by Ian Sansom
And then I saw Miriam.
In one of his very strangest books, Rise and Shine and Give God the Glory (1930), part of his ill-fated Early Rising Campaign – hijacked by all sorts of odd bods and unsavoury characters – Morley advises the early riser not only to practise pranic breathing and vigorous exercise, but also to utter ‘an ecumenical greeting to the dawn’, a greeting which, he claimed, was ‘suitable for use by Christians, Jews, Mohammedans, Hindoos, and peoples of all religions and none’. Borrowing words and phrases from Shakespeare, Donne, Thomas Nashe, Robert Herrick and doubtless all sorts of other bits and pieces culled from his beloved Quiller-Couch and elsewhere, the greeting begins with a gobbet from William Davenant: ‘Awake! Awake! The morn will never rise / Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.’ I was never a great fan of this ‘ecumenical aubade’ of Morley’s but this morning it seemed to fit the occasion.
Miriam sat outside St Pancras enthroned in the Lagonda like the sun on the horizon: upright, commanding and incandescent. Her lips were red. She had dyed her hair a silvery gold. She wore a brilliant green dress trimmed with white satin. And she had about her, as usual, that air of making everyone and everything else seem somehow slow and soft and dull, while she alone appeared vivid and magnificent – and hard, and fast, and dangerous. Une maîtresse femme. For those who never met her, it is important to explain. Miriam was not merely glamorous, though she was of course glamorous. Miriam was beyond glamour. Hers was an entirely self-invented, self-made glamour – a self-fulfilling and self-excelling glamour. And on that morning she looked as though she had painted herself into existence, tiny deliberate brushstroke by tiny deliberate brushstroke, 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 know Harper’s book on the road?’
‘I can’t say I do, Mr Morley, no.’
‘Pity. Marvellous book. Rather romantic and sentimental perhaps – and outdated, actually, thinking about it.’ His moustache twitched – the telltale sign of an idea forming. ‘Miriam, don’t you think we could perhaps produce our own little homage to the Great North Road on this trip? Four Hundred Miles of England?’
‘I think our hands are rather full at the moment, Father,’ said Miriam. She got out of the car, and ushered Morley into the back seat of the Lagonda, and began fitting his desk around him.
‘Well, a slim volume perhaps? Three Hundred and Forty Miles of England? We could stop our tour at Berwick-upon-Tweed?’
‘Yes, Father.’ This was another of Miriam’s techniques for dealing with Morley: humouring him. It seemed to work.
‘A little preface or prologue, perhaps? A record of significant stops and sights along the way. A kind of investigation of the meaning of the road. You know, I rather have the notion that it might be possible to invent an entirely new kind of writing about places – a kind of chronicling not only of their physical but also their psychical history, as it were.’
‘Psychical geography?’ I said.
‘Exactly!’ said Morley.
‘I don’t think it would catch on, Father,’ said Miriam.
‘No?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Well, just a straightforward guide then, perhaps? Stilton. Stamford. Boroughbridge. Are you a fan of Stilton, Sefton?’
‘Stilton, Mr Morley?’
‘The cheese, man. Are you a Stiltonite? Lovely with a slice of apple, Stilton.’
‘Where do you stand on Stilton, Sefton?’ asked Miriam.
‘The English Parmesan, Stilton,’ said Morley. ‘Or perhaps Parmesan is the Italian Stilton …’
‘Sorry?’
I was no longer listening. I had spotted a policeman who had noticed the crowd and who was now walking briskly towards us. He seemed to be looking directly at me. I was still standing by the Lagonda. I checked quickly behind me; if I was quick I’d be able to make it across the Euston Road and disappear.
All was not lost.
And then it was.
I had spotted him too late.
The policeman blew his whistle: many people had now stopped and were staring. I had nowhere to go.
‘Hey! You!’ he called, reaching the Lagonda. ‘You! What on earth are you doing?’
‘Excellent whistle!’ said Morley, from the back of the Lagonda.
‘What?’
‘Your whistle, Officer. I wonder, is it made by Messrs J. Egdon of Birmingham, by any chance?’
‘I have no idea,’ said the policeman.
‘They’re renowned for their whistles,’ said Morley.
‘Really? And you’re a whistle expert, are you?’
‘I wouldn’t say that …’ began Morley. He was a whistle expert, obviously.
‘Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?’ demanded the policeman.
‘Well, to answer your second question first, if I may,’ said Miriam. ‘I think you’ll find that what we’re currently doing is speaking with you.’
‘You are blocking the entrance to the station, madam,’ said the policeman, unamused.
It was true: Miriam had parked, as usual, without care or regard for other road-users, and our small gathering of onlookers had begun to cause a problem.
‘Oh, that!’ said Miriam. ‘Are we? Really? I hadn’t noticed. I’m terribly sorry.’
‘I’m not looking for an apology, madam. You realise I could book you under the Road Traffic Act of 1930 for obstructing the king’s highway?’
‘Oh, I’m sure you could book us, Officer,’ said Miriam, lowering her voice and fixing the poor policeman with her most glimmering smile. ‘But the question is, would you?’
This threw the policeman rather, who obviously was not accustomed to being flirted with by a woman of Miriam’s considerable expertise and world-class charms. He changed his line of questioning and turned to me.
‘Is this man with you, madam?’ He had clearly noted my rather rumpled appearance.
‘Him?’ said Miriam.
I could see that she was considering causing mischief. I prepared to sprint.
‘Of course!’ she said. ‘He’s my fiancé, aren’t you, darling!’ She leaned across the car and offered her cheek for me to kiss. I had no choice but to oblige. ‘He’s just bought me some flowers, Officer. Isn’t he adorable?’
‘Ha!’ came a laugh from the back seat.
‘And this gentleman?’ asked the policeman, nodding towards Morley.
‘This is my father, Officer.’
‘And where are you all headed this morning, might I ask?’ The policeman addressed his question to me.
‘We are headed to …’ I had no idea. Miriam and Morley usually didn’t tell me where our next destination was until we were en route. I rather suspected that this was often because they didn’t know themselves.
‘We are headed, sir, to the very heart of the country!’ said Morley. ‘The hub! The centre! The cultural capital!’
‘And where is that exactly?’ asked the policeman, having extracted a notebook from his pocket and taken down the registration of the car.
‘Westmorlandia!’ said Morley. ‘Westmoria! The western Moorish county.’ He began whistling the Toreador Song from Carmen. (He had a recording of the Spanish mezzo-soprano Conchita Supervia singing the role of Carmen, which he claimed was one of the great cultural achievements of all time. He also claimed this, it should be said, for Caruso singing ‘Bella figlia dell’ amore’ in Rigoletto, Rosa Ponselle in Tosca, and John McCormack singing just about anything.)
‘No. Still no wiser, sir. If you wouldn’t mind spelling that for me?’
‘Westmorlandia! One of the truly great English counties!’ continued Morley. ‘Home of the poets! Land of the great artists! We shall be visiting the mighty Kendal. Penrith – deep red Penrith! Ambleside. And we shall follow the River Eden as she rises at Mallerstang and makes her majestic way to the Solway Firth—’
‘We’re visiting the Lake District, basically,’ said Miriam.
‘Ah,’ said the policeman, writing in his notebook.
‘Westmorland!’ cried Morley. ‘Do get it right, Miriam, please. Westmorland! Which – combined with Cumberland – might together accurately be described as “the Lake District”, though of course the designation is rather misleading because—’
‘And what is your business exactly in Westmorland, sir?’
‘Our business? Our business, sir, is to do no less than justice and no more than to offer honest praise!’
‘Exactly what is your business in Westmorland, sir?’ The policeman was getting tired: I’d seen it before. Morley’s eccentricities could be extremely wearing.
‘We are writing a guidebook,’ said Miriam. ‘To the county and its—’
‘Roofs!’ cried Morley. ‘The roofs of Westmorland are some of the finest in the land, Officer. Did you know?’ Morley had a great enthusiasm for roofs. He began explaining the quality of t
he roofs of Westmorland to the policeman, who wisely decided at that point that it was time to give up.
‘On you go then, please,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind. Move along now, people,’ he told the crowd. ‘There’s nothing to see here.’
‘Thank you, Officer,’ said Miriam. ‘Come on, darling,’ she said to me.
I remained silent and did not breathe a sigh of relief until the policeman had plodded his way far enough from the car and the crowd had begun to disperse, and then I breathed a very big sigh of relief indeed.
‘Let’s go,’ I said to Miriam, moving quickly around to the passenger side of the Lagonda.
‘All aboard the Skylark!’ cried Morley.
‘You’re keen all of a sudden,’ said Miriam to me.
‘Charming man,’ said Morley. ‘The British bobby – curious, steadfast, and yet always polite.’
‘Indeed,’ said Miriam. ‘Now, gentlemen, shall we just check our route.’ She produced a map and several of the boards onto which Morley had mounted his county maps. ‘Our route. We begin in London, obviously.’
‘Starting at the GPO?’ said Morley. ‘The traditional starting point of the Great North Road?’
‘Starting here, Father. And then Herts, and Beds, and Cambridgeshire, Rutland, Lincs, Notts, West Riding—’
‘And then a left turn at Scotch Corner?’ said Morley.
‘And then a left turn at Scotch Corner,’ agreed Miriam.
I was half listening and had already begun opening the door when I saw him: MacDonald. He was perhaps a hundred yards away, across the other side of the Euston Road. I recalled him mentioning before that he lived somewhere up around King’s Cross. When he saw me, as inevitably he would, he would doubtless want to raise the small matter with me of my having abandoned our card game, and possibly the no less small matter of my having departed with several packets of Delaney’s precious ‘snuff’.
I stood rooted to the spot.
‘Scotch Corner,’ continued Morley, ‘being of course the junction of the traditional Brigantian trade routes in pre-Roman Britain, and the site where the Romans fought the Brigantes. The Brigantes being?’
‘A Northern Celtic tribe, Father,’ said Miriam wearily.
‘Correct! And they fought the Romans at the Battle of?’
