‘I wanted to make a particular point, and I find that sometimes, if I just talk to you, you sort of tune out.’
‘That’s because you have a habit of lecturing me,’ said May.
‘I most certainly do not. I try to direct your attention towards topics of interest.’
‘Yes, and you used to tap me with a pointing stick until I broke the damned thing in half.’
‘That was you, was it? Amongst other things, Dr Masters is an expert on the mythology and etymology of London. He’s been helping me with a few ideas lately, and I thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to meet because he knows an awful lot about English pubs.’
My God, thought May, studying the academic, we could all do with more women in our lives. This is what happens when men get lonely. They dry out.
Dr Harold Masters knew far more about the dead than the living. Human beings were too emotional and messy. He had only been able to tolerate Jane, his wife, because she shared his arcane interests, and now she was gone. The awful truth was that her death allowed him to spend more time concentrating on his studies. He missed her, in the distant way that a man misses the regular arrival of dinner and fresh laundry, but relished the extra hours he could now spend among his research documents. Understanding the past was far more interesting than understanding people, especially women.
‘Mine is a professional perspective, of course,’ Masters snorted cheerfully. ‘Take a look at this place. It looks quite unremarkable from the outside, doesn’t it? But it was built from the ruins of the Great Fire.’
‘Surely not. This bare-wood-and-ironwork-lamps look is 1930s, with a touch of last year chucked in.’
‘The present-day building, perhaps, but it’s been a tavern for centuries. In fact, it’s constructed over Roman ruins that survive some five metres down. And it was once the official residence of the Mayor of London. William and Mary liked the place so much that they provided it with the iron gates outside. A gentleman called Robert Williamson turned it into a proper public house in 1739. And it has a ghost.’
‘All London pubs say they have a ghost – it gets the tourists in.’
‘Ah, but this one has something else,’ Masters enthused. ‘The heart of London. The bar is supposed to contain an ancient stone that marks the dead centre of the old city. The parade of historical characters through here has gone unrecorded and barely remarked upon. Why? Because the pubs of London are taken almost completely for granted by those who drink in them.’ The doctor stabbed a long pale finger at the air. ‘Every single one has a unique and extraordinary history.’
‘That’s true,’ Bryant agreed with enthusiasm. ‘Did you know that the basement of the Viaduct Tavern in Holborn contains cells from Newgate Jail? Its walls have absorbed the tortured cries of a thousand poor imprisoned souls. These places survived for reasons of geography. The Tipperary in Fleet Street used to be called the Boar’s Head. It was built in 1605 with stones taken from the Whitefriar’s Monastery, stones that allowed it to survive unharmed in the raging inferno of the Great Fire of London. And the Devereux, where we held Oswald’s wake, is named after Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, who was imprisoned in the Bloody Tower and beheaded. The point Harold is trying to make is that these places hold the key to our past, and therefore the present. They’re an unappreciated indication of who we are, and a sign of all we’ve lost and remember fondly, in which bracket I would include nurses’ hats, single railway-carriage compartments, quality umbrellas, the concept of public embarrassment, correct pronunciation and the ability to tell a child off in the street without risking a stab-wound.’
‘Pubs are just shops that sell booze, Arthur. What’s more, they’re dying at a rate of sixty-five a year in London because of property developers. You’re over-egging the pudding as usual.’
‘Not at all,’ said Masters, jumping in eagerly. ‘Walk the streets of London, and the only time you’ll speak to strangers is when you apologize for stepping in their path. Public houses act, as their name implies, as homes for the general populace, where opposites can meet and confront each other without prejudice, on neutral territory. This is why the landlord is referred to as the host, and why rooms in pubs were always used to hold local inquests, to be sure of a fair and impartial verdict.’
‘I think you’ll find that the desire for alcohol also plays a part in their popularity,’ said May.
‘Obviously, but there’s something more fundamental at the root of it. Walking into a pub alone is for many young people their first act of real independence. Such places have had a profound effect on our society throughout history, acting as every kind of salon and meeting place, from coffee-house pamphleteers to the cruelties of the gin palace. And of course, they reinvent themselves endlessly. Where political and philosophical meetings were once held, there are now karaoke and Jenga evenings, book readings and sexual-fantasy nights. And they come with an amazingly complex set of social codes, of course.’