Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(27)
‘On an interesting side note, the Anglo-Saxons used the same metal-folding technique as the medieval Japanese and would often create beautiful weapons that would be ‘sacrificed’ by throwing them into sacred streams and lakes. Some think that the legend of the Lady of the Lake could derive from this custom since any aspiring British warrior might see such deposits as a handy source of high quality weaponry.’
I thanked Postmartin by email and asked if he knew the present whereabouts of the Paternoster Sword. What with the Lady of the Lake bollocks, it sounded like the sort of thing Martin Chorley might be interested in. Then I added Excalibur, St Paul’s Cathedral and the Temple of Mithras to the list of HOLMES keywords. This got me an irritable note from Sergeant Wainscrow, who pointed out that overuse of key words can be counterproductive. I said we could discuss this at the briefing on Monday morning, but of course by that time my choices had been vindicated – well, sort of.
12
The Old Man’s Regatta
That year the Old Man of the River was holding his summer court at Mill End, where the Thames skirts the eastern edge of the Chilterns before dropping south to Henley and Reading. Nightingale decided that, since he had to stay in London, I’d have to represent the Folly. So I threw two mystery hampers from Molly, Beverley’s overnight party bag, and Abigail into the back of the Hyundai and set off on an unseasonably grey Saturday morning.
Bev was going to travel up the Thames and meet us there.
‘Got to stop off and say hello to a few people on the way,’ she said.
The day was humid and overcast and the Hyundai’s aircon was labouring. I tried to get clever and go up the M40 and then south at High Wycombe, but that just meant me and Abigail were sweaty and irritable on a motorway instead of an A-road.
As we started the drop into the Thames Valley proper, we could see darker clouds piling up beyond the Thames to the south. Now, I don’t have Bev’s intimate acquaintance with the hydrological cycle, but I thought I knew a summer thunderstorm when it’s lowering at me.
‘Cumulonimbus,’ said Abigail, who of course knew the technical name. ‘“Cumulus” means a mass and “nimbus” means cloud.’
I didn’t deign to answer and instead concentrated on my driving.
We whooshed through Marlow, which appeared to be composed of strange mutant detached bungalows with hipped roofs in the Dutch style, and sprawling post-war villas in the no-style-whatsoever style. Then along the course of the Thames on the A4155, which rose and fell amongst woods, villages and boutique hotels ideal for the stressed executive.
Hambleden Marina was a private marina and boat yard that sat downstream of the weir at Hambleden Lock. Beverley says you can’t live on the river without coming to an accommodation with the powers that be – in this case, Father Thames.
‘Not that they necessarily know that’s what they’re doing,’ she said.
Apparently, most people thought the little rituals they performed – the occasional bottle of beer left out in a riverside garden, the champagne broken on the bow of a boat, the odd bit of bank work or rewilding done on an adjacent property – that these were harmless little superstitions. Others entered directly into a pact because the blessing of the Old Man of the River could raise wild flowers out of season and cause HSE inspectors and bank managers to let things slide until the business picks up.
Occasionally, late at night, I wonder whether this is true of Mama Thames and whether, perhaps, her blessing can make an old man kick his heroin habit and take up his trumpet again.
It is at times like that I remember the wisdom of my mother who once told me – ‘As yu mek yu bed, na so yu go lehdum par nam’. But she means it in a good way.
I figured the owner of Hambleden Marina must know what bed they’re climbing into. Because when the Summer Court of Father Thames moves in, it’s a little hard to ignore.
The Showmen had put in a token appearance, setting up a steam—powered merry-go—round with an authentic period automatic organ that some joker had programmed to play a medley of James Brown’s and Tina Turner’s greatest hits, and a couple of mini roundabouts and roller coasters to keep the kids happy. Behind them, on the field closest to the main road, were their caravans, motorhomes and horses. The marina proper was choked with boats, triple and quadruple parked in some places so that they stuck out into the channel like temporary piers. At the far end of the longest of these piers was a large boat that looked like someone had jammed an Edwardian tea pavilion onto a flat—bottomed barge and painted everything white and nautical blue. I didn’t need telling that this was the heart of the Summer Court.
A red-faced white man with mutton chop whiskers, a flat cap, a string vest, braces and cor blimey trousers directed us over to the parking area at the back of the caravans. By the time I’d slotted myself into a minuscule spot between a Toyota Land Cruiser and a Ford Fiesta that I’m pretty sure had once been two separate cars.
But at least by the time we’d squeezed out the car with the luggage, Beverley had turned up to help us carry it. One of the impromptu boat piers actually extended all the way out to a nameless islet that sat midstream and planks had been laid down to form a crude pontoon bridge. The little island was where the kids would pitch their tents and apparently me and Bev were going to guard the bridge, because halfway across she stopped to show off her home from home.