Elspeth Ann Thomas Fry (elspeth_fry) wrote in v_nocturne_rpg, @ 2009-06-21 20:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | elspeth fry |
By the Thames
Elspeth's Journal
June 22, 1891
Another night onboard the ship and I dare not leave my cabin, because the corridors are rank with the stench of frying fish.
I have always despised fish, in part because I am stricken with a particularly delicate nose, but also because of the incident at the Millwall docks when I was not older than ten. Quite a dreadful day that was, dragged to the edge of the Thames by my father's hand in the suffocating heat of mid-afternoon. In those days, the Royal Albert docks were not yet complete, and the planners paraded many a clerk by Millwall to consult on the various options for expansion, now that the riverbank was overcrowded.
As we arrived, my father became engaged in conversation and I, with a child's natural curiosity, crept closer and peered into the murky waters. Tiny waves slapped against the wood, sounding like the tongues of thirsty dogs. A boat had only just docked, in from a fishing trip. It was called the 'Randy Seafarer'. My mind translated that into a proper name, a rich fellow by the name of Randolph who owned the vessel. The fishermen cast their monstrous net overboard. It was filled with the slick, silver bodies of sprat. They were dead, but as the small fish slipped the net and landed around my buckled shoes, I daydreamt they sprung back to life. Their vacuous eyes blinked, their mouths gaped, and they flipped and turned somersaults beneath my hem.
The shock of it sent me tumbling over the dock. I would have been fully submerged, had not my good dress gotten hung on a nail and left me dangling there in the semi-nude, bunched around my neck like a fashionable noose. I don't consider myself over-religious to claim that Providence saved me from a miserable, drowning death that day, even if it could not save my dignity.
Now I find myself on such a dock regularly. In the first few months of training for the Royal Inquisition, I had the luxury of living at home in my late husband's house. Once initiated, however, the offer was extended to live aboard the Whitechapel, which I accepted this week, after much shuffling of my feet. As much as I loathe the water, I must admit I've found it to be a blessing. It removes me from the increasing scrutiny of my family and the household staff, who wonder (frequently and aloud) what manner of work the crown has for a woman such as myself. They can never be told the truth and, frankly, I'd never want them to learn it.
Luckily, I am not prone to sea-sickness, which is more than can be said for some of my fellows. When a storm works the river into a frenzy, or on the rare occasion that we leave the dock, their retching sounds make a human orchestra. It's quite pitiful, grown men spilling their guts into buckets all around my cabin. After all, we aren't exactly onboard a dingy! So, I suppose you could say that's a drawback.
Well, I'll either have to retire two hours early, out of simple boredom, or venture outside and get to the library. Hopefully, the cook's particular form of olfactory torture hasn't drifted into the bowels of the ship.
Elle