protection.
His thoughts were broken by the ghastly sound of Bryant chuckling to himself. “What’s so funny?” May asked, leaning back against the painted balustrade.
“I was just thinking about the Whitstables,” said Bryant, his breath clouding the air. “How W.S. Gilbert would have loved to write about them.”
“Oh? Why?”
“He adored paradoxes. He lampooned every institution in the land by putting lawyers and ministers in topsyturvy situations. Without realizing it, the Whitstables managed to create a paradox worthy of Gilbert himself. The astrolabe, you see.”
“Talk to me while we walk. My ears are getting brittle.”
“The astrolabe destroyed the children of the aristocrats who set it in motion. And its instruments of death were the poor, the very people the system was designed to keep out.” Bryant sighed and continued walking. “Of course, the paradox still exists. We live in a land of upper and lower orders. For every man willing to help those less fortunate than himself, there are ten others ready to exploit him.” Bryant waved his moth-eaten gloves about. “Thanks to families like the Whitstables, the circle may one day turn again from light to darkness.”
They were standing at the southern end of the bridge, looking back along the river. Above the battered slate roof of Charing Cross station, the clouds shone with a soft citrine light.
“I don’t think London will ever be completely dark again,” said May. “Look.”
“It’s rather a shame,” replied Bryant. “What must it have been like in the world that existed before twenty- eight December, 1881? There once was such a thing as absolute darkness. And there was something else perhaps, a collective warmth, a hidden strength. Men and women bound together by superstition and folklore. Families were connected by myths and fantasies. I think something was lost the day they turned on the lights. Something indefinable and very important.”
“You find comfort in darkness. I prefer the world brightly lit; there’s so much more to see.”
“That’s why we complement each other.” Bryant looked down into the swirling brown waters, at clouds of mud blossoming in the wake of a passing tug. “Look at the river. I miss her so much, John. Never a day goes by when I don’t think of her.”
“All this time, you never mentioned Nathalie.” May had not thought of Bryant’s radiant French fiancee in an age. He didn’t like to recall how she had died so many years ago, slipping and drowning in the fast-flowing waters below them.
“I couldn’t save her, so I must always remind myself of the service I owe others. Why else do you think we return daily to the bridges of London? She brings us here. I have to see her face.”
“Oh Arthur, what’s done is done. We must acknowledge the past, but we have to keep moving on, for ever forward. There’s no other way.”
“I know. Nothing reduces the power of those left behind. That’s their legacy.”
Unsure how best to reply, May patted his friend on the back and set him off in the direction of the city lights. Their shadows lengthened across the opalescent pavement, where specks of flint danced like reflecting stars.
