Broken Homes

surprise to many that the rivers of London have their goddesses. Even people who have been officially raised to believe in such things as river spirits, and that’s about a third of the world’s population by the way, have trouble with the idea that the Thames might have a deity. The Niger, definitely. The Amazon, of course. The Mississippi, certainly. But the Thames?
    Actually there are two of them. The Old Man of the River is the eldest by a couple of millennia, possibly a Romano-Brit called Tiberius Claudius Verica who ruled the Thames from source to estuary until 1858, when the mere fact that the city had reduced the river to an open sewer caused him to move upstream in a huff. So London did without his help until the late fifties when a heartbroken trainee nurse from Nigeria threw herself off London Bridge and found the position of goddess open. Well, that’s the way she tells it anyway.
    The Old Man feels that as the original his dominion, however titular, should be recognised. And she in turn says that since he couldn’t be bothered to step up for the Festival of Britain, let alone the Blitz, he can’t just arrive and demand to sit at the head of the table. It’s the sort of exciting intergenerational and ethnic conflict that makes life in the big city worth living. The fact that we’re the police and it’s our job to interpose our precious bodily selves between such potential conflicts explains why me and Lesley made a point of being polite and respectful when dealing with them.
    So we marched up to where they sat, resplendent in their Sunday best. Father Thames in a black pinstripe double-breasted suit, a paisley waistcoat and a matching porkpie hat that did its best to keep his tangle of white hair under control. In honour of the occasion he was clean shaven, which served to emphasise his thin lips, beaky nose and bleak grey eyes.
    Next to his dull self, Mama Thames blazed in a blouse and lapa of gold, silver and black. Her face was as smooth and dark as her daughter Beverley’s but rounder, although the eyes had the same upward tilt. Her hair had been braided into an elaborate birdcage shot through with gold thread in a style that must have kept her cronies busy for hours, if not days.
    Following Nightingale’s instructions we made sure that we slipped in and out as unobtrusively as possible, receiving the equivalent of, And how long have you been a police officer? Jolly good . Lady Ty standing at her mother’s right shoulder gave me a dangerously cheerful little smile which left the spot between my shoulder blades itching as I walked away.
    Then it was back to the jazz tent for Dad’s set where we found Nightingale discussing the evolution of Ted Heath’s big band from the Geraldo orchestra with a guy who said he’d driven down from Nottingham especially for the gig. I stayed long enough to make sure my dad registered my presence and then headed back out. After all, we couldn’t have the entire forces of law and order stuck in one place – who knew what someone might get up to while we were all grooving on a spring evening? As I reached Abigail standing disconsolately beneath the Working Together for a Safer London banner, I heard Lord Grant’s Irregulars start into my dad’s eccentric arrangement of ‘Misty’. I said she could have a look around the fair as long as she didn’t talk to any strange people.
    ‘Okay,’ she said.
    ‘Or strange things,’ I said.
    ‘Whatever,’ she said and skipped off.
    ‘Or strange things that are also people,’ I called after her.
    Neither category seemed interested in stopping at the police stall for a chat, although a couple of Brazilian students wanted to know what the fair was in aid of.
    ‘It’s a celebration of the spring equinox,’ I said.
    They looked around at the bare mist-shrouded trees and shuddered before they were sucked towards the jazz tent by the music. They passed Lesley coming the other way and stared curiously at her mask, only realising what they were doing when Lesley stopped and asked them if they needed something. They shook their heads and scuttled off.
    Lesley was carrying another pint of beer which she presented to me when she reached the stall.
    ‘Compliments of Oberon,’ she said. ‘He says you’re going to need it before the day is done.’
    ‘Did he say why?’ I asked.
    Lesley said no, but I drank the beer anyway. It was proper beer, I noticed, not your fizzy lager from a cask – probably off one of the