Sweet Thames

by Matthew Kneale

  For her to address me at all was a surprise. Though we had never exchanged more than a few words, Felicia and I had seemed to have a kind of understanding; a mutual knowledge that each held not an ounce of liking for the other, and should leave him be. Until today.

  ‘The tea’s ready,’ I reminded her.

  ‘It’s just here, in the passage.’

  I found myself regarding Christ upon the cross surveying the heavens, and suffering alarming resemblance to a fairground bearded lady faintly troubled, perhaps wondering where she might have left her doorkeys.

  ‘Very striking.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Mr Jeavons…’ Another surprise. Felicia began, only to hesitate, caught on the edge of further speech. Most unlike her usual barging self.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to you…’

  Another halt. What was she trying to say? The alarming thought occurred to me that she might be about to utter some expression of romantic intent. It was unlikely, true enough; what of her fierce prudishness, and her having in the past treated me only with distant distaste? But one never knew. And she was regarding me with a strange intensity. The thought of touching that spongy neck… I turned away, and found myself looking up at the Mary Magdalen, watching her Saviour upon the cross with a look of concentrated discontent, worthy of a midwife picking her corns.

  ‘The others will be wondering what’s become of us.’ I tried to inject into the remark a light-heartedness, as if I had observed nothing unusual in her behaviour.

  Rather than answering in a like spirit, she shifted her form to better obstruct the stairway down, studying me with seriousness, even a look dimly threatening. ‘Mr Jeavons, there’s something you should…’

  This time it was not her own awkwardness that restrained her, but – to my great relief – the sound of footsteps drawing near on the stairs. She made way for the vicar.

  ‘Must’ve left my jacket here.’

  It was an opportunity not to be missed. ‘I’ll fetch it for you, Mr Bowrib.’

  Felicia seemed to snap back to her old self. Throughout our taking tea she resumed her tightly stiff persona, treating me to not so much as a glance, and speaking on no subject beyond biblical matters and the poorness of the weather.

  I was even a little regretful of my own escape, curious now as to what I might have learned.

  THE CHOLERA: A SPANISH CURSE

  Dear sir,

  In view of the current public discussion of the Asiatic Cholera, I felt it my duty to inform your readers of a little known and invaluable cure for the malady. During a visit to the city of Seville in Spain I was introduced to an eminent local physician, Dr Rios Montero, who informed me of a remedy he had found most effective during the last great outbreak of sixteen years ago. The sufferer should be administered three small cups of olive oil – no other oil will serve – with a period of eight to ten minutes allowed to lapse between the consumption of each. After the last has been taken, warm water should be drunk in abundance, and a wonderful improvement will be seen to occur in the patient’s condition. This cure…

  Pelham had observed my standing still, listening. ‘Something up, Mr Jeavons?’

  I took a step forward towards the flow of effluent, trying to ignore the odours, and peered into the sewer outlet. The sound – a splashing – had seemed almost to come from within the drain, but I could only discern dank darkness. ‘No, nothing.’

  What a finely productive day it had been. Indeed, a productive week. Sweet had possessed more connections in and about the world of drainage than I had thought possible, and through his agency I had now visited a whole series of sites, including the higher reaches of a sewer – at a point close by the Ball’s Pond Road – where I had been given a tour by one of the inspectors, and had gained valuable insights into possible incorporation of elements of the old system within my Effluent Depository scheme; a useful means of reducing costs.

  Presently I was working on the Essex shore, just eastwards of the City. Already I had been shown round several sewer outlets by Samuel Pelham, district sewerage officer; a solid and dependable fellow, if rather lacking in neck, so his chin seemed to spring directly from his collar bones. He had answered my questions concerning variations in effluential flow so fully that many of the measurings I had intended to carry out were rendered unnecessary, and I regretted having elected to hire Hayle for the afternoon, and thus being burdened by the sight of him loitering uselessly at my expense.

  Truly the river was something to behold. The black hulls before us seemed to sprout quite a winter forest of masts and spars, the nearer ones – growing from ships beached high on the mud – piercing the sky at demented angles. Such was the quantity of boats anchored in the stream that it seemed hardly possible any sailing room remained, but, from the higher parts of the bank a narrow waterway could be seen, somehow kept free, along which managed to creep all manner of traffic.

  Thames barges floated with the flow of tide, broadsides first, their crews wrestling with long thin oars to keep within the stream, causing their craft to resemble waterboatmen insects of a gargantuan species, accustomed to a mad sideways and sliding method of propulsion. Other barges – battling against the force of the tide – had raised their grand, flapping sails, warm-brown in colour, speedily hauling them down, mast and all, whenever a bridge rose into sight. Smaller vessels dodged between the barges; Spanish schooners laden with fruit, a raft of timbers towed by a lonely soul in a rowboat, ugly Dutch eel boats, and more.

  ‘Measure the depth over there,’ I called out to Hayle, as much to see the man do something for his shillings as to enhance my own knowledge. Were there further questions I needed to ask Pelham, touching the sewer we were stood before? I could think of none.

  Following the line of the muddy bank, my eye lit upon a group of fellows, half a mile distant, just discernible between the hulls. They were stood before the next outlet, the Ancient Walbrook, and, as I studied them, seemed to be inspecting the site, measuring the flow of effluent, just as we had been doing. Curious indeed. What was more, I saw they bore more than a faint resemblance to ourselves – though they numbered twice as many – with some dressed in the frock coats of professional men, others in the scruffier garb of servant helpers.

  ‘That party in the distance,’ I asked Pelham, pointing out the group. ‘D’you know of them?’

  He followed the line of my outstretched arm, eyes squinting in the sun. ‘I can’t say I do, Mr Jeavons.’

  ‘Puzzling.’ I picked up the measuring stick on the ground beside me. The Ancient Walbrook was the outlet we had planned to inspect next. ‘Perhaps we should pay our respects.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  I turned to the loitering servant. ‘Hayle, we’re continuing along the shore.’

  But then, while we were still in the midst of collecting together the measuring devices I again became aware of the sound I had heard earlier. A light splashing, sharpened with echo. This time I had no doubts to its source; it was indeed coming from the mouth of the sewer. An animal, perhaps, that had strayed thither? It seemed unlikely. I peered inside – it was one of the larger of its kind, half as high again as a man – but saw only darkness.

  Pelham, too, had heard, and stepped down towards the outlet, casting me a glance.

  ‘What can it be?’ I asked. ‘Some creature?’

  ‘Human creatures, I’d say.’ He stared into the outlet with his wide, watery eyes. ‘No-one up to any good, that’s certain.’

  Hayle had also stopped to listen. The sound would one moment grow loud, then all but fall silent again, as if those responsible were trying not to be heard.

  ‘I’d know of any official group visiting the sewer,’ Pelham continued. ‘And the public aren’t permitted to go wandering free about the place in case they do damage, whether to the drains or themselves. No, they shouldn’t be in there.’

  ‘But who would want to go into such a…’ Before I completed
the question, my eye was caught by a flickering within the sewer; seemingly the effect of a weak lamp playing upon the green-stained brickwork within. ‘I see their light.’

  Pelham’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘The tunnel curves round. They’ll be on us soon enough.’

  ‘We should arrest them?’

  ‘I dare say.’ He looked none too sure; nor did I feel otherwise. But we could hardly do nothing. Backing away from the entrance that I should not be seen, I turned to Hayle. ‘The people within,’ I told him in a hushed whisper. ‘We’re to overpower them as they emerge.’

  The servant pouted, unimpressed. ‘Says who? I’m not being paid for fighting, am I? I’m here to measure that filth. That’s the job I bin…’

  I waved my hand to quiet him; there was no time to argue the matter as the splashing was fast growing as noisy as if a small army were about to march out of the London drains. ‘Just do as I’ve said.’

  He opened his mouth to retort, but had not the chance. At once the sound was altered, its sharpness lost, and the figures strode out before us.

  The echo within the drain must have greatly exaggerated the din as, rather than a great force, there proved to be only three, one no more than half-grown in size. Even as I jumped forward, I found I recognized their garb; the greasy coat with dark lantern attached to the breast, the bulging sack carried on the back, and long pole, taller than the carrier, with an iron hoe at the end. They were just as the four who had run from me that evening, shouting ‘spy’, leaving me so puzzled.

  The battle was short. The poles they carried could have proved dangerous weapons had not – fortunately – their owners been taken by surprise, and been much weakened by the effect of daylight upon their sight, causing them to blink and shade their eyes as they were set upon. In a moment all three had been felled, their hoes wrested from them and used to pinion them on to the mushy ground, where they struggled angrily.

  Victory, and a quick one at that. The three of us cheered ‘Hurrahs’, none louder than Hayle, who, though he had tackled the runt of the trio – a mere lad – shouted out all manner of dangerous war cries, as if he had conquered a whole regiment of Bonapartist Frenchmen rather than a single child.

  Then a kind of quiet set in; the three sewer men still, so they might take in their captors. Pelham, lacking in neck as he was, resembled, as he crouched on his foe, nothing so much as a nervous toad; he glanced at me, evidently unsure what to do. My captive was no midget and had only one eye, which gave him a sinister air. His clothes stank abominably, and were vile to touch, but, for the moment, I could see no other course but to stay as I was, keeping him pinioned, until… Until what?

  ‘Who are you?’ I demanded fiercely of the man. ‘And what manner of roguery were you committing in the sewers?’

  ‘Who are YOU?’ he answered with spirit. ‘And what’s YOU doin’ assaultin’ poor folk as ’as done no harm.’

  Pelham put a tone of regality into his voice. ‘We’re representatives of the Metropolitan Committee for Sewers and it’s our duty to deal with criminals destructively tampering with Metropolitan property.’

  I was surprised by the seeming healthiness of the three. All were pallid of face, but otherwise strongly built, quite lacking the sickliness one would expect of men who had endured such long proximity to effluential poisons. ‘What’s the proper way of dealing with such fellows as these?’ I asked Pelham, in a voice as fierce as I could manage.

  ‘Proper way, yes.’ He seemed unhappy with the words.

  ‘You’ve found such people before?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I’ve heard tell of them. They’re professional scavengers.’

  ‘Heard tell of us, ’as yer?’ called out the one-eyed fellow beneath my grip. ‘An’ I’ve heard tell of the King of Prooshia.’

  The remark, though it was of little meaning, seemed to delight his companions, and they burst into fierce laughter, even the lad regaining his spirits.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I suggested to Pelham, ‘we should take them to the police.’

  He nodded. ‘I dare say.’

  ‘Why do it?’ One Eye twisted his head about, that he could regard me, relative to the discomfort of his position, with a kind of nonchalance. ‘Why go to all that trouble and, I might say, danger.’ His eye managed a thoughtful inspection of the afternoon sky. ‘Just over some poor unfortunates as ’as done no wrong.’

  ‘You’ve caused damage to the sewers,’ I told him.

  ‘Damage to ’em?’ Pelham’s captive, a lean sort with long sideboards and giant ears, seemed to find the idea appealing. ‘Where’s the need when they’re dropping to bits all of their own.’

  ‘You were stealing,’ Pelham retorted. ‘You’re scavengers of the worst sort.’

  ‘Shore workers,’ One Eye replied, correcting. ‘Shore workers is our trade, although there’s them as calls us Toshers, and without disrespect.’ He twisted his head towards Pelham. ‘And where’s the harm in picking up stuff as ’ud just go to waste t’otherwise?’

  ‘It’s illegal,’ Pelham insisted.

  ‘See what we’ve got, why don’t you?’ One Eye glanced across to the lad. ‘Show ’em what y’ave in your sack, Jim.’

  Hayle was uncertain whether to let the boy move, but I was curious. ‘I suppose there’s no harm.’

  Released, the lad scrambled to his feet with outraged dignity, removed the sack from his back, and emptied the contents on to the mud in a heap. It seemed of a piteous nature: ends of junk metal anonymous from wear and breakage, pieces of wood, strands of old rope, and a single ha’penny.

  A moment of silence. My captive observed me thoughtfully with his solitary eyeball. The idea of trying to propel the three into the hands of the law was hardly enticing, nor, I suspected, necessarily just. ‘I suppose,’ I said to Pelham, ‘if we had them promise not to go into the sewer again…’

  ‘I promise,’ One Eye shouted, before I had a chance to finish, his companions adding their pledges in an instant chorus.

  Pelham glanced at the sad heap of detritus poured on to the Thames mud, then at the form of Giant Ears, larger than his own. ‘There’s no need, I dare say, to be unnecessarily harsh.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Especially now they’re promised.’

  The shore workers did not dally. No sooner had they been released than they scrambled to their feet, plucked up their hoes and were striding off between beached barges, at a pace only thinly short of an outright dash.

  It was not until we were walking over the slimy Thames bank, towards the outlet of the Ancient Walbrook that I began to wonder if our action had been of kindness to the shore workers, or if we had done them the opposite of a favour. Had the three been delivered to the courts, I reasoned, they would likely have spent several months in gaol; by the time of their release the heat of the summer would be past, and with it the worst of any Cholera. However, by allowing them to go free, and – almost certainly – to return to their scavenging among the poisonous substances, had we not made them strong candidates to be the very first victims of the looming epidemic?

  The urges were within me and, not for the first time that evening, I found my eyes fixed upon the smooth shape of my wife’s breasts filling out the silk of her bodice. She was working on embroidering, the words of which, amongst emerging roses, now read, ‘Doest not that w…’ and I fancied I could discern, even through her dress, a light ripple in the softness of her bosom as her arms flexed to and fro with the needle. Pericles, as if reading my thoughts, faintly growled.

  I resumed study of the piece in The Times which, when I had first glanced upon it, had quickened my heartbeat: ‘NEW DRAINAGE PLANS FOR LONDON’. The article, I was sure, explained the identity of the group of fellows I had briefly observed in the distance that afternoon, working below the Ancient Walbrook sewer outlet. Almost certainly they had been labouring on one of the two schemes The Times described.

  Like my own, the plans were to be presented to the Metropolitan Committee for Sewers.
Both were still in a state of research but both – to my envy – were backed with the wealth and might of engineering companies. The names of the two engineers involved were dimly familiar, but no more. Mr Gerald Herbert offered ‘A System of Grand Artificial Rivers’, while Mr Clive Danby proposed a ‘Giant Under-Thames Tunnel’. Here in print before me: details of notions that would be competing against my own drainage scheme.

  As I examined the article more closely, however, my concern abated. Though the piece was not a long one, and the descriptions simple, I perceived serious flaws.

  Mr Danby’s plan was the most open to criticism. The Times had quoted at length his own description of the ‘Under-Thames Tunnel’, which he claimed to be a sweeping answer to London’s urgent needs, possessed of a grandness of vision with few equals in history.

  Ponder if you will Sulla, Cicero, Augustus himself, brought hither from their own glorious age, to stand, awe-struck, before the Under-Thames Tunnel, silenced by the great enterprise they see – pipes thrice as tall as themselves, and of a most modern design – silenced by the economy and daring of the design, outshining even the famous Cloaca Maxima of their own fair city…

  But why, I considered, build a giant sewer beneath the waters of the river, when this was bound to cause overwhelming difficulties of construction. One had only to think of the history of Marc Brunel’s Thames Tunnel – merely extending crosswise beneath the river, from Wapping to Rotherhithe, and thus a mere midget in comparison with Mr Danby’s proposal – which had been subject to repeated inundations and disasters of all kinds, finally reaching completion no fewer than fifteen years after it had been begun.

  Mr Herbert’s scheme was a more practicable one. It had also the appeal of a greater stylishness of appearance, attributable no doubt to Mr Herbert’s being – as The Times mentioned – in addition to a trained engineer, a keen amateur architect and art historian. His ‘System of Artificial Rivers’ was to be a network of open drains that would spread down across the metropolis from both north and south, as the roots of a gigantic tree. All would flow down to the Thames where – and this was to be the magnificence of the scheme – they would join two huge open sewers, one on each bank of the river, and each riding atop raised embankments containing also roadways, railways, and fronted with mile upon mile of marble colonnades, one above the other, in gothic style.