Once Upon a River

“Simply, with no embellishments, Frederick told what had happened at the Swan these last hours.

Leaning out of the window, the neighbor was drawn in, at first unwillingly, to the story, then she called someone behind her.

‘Come, Wilfred! Listen to this!’”

The narrator provides insight into how the story of The Child travels and, in doing so, highlights the way that stories grow past their source material. Before the night is through, Fredrick has communicated the events at the Swan to enough people that the story becomes uncontrollable. Like a river, the story flows from one person to the next, and listeners are reluctantly drawn in just like swimmers can’t escape a strong current.

“And there is more: what we see on a map is only the half of it. A river no more begins at its source than a story begins with the first page. [...] The beginning of the Thames is not the beginning—or, rather, it is only to us that it seems like a beginning.”

This is the first direct comparison of rivers and stories. The narrator explains how a person’s perception of a river (and stories) centers on a beginning. But this “beginning” depends on a person’s relation to the river—and to the story. In truth, rivers and stories constantly flow around us, regardless of our presence. This extended metaphor carries to the end of the novel, urging the reader to consider water and stories synonymously.

“It was surprising how a man’s mind might remain half in shadow until the right confidant appeared, and Maud had been that confidant. Without her he might never have known certain things about himself or about his son.”

Maud the pig is personified in her absence. The narrator shares her high intelligence and the connection she shared with Robert to imply her humanlike characteristics. Further, it leads Robert to reflect on Robin, beginning to build Robin’s character as a long-term source of heartache.

“[…] Something is going to happen.”

This phrase is repeated multiple times in consecutive chapters towards the beginning of the book, shortly before the three main groups—The Armstrongs, The Vaughans, and Lily—learn of The Child at the Swan. It then returns at the end of the novel when Rita and Daunt start their family. Its refrain centers on the three families who claim The Child as theirs, tying them together before their motivations are made clear in an example of long-form parallelism. It also signifies very clearly to the reader that events are about to unfold. Its return at the end of the book, closely aligned to Rita and Daunt’s happy ending, shows the cyclical nature of stories. It also implies that Rita and Daunt have more to look forward to—however, the reader is not privy to the rest of their story.

“When the time was right he would run away—and be part of the story.”

It is unclear if this moment is Ben’s thoughts or the narrator’s interpretations. This reinforces the multilayered nature of the narrative at work, showing the different perceptions of a story. It foreshadows Ben’s return at the end of the novel, when he successfully flees his abusive home and becomes integral to the Armstrong family; thus, this line can be read both as Ben’s conviction, and as the omniscient narrator’s revelation of future events.

“Why rack his brains solving one problem after another, to make a success of this, when it was so much easier to let it go? There was a particular satisfaction in the dismantling, auctioning off, melting down, and dispersal of the world he had spent so much time and money building up. Making his meticulous lists was an opportunity to forget. He counted, measured, listed, and felt soothed in his boredom. It helped him forget Amelia.”

This is an example of how grief is processed by a character who has experienced serious trauma. Anthony devotes himself to tasks so that he does not have to think about his daughter, repressing his true feelings. This prevents him from mourning and perpetuates the pain of her passing.

“At the time of this story, the Quietly of the day had a daughter. She was the apple of his eye, and doted upon by her parents and grandparents alike. One day she went missing. They looked everywhere for the child, alerted neighbors, and till night fell the riverbank rang with the sound of her mother and other people calling her name.”

Rita tells Daunt the story of Quietly the ferryman, one of the running myths at work in the novel. This story has many uncanny similarities to events in the real world, including Amelia’s kidnapping and the near-drowning of The Child. Rita and Daunt both express amusement at the story, as they prefer logic over mythos. This establishes them as scientific centers for the story to come.

“It was a name he had constantly to practice, for it never came without having to leap over an obstacle, and the effort made it sound somewhat forced even to his own ears.”

Anthony’s discomfort at The Child’s identity becomes clear as he struggles to say “her” name. To avoid critique or confusion from the people who know him, he must practice saying “Amelia” in private. His grief over the real Amelia’s death haunts him, but until he can tell the truth he is trapped by his own version of events.

“‘I know what it means, all right. But you can’t say she was ‘haring up the river.’’

‘Whyever not?’

‘Have you ever seen a hare rowing a boat?’”

This slightly satirical exchange plays with how idioms and figures of speech develop. The storytellers explore ways to say “quickly” and, in doing so, tease each other for their efforts to explore new applications of language. This humorously alludes to other idioms that seem strange when taken literally but have nonetheless endured.

“They might have let it drop. They might have given it up as one of those tales that comes from nowhere and has nowhere to go. But at the end of sentences and between words, when voices tailed off and conversations halted, in the profound lull that lies between all storytelling, there floated the girl herself. In this room, in this inn, they had seen her dead and seen her alive. Unknowable, ungraspable, inexplicable, still one thing was plain: she was their story.”

This quote shows how The Child symbolizes different things for the people around her. The mystery of The Child’s survival possesses the storytellers as they struggle to reconcile their own observations with the fairytale potential of the evening. Further, this moment emphasizes how everyone who meets The Child is drawn to her, causing the regulars to have a sense of ownership over her.

“There are stories that may be told aloud, and stories that must be told in whispers, and there are stories that are never told at all. The story of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong was one of these latter ones, known only to the two parties to whom it belonged and the river. But as secret visitors to this world, as border crossers between one world and another, there is nothing to prevent us sitting by the river and opening our ears; then we will know it too.”

The narrator highlights the power of situational secrecy while also inviting the reader to learn the story as a fellow omniscient observer. This is the first time that the narrative is interrupted by an anecdote that has “never [been] told at all.” In doing so, it introduces the reader to the first real antagonist of the novel, Bess’s assaulter, and foreshadows his return.

“The events of six months ago seemed very distant now, for on a summer day winter always seems like something you have dreamt or heard spoken of and not a thing you have lived. […] Yet the longest day of summer is the reversed twin of winter’s long night, and this being so, one solstice inevitably recalls the other—and if there were some that did not connect the two days, Owen himself reminded them.”

The narrator calls attention to the cyclical nature of stories and storytellers. On the longest day of the year, people at the Swan once again think of The Child. Albright, who was present when The Child and Daunt came to the Swan, inserts himself into a narrative that is much larger than any one person. He resuscitates the tale because he wants to be part of it.

“The onlookers waited as at the theater for the scene to continue. […] Something had to happen next, but there was uncertainty in the air. The actors had forgotten their lines, and each one waited for the other to pick up the story. The moment seemed destined to be without end, and the murmurs were rising from the audience, when a voice rose above the confusion.”

The narrator highlights the ambiguity of Robin’s claim to The Child by comparing it to a theater performance. This transforms the characters into performers forced into a narrative. This moment of doubt about The Child’s identity perpetuates her mystique, allowing questions of her parentage to continue even though she has already been accounted for. It calls back the night The Child was found, referencing the same observational environment that overtook the inn while the Vaughans removed her. Both times, The Child winds up in the arms of a man who claims to be her father while everyone else is helpless to intercede.

“‘Once upon a time, there was a man who drove his horse and cart into the river—and he weren’t never seen again! Oh, no!’ His face twisted and he flapped his hand in frustration. ‘That’s not right!’ he cried with good-natured annoyance at himself. ‘I missed the middle bit!’”

This moment foreshadows Jonathan’s role at the end of the novel by establishing that he cannot tell stories. His struggle to create fantasy gives him authority as an inherently truthful individual amongst storytellers. Jonathan is unique in his inability to tell stories, making him the one character in the novel who is free of embellishments.

“He shook his head. ‘There will—always be—the river.’”

As Joe faces his own mortality, he notes that he will not miss the river because of its eternal nature. This is an allusion to the mythology of death being a river, such as the River Styx from Greek mythology. Joe will miss his loved ones because they are tied directly to the mortal realm. But he has no reason to miss the river, since it will be there for his soul just as it was for his body. This comparison also adds credibility to the idea of Quietly the ferryman as a mythological spirit farer.

“Fancy being afraid of water. It’s everywhere. Places you can see it. Places you can’t. Places you know about it and places you don’t. Funny thing, water.”

Victor mocks Lily’s fear of water, a fear that he created by tricking her into thinking she drowned her baby sister Ann. This is one way he psychologically manipulates Lily, reinforcing the depth of his cruelty and the level of control he has over her. By emphasizing the constant presence of water, he implies that Ann’s ghost can follow Lily wherever she goes, taking away any sense of security she previously held.

“She remembered the letter that had started it all, the torn fragments in Robin’s pocket that she and Armstrong had pieced so unsuccessfully together. ‘Alice, Alice, Alice,’ she had repeated then. The name was available to her tongue tonight, but she hesitated to pronounce it.”

Just as Anthony struggled to say “Amelia,” Bess cannot call The Child “Alice.” This implies that Bess does not believe The Child is her granddaughter even before Rita mentions her own doubts, perpetuating The Child’s lack of belonging. Bess claims she has a Seeing eye; this adds another hint of mysticism to The Child. The Child’s presence in the Armstrong household joins two supposedly magical people together. 

“They sat on the bank. It was better to tell such stories close to the river than in a drawing room. Words accumulate indoors, trapped by walls and ceilings. The weight of what has been said can lie heavily on what might yet be said and suffocate it. By the river the air carries the story on a journey: one sentence drifts away and makes room for the next.”

The river is once again linked to storytelling as the narrator draws a comparison between a river’s natural flow and a story’s progression. Tragic stories and rivers both need space to flow. The characters go to the river to learn Amelia Vaughan’s true fate, and in doing so they return to the setting of the Vaughans’ story. Physically and emotionally, they’ve returned to the past.

“Against this background, and nourished by the uncertainty of the child’s identity, a seed that had been sown some months ago and given rise to nothing at the time saw a belated germination. The great-aunt of one of the gravel diggers had reckoned she’d seen the child had no reflection when she looked in the river. Now the second cousin of a cressman said that was all wrong. He’d seen the child staring in the river and had witnessed this mystifying thing: the child had two reflections, each one resembling the other in every detail. Spurred by this, other stories began to circulate.”

This provides an example of the negative power of stories. While most of the stories told in the novel are positive, rumors that the child is harmful or dangerous begin to circulate. This reinforces the magical beliefs of the period by describing several “mystifying” observations that label the child as “other”, setting her apart from the community. These negative stories can have detrimental effects, something that holds true within the real world.

“Thereafter the hours were very long, and very short. While the water lay unperturbed and indifferent all around, the women at the Swan were engaged on the human pursuits of dying and being born. On one side of the wall Helena struggled to deliver her baby into life. On the other side, Joe struggled to depart it.”

The author juxtaposes life and death. Joe’s story ends while the baby’s story begins at the Swan, a place known for its stories and storytelling. This is a further extended metaphor for the novel itself: Even as it ends, the narrator hints at the continuation of the story.

“Lily swallowed. Tears welled in her. She hadn’t thought it would be like this. She had expected heaving masses of water, violent currents, and murderous waves, not this. It was serenity without end. Motionless, she stood in her doorway, staring at the fearful loveliness. It barely moved, just shimmered at times, peacefully alive.”

Lily is finally at peace as she overcomes her fear of water. This fear, rooted in her childhood trauma, fades after Victor’s death and allows her to see the beauty of water and how it fosters life. The calm of the flood symbolizes her newfound emotional stability, allowing her to move on from Ann’s death.

“‘It’s too serious a thing for a boy to be telling stories about it,’ suggested Daunt.

Everybody present opened their mouths and said as one: ‘But Jonathan can’t tell stories.’

In the corner, Armstrong shook his head in quiet wonderment. He’d seen her too. Sitting behind her ferryman father as he propelled the punt so powerfully between the worlds of the living and the dead, between reality and a story.”

Jonathan presents the room with the girl’s fate, linking her to Quietly. His previous inability to tell stories provides veracity to his claim, which is further reinforced by Armstrong’s experiences that night. This is a key moment which builds the mythos of the Swan and the nearby parts of the Thames, centering the community with a new legend.

“But if you remember that every one of us spent the first nine months of our existence suspended in a sac filled with liquid, perhaps that makes it a little less incredible. Remember that our land-going, oxygen-breathing selves derive from underwater life—that we once lived in water as we now live in air. Think of that, and doesn’t the impossible start to edge closer to the conceivable?”

Near the novel’s conclusion, Rita uses science to understand what may have happened the night that Daunt and The Child almost died. She uses her knowledge of anatomy and evolution to theorize that the girl’s survival has a logical explanation, but one that science can’t yet explain. This moment reminds the reader of the time period. It also shows that Rita has moved beyond her need for an actual answer. She is content with her theory and changes her focus to becoming a mother.