Down by the river.

                                               The stale River.

                                      By  Samantha Zdanavich.

I can’t see the River anymore but I can smell it. It comes in through the kitchen window in the morning when I’m making tea, a stale stench that shuffles slowly in the room, uninvited like Uncle Jimmy in his slippers. But, I hardly notice it now, been living here far too long, although, if the smell disappeared I think I would notice. I’m completely blind in one eye and the other eye I can only see shadows. It is enough for me to have my independence, although I’m sure that will be gone soon.
I have always lived by the Thames. I would hate to live anywhere else. It’s what I’m used to. Significant things in my life have happened on or by the River.  It is on the Greenwich pier that I lost my virginity. Yes, right behind the foot tunnel entrance. I told that to the woman from the RNIB on Wednesday afternoon.
‘I was nine years old when it happened.’ I said.
 She gasped and shook her head.
Of course, what I hadn’t told her was that it was an accident.
My parents were in the Gypsy Moth pub not far from the Cutty Sark tea clipper in its dry dock. Their drunken talk of travelling through Europe, and how my stepfather was going to become a great playwright bored me. So out of the pub I wondered, along Greenwich Village towards the Magic shop to see if they had any new vampire teeth. They’d run out, you see, last time I was in there, because every kid in the area wanted a pair. It was the new craze. They had just put out some new stock, so I grabbed a pair, they cost me fifty pence. I ripped the packet open and shoved them straight into my mouth. I smiled a proud plastic vampire grin to every person that I encountered on my way back to the pub.
Only, when I got there my parents had wondered off. It’s not unusual for them to forget I exist. I ran out of the pub and on to the pier. I thought, maybe they were probably staggering along towards home. I ran around the Cutty Sark. It was devoid of tourists and locals, empty. I felt a little scared. Saturday was normally very busy in Greenwich.
I ran towards the foot-tunnel, which had now closed the gate to the lift, but the stairs were still open. I hated the foot-tunnel. Its dark red-bricked entrance reminded me of an old Victorian toilet. The kind that old creepy men, like Uncle Jimmy, seeped in the smell of urine, Old spice and cheap tobacco would grab at you, given half the chance.  This thought, now entrenched in my mind gave me goose bumps. I was scared, my heart and eyes raced to find my staggering parents. It was beginning to rain. Big splodges of summer water began to drop on the dry concreted pavement as I ran along the pier clenching my new plastic teeth in my mouth. The sweet yeasty smell of the local sugar factory mixed with the stale muddy river made my head swirl. Then I saw them.
Behind the Foot-tunnel dome, they were slopping against the railings, peering over at the Thames, laughing in their warped legless stupor. I was so angry. How dare they laugh, when I felt so alone. I ran full pelt through the rain, foaming and dribbling spit down my chin as I clenched down hard biting back my anger. And that’s when it happened.
Down I went, hard. Hitting the concrete. My right leg slipped forward, my left held straight back. Directly into straddle splits. Who falls into such a position?
I screamed. The teeth toppled out of my mouth onto the floor. I was flat against the concrete, I couldn’t move. Oh, how they laughed.
I shook from pain and anger as my mother dragged me up from the floor. ‘Bang goes your virginity.’ she said as we made our way back home. She was right; there was blood in my knickers.
I never could wear vampire teeth after that, although, I could show-off at school, now being able to do the splits. I became the new Trampoline star.  Not that my parents noticed. I brought home badges and certificates, commendation from my sports teacher. Being that flexible had its advantages. They would ask me to do the splits at family occasions and at Christmas, when we visited Uncle Jimmy.  Of course, I was at a more appropriate age when I lost my real virginity. That happened on a sunny Sunday afternoon and I was twenty-two. It wasn’t like I had imagined, or anything like the stories I’d heard from girls at school. It didn’t hurt.
There are plenty of other moments that happened down by the river. Down by the stale Thames. I may not be able to see the river, but I know it is there.