On the morning of May 12, Polly Nichols arrived at the Cowdrys’ comfortable middle-class home with nothing more than the clothes on her back. As the only servant in a household occupied by one couple in their early sixties and an unmarried niece in her twenties, Polly’s duties would not have been especially demanding. She would be expected to clean the rooms and cook the meals, but also could enjoy her own attic room and her own bed, which must have seemed a luxury after months of tramping or suffering in the workhouse.
