Polly, “All right, Nichols, fourpence.”
Polly coughs hoarsely, “Ain’t got it, Mrs Russell.”
Russell inhales deeply, “Then it’s the streets. Look, luv, them’s the rules.”
Polly glances at the coke fire, “Can’t I stop ’ere a while? By the fire, it’s cosy, like.”
Disgruntled, Russell places her hands upon her hips, “If yer want charity, see me in the mornin’. But t’night, it’s fourpence.”
Wearily standing, Polly buttons her brown [83] Ulster overcoat which, being too long for her, touches her ankles, “Yer could ’old a bed fer me, couldn’t yer?”
Russell grudgingly relents, “All right, Polly, just fer an ’our.”
Adjusting her frayed black bonnet, Polly smiles chirpily, “I’ll soon git me doss money. See wot a jolly bonnet I’ve got now.”
Coughing once more, she waddles to the outer kitchen door.
Russell sadly shakes her head, “Look, luv, yer ain’t a young ’un anymore. Yer’ve got t’ look after yerself.”
Polly peers back over her shoulder, “I’ll be all right. ’Onest, Mrs Russell.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Born to parents Edward and Caroline Walker on 26 August, 1845, in Shoe Lane, Fleet Street, Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols had spent the formative years of her childhood residing in the very heart of journalistic London.
On 16 January, 1864, at the age of nineteen, she had married William Nichols, a printer from Oxford, at St. Bride’s Parish Church, Fleet Street and during the next fifteen years, gave birth to five children, the last being a son named Henry, in 1879.
Since its beginning, her tenuous marriage to William had been beset by a string of at least six separations. Thus, in 1881, Polly threw in the towel and had parted from William for good.
William claimed that the breakdown of their marriage had been caused by Polly’s heavy drinking, but her father, whilst admitting that she did drink, alleged that William had recently taken up with another woman who had, in fact, nursed Polly through her fifth and final childbirth.
Apart from a short period between late March and the end of May 1883, when she returned to live with her father, who detested her dissolute character and drunkard behaviour, Polly had existed solely by drifting from one workhouse to another.
Towards the end of 1887 and due to her utter dependence on drink and a slight flirtation with prostitution, Polly had been found by the police sleeping rough in Trafalgar Square. Declared by the authorities to be destitute and without means of subsistence, she was sent to the Lambeth workhouse, where she spent Christmas.
At the beginning of this year and undoubtedly arranged by the virtuous governors of the workhouse, Polly secured a position as a domestic servant with Samuel and Sarah Cowdry at ‘Inglseside’, Rose Hill Road, Wandsworth. On 17 April, she wrote to her father:
I just write to say you will be glad to know that I am settled in my new place, and going all right up to now. My people went out yesterday and have not returned, so I am left in charge. It is a grand place inside, with trees and gardens back and front. All has been newly done up. They are teetotalers and religious so I ought to get on. They are very nice people, and I have not too much to do. I hope you are all right and the boy has work. So good bye for the present.
From yours truly,
Polly
Answer soon, please, and let me know how you are.
Some two months later, however, Polly betrayed Mr and Mrs Cowdry’s trust and left ‘Inglseside’, stealing some of their clothes worth over three pounds. Nigh upon forty-four years of age and fearing probable arrest, she fled to the foul, dangerous streets of Whitechapel and, flitting from one doss-house to another, totally embraced prostitution to sustain her insatiable need for alcohol.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Tonight, the sky has acquired a dull reddish tone, created only a few hours earlier by a massive fire that had broken out at a
Polly coughs hoarsely, “Ain’t got it, Mrs Russell.”
Russell inhales deeply, “Then it’s the streets. Look, luv, them’s the rules.”
Polly glances at the coke fire, “Can’t I stop ’ere a while? By the fire, it’s cosy, like.”
Disgruntled, Russell places her hands upon her hips, “If yer want charity, see me in the mornin’. But t’night, it’s fourpence.”
Wearily standing, Polly buttons her brown [83] Ulster overcoat which, being too long for her, touches her ankles, “Yer could ’old a bed fer me, couldn’t yer?”
Russell grudgingly relents, “All right, Polly, just fer an ’our.”
Adjusting her frayed black bonnet, Polly smiles chirpily, “I’ll soon git me doss money. See wot a jolly bonnet I’ve got now.”
Coughing once more, she waddles to the outer kitchen door.
Russell sadly shakes her head, “Look, luv, yer ain’t a young ’un anymore. Yer’ve got t’ look after yerself.”
Polly peers back over her shoulder, “I’ll be all right. ’Onest, Mrs Russell.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Born to parents Edward and Caroline Walker on 26 August, 1845, in Shoe Lane, Fleet Street, Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols had spent the formative years of her childhood residing in the very heart of journalistic London.
On 16 January, 1864, at the age of nineteen, she had married William Nichols, a printer from Oxford, at St. Bride’s Parish Church, Fleet Street and during the next fifteen years, gave birth to five children, the last being a son named Henry, in 1879.
Since its beginning, her tenuous marriage to William had been beset by a string of at least six separations. Thus, in 1881, Polly threw in the towel and had parted from William for good.
William claimed that the breakdown of their marriage had been caused by Polly’s heavy drinking, but her father, whilst admitting that she did drink, alleged that William had recently taken up with another woman who had, in fact, nursed Polly through her fifth and final childbirth.
Apart from a short period between late March and the end of May 1883, when she returned to live with her father, who detested her dissolute character and drunkard behaviour, Polly had existed solely by drifting from one workhouse to another.
Towards the end of 1887 and due to her utter dependence on drink and a slight flirtation with prostitution, Polly had been found by the police sleeping rough in Trafalgar Square. Declared by the authorities to be destitute and without means of subsistence, she was sent to the Lambeth workhouse, where she spent Christmas.
At the beginning of this year and undoubtedly arranged by the virtuous governors of the workhouse, Polly secured a position as a domestic servant with Samuel and Sarah Cowdry at ‘Inglseside’, Rose Hill Road, Wandsworth. On 17 April, she wrote to her father:
I just write to say you will be glad to know that I am settled in my new place, and going all right up to now. My people went out yesterday and have not returned, so I am left in charge. It is a grand place inside, with trees and gardens back and front. All has been newly done up. They are teetotalers and religious so I ought to get on. They are very nice people, and I have not too much to do. I hope you are all right and the boy has work. So good bye for the present.
From yours truly,
Polly
Answer soon, please, and let me know how you are.
Some two months later, however, Polly betrayed Mr and Mrs Cowdry’s trust and left ‘Inglseside’, stealing some of their clothes worth over three pounds. Nigh upon forty-four years of age and fearing probable arrest, she fled to the foul, dangerous streets of Whitechapel and, flitting from one doss-house to another, totally embraced prostitution to sustain her insatiable need for alcohol.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Tonight, the sky has acquired a dull reddish tone, created only a few hours earlier by a massive fire that had broken out at a
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