If Polly hadn’t had her mind on finding her last client and earning her doss, she might have found the description fascinating.

A church bell began to strike, and the sound seemed to draw Emily back to the here and now. “That’s the bell for half-past two,” she said. “Let me help you.”

“No, I’ll do for myself. I mus’ take greater pride in my own efforts if I e’spect to get on in life.”

“But you can hardly stand.”

“Tired is all.” Polly succeeded in straightening and standing properly on her feet. Willing herself to become steady so Emily would not worry, Polly looked her friend in the eye and said carefully, “I will suffer through this night on my own. Tomorrow is the beginning of a new day for me.” She wanted to say that her birthday, August 31, had come. Then, concerned her friend might make a fuss about it, she thought better of the idea. “I must be allowed to get there on my own.”

Emily looked at her doubtfully, but finally nodded her head.

Polly turned and walked away along Whitechapel Road toward the northeast, doing her best to move steadily for Emily.

* * *

Polly spoke to three men as she made her way along Whitechapel Road. None were interested in visiting with Miss Laycock.

She continued along the footway, moving in the direction of the London Hospital. Although she continued the search for a client, her thoughts returned to considering her future:
How do I forgive myself?
Somehow, she knew that to be the hardest part of the change to come. Indeed, the change could not come without it.
How can I expect the best from Polly Nichols, as Mrs. Hooks and the Heryfords did?

What if I’m sober, and still find no work?

Can I forgive myself if I’m still a whore? Can I forgive myself while living in the misery of the workhouse?

She tried to shake off the worry.
I mustn’t let the questions discourage.

Still, her mood darkened as she considered the depth of her drunkenness. With the excuse of the pain in her ear, she had returned so quickly, so readily to what she recognized as a wretched view of herself; one in which seriously weakening her senses and then wandering the dangerous streets had become reasonable. One or two drinks might have been prudent enough, but having become truly sodden, she knew, spoke of a desire for her own destruction. The inability to forgive herself drove the desire.

If I cannot forgive myself, my need to escape, to be comforted, will always damn me.

Polly knew she must find her own, personal absolution, but how?