Read by Claire Lacey - first story in podcast, link below:
S&L Podcast (right click Open Link in New Tab to enable fast-forwarding)
For the first time in months he’s looking forward to going out to play, because Christmas is over. In December, his friends anticipated the special day, and in January the memory of the festivities was still bright enough to inform each conversation. Nobody who lived in Cheapside was rich, but they’d all had a goose or a duck for the meal and a wooden present. Christmas Day had been acknowledged, and stood signal enough in their lives to furnace the imagination.
In George's house there had only been a void since his mother’s death. It had become a place without care.
But now it’s February and Christmas has faded away. Games can be enjoyed once more, George tells himself, folding up his shirt sleeves so nobody will see the tears. He pushes his feet, toes showing through the ends of his socks, into scuffed and broken shoes, not looking at his father, slumped on the stool in the corner.
"Where you going?"
"Nowhere."
"Got any money?"
George shakes his head.
"Not sure what she saw in you," says his father, voice low and battered, "not much use."
Despite the harsh words, as his father speaks, George feels a soft whisper on his palm, a new phantom, a memory of when it was once held. He almost reaches out to his father, but then his stomach groans and he is overcome by hunger. He’s not sure where his next meal will come from. Is his father hungry too? He never sees the man eat nowadays.
“Just get out of here.”
Their kitchen opens out straight onto the frozen street, cobbles like sunken treasure, and George slips. He grabs the side of his house to steady himself, leaving his hand black with dirt, and hearing a laugh looks up to see his friend Stephen at the end of the road. The boy waves George upwards, as if he’s an angel, calling the dying towards the light.
He starts towards Stephen, moving carefully, his hand scraping against the rough brickwork of the alleyway. But, from behind, he’s called by someone else.
"George, that you?"
He turns and sees Mr Palmer exiting his own house. A docker, like George’s father used to be, the boy has known him his whole life.
"You busy, son? Or would you like to earn a bit of money?"
It’s phrased as a question but of course it’s not, because no child in George's position, indeed nobody he knows, would refuse the chance to earn something. So, looking back towards Stephen, stood there above him, the early morning sun streaming through his blond hair, George shakes his head, then turns back to Mr Palmer.
"Yes sir. Please."
The job is to hand out some pamphlets. Rapidly made, ink running down the yellowing paper, the tight-knit writing advertises something George is unfamiliar with.
"A frost fair?"
"Down the river," says Mr Palmer. "We can't work. It’s the only way to earn anything for the next few days. Can you help or not?"
George, thinking of his father and feeling hungry, nods.
"Good lad."
At the frost fair, the pamphlet tells him, there are to be games, such as bull-baiting and nine-pin bowling; gin and Brunswick Mum, gingerbread and roast ox. The thought of the roast ox makes George’s stomach rumble again.
Mr Palmer hasn't said where to hand the pamphlets out, but George assumes he wants them as widely distributed as possible. And if he does a good job perhaps Mr Palmer will pay him to do something else? So he goes all the way up Holborn Viaduct.
"If I'm good," he says to himself, "maybe Mr Palmer will take me on as an apprentice?"
When he’s done he sits in the shadow of Christchurch Greyfriars and catches his breath. A well-to-do woman with two girls walks past. She’s wearing a long black dress but the girls wear white. The older one, about 12 or 13, runs ahead for a moment and is called back. George watches her closely as she returns, ashamed of her exuberance.
He realises he didn't ask Mr Palmer for payment. He could get the money tomorrow, but if he gets it today, perhaps he can buy something for dinner, something for himself and his father. And if he does, maybe his father will be pleased with him? So he sets off towards the river, where he knows Mr Palmer will be, near the church of Magnus the Martyr.
His walk to the river takes him through Middle Temple, where London's lawyers work. He’s not meant to go that way, through the private warren of narrow alleyways and locked-off squares, but it’s the quickest way down to the water. There are guardsmen at the entrance and throughout the maze of offices, but George knows he can dodge them. What can they do to him anyway? Give him a clip round the ear, maybe a black eye? He's had worse.
At one point he passes a young man in spotless robes, a clean white shirt beneath them, a wig on his head. The young man looks scared as George passes him, then smiles at the unkempt and dirty child. George smiles back and wonders what it must be like to have a life in front of you.
He leaves the complex through its ornate gate onto the riverfront, then stops and holds one hand against his face, to see if he can feel it. Because what he’s seeing isn't real, it can't be real. The river’s frozen solid, it’s covered with people, as if the city of London has spilled its banks in reverse, onto the river.
This must be the frost fair, he realises: a party on the Thames itself, the city's population taking its chance to run and laugh and dance on the river that flows through it. He watches for a moment, expecting the ice to crack and the people to vanish, pulled under, tricked by the water gods. Yet it seems as solid as the flagstones that stand in front of nearby St Paul’s Cathedral, looking over the scene yet passing no judgement.
George walks forward, crossing the wide street that leads towards Westminster Abbey, so icy that no horses or carriages dare use it today. Today, for the first time maybe, the city is for those like him and his father, who have no money but understand what the city gives them with its beauty and grace.
When he stands at the edge of the frozen river he finds he’s almost unable to take the final step. What if this is a dream, brought on by the hope of a warm meal and a tomorrow? The people before him, laughing, kissing, seem unreal, some memory of an ancient joy, forgotten civilisations.
As the snow that lies above the river’s ice gives way beneath his shoes he can feel it melt around his feet, and his socks grow wet. A family walks in front of him and one of them, a boy about his own age, scoops up a snowball and throws it at his father. George holds his breath – but the boy's father continues on his way and his son runs after him to grab him by the arm, to be carried onwards by his solidity.
He walks on towards Blackfriars Bridge. Its black bulk seems reassuring and he still feels as if the ice below his boots, the solid Thames, cannot be real. Blackfriars Bridge is real, it has always been there, always will be. He looks around as he walks, for Mr Palmer, or any other docker, he knows them all. They’re organising this, their usual livelihoods ruined by the ice-bound tide.
He passes the entertainment, the food stalls, the men and women already collapsed with gin. A roar comes from his right: bull-baiting, hungry hounds ripping at the flesh of a shabby, starving bull. He wonders how long it will be before he finds Mr Palmer.
Then he smells roasting meat and turns towards the scent. It comes from one arch of the bridge, not far ahead. A whole ox is turning slowly on a spit: the fire below it rages red and blue, yet it’s still not enough to melt through the frozen river. Unbidden, George's feet make their way towards the sight. He has no money for food, but knows a whole ox can feed a thousand people. Perhaps there might be a little for him.
As he gets closer the smell grows stronger, the warm and acrid aroma of fat screaming away from flesh. A group has gathered round the spit, taking in the heat and anticipating the taste of meat. George pushes his way through them, knowing any dream of a free meal is forlorn, yet still hoping.
The cook clangs his fork against the side of the spit, letting everybody know the feast is ready, and the watchers step forward to buy their slices wrapped in warmed bread. George moves forward with them and after a second finds himself in front of the cook, who looks down on him.
"Money?"
George shakes his head,
The cook shoves him backwards and somebody else, somebody with means, steps past. George finds himself pushed further and further back until he’s at the outside of the circle, watching as people walk away, bite down into their meal, the juices running down their chins and falling to the snow.
He sits down, too hungry to move further: the ice underneath him sends cold up through his bones. He watches those lucky enough to afford food, in case one of them drops a sliver of meat, but none does. George closes his fist on a lump of snow before him, crushing it into a tight diamond.
A shadow falls across him and he looks up, but the man above is in silhouette, the sun behind him. He’s short and scrawny, his clothes hang off him as if they had once fitted. What does he want?
"Have you seen it?"
"Seen what?"
The man holds out a hand, beckoning, and as George rises he recognises the man is his father – but in the sunlight he looks out of place, like a winter bird caught in summer. His unexpected arrival, unexpected closeness, makes his son feel more alone.
"What?" repeats George, not sure what else to say.
His father says nothing, but he starts to walk and his son trails behind him. They draw ever close to the riverbank.
"Look," says his father, pointing.
George looks first at his father’s hand, then where he points. But he sees nothing, only a gaggle of people on the bank watching something come towards them from the town above. The group moves unsteadily, like a flock of sparrows, breaking apart in excitement then flowing back together.
He wants to say something to his father, ask him what he’s waiting for. But he’s scared, unsure, so stays silent.
A noise breaks the air, part scream, part bellow, part the distant sound of a far country – and a heavy, impossibly large shape walks onto the bank of the river. George has never seen such a beast before. Twice as tall as the tallest man, it throws its head back, points its strange long snout skywards and shouts at the sky. Its keeper pulls on the metal chain around its neck.
"An elephant," says George's father, "it's called an elephant."
George can't believe such a beast exists and, as it steps into the frozen Thames, he reaches back and finds his father's hand at last. His father’s rough and callused fingers surround his own, and George recalls their strength as he watches the creature. He expects the whole river to shatter as this unbelievable thing moves across it, an animal larger than he could ever have imagined. His father's hand feels warm in his as the creature takes one step and then another, always out of place.
Heavy step by heavy step it walks upon the river, and George watches as it resists and is pulled onward by its chain. He watches as the city gathers round, knowing nothing like this will happen again; watches as the children of the city, his friends among them, throw snowballs at the elephant and, when they’re bored of that, rocks.
He watches and the whole time he is convinced this is a dream, for he feels no hunger, and he holds his father's hand.
(c) JJ Surtees, 2024
JJ Surtees has published a couple of previous stories, including in Idle Ink magazine and Fictive Dream. He likes seals and is currently writing something about the Highgate Vampire.
Claire Lacey’s recent theatre work includes Veta Louise Simmons in Harvey at Vienna’s English Theatre. TV credits include Treason, Flatshare, Jerk & The Diplomat; Film credits include Kavita & Teresa, County Lines & 5lbs of Pressure. She is also an experienced voice-over artist & has provided the voices on several high-profile video games.
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