A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper Read Online Free Page B
Author: Alan M. Clark
could find another source for the work, but he’d clearly had a bad day and wasn’t in a mood to consider her wishes.
* * *
“What shall we do?” Polly asked Bernice. Their search for a fur-pulling spot seemed to be at an end.
“You won’t like my answer.”
Polly knew the answer. She’d tried not to believe they had only the one option. “The privies?”
“Yes.”
The two young women did their piece work in the privies that stood in the fenced court at the eastern end of the lodging house, where Papa left his barrow when it wasn’t in use. Six days a week, they carried into the stalls their rabbit pelts, and the cloth bags in which they placed the undercoat they collected. The privies were close enough to one another that, though the girls each occupied a separate one and the doors were closed, Polly easily heard Bernice’s voice coming through the splintery walls. They kept each other company with conversation as they worked.
Polly found the reek discouraging, especially in the morning, yet by midday, she no longer smelled the odor. As she and Bernice made their conversations and singing loud enough to hear one another, all the tenants of the lodging house became aware that the girls did their work inside the privies. Interruption of the labor occurred periodically as the lodgers came and went. Largely, they showed tolerance. They knocked and politely waited for a reply. If a knock came at her door, Polly covered her work, exited, and waited until the lodger had finished before resuming her toil. Few complained about the fibers Polly and Bernice left behind. Mrs. Fortuna turned a blind eye to their activities.
In the spring of 1861, when both of the young women were fifteen years old, Bernice broke the news that she’d found a job at a bag maker.
Polly tried to be happy for her friend. “You’ll do well, I’m certain of it. Must be better wages than what we earn at present.”
“Yes,” Bernice said, nodding sadly and hanging her head.
Without conversation, fur pulling would become all but unbearable. Apparently, Bernice had thought about that.
“I’ll ask after a position for you right away,” Bernice said. “Perhaps we’ll be working side by side again very soon.”
“That should be nice.”
* * *
As happened, even with good friends, once Polly and Bernice no longer worked together, their rendezvous slowed to a trickle. Polly ceased to see Bernice entirely when she and her mother moved into another lodging house about a mile away. No doubt, the girl had new companions with whom she worked. Polly didn’t hold bitterness toward Bernice.
Working most of each day in the lodging house privy stall with no one to talk to, lonely and bored, Polly did battle with herself. A restlessness that demanded satisfaction settled into her bones. Her mind wandered through several scenarios in which she found a companion—sometimes male, sometimes female—with whom to drink. With a certain amount of reckless glee that she found disturbing, she imagined taking up exciting and risky pursuits with her companion. She fancied herself capable of becoming a topnotch pickpocket, a palmer, or a highwayman. Yes, she and her companion might find pistols, and stop coaches along the roads on the outskirts of London. As a dragsman, she would become rich. Several times, she visited a daydream in which she simply became drunk and ran naked through the streets.
Polly knew that if she did any of those things, she would be caught and locked away in prison. When she began to think that perhaps prison would not be so bad, she feared for her sanity. She dreaded her flights of fancy, yet she couldn’t stop them.
My wants are a torment, but the boredom pushes my thoughts away from the here and now to seek excitement. This must be how criminals are made.
Her restless discontent with life left her sulking through the long, dull days of work, the lifeless meals in the evenings with her father and brother, and
* * *
“What shall we do?” Polly asked Bernice. Their search for a fur-pulling spot seemed to be at an end.
“You won’t like my answer.”
Polly knew the answer. She’d tried not to believe they had only the one option. “The privies?”
“Yes.”
The two young women did their piece work in the privies that stood in the fenced court at the eastern end of the lodging house, where Papa left his barrow when it wasn’t in use. Six days a week, they carried into the stalls their rabbit pelts, and the cloth bags in which they placed the undercoat they collected. The privies were close enough to one another that, though the girls each occupied a separate one and the doors were closed, Polly easily heard Bernice’s voice coming through the splintery walls. They kept each other company with conversation as they worked.
Polly found the reek discouraging, especially in the morning, yet by midday, she no longer smelled the odor. As she and Bernice made their conversations and singing loud enough to hear one another, all the tenants of the lodging house became aware that the girls did their work inside the privies. Interruption of the labor occurred periodically as the lodgers came and went. Largely, they showed tolerance. They knocked and politely waited for a reply. If a knock came at her door, Polly covered her work, exited, and waited until the lodger had finished before resuming her toil. Few complained about the fibers Polly and Bernice left behind. Mrs. Fortuna turned a blind eye to their activities.
In the spring of 1861, when both of the young women were fifteen years old, Bernice broke the news that she’d found a job at a bag maker.
Polly tried to be happy for her friend. “You’ll do well, I’m certain of it. Must be better wages than what we earn at present.”
“Yes,” Bernice said, nodding sadly and hanging her head.
Without conversation, fur pulling would become all but unbearable. Apparently, Bernice had thought about that.
“I’ll ask after a position for you right away,” Bernice said. “Perhaps we’ll be working side by side again very soon.”
“That should be nice.”
* * *
As happened, even with good friends, once Polly and Bernice no longer worked together, their rendezvous slowed to a trickle. Polly ceased to see Bernice entirely when she and her mother moved into another lodging house about a mile away. No doubt, the girl had new companions with whom she worked. Polly didn’t hold bitterness toward Bernice.
Working most of each day in the lodging house privy stall with no one to talk to, lonely and bored, Polly did battle with herself. A restlessness that demanded satisfaction settled into her bones. Her mind wandered through several scenarios in which she found a companion—sometimes male, sometimes female—with whom to drink. With a certain amount of reckless glee that she found disturbing, she imagined taking up exciting and risky pursuits with her companion. She fancied herself capable of becoming a topnotch pickpocket, a palmer, or a highwayman. Yes, she and her companion might find pistols, and stop coaches along the roads on the outskirts of London. As a dragsman, she would become rich. Several times, she visited a daydream in which she simply became drunk and ran naked through the streets.
Polly knew that if she did any of those things, she would be caught and locked away in prison. When she began to think that perhaps prison would not be so bad, she feared for her sanity. She dreaded her flights of fancy, yet she couldn’t stop them.
My wants are a torment, but the boredom pushes my thoughts away from the here and now to seek excitement. This must be how criminals are made.
Her restless discontent with life left her sulking through the long, dull days of work, the lifeless meals in the evenings with her father and brother, and
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