Free A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper by Alan M. Clark Page A

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.
    Papa woke her near seven o’clock in the evening. He had a small bottle of gin. “Bill ought to be home soon.” He poured a very small amount of gin into a cup for her. He poured a healthy dose into a cup which he kept for himself. “We shall sit and wait for your husband to arrive. When he does, you’ll take the sip of gin. I’ll offer him a drink as well. I’ll tell him as I offered you the drink, and he’ll believe the smell on you came from that.”
    Polly looked to the hearth. She smelled the savory pot of stew which sat steaming on a trivet.
    Papa was on to her, yet he tried to help her avoid the consequences of her drunkenness, and she felt grateful. Somehow, Polly knew that greater punishment lay in her future. She would promise herself a change of behavior, but she couldn’t imagine a future she would wish to endure without drink.
    When the glossy black doorknob turned, Polly had a sickening feeling that the Bonehill Ghost would come through the door.
    The soul of you, the whole of you, that’s all what you can preach…
    Instead, as expected, Bill entered.
    Polly quickly drank her gin, and immediately wished for more. Even so, that would be her last drink for a while. How long, she didn’t know.

8
    Fragile Abstinence
     
     
    Although Polly had no real hope that her effort would last, she stayed away from alcohol for over a year. She spent her time thinking of her child, keeping house, and doing her piece work.
    In April of 1867, Polly’s husband borrowed Papa’s barrow to haul a printing press that had been manufactured in Holland in 1756. Bill had bought the mechanism from his employer. The press broke the side rails of the barrow, yet he managed to get the thing to his lodging. With the help of Polly and Papa, Bill succeeded in moving the contraption from the conveyance into their home. The press took up a good third of the front room.
    “It’s broken,” he said. “We have a debt to the company for it, a fairly large sum, but we’ll make good on it.”
    He breathed so heavily from his exertion, Polly thought she hadn’t heard him correctly.
    Bill seemed to see the question in her eyes. “I got it for a good price because it’s broken. With your father’s help, we’ll make it right again.”
    Papa nodded his head. “I’ve looked it over. I can manufacture and replace the broken parts.”
    “I’ll teach you how to use it,” Bill said, “and we’ll be on our way to new earnings.”
    Polly smiled. “No more brushes?”
    “That’s right, no more brushes.”
     
    * * *
     
    A year would pass before Papa had fixed the press. Within that time, a second child, Percy, was born to Polly and Bill. Again, before the child came, Polly had worried she might not love the infant