‘I was thinking more of your memory,’ I said.
‘Ah, well,’ said Oxley. ‘Memory, now – there’s a tricky thing. What particular memory were you thinking of?’
‘King Arthur,’ I said.
‘Before my time,’ said Oxley.
‘But was he a legend or a real king?’
‘Kings were legends in those days. Or so they seemed to such poor creatures as myself. I’m not sure I could say who was king in my youth and I was quite a learned man.’
‘Not even his name?’
‘Do you remember who was prime minister when you were so high?’
He nodded at a small child, gender indeterminate, in blue shorts who was dancing about in the rain.
‘Margaret Thatcher,’ I said, and then had to think again. ‘John Major.’
‘Ah,’ said Oxley. ‘But do you truly remember that, or is that something you learnt later from a book or off the radio?’
‘I remember John Major from when I was in primary school,’ I said. ‘But I get your point.’
‘Well, that is how the past is for us,’ said Oxley. ‘All the historical things, the kings and other mighty bastards, the battles and coronations sort of fade. Mind you, the strangest things stick. I remember vividly being sick after being woken for matins and standing before the abbot and wishing he would shout with less force. I remember the first time I saw Isis at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, and all I need do is close my eyes to see her again.’
‘Or open them and see me in front of you,’ said Isis.
‘My point being that I could not for the life of me tell you the name of the king at either juncture without consulting a book,’ said Oxley.
‘It was Farmer George,’ said Isis. ‘Not long after somebody tried to shoot him in his box.’
‘Painful,’ I said.
‘It undoubtedly would have been,’ she said, and winked.
‘You’re not helping me here, my love,’ Oxley told Isis, who laughed. ‘As I was saying, my point . . .’ He stopped to make sure Isis wasn’t about to interrupt. ‘My point being that I can’t be sure whether what I know of the grand events of the past are my true memories or the same histories that you know.’
‘He looks so disappointed,’ said Isis.
‘You’re not the first gentleman wizard who came asking,’ said Oxley. ‘I remember one who was desperate to answer some question or other about Cromwell. Charlie Somebody, taught at Pembroke College, right keen on original sources. Couldn’t help him either.’
I wondered if perhaps there was an upper limit to the capacity of the brain to retain memory. Perhaps their surplus memories manifested externally; perhaps that was the function of those strange god-ghosts like Sir William of Tyburn. It would also suggest that the Genii Locorum retained the same organic brain that the rest of us made do with.
I wondered if we could persuade one of them to donate their brain to science.
‘There’s such a thing as social history these days,’ I said, and Oxley snorted.
‘Ah well, but that’s a difficult matter, isn’t it now?’ he said. ‘I could tell them all about the daily life of a terrible monk, but then I’d have to reveal myself, wouldn’t I? That might cause a bit of an uproar, might it not? Think of the questions!’
‘Somebody should remember this stuff,’ I said.
‘Oh, the Old Man remembers everything,’ said Oxley. ‘You might say that’s what makes him the Old Man.’
‘So our hypothetical historian might ask him?’ I asked.
‘Hypothetical?’ said Isis, and sipped her tea.
‘Do you have a burning need to know about the past?’ asked Oxley.
I said it was hypothetically possible, but Oxley shook his head slowly.
‘You don’t want to be asking questions of the Old Man. He asks a price, and the price is always more than what you want to pay.’
‘Or I could ask him for you,’ said Isis, and sipped her tea.
Oxley gave her a frown.
‘Isis, my love,’ he said. ‘Let’s not meddle too far in the affairs of wizards.’
‘This isn’t a wizard,’ said Isis. ‘This is Peter and besides, my love, it will do no harm to ask. The Old Man will either answer or he will not.’
‘Or as like as not pitch you a riddle,’ said Oxley. ‘One that we will untangle to our cost.’
‘Peter’s good at riddles,’ Isis told her husband, then favoured me with a bright smile. ‘That, after all, is the nature of his profession.’
Oxley shrugged – conceding.
‘Now, Peter, what is it you wish to know?’
‘King Arthur,’ I said. ‘Camelot, Merlin, Excalibur – is any of it real?’
‘Define real,’ said Oxley.
‘Real as all this is real. As you and me are real, as the Old Man is real, as Nightingale is real.’
Oxley opened his mouth – no doubt to split another hair – but his wife cut him off.
‘Peter, love,’ said Isis. ‘Your goddess is trying to get your attention.’
The rain had slackened off and Beverley had appeared on the deck of the Pride of Putney and was beckoning me over.
After the rain, the day turned hot so suddenly that the grass practically steamed and some terrifyingly pale skin was suddenly exposed to direct sunlight. Although I did notice that a great deal of factor 30 and above was being slathered on children by parents and randomly concerned adults. Beverley and Abigail got straight into their swimming gear while I kept my nice lightweight summer suit on just long enough to pay my respects to Father Thames.
This involved me nodding politely and extending the respects of myself, the Folly and Nightingale to the rumpled old white man who was holding court with his cronies on the covered stern deck of his boat. Despite the old suit and the tarnished watch fob, there was no mistaking the intensity of the eyes, or the quick promise of hard work and open skies, or the smell of clean water and breath of the wind on your face.
‘Ave, Petre Grande, incantator. Di sint tecum et cum tuis,’ he said and there was a stir amongst the cronies, and a muttering – he’d never spoken to me in Latin before.
‘Tibi gratias ago, Tiberi Claudi Verica,’ I said, which is like from Chapter One of My First Latin Primer. Still, it got the job done and I backed out without engendering a major diplomatic incident or, worse, a major flood.
After that I stripped off, had Beverley slap the sunscreen on my back, and we headed off to do some community outreach. This involves meeting people, listening to their stories and memorising their names and faces in case you had to come back and arrest them at a later date.
Occasionally we’d catch a glimpse of Abigail in her pink, blue and red Nakimuli one-piece.
‘Did you get her that?’ I asked Beverley.
‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I think Fleet did.’
‘I didn’t even know she knew Fleet.’
‘Well, obviously she does,’ said Beverley.
I watched Abigail talking to a pair of kids her own age, a boy and girl, with the sort of patchwork tans that white people get when they spend summer outdoors in a variety of different tops.
She caught us looking and waved, and her two friends turned to stare briefly before returning their complete attention to whatever Abigail was saying.
‘If you’re like this with your cousin,’ said Beverley, ‘what are you going to be like with your own children?’
‘Oh, I’m going to be a tyrant,’ I said.
‘You’re so not,’ said Beverley, and took my hand. ‘Their poor mother’s going to have to do all the work.’
Later that evening we trooped over to an adjacent field where a circle of trestle tables had been arranged into a circle around a bonfire. I was seated next to Isis, three seats around from the Old Man himself. Beverley was on his other side, as befitted a guest of honour. As we ate I counted the sons of the Old Man and came up four short. Ash, I knew, was celebrating with Mama Thames in Wapping, but three of the heaviest hitters, Ken, Cher and Wey were notably absent.