My left hand suddenly slipped on the rust-coated bar. I quickly took a fresh grip. The cold was beginning to tell on me. Soon my hands would be numb and I should have to let go and attempt to get back into the sewer. And perhaps I should never have the strength to swim out to the grille again. I had to do something. I began to shout. I shouted till my throat was rough. My calls echoed back at me from the sewer. The big stone archway rang with my cries. But no one came. I began to scream. The panic feeling of a drowning man had seized me. But it was Saturday. No one was about. And when no one came or answered, blank despair suddenly fell upon me. I was suddenly silent, clutching the cold bars with my hands and looking out upon the river with my chin just above the water. And with my silence, came a mental calm, and I knew that I must either go back or find a means of going forward. And whichever I did, I should have to do it quickly.
There was only one possible chance of going forward. I took a deep breath, shut my mouth and then, with my hands on the bars, pushed myself under the water. It seemed a long way that I went down, and all the time my feet were against the bars. My lungs felt as though they would burst. But one more thrust of my arms and my feet were no longer touching the bars. I felt about, but there were no bars where my feet were. Another thrust and they sank into the mud. I let go my hold of the bars and struggled to the surface, where I gulped in fresh air in great mouthfuls.
I rested for a moment, clutching the bars again. I reckoned there was a gap of about two feet, or perhaps a little more, between the end of the bars and mud. But it was a long dive and there was the mud. I had an awful fear of being caught in that mud. And then there might be spikes sticking out on the other side, which would prevent me from rising.
It was a long time before I could pluck up the necessary courage. But with every minute I was getting colder. And so, suddenly, like a diver taking his first plunge of the year, I took a deep breath and began thrusting myself down hand over hand. It was done before I had time to think about it. In no time, it seemed, my feet were clear of the bars. I thrust myself sideways, pulling my body down with my hands, like a monkey crawling across the face of his cage. I felt the pointed end of a bar. The water was singing in my ears. I thrust myself farther down. I felt my body press against mud that yielded and bubbled unpleasantly. I had the point of a bar in the palm of my hand. I thrust myself under it. For a moment my foot became entangled with the points of the bars. My lungs now felt as though they must burst my chest apart. I wrenched my foot clear, and in the same movement, thrust myself upwards, letting go my hold on the bars.
I thought I should never reach the surface. But I did, and as I panted for breath, I found the tide carrying me slowly towards the wharf. It was perhaps as well, for I was very weak now. But I had sense enough to realise that the tide might grow stronger and sweep me past the ladder if I did not fend for myself. I summoned my last remaining energy, and with a few desperate strokes, reached the ladder and hung there, gasping and half crying.
I never thought a ladder twenty feet high could seem so far. My clothes, sodden with water, added to my weight, and my exhausted muscles, now relaxed in the relief of safety, would scarcely pull me from one rung to the next.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I hauled myself up on to that wharf I was met by the full force of a bitter east wind. My skin was blue and I was shivering from cold and exhaustion. That wind seemed to blow right through my sodden clothes direct on to my naked flesh. I looked around me. Behind, across a huddle of cranes and masts and funnels, I saw the misty outline of Tower Bridge. Ahead stretched the river, bending away to the Lower Pool, the brown waters flecked with little tufts of white as the wind whipped chilly at the wave caps. The wharf was deserted.
Wretched with cold, I crossed the uneven planks, leaving a trail of water behind me. At the back of the wharf rose the grimy mass of the warehouse. The air was full of the smell of malt and cinnamon and sacks; a queer, musty, but exciting conglomeration of scents. The entrances to the warehouse were barred with worn wooden doors. The place looked like some old barracks. But between it and the next warehouse were steps leading up from the river. By climbing down over some old barrels, I reached these steps. They led up to a narrow street lined with warehouses on the river side. On the other side, the buildings were much lower, mainly shops and lodging houses. During working hours it would be fantastically congested with lorries and carts, but now it was quiet and practically deserted. A dirty cast-iron street sign told me that this was Wapping High Street. Anything less like a high street I have never seen. But I found a little eating place called Alf’s Dining Rooms and went in. There was no one there. But at the tinkle of a door bell an old woman came out from the back quarters. When she saw me, she stopped and stared, her mouth agape. I am not surprised. I must have presented a sorry spectacle, standing there, the water dripping from my clothes, which stank ruthlessly in the warmth of that eating-house.
My teeth chattering, I explained to her that I had fallen into the river. I was too dulled by cold and fatigue to tell her my wants. I did not even tell her that I had any money. ‘It’s a cold day for falling in the river,’ was all she said, and led me through into the kitchen at the back. She shooed a big full-bosomed girl from her pastry-making and sent her upstairs for blankets. Then she told me to strip. I was too far gone to feel any sense of discomfort at her presence. In front of the blazing range I stood and towelled myself down. The warmth and the friction soon restored my circulation.
In the midst of this an old man dressed in a seaman’s cap and jersey came in. He stopped at the sight of me, standing nude before the fire. Then he took the pipe out of his mouth and spat in the coal bucket. ‘’Ullo, ma,’ he said. ‘See yer’ve got company, like.’
I hastened to explain. But he held up his hand. ‘Now why bother to explain,’ he said. ‘Nobody explains things around ’ere, see. They just ’appens. You fell in the river. Orl right. But what I says is the river ’as acquired a fruitier scent than when I last smelt it. So you keep yer explanations to them as wants ’em, me lad.’
There was nothing I could say to that. If I told him the truth, he would never believe me. And if I made up a lie, he wouldn’t believe that either. We just left it at that. I wrapped myself in the blankets that the girl had brought down and, sitting like an Indian in front of the fire, I ran through my sodden garments, removing anything of value that remained in the pockets. Fortunately my wallet was still there. In it were three wet pound notes. And I found two half-crowns and several coppers in the pocket of my trousers.
I looked across at the old man, who had sat himself down on a chair. ‘Have you got any clothes you’d be willing to sell me?’ I asked. I pointed to the pound notes in the wallet. ‘I expect they’ll dry all right, won’t they?’
‘Blimey!’ he said. ‘Where did yer get those?’ Then he picked himself up. ‘Orl right, me lad. Never mind where they comes from. They’ll dry out orl right. But if it’s orl the same to you, I’ll take those two halfcrowns. And in exchange you can ’ave a pair of my old trousers and a sweater.’
He disappeared upstairs. The old woman came and picked up my clothes. ‘You’d better throw those away,’ I said. ‘They’re in a filthy state.’