A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (7 page)

Polly didn’t want to become pregnant right away, and asked Bill if he would wear a sheath on his penis when they coupled.

“It wouldn’t feel right,” he said, scoffing. “I don’t think I could do it.”

“I need time before becoming a mother.”

He frowned, clearly unhappy with her statement. “We want children,” he said flatly, as if telling her what to think.

Something in his expression told Polly he wouldn’t argue the point. She nodded with false enthusiasm, and reluctantly let the subject drop. After sex, she washed her vagina inside and out as thoroughly as possible with the hope that that would help prevent pregnancy.

Polly had nothing with which to compare her sexual experience until she spoke with a neighbor, another young wife named Judith Stanbrough. She was raw-boned, ginger-haired, freckled, and fair. The two women met while pulling dried wash off the lines behind the lodging house. Polly made small talk as she brushed soot from the otherwise clean clothing, folded the garments, and placed them in a basket.

The conversation turned to their experiences as young wives, and Judith brought up frustrations she had in the bedroom. “Swaine, he pushes me around like an animal belongs to him, a dog or a sheep. He can be sweet other times, but not in bed. When he’s had his fill, he stops if I’m done or not.”

“Yes,” Polly said, “when Bill is done, he turns away, and nothing I can do will coax him back. When I told him I should like it to last longer, he gave me a look of disgust.”

“Men don’t expect women should like it,” Judith said. “I’ve heard it said we
needn’t
like it.”

“I’m getting so as I don’t much,” Polly said.

* * *

On a morning when Bill was to be interviewed for a better position at Messrs. Pellanddor and Company, Polly suggested he looked better in his blue jacket and waistcoat rather than the brown he’d prepared to don.

“I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself unless asked for,” he said with no evident emotion.

Comparing his response to the way he’d acted when they courted, a time when he’d valued her opinions, Polly felt hurt and confused.

Bill’s hours at work increased from about fifty a week to at least seventy. Like her father had, Bill found Polly piece work. Thankfully, he brought her brush-making work instead of fur pulling. Polly pushed dull pins through small india-rubber pads. As several hundred pins were required to make a brush of a few inches across, the effort took a toll on her hands. At least the task didn’t make breathing more difficult.

With all the hard work, and six months in the new room to become familiar with one another, some of the shine had worn off their marriage. Their outings had ceased. Polly didn’t look forward to Bill coming home in the evening. His sense of humor seemed to fade away.

They had been married a little over a year when she became pregnant. Polly feared that even though the child would be hers, she wouldn’t automatically have feelings for it.
How can I love one I don’t know?

With the pregnancy, Polly knew her days of freedom were numbered and that gave urgency to a desire for an outing. She proposed several times that an evening at a pub would be a welcome break from their daily grind. Bill rebuffed the suggestions, but she kept asking until he showed irritation.

“When we courted, you enjoyed going for a pint or two,” Polly said.

Bill glanced up from his reading, his eyes cold as he briefly watched her set about making the evening meal. “Yes, well, you always make it three or four.”

“As have you,” she said.

“I can handle it and stop when need be.” He returned his eyes to the loose pages in his hands. He clearly didn’t like the interruption.

Polly reflected on the joke he’d told upon their first meeting.
You might have been a fortune-teller with a warning.

Bill had it right, though. She had to admit to herself that once she had a drink, keeping herself from having more required an extraordinary act of will.

* * *

On the 9th of April of 1865, Bill went to visit his sister. Having the beautiful spring day and blue sky to herself, Polly had a wistful desire to visit her old neighborhood and took a walk toward Fleet Street. Her walk began with slight abdominal discomfort that went away as she moved.

Having negotiated an unsteady path along damp wooden boards laid in the mud through a construction area on the southern bank of the Thames, she crossed over the river on the Blackfriars Temporary Bridge. Although crude, the seventy-foot-wide spans of the structure, supported with rough timbers and an iron framework, were impressive. She imagined the new permanent bridge would be much grander still.

Once across the river, she followed an equally muddy and more treacherous path through the area where construction was staged on the north bank, and proceeded up Farringdon Street. At the intersection with St. Bride’s Street, she came upon a childhood friend.

“Bernice,” Polly said.

The young woman turned to her. She’d grown into an attractive woman, with round cheeks, fine features, and golden hair. She tilted her head slightly to one side, an expression of confusion on her face, then a look of surprise. “Polly! I haven’t seen you in over two years. How are you?”

“I’m well. I’m living in Camberwell. I married Bill Nichols.”

“We haven’t met,” Bernice said, “but I hope to meet him soon.”

She looked Polly in the eye as she spoke. Bernice seemed to have a good bit more confidence at twenty years of age than she’d had when younger.

Polly noticed that Bernice carried an indigo sack and basket. “Are you on your way to Farringdon Market?”

“Yes, but I have time for a visit. Let’s stop at The Boar’s Tusk for a couple glasses of bitter.”

Once seated with their drinks at the pub, Polly didn’t know what to say to her old friend. Thankfully, Bernice made small talk while Polly took in the strangely pleasant old-yeast smell of the place. She struggled to hear her friend over the hubbub of boisterous conversations from the other tables, then the party at the nearest one got up and left and the noise diminished.

Bernice explained that she still lived in the same lodging house and worked for the same bag maker. She pointed out the blue sack she’d brought with her.

“I’m back to making brushes of different sorts,” Polly said.

“What have you heard from Martha?” Bernice asked.

“Oh…I’m sad to say I’ve heard she died of grippe last winter,” Polly said, “but I had not seen her for a long time.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Bernice said, taking on a mournful look. “Martha were a gentle soul.”

“Speaking of friends from the Fleet Street neighborhood,” Polly said, “do you know what’s become of Sarah Brown?”

“Yes, I do,” Bernice said, with an even sadder expression. She looked down into her drink, then glanced back up. “Let’s not start another round of
Tell me a dreadful
.”

Polly didn’t understand and frowned.

“Oh, my,” Bernice said, clearly embarrassed. “I’m not trying to be funny, I promise you.”

“I’m confused,” Polly admitted.

Bernice looked at her squarely for a moment, pressed her lips into a thin rosy line. “You don’t know,” she said, her eyes widening. “I thought everyone knew. A year ago, the poor girl were helping her uncle breed and keep cows in the cellar of a condemned dockside warehouse. At high tide, a swarm of rats came from the sewers through a grate and spooked the livestock.” For a moment, Bernice’s expression reflected the fragile girl she’d once been. “Sarah were trampled to death.”

Polly noted that despite the many times the Brown girl had belittled the Godwin girl when they were young, Bernice still had sympathy for their old friend, Sarah.

“That would be the work for her uncle she didn’t talk about, I should think,” Polly said, “perhaps for fear the housing inspectors might find out.”

Bernice nodded.

Both women became quiet for a time, drinking their brown bitter. Polly noted a young man, rather pretty, she thought, sitting with his pals across the room, making eyes at her. She gave no reaction, although she thought she’d have fun sitting and drinking with him and his friends. They seemed to be having a good time laughing and making fun of one another.

In the opposite corner, a man sat drinking alone. A hammer of some sort rested on the table before him along with his drink. He had dark hair trimmed short, a clean-shaven square jaw, high forehead, and blue eyes with a touch of sadness about them. Handsome and muscular, the fellow leaned back, balancing his chair on its hind legs. With his left thumb, he rubbed the smooth glass that surrounded his drink, and looked thoughtful. He glanced at her twice, each time offering a slight, though pleasant smile. She found his quiet presence more compelling than that of the raucous young men. If she were not with Bernice, Polly would risk approaching the quiet man.

Am I so dissatisfied with my husband?

She tore her eyes away from the lone man in the corner and faced her friend. “Do you have a beau?”

“I were married for a short time,” Bernice said. “Albert were lost in the fighting with the Māori in New Zealand last year.”

So much death.
Polly knew she should feel fortunate—having a husband with an ample income, a good home, and a child on the way—yet she didn’t. Yes, so much death that Polly didn’t want to think about.
Let the dead lie still and quiet, and let me live!

“How are you getting along?” Bernice asked.

Polly gave her friend a sour look. “My husband, Bill, he were great fun while we courted. He took me on outings; to the pubs, to Hyde Park for music, and to the Alhambra Circus to watch acrobats. We spoke of having much to look forward to in life, and the things we would do together. Bill said that after we married there were the possibility of travel. Within a month of our wedding, he became a stuffy bore. ‘You ought to think about how our children will live,’ he says. ‘We have to save money for the future.’”

Bernice smiled tightly. “You didn’t say, but I suspect you’re knapped. Is that true?”

The question surprised Polly. At three months, the pregnancy didn’t show. “Yes,” she said. The prospect of having a child continued to unsettle her. She didn’t want to talk about it.

“I were pregnant,” Bernice said, looking uncomfortable. “I lost it.” She had clearly seen Polly’s hard feelings.

“I’m so very sorry,” Polly said, reaching across the table and clasping her friend’s hands. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. I pray every day my child will have a happy life. I shall pray for yours as well.”

Bernice smiled pleasantly. “You’ve always been so quick to pray for others’ well-being. I’ve always admired that in you.”

I haven’t always.

An uncomfortable silence ensued.

Bernice finished her glass of bitter and stood. “So very good to see you, Polly,” she said.

Polly stood. “And you,” she said.

Bernice took up her sack and basket, turned, and left the pub.

Polly fetched another glass of bitter, and then turned toward the corner where she’d seen the quiet handsome fellow drinking alone. Although she didn’t feel completely comfortable with her intention, she’d decided to ask him if she could sit with him.

An empty glass rested on the table. The man and his hammer were gone. Although somewhat relieved, her disappointment demanded satisfaction. She turned toward the raucous young men in the other corner.

* * *

Much later, she would realize she was home. She couldn’t remember how she’d got there.

Polly was on the floor, leaning against the wardrobe. Her green striped skirt had a ten-inch tear in the side seam, near the hem. She and her undergarments were wet as if she’d had sexual relations with someone.

Polly thought back to the events at the pub after Bernice had left. She’d had several more glasses of bitter while with the fetching young man and his friends.

“I am Polly,” she’d said in introduction.

“And I am Kevin Lace,” the young man said. He was indeed pretty for a man, with curly, dark locks and no whiskers. Kevin pointed out his friends and said their names, but she couldn’t remember them. “Join us, won’t you.”

His pals cheered, and one pulled out a chair for her.

Kevin held up a chapbook, his eyes wide, his face beaming. “We’ve come from the hanging at Newgate and have a ballad to try.” The publication was the sort sold for a penny apiece at public executions. The excitement in his dark brown eyes came from something more than drink and laughter with his pals. Polly thought that perhaps the frenzied look came from seeing a man die.

“You should have seen Pritchard swing,” one of the friends said, a flaxen-haired fellow with a short beard and a shiny face. He had the same manic look when he spoke of the execution. “Trussed up though he were, he gave it a go, twisting this way and that. I don’t think the rope were long enough to break his neck.”

“The ballad is by a fellow named Conway,” Kevin said, thumbing open the folded broadsheets. “I’ve always liked Conway’s ballads.”