Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [63]
I was considering whether to edge forward so that I could understand what they saying more clearly when one of the younger men at the fence caught my eye. He was taller and thicker-set than Father Thames, but had the same long sinewy arms and narrow face.
‘You don’t want to be bothering with that,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a good half-hour before they get past the pleasantries.’ He reached out a large calloused hand to shake mine. ‘Oxley,’ he said.
‘Peter Grant,’ I said.
‘Come and meet the wife,’ he said.
The wife was a pretty woman with a rounded face and startling black eyes. She met us on the threshold of a modest 1960s caravan that was parked in its own little space to the left of the funfair.
‘This is my wife Isis,’ said Oxley, and to her, ‘This is Peter, the new apprentice.’
She took my hand. Her skin was warm, and with the same unreal perfection that I’d noticed on Beverley and Molly. ‘Delighted,’ she said. Her accent was pure Jane Austen.
We sat on folding chairs around a card table with a cracked linoleum top, decorated with a single daffodil arranged in a slender vase of fluted glass.
‘Would you like some tea?’ Isis asked, and when I hesitated said, ‘I, Anna Maria de Burgh Coppinger Isis solemnly swear on the life of my husband,’ which got a chuckle from Oxley, ‘and the future prospects of the Oxford rowing team that nothing you partake of in my house will place you under any obligation.’ She crossed her heart and gave me a little-girl smile.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Tea would be nice.’
‘I can see you’re wondering how we met,’ said Oxley.
I could see he wanted to tell the story. ‘I presume she fell into the river,’ I said.
‘You would presume wrong, sir,’ said Oxley. ‘Back in the day I had a great fondness for the theatre, and would often smarten myself up and row up to Westminster for an evening’s entertainment. Quite the peacock I was back then, and attracted, I like to think, many an admiring gaze.’
‘What with him traversing the cattle market at the time,’ said Isis, returning with the tea. The cups and teapot were modern porcelain, a very clean design with a stylish platinum strip around the lip, not chipped at all, I noticed. I suspected I was getting the VIP treatment, and I wondered why.
‘I first set eyes on my Isis at the old Royal on Drury Lane, this being the new one that burned down not long after. I was in the gods, and she was in a box with her dear friend Anne. I was smitten, but alas she already had her fancy man.’ He paused long enough to pour the tea. ‘Although he suffered a terrible disappointment, I can tell you.’
‘Hush my love,’ said Isis. ‘The young man doesn’t want to hear about that.’
I picked up my teacup. The brew was very pale, and I recognised the aroma of Earl Grey. I hesitated with the cup at my lips but trust has to start somewhere, so I took a resolute sip. It was a very fine cup of tea indeed.
‘But I am like the river,’ said Oxley. ‘I may run but I am always there.’
‘Except during droughts,’ said Isis, and offered me a slice of Battenberg cake.
‘I’m always lurking under the surface,’ said Oxley. ‘I was, even then. Her friend had a very nice house at Strawberry Hill, beautiful place, and back in those days not surrounded by mock-Tudor semis. If you’ve seen the place then you’ll know that it’s built like a castle, and my Isis was a princess held captive in its tallest tower.’
‘Having a long weekend at a friend’s house, actually,’ said Isis.
‘My chance came when they held a great masquerade at the castle,’ said Oxley. ‘Dressed in my finest, my features cleverly disguised with a swan mask, I slipped in through the tradesman’s entrance and soon found myself mingling with the fine people inside.’
I figured that I was already in trouble for the tea, so I might as well have the cake. It was shop-bought and very sweet.
‘It was a grand ball,’ said Oxley.