In the winter of 1739, the Thames stopped. I refused to believe it, but Martha dragged me down to the river to see how blocks of ice had formed around the piers of London Bridge and joined together to make a great plug that had stopped up the water. A bank of ice stretched from Southwark to the City. It was an amazing sight!
A whole street of tents had sprung up — each one a shop or a pub. People were walking down the ice as if they were in a city street. Those without shoes tied rags around their feet, others were on skates. Martha and I stood on the shore, gaping as strange carriages travelled between the banks: some of the watermen had fixed sledges to their boats so they wouldn’t lose trade.
Martha picked up her skirts and stepped out onto the frozen Thames.
“Come back!” I called. I was frightened the ice would open up and swallow her, but she just laughed. So I followed and, by the time I caught up with her, my breath was coming out in great, white clouds. Martha grinned at me and I could see diamonds of ice on her eyelashes. She pointed, and to my astonishment I saw a tent selling ale, another tent with a printing press selling ballads. One man was juggling. Another had a cart laden with fruit. An orange rolled off the cart and, quick as a flash, a boy streaked out from the shadow of a pier, grabbed the orange and vanished among the tents.
This was the Frost Fair. Apart from fruit-sellers, there were shoemakers, barbers, pie-sellers, three or four pubs, and some very brave prostitutes. There were bowling matches, cart races and dances. Most marvellous of all was a great fire glowing on the ice with a pig roasting on a spit. It made our stomachs groan but we had no coins for a slice of pork in a bun. Martha got us some food. She always knows how to use her wits. She told a lad she’d give him a kiss if he stole her a pie. He did and we shared it, sitting on an upturned crate.
Suddenly I heard a strange knocking sound. It came from behind, raced under my feet and disappeared ahead of me. I jumped up in alarm: “What’s that noise?”
Martha only laughed. “That’s nothing. It’s just river stuff: logs and bits of old wood carried along by the river and knocking against the ice.”
That made me shudder. Whatever it was had passed by so quickly, it made me think of dark rushing waters under the ice.
“I might go,” I said, trembling. “I’m getting cold.”
“Don’t go yet,” said Martha. “I’ll see if my new sweetheart can get us some ale and then we’ll have a dance.”
A few minutes later we both had mugs of ale and were dancing with some others to the music of a fiddle. At least Martha was dancing. I just swayed on the spot and looked around anxiously. That’s how I noticed it. There was a fire in front of the tent nearest us and at first I thought the tent was shimmering in the heat from the blaze. Then I realised that five or six tents were shuddering and moving up and down. I called Martha, but she was twirling around with her young lad and didn’t hear me. Other people began to notice. They stopped dancing and looked up. And then, from nowhere, there came a deafening crack followed by shrieks of fear as a dozen tents and a whole crowd of people dropped into the Thames. I saw Martha throw up her arms and fall. Then I saw her clinging to the ice, but the river had caught her skirts and was dragging her under.
Our eyes locked and she called to me. I dived onto my belly reaching out to her. She raised a hand but was sucked away under the ice. I couldn’t breathe — not as long as Martha was under the water. I plunged my arm into the icy river, seized her hair and pulled. I felt her hands grip my wrist, trying to pull herself up; but she was pulling me down and I began to slide towards the broken edge of the ice.
“Help!” I screamed. “It’s my friend, I’ve got her! Help me!” Suddenly, the lad who’d got us the pie was on his belly beside me, reaching into the water. Another man came and together we pulled Martha, white and shaking, onto the ice and at last I could breathe!
They wrapped her up and carried her off to the shore for some gin. I don’t know how I got off the ice myself. I just remember crawling and crying with relief. I didn’t see Martha for about three days and when she finally showed up back home, she complained I’d ripped half her hair out. But that was just Martha’s way. Every night for months she dreamed she was back under that ice and she would cry out and nestle in my arms. She knew I was the one who’d saved her.
