Page 3 of There Are Rivers in the Sky
—O— ARTHUR
By the River Thames, 1840
W inter arrives early in London this year, and once it presents itself it does not wish to leave. The first flurries of snow descend in October, with temperatures dropping day by day. The lichen growing on the walls, the moss blanketing the rocks and the ferns pushing out of the crevices are all covered with rime, glistening like silver needles. Ready for the cold spell, caterpillars and frogs gently allow themselves to freeze, content not to thaw until next spring. Prayers and profanities, as soon as they leave their speakers’ mouths, form into icicles that dangle from the bare branches of trees. They tinkle sometimes in the wind – a light, loose, jingling sound. Yet, despite the frigid climate, the Thames does not set firm as it did a few decades ago, when it turned into a sheet of ice so hard that an elephant was marched across for fun and games of hockey were played from bank to bank. This time it is solely the shorelines that solidify, and thus water continues to flow in between stretches of white crystals on either side.
Whether it is chilly or warm, blustery or calm, makes little difference to the smell emanating from the river. Sharp, acrid and vile. A stench that seeps into your pores, clings to your skin, penetrates your lungs. The Thames – ‘Tamesis’, ‘Tems’, ‘Tamasa’, ‘the dark one’ – though once famous for its fresh water and fine salmon, nowadays runs a dirty, murky brown. Polluted by industrial waste, rotting garbage, factory chemicals, animal carcasses, human cadavers and raw sewage, never in its long life has the river been so neglected, lonely and unloved.
A pall of dust, soot and ash hovers over the bell-towers, spires and rooftops of London – the most crowded city in the world. Every week another wave of newcomers turns up with their bundles full of dreams whilst the chimneys pump out more nightmares into the sky. Like stuffing bursting out of an old cushion, as the capital grows and expands beyond its confines, its refuse, excrement and debris spill out through the cracks. Whatever is unwanted is discarded into the river. Spent grain from breweries, pulp from paper mills, offal from slaughterhouses, shavings from tanneries, effluent from distilleries, off-cuts from dye-houses, night-soil from cesspools and discharge from flush toilets (the new inventions enjoyed by the rich and the privileged) – all empty into the Thames, killing the fish, killing the aquatic plants, killing the water.
Yet the river is a giver, and no one understands this better than the people known as toshers . They are restless scavengers, foragers of the shorelines. Patiently and purposefully, they wade through miles and miles of fetid sludge. Sometimes they walk the labyrinth of sewers that criss-crosses the city, sifting through rivulets of effluent. Other times they rummage in fluvial deposits, combing the riverine banks. Scouring a liquid world, they search for valuable items, both beneath and above the ground.
They usually set out to work when the tide is low and the wind has subsided, the surface of the stream dull and smooth like a tarnished mirror that no longer reflects the light. Always there will be something of value hiding in the recesses of the turbid waters – scraps of metal, copper coins, silver cutlery, and, occasionally, a crystal brooch or pearl earring – prized possessions that have been accidentally dropped in the streets and parks of London, and then swept down into the gutters, embarking on a long and stinking course into the ripples of the Thames. Some of these objects will keep travelling towards Oxford and beyond, whilst others will become stuck in the mud, buried under the thick, slippery gloop. You can never predict what the river will offer each time, but you can rest assured that it will not send you away empty-handed. A skilled tosher can earn up to six shillings a day.
The job is not only disgustingly filthy but also fraught with danger – particularly inside the sewage tunnels. Always it is wiser to work in groups, since one can easily get lost in London’s intricate underground passages and never be able to emerge again. There is the risk of a nearby sluice gate being lifted without warning whilst you are groping around down there, releasing a flash flood through the drains, and if you have nothing to hold on to, or no one to grab you by the collar, you can be washed away and drown, your lungs full of excrement. It is also possible to plough into a pocket of gas that may have been building up under layers of debris – a most unfortunate encounter that can spark an explosion, as if gunpowder ignited, delivering you to an instant death or, worse yet, a life of agonizing injuries. The river is a taker. No one understands this better than the toshers.
On this icy morning in late November, a party of eight trudges along the Chelsea shore, on the north bank of the Thames, their boots squelching in the slime. They carry long poles, which they jab through the muck every now and then to check if there is anything useful underneath. The lanterns tied to their chests paint golden ribbons ahead and lend their faces a ghostly pallor. Around their mouths they have wound scarves to ward off noxious smells – not that this helps. They are swathed in capacious velveteen coats with oversized pockets and thick gloves to shield themselves from the filth – and attacks from rats, some of which are as big as cats. But the last person in the group, a young woman with a shy smile and freckles scattered across her cheeks, has been able to pull her cloak only halfway over her large belly. Although heavily pregnant, she still needs to work. Besides, the midwife has assured her that the baby is not due for at least another month.
The group approaches a bend in the river where an oak tree has extended its branches over the water, lying almost prostrate on the ground. Whilst the others sift through the mire, the young woman stops to catch her breath. She wipes her forehead, where beads of perspiration have formed despite the biting wind.
Her gaze follows the deep grooves and ridges along the bark of the oak. How unusual it is for a tree to contort itself in this way, as if it is having a heart-to-heart with the Thames. What could they be gossiping about? The thought makes her smile. Just as she is pondering this, she feels a pang shoot through her. Sharp, unexpected. Her heart accelerates, but she tries not to dwell on the pain. So far the day has not been kind to her; she has found but one small ring, whose worth she cannot be sure of until she cleans off the grime and takes it to a pawnbroker. Regardless, she has slipped it on her finger, afraid of losing her only treasure.
Another spasm – this one so piercing that it almost knocks the air out of her. Dragging herself away from the water, she plods wearily towards the tree. Her chest heaving up and down, she reclines against its trunk, grateful for its unusual shape. The stabbing cramp subsides, only to return in a little while with even more intensity. She presses her hand to her stomach, unable to keep from groaning out loud.
‘Oh, Lord!’
One of the toshers – a short, stout elderly woman with translucent blue pouches beneath her eyes – hurries to her side.
‘What is it, Arabella? Are you all right?’
‘The baby – do you think it might be coming already? Isn’t it much too early?’
They both glance around, one in sheer panic, the other with concealed concern.
Surely not now, not here. No baby would want to be born in a damp and stinky place such as this, by a stream overflowing with refuse and sewage.
‘Shall I send someone to call your husband, love?’ asks the old woman, dropping her voice, for she already senses the answer.
Arabella lives in a slum tenement not far from here, in a part of Chelsea called the World’s End, with a carpenter so skilled that he was once commissioned by Buckingham Palace to build a chest of drawers for the royals – although nowadays the man’s drinking habit makes his hands shake to such an extent that he rarely works any more.
‘My husband?’ Arabella says. ‘Haven’t seen him in weeks.’
‘All right, then, we will manage ourselves,’ says the old woman, trying to keep the sadness from her voice. ‘Let us first take you home and make you comfortable, lass.’
Arabella nods in agreement, but her breathing is coming in increasingly shallow gasps. As she attempts to stand up, she staggers, losing her equilibrium for a moment. Her face crumples more in shock than in pain. A warm burst of liquid gushes down her legs. She stares down at the puddle by her feet in horror.
‘Oh, God, oh my stars … it is too soon!’
The other toshers, having all stopped working, are watching from the river’s edge. One yells over the noise of the current: ‘Oi, everything all right over there?’
To which the old woman replies with a swift shake of her head. ‘We are in trouble. Lord help us.’
‘What are you babbling about?’
‘I’m saying, you had better get out of there and give us a hand. Come here, you lot, be quick! Her waters broke!’
The toshers who rush to help and selflessly spread their coats across the muddy banks of the River Thames cannot possibly know that just then another expectant mother in London has gone into labour with her first child. Queen Victoria, only twenty-one years old, is having contractions in a cosy chamber inside Buckingham Palace. That Her Majesty hates being pregnant is a well-known secret. Resentful at having to forgo dancing and riding, she cannot wait for this delicate phase of her life to be over. The young queen, nicknamed ‘Good Little Wife’ by her husband, hopes to deliver a male heir today so that she can be done with childbirth once and for all. Prince Albert is by her side, holding her hand and murmuring words of comfort, until he joins the Cabinet ministers waiting outside. In a corner, the infant’s cradle – made of high-quality mahogany and padded with emerald-green silk – is designed to look like a seashell. The naval reference is perfect for the firstborn of the Ocean Queen, indicating the glory and splendour of England, whose symbol, the white rose, is embroidered on the coverlet.
When, after excruciating hours, the royal baby arrives, the doctor smiles apologetically. ‘Alas, Your Majesty, it is a girl.’
The queen, though equally dismayed, lifts an exhausted hand. ‘Never mind. The next will be a prince.’ Thankfully, she has an array of nurses to choose from, all with excellent credentials.
When, after excruciating hours, the river baby arrives, one of the toshers yells gleefully, ‘Glory be, Arabella, it is a boy!’
The young mother, rising up on her elbows, cranes her head to look at her son. His tiny fingers, rose-pink toes, rounded cheeks … he is beautiful. She breaks into tears. What chance does such a sweet, innocent being have in a world full of sin, sorrow and suffering?
‘Cheer up, lass. What are you so worried about, eh?’ reprimands the old woman. ‘You should be proud of yourself: the boy is alive and well.’
But Arabella is crying so hard she can barely talk.
‘There, there, you will be fine. Now, tell us, what will you name him?’ asks the old woman.
Still no answer.
That is when the other toshers chip in helpfully.
‘Call him Thames – most appropriate to the occasion,’ someone suggests.
‘Yes, he will be Father Thames when he grows up.’
‘And if he lives that long, he’ll be Grandpa Thames someday.’
‘How about Thomas – it’s close enough to Thames.’
‘Nah, just name him Jack,’ another man interjects. ‘I’ve been Jack all my life – it’s not too bad.’
‘Seems pretty bad to me!’
‘How about Albert?’ someone else says. ‘If it’s good enough for the Queen’s husband, surely it’s good enough for the tiny tot.’
‘Oh, do shut up! What bosh you are talking.’ It is the old woman who objects this time. ‘Lily-livered and hen-hearted … that’s the kind of man he is, Prince Albert, what with his namby-pamby ways and all! He didn’t even propose to Victoria, remember? It was she who asked him to marry her. Not the best husband for our Queen. Not even a fit hubby for me!’
They all snigger and jeer – until Arabella’s reedy voice pierces the clamour. ‘Throw him into the river!’
Someone chuckles loudly, assuming it is yet another joke about royals whose lives cannot be more different from theirs. But everyone else has fallen quiet. A discomfort gathers in the air whilst the implication behind these words sinks in. The toshers exchange guilty glances, as if by merely hearing the unspeakable they have become part of something tainted and unfathomable.
Into the ensuing silence the old woman asks in a murmur, ‘What are you saying, lass?’
‘Chuck the baby into the water. I cannot take care of him. Let the Thames look after my son.’
‘Hush now! Don’t speak in that sinful manner.’
The young mother covers her face with her hands and lets out a strangled, guttural cry. She can barely believe what she is about to say but nor can she stop the words from gushing out. ‘I cannot afford to keep this little ’un. I can hardly get myself enough coppers for my own food. I am starving hungry most of the time. My husband … he’s no use at all – he’s fallen in with the worst types! Always angry, never sober, never works. If he passes out, it’s a blessed relief – you think a man who beats his wife ain’t going to hurt his son? My poor babe …’
The old woman raises her chin and shakes her head. ‘Now you listen to me, lass.’
‘You don’t understand –’
‘I do, every word, and I am telling you, this boy is going to brighten your life, you hear me? I feel it in my bones. You give him a bit of grub and a morsel of love, and he will give you much more back. He will lighten your burden and make you proud. You shall see: all will be well.’
Arabella is crying louder now. Her shoulders shake with each sob, and the cold and worry set her teeth chattering.
The old woman sighs. She has heard midwives complain about a mysterious condition called ‘puerperal insanity’. It is said to afflict new mothers, robbing them of their senses and plunging them into a despair so bottomless that they may never emerge. She knows the treatment calls for purgatives, cupping, bloodletting and lots of opiates.
Turning to the others, she asks quietly, ‘Does anyone have something to lift her spirits? The poor thing, she’s got the morbs.’
‘Aye, give her some of this,’ says a man, producing a murky-brown bottle.
Laudanum. It helps to soothe the nerves and dull the pain, and besides it is said to ease women’s troubles. Although it tastes extremely bitter, the smell is sweet and strong – being made of cinnamon, saffron, alcohol and extract of opium from poppy seeds.
They urge Arabella to take a sip, then a couple more for good measure. She complies. Her head drops on her chest, her arms go limp. Exhausted and distressed, it does not take long for the young woman to tumble into a deep, dreamless sleep.
But now the toshers are left with a quandary they did not expect. With the father nowhere to be seen, and the mother half comatose and half crazed, who will name this baby? The matter cannot be postponed. They are dangerously close to the river. Since time immemorial the eddies of the Thames have accommodated ghosts, ghouls and other ghastly creatures. Demonic spirits, hovering over the water and hunting for vulnerable souls, may at any moment swoop down and snatch the newborn away. Even if the spirits were to decide for once on a softer tack, the spectre of William Kidd will most likely loom out of nowhere. Everyone knows that the notorious pirate is incandescent with rage after he was coated with tar, bound with chains and hanged from a gibbet, his corpse left rotting for three years. It has been more than a century since his public execution, but, his fury unabated, he continues to haunt these shores.
Given the gravity of the situation, the toshers conclude that the task must fall upon them. The old woman lifts the baby in the air and looks into his grey-blue eyes. Oddly, he stares straight back at her. All this time he hasn’t cried even once.
‘What a strange wee mite you are!’
‘Why not call him that, then?’ someone proposes. ‘That’s some handle. “Strange” will be his first name and “Wee Mite” his middle. There you have it!’
‘Nay, that won’t do.’
The old woman reckons that this hapless child who clearly lacks a caring father and a stable mother, and who has the misfortune of having been born beside a stream of waste water and excrement to boot, deserves a helping hand. They are bound to bestow an august name on him, a sweetener to help him through the difficulties of life and not drag him down even further. So she gives the matter some more thought and then she announces, ‘I think it should be something rather brave and grand. Yes, that’s right, a name worthy of a noble.’
‘Well, why don’t we call him Your Majesty?’
‘His Serene Highness?’
‘Most Exalted Eminence?’
‘How about King?’
‘King is nice,’ says the old woman. Her face brightens up as a new thought occurs to her. ‘King Arthur would be even better!’
‘Aye, King Arthur it is!’
‘Praise be!’
‘Glory be to God!’
‘Just like King Arthur of the Sword in the Stone?’
‘More like, King Arthur of the Sewers, I’d say.’
‘And … and Slums.’
‘That’s been decided, then,’ declares the man who produced the laudanum. To raise a toast, he takes a swig from the bottle of gin that he carries inside his coat; then wipes his mouth and passes it on to the others.
‘King Arthur of the Sewers and Slums!’
And that is how the boy born on a secluded stretch of the Chelsea waterfront, under the low-lying branches of a bankside oak tree, will someday come to be known to all. A child of the river he is, and so he will remain all his life.
They place the newborn on his mother’s breast, though the woman is still sound asleep. Under the gaze of everyone, Arthur suckles slowly, as if out of courtesy. Lying on a pile of coats spread across the cold and muddy earth, without a cradle to hold him or a roof to shelter him, his face puckers, but he does not cry. Instead he remains motionless, listening to the sounds around him. A thin trickle of milk streams from the side of his mouth.
It starts to snow again. Frantic flurries drift down from the skies in long, slanting curves, shimmering luminescent against the muted light. As they approach the earth, they take on a bluish hue, whirling in circles that neither overlap nor make them dizzy. They dance playfully, like an evocation of wandering spirits. Watching them with wide open eyes from where he lies, the baby breaks into a smile, dazzled by the beauty of this world.
In a little while, one of the snowflakes pirouettes in the wind, veering fast towards the ground. Water in its solid form. A weightless pearl formed in the depths of a vast celestial shell. From so small and slight a presence, can a whole universe be conjured?
That snowflake was a raindrop once upon a time, in a land far away. It passed through a sumptuous palace with a magnificent library, and witnessed exquisite gardens, extravagant fountains and unspeakable cruelties. It carries within the memories of its previous lives. The aura of an Assyrian king is impressed upon it, like an invisible fingerprint. Gently, it alights on the baby’s face, dropping between his open lips.
In that instant the baby feels on his tongue something cold, crisp, faintly metallic and hugely exciting. He clenches his fingers and stuffs his fist into his mouth, trying to seize this marvel – and failing. He cries then, for the first time. It is his first disappointment in life, his earliest sorrow, not being able to hold on to a beauty that has touched him briefly and, just as suddenly, melted away.
A drop of milk, a flake of snow. The two will blend in his mouth – and in the deepest recesses of his memory. Someday, when he is much older, someone who has never seen snow will ask him how it tastes, and he, without even missing a heartbeat, will reply, ‘Like mother’s milk.’
King Arthur of the Sewers and Slums will remember the moment of his birth. He will remember it with exceptional clarity and in astonishing detail: the roar of sewage rushing nearby, the bark of a crooked oak tree, the coarseness of the coats piled beneath him, their edges frayed and gnawed away by rats and mice, the locks of golden hair cascading on to the shoulders of the woman who brought him into this world but then wanted to throw him into the Thames, and, above all, the feel of icy crystals dissolving on his tongue … Shards of memory that he will be able to piece together no matter how many years have passed and no matter how painful the reminiscence. For this baby, who shares the day of his birth with Queen Victoria’s firstborn and is named after a legendary hero by a band of good-hearted toshers, is a most unusual child.
Arthur Smyth is gifted with an extraordinary memory – visual, verbal and sensory. Just as a drop of rain or a pellet of hail, water in whatever form, will always remember, he, too, will never forget. What he sees or what he hears or what he feels, even once, he retains forever. A remarkable talent, many will argue. A blessing from God, others may hasten to add. But also a terrible curse, as he will soon find out.