Westmorland Alone. Ian Sansom
a perfectly lacquered Ingres wreathed in glory, the Lagonda wrapped around her like Cleopatra’s barge, or Boadicea’s chariot.
‘Good morning, Miriam,’ I said.
‘Ah, Sefton.’ She took a long draw on her cigarette in its ivory holder – one of her more tiresome affectations. She brought out the ivory holder, as far as I could tell, only on high days, holy days and for the purposes of posing. She looked at me with her darkened eyes. ‘Early, eh? Up with the lark?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And the lark certainly seems to have left its mark upon you.’ She indicated with a dismissive nod an unsightly stain on my blue serge suit – damage from my night outside Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court.
I did my best to rub it away.
‘I’m rather reminded of Lytton Strachey’s famous remark on that stain on Vanessa Woolf’s dress—’ (This ‘famous’ remark is not something that one would wish to repeat in polite company: which is doubtless why Miriam enjoyed so often doing so.)
‘Yes, Miriam. Anyway?’
‘Yes. Well. Father’s away for the papers, Sefton, so really it’s very fortuitous.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. It means that you and I can have a little chat.’ This sounded ominous. ‘Why don’t you climb up here beside me.’ She patted the passenger seat of the Lagonda.
‘I’m fine here, thank you,’ I said. It was important to resist Miriam.
‘Well, if you insist,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I have bad news, Sefton.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes. I’m afraid this is going to be the last of these little jaunts that I’ll be joining you on.’
‘Oh,’ I said, and said no more.
‘Well, aren’t you going to ask me why?’
I paused for long enough to exert control. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ she said triumphantly, ‘I, Sefton, am … engaged!’
‘Oh.’
‘I think you’ll find it’s traditional to offer congratulations.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘Who’s the lucky fellow?’
‘No one you know!’ She gave a toss of her head and looked away. ‘He gave me this diamond bracelet.’ She waved her elegant wrist at me. ‘Isn’t it marvellous!’
It was indeed a marvellous diamond bracelet, as marvellous diamond bracelets go. Men had a terrible habit of showering Miriam with marvellous gifts – diamonds, sapphires, furs and pearls, the kind of gifts they wouldn’t dare to give their wives, for fear of raising suspicion.
‘Isn’t it more usual to exchange rings?’ I asked.
‘Oh, the ring is coming!’ said Miriam.
When the poor chap had finalised his divorce, I thought, but didn’t dare say.
The sound of the city was growing all around us: horse and carts, cars, charabancs, paperboys, and above it all, the sound of a woman nearby selling flowers. ‘Fresh flowers! Fresh flowers! Buy my fresh flowers! Flowers for the ladies!’
Miriam smiled her smile at me and glanced nonchalantly away.
‘Anyway, Sefton,’ she continued, ‘this means that I won’t be joining you and Father on any more trips. And so I just wanted some sort of guarantee that you’d be around for as long as this damned project takes. Father has become terribly fond of you, Sefton, as I’m sure you know.’
There was in fact very little sign of Morley’s having become very fond of me. Morley didn’t really do ‘fond’. I don’t think he’d have known the meaning of ‘fond’, outside a dictionary definition.
‘Sefton?’
I didn’t answer.
‘As you know, Father needs a certain amount of … looking after. After Mother died …’
Mrs Morley had died before I had started work with Morley; he and Miriam rarely spoke of her.
‘He needs a certain amount of care and attention. I hope you can—’
We were disturbed by the sounds of what seemed to be an argument – of an English voice uttering some low, strange, unfamiliar words, the sound of a woman shouting in response, either in distress or delight, of voices calling out, and of general confusion and hubbub.
‘Thank you!’ called the voice. ‘Gestena! Danke schön. Grazie. Go raibh maith agat! Xie xie. Muchas gracias!’ It was a Babel of thanks-giving. It could only be one person: Morley.
He approached us, be-tweeded, bow-tied and brogued as ever, and carrying what appeared to be every single British daily newspaper, and very possibly every European paper as well. He appeared indeed like an emblem or a symbol of himself: Morley was, basically, a machine for turning piles of paper into yet more piles of paper. He was also carrying, rather incongruously, an enormous bunch of gaudy and distinctly unfresh-looking flowers.
‘Ah, Sefton!’ he said, thrusting the flowers at me, and the newspapers at Miriam.
‘Flowers, Mr Morley?’
‘Oh no, sorry, they’re for Miriam. The papers are for us, Sefton, reading material on the way.’
I duly handed Miriam the flowers.
‘For me, really?’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have, Sefton!’ She handed me the papers in return, shaking her diamond bracelet at me unnecessarily as she did so. ‘They’re lovely, Father, thank you.’
‘Well, I could hardly not buy any flowers from the woman, since she allowed me to practise my – admittedly rather rusty – Romani on her.’
I had no idea that Morley spoke Romani. But I wasn’t surprised.
‘Devilish sort of language. Do you know it at all, Sefton?’
‘I can’t say I do, Mr Morley, no.’
‘Dozens of varieties and dialects. Indo-Aryan, of course, but quite unique in many of its features – tense patterns and what have you. And only two genders. Easy to slip up. I fear I may have said something to upset the poor woman. I remember I was in Albania once and I thought I was complimenting this very proud Romani gentleman about his pigs, when in fact I said something about defecating on him and his family! Terribly embarrassing.’
‘Father,’ said Miriam. ‘That’s enough. Get in the car.’ This was one of Miriam’s more successful methods of dealing with Morley: shutting him up and ordering him around.
We were beginning to attract a small crowd of onlookers. The Lagonda was by no means inconspicuous, and Morley was the closest thing to a celebrity that one could possibly be without appearing on the silver screen. I scanned the crowd, beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. I half expected to see Delaney, Mickey Gleason, MacDonald, the police, or indeed my old varsity chums from the steps of Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court. Morley of course was unaware and oblivious, as always.
‘Anyway, Sefton, now you’re here you can tell me, what do you think of the Great North Road?’ He was shifting quickly and apparently senselessly from subject to subject – as was his habit.
‘The Great North Road, Mr Morley?’
‘Yes, indeed, the great English road, is it not? The spine of England! From which and to which everything is connected. Any thoughts at all at all at all?’
I had no thoughts about the Great North Road, and Morley wasn’t interested in my thoughts about the Great North Road. He was interested in using me as a sounding board.
‘Do you