The River
By Chrissie Pountain - 01/10/2006
I’m one of the oldest fathers and although I remember so much, my memory isn’t without its limits. I can go back over 600,000 years to the Ice Age, when I flowed from Wales to Clacton on Sea and crossed the sea to become a tributary of the Rhine.
Yet, like you all, I have chosen new paths and now connect the North Sea to the heart of southern England; my source being in the gentle rolling hills of the Cotswolds down to the mighty Thames Barrier. I am 215 miles long and my body flows past the Houses of Parliament and the Tower of London. I am 250 yards wide at London Bridge, then I widen at Gravesend where I am 700 yards and I continue to widen until I join my brother the North Sea.
I am Father Thames yet I’ve been given other names. This is my story and of course it can have no beginning, no middle, nor an end for I am timeless and my waters flow on.
It is AD60 and the Celts have named me Tamesis which means broad river in their native tongue. The Romans have taken over my banks and named their town Londinium. A fierce battle is raging on my shores. A beautiful tall red headed woman named Boudicca, who I believe to be a princess of the Iceni royal family of my land, leads a mighty army. She stands proudly in a thick cloak and tunic of many colours with a spear in her hand. I hear her prayers as she whispers quietly on my shores to avenge the death of her husband Prasutagus.
Her eyes blaze with anger as she recalls his death and the fact that she and her children were savagely beaten by Romans, and then she strides to the top of a mound and addresses her army of 120,000 to wage war on the invaders. I see thousands of Romans slain and fires rage in the town, yet Boudicca’s army is defeated and the survivors are turned into slaves by the Romans. Yet she escapes and rather than be taken prisoner she swallows poison and dies near my shore. I shed a tear for her but I flow on.
I can scarcely hear my flow over the cheers of the townsfolk today. A royal barge is upon me, golden in the sunlight and in it stands a giant of a man with red hair and a beard. He is laughing with his friends and telling them at last England will have the good fortune it deserves. The bells are ringing and petals are cast into my waters and thrown into the air. In 1533 the good people of London celebrate the marriage of Henry, their King to their previous Queen’s Lady in Waiting, Anne Boleyn.
1,000 days later the crowds once again cheer as his heretic Queen is beheaded by a sword in 1536. Eleven days on and once again my banks and thronged by citizens as they welcome their next Queen, who was also their previous Queen’s Lady in Waiting, Jane Seymour. Tears of happiness I shed when an heir to the throne is born 1537 and more tears of sadness fall when his mother died just twelve days later and still I flow on.
Today is 2nd September 1666 and Mary, the maid who works at the Bakery in Pudding Lane, puts a lighted taper to the oven. Suddenly the flour particles in the air ignite and the London I have come to know changes in hours. People stand on my banks looking at the spectacle as house after house is consumed by the ever fanning fire, which jumps the rooftops, searching fuel in the tar and pitch used in building. The wind hits the faces of the crowds and showers them with firedrops as they look at the malicious red crackling flames, like a mile long entire arch consuming their town.
They take my water from my body in an endeavour to quench the flames, but it is a hopeless task. After four days the wind drops and the fire is finally put out. But the townspeople shed a tear for all they have lost and I weep with them as on I flow.
London Bridge is renovated and it is 1758 with the central arch now doubled in size. Gone is the old Stone Bridge of London which was erected in1176 and the Tudor Houses which later stood so proudly along the old bridge. I flow on and on.
It is so cold even I am freezing and cease to move, though my heart beats on. There is a Frost Fair held in the winter of 1813-14, people are skating on me, souvenirs are being sold and people are watching bear-baiting. An Ox is being roasted and there are stalls selling jewellery. Most Londoners are happy, except the skippers of barges who cannot move their cargoes which perish on board. The thaw arrives and it is time for me to move on once more, the traders continue to thrive and the wherries continue carrying passengers and light cargo to Gravesend.
Finally my waters do as the children’s rhyme predicts and London Bridge falls down eroded by my constant caresses it is finally demolished in 1830. The replacement of the old Bridge in 1831 means I can flow faster with wider arches and fewer piers and I no longer freeze sufficiently to be walked all over. I shed a tear of joy but I flow on.
I smell, I cannot deny it. My Londoners cease to love me in 1858. Even the Lords and the Members of Parliament have abandoned sitting at the House of Commons.
The City of London has developed far beyond the village I once knew as Londinium. Sewerage is being deposited into my waters, yet drinking water is being extracted between my bridges at Chelsea and London. They have brought in oil burning ships which cause even greater pollution. There is little doubt about it, I am a stinker and need to clean up my act. I shed a tear for myself but still I flow on.
My waters are churning as 348 German bombers fly past me and over London at 4.00 pm on 7 September, 1940. The Blitz has started and the city is attacked mercilessly for two hours setting it ablaze and once again the skies are lit up. The sky is crimson and crackling, just as it was before when the Bakery caused such devastation. They came again just after dark the bombers, guided by the fires set by the first assault. Londoners are being killed, some are badly burned, buildings are being decimated yet St. Paul’s cathedral continues to proudly stand and I flow on.
It is someone’s 21st birthday party on 20 August 1989. I shout a warning but no-one heeds me and I watch in horror as I see rich and beautiful Francesca dancing happily in her new outfit which she designed herself. She smiles, blows a kiss at the boy across the room and raises her glass to be refilled by a passing waiter. Then the Bowbelle dredger collides with The Marchioness just under Cannon Street Railway Bridge. 51 young people, some bleeding, some already still, others struggling, come with me on my journey, whilst 81 remain shedding tears for their friends at the memorial erected in memory of my new soul-mates and still I flow on.
A huge dome was built beside me at Greenwich where the International Date Line runs, the theory being that the Millenium would start exactly at midnight at that very precise location. I could tell you of the party held to celebrate the birth of 1 January 2000 attended by The Queen, her Prime Minister and other VIPs.
The fireworks were certainly splendid. But no, I shall tell you instead one of the many couples who watched the celebrations going on from Westminster Bridge. As Big Ben chimed, so Mark went down on bended knee and produced a small box which he flipped open and offered to Susan, who gasped at the sight of a sparkling diamond ring, then smiled and agreed to be his wife. They sealed their bargain with a kiss as once again the skies lit up but this time with fireworks. Tears of joy were shed by a nation. As for me, well I simply flowed on as I did on the previous millennium and shall do so on the next.
Now I have run into September 2001 and I see a black man and woman throw something orange into my waters. As soon as the object hits me I feel such sadness. At the Tower of London I bob the load up and down in my waters to Tower Bridge and finally one of my people notice and call the police. Further upstream they discharge me of my awful secret and find the torso of the black boy they name Adam, wearing a pair of orange shorts around the stumps of this poor little legs. I am sure this was some sort of ritual killing.
The little boy had been in this country but I few days as I could sense foreign lands on his skin. The police didn’t catch the people who committed this awful crime. I think I helped to prevent any further murders, thanks to the publicity my Londoners gave the heinous act. Had I released him to the North Sea no-one would have known of Adam or his ignoble death. I shed a tear for Adam but I flow on.
It is the 20th January 2006 and I am so excited, as a bottlenose whale, who I shall name the Princess is swimming in my waters. But I’m worried about my friend the Princess who doesn’t seem well – I can smell blood and wonder whether she collided with a boat on her confused journey. There are crowds cheering and looking on from my bridges and embankments. She is getting tired and I try to take her out to sea with my currents but she keeps getting grounded.
Well done you people of London, you’ve got a crane at Battersea Bridge and you put her on a barge to help me get my Princess safely to the sea at Margate, though in my heart I know we cannot succeed as her life ebbs away with my tides. We’ve made it to the QE2 Bridge at Dartford but my friend the Princess of Whales is now convulsing and she dies just before we reached Gravesend. The poor darling didn’t make it – she was just eleven but her time had come, as it comes to us all. I hope my rough river-bed didn’t contribute to her injuries as I tried so hard to get her home.
I cry but no-one sees my tears as I flow on.
And today I flow on once more.