Chapter 17: The Man of the Mist (2)
Episode 17. The Man of the Mist (2)
Thus, after the morning meeting ended, we walked along the Thames River for a while. I remained silent, and Liam simply followed me with his hands politely behind his back. Mist was gently creeping in, the river flowed, and people came and went. To be honest, it wasn’t romantic. The morning fog carried a stench. A putrid smell that made my stomach churn, slick and nauseating.
You might not imagine it, but as Henry Mayhew once described, the Thames River, regardless of location, smelled like a cemetery. Though human corpses didn’t float up frequently (though they were sometimes found), it was no different from a river of death. This area was relatively developed, and because it was near Belgravia and Westminster where the high and mighty frequented, it was less pronounced. But if you saw the Thames near the slums, you’d react the same way.
In the slums along the docks and riverbanks, the stench was severe. The most infamous area for this was Jacob’s Island, located at the confluence of the Thames and the Neckinger River. Although called an island, it was actually an area surrounded by a drainage ditch near George Row and London Street, with St. Saviour’s Dock to the west. Typical of British naming, it wasn’t an island in the middle of the river as one might first think.
The Morning Chronicle sarcastically referred to this place as “the capital of cholera” (because those who used contaminated water fell ill with cholera) and “the Venice of drainage.”
Jacob’s Island was a cluster of rickety bridges and densely packed houses. After Charles Dickens made it famous with ‘Oliver Twist’, these slums became fodder for many creators. House sewage flowed directly into the river(!), and rotting animal carcasses were pushed up against the banks. Dead fish piled up in clumps. Some areas of the filthy river seemed to run red with blood, causing fear among the people, but it was due to pollution from nearby factories.
Novelists saw all this ugliness as romantic, but for those living there, their gaze and sharp pens were the real ugliness. Their writings turned the slums into a tourist attraction for gentlemen and ladies, who clogged the old bridges while holding their noses and gawking. Isn’t that a disgusting romance? Romanticising because it didn’t happen to them.
Of course, compared to the 1840s when ‘Oliver Twist’ was written, now (around 1870) it had lost much of its “prime island” reputation. Many buildings were demolished, and efforts to remove the drainage ditch and level the land were underway. The number of houses decreased, and some changes occurred compared to the past when people drank putrid water from the ditch. The city’s maladies continued, but thanks to morally driven individuals trying to resolve these issues.
Liam Moore pulled me out of my reverie as I stared at the Thames flowing beneath the pedestrian bridge. The wet stones from the early morning rain were slippery. If he hadn’t grabbed me, I would have surely had a deep kiss with the Thames’s sewage. His face was urgent as he embraced my waist, perhaps even looking foolish. I didn’t particularly like his face—cold, yet youthful and round from certain angles. Often, I saw the foggy London in his eyes.