The day the Thames froze over

There were four of us huddled round the fire of the King’s Arms, the only warm place in the inn. There was a hiss of steam as Matthew removed the poker from the fire and placed it in his quart pot.

"Now that's what you need on a cold day like this," he said. "A nice hot drop of three-threads."

I tried a swig of his beer, it was warm and malty, but the heat had burnt away a lot of the flavour, so I kept my beer as nature intended it.

"This has to be the hardest winter ever," said John, who‘d seen more winters than the rest of us, "the Thames has actually frozen over. I was watching some boys walking across it, as if they were Jesus on the waters of Galilee."

“My mother,” said young Tom, “says the coldest winter ever was 1709, there was snow on the ground from December to March, not a sunny day the whole time.”

“I remember that year well“ said John, “my second year as a porter. I nearly broke my back I did, slipping and sliding every time I took a step. Thames froze up then as I recall. We thought we must have done something to offend God, well, this is London, so we thought we must have done something more than usual to offend God.”

“It’s the same out there today,” I said, “I only had to carry a few sacks from the docks to Cornhill, took me all day, there’s not a single dry patch of road in the whole of London.”

Matthew had the wildest tale, as ever. "I was walking along Compton Street," he said, "when I saw a woman just a few doors in front of me empty her chamber pot out of an upstairs window. It froze before it even hit the ground, a long, yellow icicle, just hanging there."

We all laughed, though in truth this weather was no laughing matter for any of us. We had the same number of sacks to shift if we wanted to get paid and you couldn’t help but slip over every once in a while, with a damned heavy load falling on top of you. Just one fall could do serious damage to your back and put you out of work for weeks, or even months. Old Gower had fallen on some black ice near Holborn almost precisely a year ago, and had ended up living on poor relief until he'd died of the cold a few weeks back. Every winter you heard of half a dozen porters who’d met a similar fate.

"It can't be true about the Thames, can it? asked Matthew. The Thames is running water, it's like the ocean, that never freezes, it's impossible."

Impossible or not, I too had seen the frozen river that morning, as I collected my load from the dockside. "It's true all right, solid as a pound of gold.” Not that I've ever seen a pound of gold.

Matthew shook his head sadly. "That'll mean no work for a week, there's been no boats been in for days anyways, this'll mean no trade. I'm due rent, never mind food. This'll be me las' beer for a long while I reckons."

Silence hung over us for a while, all aware of the truth of his prediction, all savouring what might be our last quart of the winter. No money, no work, how would I survive, now of all times. Barbara was due to deliver a child within the next week, a winter baby, the curse of a spring marriage.

Our bleak thoughts were interrupted by the sudden, shouting arrival of Jack Masters, Matthew’s younger brother, full of the excitement of youth.

"Come quick, come quick. There's a fair on the river."

"A fare?" Said John. "The boatmen can't work when it's frozen."

"No, a fair, a carnival; games, stalls, entertainments. Taking place on the water itself. The whole of London's there."

Sensing the occasion, we swigged our beers and left the warmth of the fireside. It was decided that we would call and pick up our wives and, in John’s case, children, and take them with us and make a proper entertainment of it.

We arrived at the river just to the East of London Bridge, though a river it was no more. There was a new street running through the centre of London, all the way from Temple to Southwark, packed with shops, stalls, booths, performers, musicians, actors, people in their thousands, even horses and coaches. It was the same chaos as every other London street, though more so: the whole of London had come out for the novelty of a stroll along the river itself.

If we had only had money to spend it would have been the perfect vacation. There was even an impromptu alehouse, ran by Merideth from the Bricklayers Arms. “Welcome to the Thames Street Tavern,” he greeted us, though in truth the Tavern was no more than a tent, selling bottles of the same beer he usually sold but at a halfpenny more a piece. “Drink beer made from the finest Thames water, while walking on the water itself.”

Who could resist such sales banter, the men all found money for a bottle, as did two of the women. Barbara was drinking mostly tea during her pregnancy, as she feared that beer would do the baby harm. “Not if it’s a boy it won’t,” I had jested, but she saw not the humour in my remarks.

We bought pies from Travis the Pieman, who was seemingly the only trader on the river charging his usual prices. “I mayn’t be making extra profit like t’others,” he said, in his foreign, northern voice, “but I’m sellin’ twice the rate, if it keeps like this for another week I’ll be able to retire.”

There were many refreshment stalls, including a man selling chestnuts roasting on a brazier. “That’s daft,” said Matthew, “that’ll melt the ice, the iron‘s touching the surface.”

No sooner had he spoken than the floor below the brazier gave way, sending vendor and goods crashing into the river. There was a commotion for a short while, but soon the vendor spluttered out of the river cursing his luck and in no time at all the world carried on as if nothing had happened, though taking care to go round the hole.

We continued our walk, admiring the general chaos; children and dogs running and falling, stallholders shouting, people pushing and shoving, this was London, London on ice.

Barbara and the other women struggled walking along the slippery surface, but we helped hold them upright. Porters are experts at walking in all sorts of hazardous conditions: ice, snow, rain, flood, sewerage; squeezing alongside carts and avoiding runaway horses. Always with a sack on our back and with the London crowd ignoring us, never getting out of our way. We’re just part of the landscape, though without us nothing would be delivered to shops and traders, no corn, no coal, not even the brewer’s barley.

Around Westminster Barbara slipped and fell on her back. She started to scream in agony. I wondered what she’d broken, but realised that she’d started to deliver. The other women in our party rallied round and somehow, amidst a heaving Thames a dignified veil of space was drawn around us.

Matt and John took the children away, leaving me to watch over the scene. Seemingly the whole of London passed us without turning a head, though various stallholders ran over with helpful aids, blankets, a hot towel, a bucket of water, a mug of gin to calm her nerves.

Then a well to do couple walked up to us. The woman was clearly dragging the gentleman with her, as he surveyed the scene with a suitable look of horror on his face.

“Excuse me,” she said, “it looks like you could do with some help.”

My wife was too preoccupied to speak, so I responded. “That’s very kind of you ma’am, but it’s really a doctor we need. My wife is having a baby.”

“We passed Dr Manners a few minutes ago, said the gentleman. “I’ll go and fetch him.”

At that the man took off at a sprint, seemingly not noticing that he was running on ice. I realised that underneath the suit and tie and hat he was as fit as one of us and wondered what his history was.

He returned a few minutes later, with a stout elderly gentlemen, who was clearly used to dealing with a finer level of folk than myself and me’ missus. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to help,” he said, “this isn’t really my area of specialty.”

The gentleman correctly understood the doctor’s concerns, that we wouldn’t be able to afford the doctor’s inflated fees. “And send the bill to me, Manners, I made a vow that if ever I saw a woman giving birth on water I would meet all her costs.”

I laughed at his generous lie and he returned a smile. “It’s a pleasure sir,” he said, and, clearly keen to avoid eye-contact with the gory detail of my wife’s privacy, he and his wife turned and continued their jolly stroll along the Thames. I didn’t even have to pretend to refuse his kind offer. If only there were more gentlemen like this one.

With a doctor secured and everything in order, I was dismissed, leaving the women and the medic to complete the procedure.

An hour later a message was rushed to me, informing me that I was a father and I rushed back, to hold my new baby in my arms.

My son was thus born on the Thames. I named him Forde, as he was born on a river crossing, it seemed a good omen, and he would need it. Many more winters like this one and London would freeze up as a trade centre, we needed the life-blood of the river flowing through it to bring us work and trade, coal for heat and food to eat.

As I held him in my arms that first time, I was full of joy and fear.