At about midnight, someone shouted that the sky was burning, and they all poured out of The Frying Pan and onto Thrawl Street, pints in hand, to see for themselves. They said there looked to be great yellow tongues licking at the heavens on this last night of August 1888. The rain was coming fast and heavy, and the thunder and lightning made the air thick and tense.
Polly was drunk, but she hadn’t realised quite how drunk until she was outside and heard herself squealing. The Shadwell docks were on fire and the flames were coming from the South Quay warehouses, full of produce from the colonies; brandy and gin. It made a hellish scene. The ash was showering down on Thrawl Street like snow. The smoky air hit Polly square in her weak chest and made her giddy, but she skipped beneath the falling grey flakes anyway, danced with some other women from the pub, women she barely knew, and giggled as the ash got caught in her new black straw bonnet with the velvet trim. As she hopped about, she slipped, landed on her backside and had to be dragged up between two dockers, her linsey frock now wet with muck. She laughed but found it harder to stay upright than she should. It was at this moment precisely that the dark mood came.
She remembered that she’d spent her night’s lodging three times over. The money she’d put aside for her bed had gone on gin and beer, and a wave of her own failings came back around for another blow. Stupid Polly. She attempted to berate herself sober. Silly Polly. She retreated back inside the pub to count what was left of her coins but couldn’t manage it. Even so, she knew it wasn’t enough and she could not ask for help from her friends because she could not trust them.
Polly stumbled outside again and staggered up to Wilmott’s Lodging House further up Thrawl Street. She’d paid for a bed there often enough – and given her fair share to others too, when the begging cap came around the kitchen – so she fancied her chances. She hung about, mentioning to whoever would hear her that she was a few pence short, but she was met with glazed eyes, castaway glances and a change in conversation. Bastards. She’d hoped that when the lodgings’ deputy came down to collect his fee, the missing penny or two would be supplied by one of her pals, but there was no such luck.
‘I’m not in the habit of letting out beds to those that don’t have their money. You know that,’ he said. ‘You’re drunk – you should have thought of this when you were spending your money on gin.’
‘I’ll be back,’ she replied. ‘See, what a jolly new bonnet I’ve got.’ It was easier to pretend she didn’t care or else she’d get upset, or angry, which was much the same thing.
She got as far as the corner of Osborn Street, where she was grabbed by a passing woman, causing her to stumble and fall against the wall. It was Ellen Holland.
‘Polly? Where you off to at this hour?’ said Ellen. ‘Polls? Jesus, how much have you had?’
Ellen knew Polly liked to drink too much, but didn’t they all? Ellen sometimes shared a bed with her, was familiar with her bad and good habits, but on this occasion she was a particular mess.
‘I’ve had it, and spent it, three times over, Ellen,’ Polly said and burst into laughter.
‘What? What have you had?’
‘My bed! I spent it all. I’ll be back, so can you tell him… can you tell him not to let my bed go? I’ll be back… Tell him not to give my bed away.’
‘Did you not hear the clock?’ said Ellen. ‘It’s struck two. What time did you think it was?’
‘I don’t know. I’m lost, I think.’
‘What do you mean, lost? You know where you are.’
‘It’s all gone to me. I won’t have a bed now, will I?’
‘Oh, Polly, come back with me.’
Ellen tried to pull her back towards Wilmott’s, but Polly yanked herself free and fell against the wall again.
‘No, I’ve done all that. Not a penny from no one. I won’t play the idiot again, not tonight.’
‘You going to be all right?’
‘Course I am.’
Polly peeled herself off the damp brick wall and stumbled off into the sobering rain. She half registered the worry on Ellen’s face and it had irritated her. Worry, guilt, sorry, all cheap and all too easily thrown about when it was a few pence that was needed.
She staggered on up Buck’s Row, steadying herself on the small fences outside the cottages with their neat little hedges and clean steps. It wasn’t that cold. She was searching for a gap between stairs or a yard door where she could nestle down and hide until the morning. There was no one about. It was pitch black. She was so occupied looking for a spot, she’d not heard the footsteps approaching from behind. Maybe this man would be good for a penny or two? Perhaps her luck hadn’t run out after all.