The Frost Fair of 1789

William pushed his feet forward to get the next cosy stall sitting on the ice of the Thames. Sellers had 

perched their little beige tents made of little more than fabric, sticks and string two days ago and there 

was no way of knowing when they would pack back up again. He was determined to make the most of 

the tuppence the men guarding the algae-covered steps had charged him to come down onto the solid 

river and the tuppence they would inevitably charge him to climb back up. He narrowly avoided the carefree 

children chasing after a football; they pounded relentlessly on the ice, so sure of its thickness. The frost 

fair had people wrapped up warm and burning logs right there on the river. Puppet shows gathered large 

crowds. Music filled the air. He stopped to listen to the musicians, noticing their delight as people flicked 

coins into their basket.

The reedy music was punctuated by a crack. A careless stallholder had dropped a barrel on the ice, the 

wood splitting and flooding the ground with sweet mead. Everyone stopped in their tracks as another snap 

rang through the air. An evil white line appeared below the musicians’ already soaked feet. They shuffled 

slowly away, prepared to relocate when the white line widened and turned black, growing and birthing 

new lines until the ice gave way and swallowed them.

The hole yawned wider as the weakened ice struggled to bear the weight of so many people. William ran 

as fast as the river’s surface would allow, but it was no use. The water was so cold it burned his skin as 

he slipped under.

- WR