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.”
Kevin read the part of the chapbook that spoke of Theodore Pritchard’s crime. The criminal had murdered his wife and mother-in-law.
A couple of the friends fetched more drinks.
When they returned, Kevin read through the ballad once out loud. “It’s to be sung to the tune of ‘Farewell My Soldier,’” he said. They began to sing drunkenly.
Polly stopped several times as she started giggling. “Our singing is sour!” she said, making faces. “Our timing is so poor.”
The young men laughed too. With good humor, they kept at it. Kevin flirted with Polly as they sang, and she liked it. She hadn’t experienced such excitement in a long time, and she’d missed it. With all four men looking at her, she felt attractive, wanted, perhaps even admired.
A couple of them rounded up more drinks.
They got better at the singing. For a while, Polly belted out the song with all she had, but she became so winded she temporarily lost her senses. She’d had problems with shortness of breath since her time as a fur puller.
Kevin took her out back of the pub for air. He became quite forward, kissing her once she’d regained her breath. She had a vague recollection of thinking she should leave and go home when he placed his hands on her breasts. Then, more wet kisses, and no additional memories of their encounter after that.
Shame blossomed in her mind as she asked herself the pressing question: Did she have sexual relations with Kevin Lace?
Looking for excuses, she wondered if she’d become insensible from too much drink, was sleepwalking, and he’d taken advantage of her.
No, in her exuberant state, though she’d known better, she had welcomed his advances—of that she was sure. Despite the missing pieces of her recollection, Polly knew with a certainty that she’d allowed the man to have his way with her. The shame, coupled with the feeling that she could not trust herself, left her quaking and confused. Perhaps she’d banished the memory to protect herself from what she presently experienced: an aching regret and a nagging fear that if she couldn’t control herself, she might do worse in the future. If she could push all remembrance of the afternoon away, she would, but wave upon wave of bitter thoughts kept it all fresh in her mind.
Polly didn’t look forward to keeping her secret from Bill, yet that was exactly what she’d have to do. She realized that her desire for risk still drove her and that the need had nearly got her into real trouble. Fortunately, she couldn’t become more pregnant. Bill wouldn’t have to know about her afternoon.
7
Adventures
While visiting Polly and Bill one evening in the early summer of 1865, Papa spoke of a desire to find a new lodging. “Now as Eddie has gone to Poplar, I’m thinking I could do with a smaller room.”
Polly knew that Papa had been unhappy with how much he paid for his lodgings ever since Eddie found work with a smithy and left home to live closer to his job.
Bill must have overheard. Without consulting Polly, he spoke to her father about finding lodging to share. One afternoon, Bill came home to announce that he’d found two rooms in Trafalgar Street, South London. “With your father helping to pay the landlord,” he said, “we’ll do much better. There’s a gated yard where he can keep his barrow, and plenty of crossings nearby with heavy foot traffic.”
Polly didn’t look forward to having two stern men ordering her about. Thinking about the incident with the strongbox, and how Papa had such hidden ways of making money, she wanted to tell Bill that he’d fallen for a sob story. Fear of her father’s wrath and her husband’s disapproval of her father’s actions kept her from telling the tale. Instead, she said, “You should have asked me before doing that.”
Bill slapped her across the mouth.
Holding her split lip and tasting iron, Polly turned away. So Bill would treat her as her father had. Papa had struck her plenty of times in the past, yet that had been in the service of discipline when she was a youngster. Not a child anymore, Polly felt the slap as a betrayal of what bound her to Bill. Resentful, but careful not to show it, she swallowed her pride and looked at her husband.
“What should your answer have been?” he asked coldly.
Although she feared answering him honestly, she did so anyway. “I’d have said, ‘No.’”
“And that’s why I needn’t ask you such things. I must be the practical one and look out for us. Consider that our combined income should offer more stability. Perhaps your papa would be an occasional childminder once our infant has arrived.”
Polly did consider the last suggestion. Her father might watch the baby long enough for her to go out for a drink, as long as he didn’t know what she was doing.
* * *
The day they moved to Trafalgar Street, Polly had become tired after helping haul two loads of furniture in Papa’s barrow through the hard, stone streets to the new rooms. The men sat in chairs in the front room and Polly thought she could do the same. A large stack of household items rested on the only other chair, so she leaned against the wall to relax.
“When will you fix our supper?” Bill asked.
“I ought to rest for a moment,” she said.
Bill stood and boxed her left ear.
Polly squatted, cringing against the sharp ache.
Papa jumped to his feet, and Bill backed away.
Bill said something to Polly. She didn’t hear his words for the pain and the ringing in her head. She got to her feet and moved quickly to begin work on the evening meal.
Compared to what she’d suffered from her father, Bill’s violence was simply cruel. As she worked, Polly avoided looking at her husband.
I don’t know him. Was his part in our courtship a deception? If so, to what end?
Her father had shown a willingness to defend her if the violence had continued, but now would not meet her gaze. He’d resumed his conversation with Bill as if nothing had happened.
This is their way, I suppose, yet I don’t know how to be what Bill wants me to be. I must have some part that is my own. Polly felt foolish for not understanding.
The pain in her left ear lasted for several days.
* * *
The new home was a step up. Finer than the wooden one they’d quit, the brick building’s interior walls were thick enough that conversations weren’t easily heard from room to room, from one household to another. Polly had never lived in a building in which she might speak at an even level and expect the neighbors wouldn’t overhear her.
They had their own street entrance, a door that opened into the room Polly and Bill shared. Their room held the only window in the dwelling. The fireplace divided the wall that separated the two chambers, its hearth facing the front. Papa received warmth through the backside of the brick firebox or through the door between the rooms. When the door remained closed in cold weather, he complained of the chill. Since he had no window, in warm weather, he opened the door that led to the back of the building, which allowed the smell of the privies in.
Because of the positions of the doors, the window, and the fireplace, the front room was too small to perform as kitchen, bedroom, nursery, and wash roo
m. Although unhappy about it, Papa had to give over part of his room to a table and chairs so they would all have a place to sit and eat, and yet more area to house a wash tub and supplies.
The brick privies out back were the newest Polly had ever seen. Instead of spiders, they attracted small crickets. The first time she used one of the brick privies, she wondered if she’d ever have to enter one to pull fur.
* * *
In 1866, Polly gave birth to a boy she named Edward, after her father. Since her brother was also named for his father, Polly referred to her infant by his middle name, John.
She found that she did indeed have feelings for the boy immediately. Something about the smell of the infant’s skin, the downy hair on his head, and the brightness of his blue eyes told her in joyful terms that he was hers. In the same way, she knew that the boy belonged to Bill. Watching him hold his son, touch him gently, and sing him to sleep in the evenings, Polly felt the tenderness as if she were the recipient. She felt close to her husband again.
As she’d expected, the raising of the child took away all her free time. Though quite pleased to spend her days with her infant rather than making brushes, Polly’s income suffered and Bill complained.
“I have so much to do caring for our son, little time is left for my work,” she said, fearing that he might become angry that she’d explained herself.
Bill pressed his lips together and frowned as if thoughtful, but he didn’t look angry. That he had to think about the truth of what she’d said surprised Polly. Finally, he nodded and gave her a slight smile.
Polly’s desire for alcohol went unsatisfied for several months. When the need became strong, she’d lie in the bed with John. Feeling the warmth of his little body against her own helped quiet the craving.
Polly left John with Papa on two occasions within the following year so that she could go on an adventure—that’s how she thought of going alone for drinks at a pub. The first time, her father suffered from grippe and had not gone out with his barrow on that day. She told him she was off to market. Bill had given her the means to buy mutton, potatoes, bread and lard. At the Borough Market in Southwark Street, she bought broxy instead of good mutton, old potatoes and stale bread so she’d have a few pennies left over. If she made a stew from the diseased meat and old potatoes, Bill and Papa wouldn’t know the difference.
On her way home from market, she stopped at the Compass Rose pub on the corner of South and East Streets. She sat with a glass of stout, and downed most of the drink all at once. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she saw the quiet, handsome man she’d seen long ago at The Boar’s Tusk pub. He sat in the corner about thirty feet away, leaning back in his chair, a drink and his hammer on the table before him. She smiled and he nodded in her direction.
Polly wanted to ask him to join her, but remembering the disaster at The Boar’s Tusk put her off the idea.
Another fellow approached and sat opposite her. He smelled of the ships docked along the river. His clothes were threadbare. He had a small head with watery eyes, a swollen nose that dripped, and hair that hung in tangles to his shoulders, shiny with oil.
“I’m Angus,” he said. “Are you looking for a man?”
He certainly got straight to it, Polly thought, holding back laughter and keeping a straight face. “I have one of those,” she said.
“Must not be much of a man if you’re here alone the afternoon of a Tuesday.”
Polly didn’t respond. She glanced into the corner to get a look at the handsome man, then finished her glass of stout.
“Let me get you another,” Angus said.
Pleased with the offer, she nodded. He got up to fetch the drink. While he was gone, Polly watched the handsome man in the corner.
Angus sat back down with two glasses of stout. As he passed one to her, she noticed his blackened hands.
He looked at her sheepishly. “Stained with pitch,” he said, and placed his hands out of sight in his lap. “When there’s work for me, it’s at the dry docks. Were to begin repairs on a ship today, but she broke in two—Ha! I’m no ship breaker—bad luck, that is—so I end up here. Perhaps there’ll be work tomorrow.”
While nodding politely as if listening, she thought about how she saved a penny drinking the stout provided by Angus instead of buying her own. If she kept what remained of her funds, she’d have a start on her next adventure.
“I must go home when I’m done with this,” she said.
“I’ll be sad to see you go,” he said. He hadn’t taken a drink of his stout. His hands were busy under the table. “It’s always a delight to watch a pretty woman take her stout.”
Curious, Polly leaned back and to one side far enough to get a look beneath the table. He massaged a bulge in the crotch of his trousers. Again, he looked at her sheepishly.
“Angus,” the handsome man called out from the corner of the room.
Startled, Angus jarred the table and spilled the drinks. Polly pushed away, as the liquid flowed across the tabletop and dripped onto the floor. She didn’t want the smell on her clothing.
“I haven’t touched her, Tom,” Angus said.
The handsome man, whose name she supposed was Tom, had got to his feet and approached. Tall and strong, he made a striking impression as he stood over them. For a blue-eyed fellow, his skin appeared unusually dark. He wore heavy trousers and a loose linen shirt. “No,” he said, “but you’ll leave her be, now.”
“Yes, Tom.” Angus found his feet, adjusted the lump in his trousers and left the pub.
“Let me get you another glass of stout,” Tom said.
“Thank you.”
He went to speak with the publican, and Polly watched him. His fluid movements were graceful for such a solid fellow. He appeared comfortable within his body, making him all the more beautiful. Polly had never experienced such powerful attraction before.
She got up and moved to the table he had occupied. I will talk to him, nothing more. Just one drink, and then I’ll go home.
From her new vantage point, she’d lost sight of Tom. Craning her neck to get a better view, she saw the man approaching with a glass.
No, not Tom—the publican. He set the glass on the table in front of her. “Tom gives you this,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, and the publican turned back.
The handsome man had slipped away from her again. Polly slumped in her seat and let out a deep breath. Disappointed, she sat and sipped her stout. The brew lay flat on her palate and felt like warm dishwater in her gut.
When she got home, her father was too stopped-up in the head to smell the drink on her. The time was early enough that the smell would have time to dissipate before Bill got home.
Both men complained about the stale bread served with supper, but, as she’d predicted, neither of them knew about the poor quality of the ingredients with which she’d made the stew.
* * *
Polly’s second adventure of 1866 occurred four months later. Papa had twisted his ankle and couldn’t stand all day, laboring at the work bench that unfolded from his barrow. Polly started out to repeat the process she’d gone through before. Instead she bought a glass of gin at the Compass Rose. The liquid smelled like paraffin, but she swallowed the drink anyway and became so stumbling drunk, she had difficulty making her way home.
Papa recognized her condition immediately when she arrived. “You’re in a shameful state,” he said. “Bill won’t have this.”
With her father’s immediate response, she knew she faced serious trouble. The realization brought fear and nausea. Polly grabbed the basin from the bedside table and vomited hot and bitter into it.
“Well,” Papa said, “that’s a start.”
Polly sat on the edge of her bed and moaned, trying to get the taste out of her mouth, yet unwilling to get up for water.
“Hush, or you’ll wake the boy.” Papa stared at her and shook his head. “I knew you were a drunkard when you were a girl of twelve and I saved
you from the night. I suppose that weren’t enough punishment for you.”
He meant the night the Bonehill Ghost came for her. Thirteen, Polly thought, I was thirteen. She hadn’t thought of the demon in a couple of years.
“I’ll help you this time,” Papa said, “but you’d better make a change.” He took up the basin and hobbled on his bad foot through his room and out the back door to dump her vomit into a privy vault. Upon his return, he lifted the ewer from the bedside table, and poured water from it to rinse the basin. He tossed the rinse water out the back door. He poured fresh water into the basin and a cup. “Clean yourself up,” he said.
Polly washed her face, and rinsed her mouth out. As she did so, her father went through the basket she’d brought home from the market. He looked at her with a frown. “Were this what the market had to offer?”
Again, she’d purchased broxy and old potatoes. “It’s all Bill’s money could buy,” Polly lied. “He doesn’t give me much.”
Papa looked at her with suspicion. He paid a flat fee into their household accounts for his room and board. “You bought second-rate food so you’d have the means to drink.”
Polly hung her head.
“That takes a macer’s guile, woman.”
Polly hid her face behind her hands.
Papa had become too quiet, and Polly looked at him. He seemed to ponder something.
“The last time I saw him hit you,” he said, “it were all I could do to keep from hitting him back. I’ll help you now to keep a peaceful home. I won’t do it again.”
You’re the only one who gets to hit me, Polly thought, but kept her mouth shut, since no good would come from angering him while he tried to help her.
“I should fix supper,” Polly said.
“You’ll rest. I’ll fix the stew.”
Polly lay down and closed her eyes while he set to work preparing food. Although fearful that Bill would find out about her drunkenness, she found sleep for a short time.
A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper Page 6
