Westmorland Alone

by Ian Sansom

  ‘Maybe once we’re finished with Westmorland, Father?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘Yes. We should finish with Westmorland first.’

  As far as I was concerned we couldn’t be finished soon enough.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE STENCH OF CABBAGE AND ONIONS

  ‘OH, DO STOP WRIGGLING, Sefton and take it like a man!’

  Miriam’s comments, as always, were attracting attention.

  We were safely back in Appleby, in the bar at the Tufton Arms, which was still full of survivors of the train crash, and still hanging on for dear life to its faded glory. In the dim yellowy light no one and nothing was looking particularly well. Dinner had consisted of something called ‘tattie pots’ – a local dish, apparently, consisting of mutton and black pudding, topped with potatoes, a meal that looked like a sorry pint of porter, and which was served with an inexplicable side dish of gigantic pickled onions. Only the onions were lively and enthusiastic: the tattie pots themselves had long since given up all hope and might easily have been sucked through a straw or supped with a spoon. I rather suspected that the ingredients had been assembled some time ago, and that this was merely the latest iteration of an endless combination of pre-cooked parts: mutton-and-potatoes-turning-into-stew-becoming-tattie-pots-soon-to-be-bubble-and-squeak, the English restaurant food chain. The odour of cabbage and onions was all-pervasive. It was one of the great culinary curiosities of our travels the length and breadth of England that almost all local dishes tasted and smelled of cabbage and onions, whether or not actual cabbages and onions were involved. (‘The cabbage is a superlative vegetable,’ according to Morley in Morley’s Essential English Food and Drink (1930), ‘with an unforgettable aroma,’ and the onion is ‘the ever-fragrant foundation stone of old-fashioned English home-cooking’.) There was – one can only conclude – something horribly sulphurous about England during the late 1930s. The exact source of the smell was difficult to put one’s finger on, until of course it was too late.

  We had established ourselves by the fire, where Miriam was angrily applying iodine to my various cuts and bruises, Morley was drinking barley water, I was drinking whiskey, and everyone else in the bar was looking at us in amazement. Just as we had caused absolute chaos in Egremont earlier in the afternoon the three of us were now providing free entertainment for the patrons of the Tufton Arms on a Saturday night.

  ‘Where on earth did you learn to fight like that, Sefton?’ asked Miriam. ‘I thought for a moment you might have killed the poor chap.’

  ‘Yes, interesting moves,’ said Morley. ‘The combination of the upper cut and the elbow jerk. Very inventive.’

  ‘And very effective,’ said Miriam. ‘Almost knocked the poor bloke’s head off.’

  ‘Well, you just … sort of pick these things up as you go along, don’t you?’ I said.

  ‘I certainly don’t,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Maybe you should though, my dear,’ said Morley. ‘Come in handy, wouldn’t it?’ He raised his right index finger and stroked his moustache with his left hand, in that way he had of suggesting that he were receiving an idea through the ether, his body serving as an antenna on a wireless set. ‘Yes. Yes. Some sort of – what would we call it? – “self-defence” training for women? That wouldn’t be a bad idea, would it?’

  ‘That would never catch on, Father,’ said Miriam.

  Undaunted and caught up mid-transmission, Morley began describing a programme of boxing and wrestling training for women. ‘“Wroxling” we could call it,’ he said, ‘or “Brestling”?’

  ‘Father!’ said Miriam – and then attempted to garner opinion about his proposed programme from the poor defenceless women in the bar. ‘Would you like to learn how to throw a man on his back, madam?’

  There were concerned glances over the assembled port-and-lemons. At which juncture, thankfully, Nancy – the young woman from the dig at Shap – walked in.

  She had changed from the outfit she had worn at the dig – an entirely inoffensive sort of get-up, suitable for any all-weather archaeological adventure – and was now wearing a rather more startling red velvet trouser suit, belted high at the waist, with a black tie, and with her blonde hair Brylcreemed back, a high bohemian-Sapphic sort of look that would certainly not have suited outdoor pursuits, and which I suspected was not seen every day in Appleby.

  ‘Oh, Nancy!’ cried Miriam, delighted to find some respite from Morley’s latest madcap scheme, and her iodine application (she was not a natural nurse), and thrilled no doubt to find another dedicated follower of fashion. ‘You must join us!’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Please do, my dear,’ said Morley.

  Nancy pulled up a chair and sat, I thought, uncomfortably close to Miriam.

  ‘You look absolutely wonderful,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nancy. ‘You too.’

  ‘Would you like to know how to wrestle a chap to the ground?’ asked Morley.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Miriam.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m really not that bothered when it comes to wrestling chaps to the ground,’ said Nancy.

  ‘There we are, Father, you see,’ said Miriam. ‘It would never catch on. We can perfectly well take care of ourselves, Nancy, can’t we? Ladies?’ Miriam appealed to the middle-aged and elderly women in the bar who were continuing to enjoy our entertainment.

  ‘Of course we can,’ said Nancy, touching Miriam’s arm in approval.

  ‘Pity,’ said Morley. ‘I thought it was rather a splendid idea.’

  ‘Anyway, I was rather hoping to find you here, I must admit,’ said Nancy. ‘I have some news. Have you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘The results of the autopsy?’

  ‘On poor Mr Taylor’s wife?’ said Morley.

  ‘Mrs Taylor,’ said Miriam, ‘as we call her. Maisie. She does have a name, Father.’

  ‘Well?’ said Morley.

  ‘Apparently, she died of a broken neck,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Aha!’ said Morley loudly, clapping his hands – entirely inappropriately. ‘As I thought. What did I say, Miriam? What did I tell the police? Broken neck, I said! Broken neck!’

  ‘Yes, you did say you thought it was a broken neck, Father. Well done. Congratulations. You correctly identified the cause of death of an innocent woman who was unceremoniously dumped in a hole in the ground.’

  ‘Corkscrew neck-breaker maybe?’ said Morley.

  ‘A what?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Wrestling move,’ said Morley. ‘We should ask our wrestling correspondent here. Isn’t it, Sefton?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea, Mr Morley,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Morley. ‘Puts a rather different complexion on things, though, doesn’t it?’

  ‘How so, Father?’

  ‘Well, I’m just thinking out loud,’ began Morley.

  ‘Probably best if you didn’t, actually,’ said Miriam, nodding at the people at the other tables, who had now fallen entirely silent and who were staring at us agog.

  ‘Ah, yes. Quite.’ Morley lowered his voice and we all leaned in to hear him. ‘It’s more than possible that Gerald could have broken his wife’s neck, is it not?’

  ‘Father!’ said Miriam.

  ‘Well, he could, couldn’t he?’ said Morley. ‘With a single stroke.’ He made a chopping move with his hand. ‘You saw him this afternoon, Miriam. Quite some force behind him, eh, Sefton? Not a man unable or unwilling to throw his weight around.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. I had the cuts and bruises to prove it.

  ‘But what about Professor Jenkins?’ asked Miriam. ‘Hadn’t the police hauled him away as the most likely suspect? You’d identified him and Maisie as lovers, Nancy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nancy. ‘And so they were. Everyone knew – apart from Maisie’s husband, perhaps. But apparently Jenkins is claiming that he and Maisie had broken up ages ago!’

  ‘Well
, they’ve certainly broken up now,’ said Morley.

  ‘Father!’ said Miriam.

  ‘How well did you know Maisie Taylor?’ asked Morley.

  ‘Oh, everybody on the dig got to know Maisie,’ said Nancy. ‘She was very popular.’

  ‘Good-looking sort of girl?’

  ‘Gorgeous!’ said Nancy, and then, calming herself slightly, added, ‘I mean, she was very pretty.’

  ‘And what was she like?’

  ‘She was great fun! She just loved life. She was one of those people – you know, always out, keen to have a good time. You know the sort of person.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do,’ said Morley, looking at Miriam. ‘And Mr Taylor?’

  ‘I don’t really know Gerald, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But similar to Maisie, would you say?’

  ‘No. He’s more … Well, he’s got all his responsibilities at the pharmacy, obviously.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘Struck me as a very diligent hard-working sort of fellow.’

  ‘By all accounts,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Yes. And when exactly did she die, did the autopsy say? You don’t happen to know?’

  ‘Well, the funny thing is, the chap who told me about it—’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘He’s a reporter on the Westmorland Gazette.’

  ‘Young chap with a face like a butcher’s boy?’ This was the poor fellow Morley had encountered last night.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s good for something,’ said Morley.

  ‘He shouldn’t really have been letting on, I don’t think, but … well, I used my feminine wiles, shall we say?’ She touched Miriam’s arm again, confidentially.

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, and he says the doctor believes that Maisie died on the same day and around the same time as the train crash!’

  ‘My goodness!’ said Morley.

  ‘Yes. I know. Odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘She couldn’t have died in the crash, could she?’ I asked. ‘And then her body was transferred for some reason to Shap?’

  ‘Of course not, man!’ said Morley. ‘Died in the crash? Sometimes I do wonder about you, Sefton. Why would anyone want to move the poor woman’s body from the crash and hide it? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘None of it makes any sense, Father,’ said Miriam.

  ‘True,’ said Morley, half closing his eyes in concentration.

  ‘It was probably just a coincidence then?’ said Nancy.

  ‘The trouble is—’ began Morley.

  ‘Father doesn’t believe in coincidences,’ said Miriam.

  ‘A coincidence,’ said Morley, in confirmation, ‘is only ever an unexplained part of a puzzle.’

  ‘Anyhow,’ said Nancy. ‘Didn’t want to put a dampener on your evening. I just wanted to let you know, seeing as you found her and everything. Seemed only right. And also a few of us from the dig are going over to Penrith later. There’s a band on.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Only local. Not exactly Nat Gonella! But you’d be very welcome to come along. All of you, I mean.’ She didn’t mean.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Morley. ‘Thank you anyway.’

  ‘Father’s not a fan,’ said Miriam.

  ‘How about you?’ Nancy asked me. ‘You look rather as though you could do with cheering up.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said. ‘I think I might skip an evening out. It’s been rather an eventful day.’

  ‘No stamina, you chaps!’ said Miriam. ‘That’s your trouble!’

  ‘No match for you young ladies, certainly,’ said Morley, getting up. ‘Way of the future, I fancy. Women on top, eh, Sefton?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Morley,’ I agreed reluctantly. ‘Quite.’

  ‘A cock may crow, but the hen lays the egg,’ said Morley.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Maybe not the worst thing that could happen, all things considered. Matriarchy. Interesting alternative to patriarchy. Might be a way ahead, given the direction things are heading?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Morley.’ He often had these ludicrous flights of fancy. I also got up to leave and was about to make my excuses and say goodnight to Miriam and Nancy, but they were already engrossed in one another’s company – they might almost have been long-lost friends, or lovers – so I slipped away unnoticed and began trudging up the stairs behind Morley, the stench of cabbage and onions catching in my throat.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Morley, as he hurried along the corridor and began turning the key to his room.

  ‘You wonder what, Mr Morley?’ I asked.

  But he didn’t hear me and slipped into his room, to do his wondering alone.

  And so I made my way back to my own room to do my own wondering: why bother? What’s the point? And what did it any of it mean?

  CHAPTER 13

  THE JOY OF PICKLING

  I MADE NO PROGRESS IN MY WONDERING, of course, but Morley wondered with purpose. He had clearly been working on something overnight. He had a plan. He always had a plan. (For a purview of his pondering on plans, see his popular pamphlet on project planning and preparation, ‘The Five Ps’, published in 1927, which outlines principles of modern project management which have now of course been widely adopted by businesses, in factories, government departments, by primary and preparatory school teachers, and in secretarial training colleges in England and throughout the world.) The police had left a message at the Tufton Arms, asking if we would be kind enough to speak to them later in the afternoon, which was perfect, according to Morley: ‘That means we can put the morning to good use, eh, Sefton?’ he declared enthusiastically over a breakfast of kippers in the hotel’s dingy dining room.

  He had, in fact, already put the morning to good use. The police may have had a murder to solve, the terrible death of young Lucy was of course still to be properly investigated, and there were still no trains running on the Settle–Carlisle line, which meant dozens of people remained stranded in Appleby, with no means of leaving; but none of this was going to put Morley off his stride or his schedule. He had been up from five, as usual, and had his typewriter and pads and pens arrayed before him on the table, much to the annoyance of the other guests, no doubt, whose boiled eggs, tea and toast were accompanied by the sound of hammering typewriter keys and the frantic scribbling of handwritten notes, noises unwelcome at any time of the day, frankly, but particularly so at breakfast. He was busy working on the page proofs for Devon by the time I arrived downstairs and had already knocked off an article or two for the newspapers: something or other on wicker work, apparently, and something else on the chemistry of home-fermentation, inspired no doubt by the inescapable smell of cabbages and onions in the hotel, which meant that even breakfast smelled like some hideous Bavarian workhouse supper. (For Morley’s history of sauerkraut, incidentally – one of his more esoteric interests – and for his original sauerkraut recipe, reprinted in Morley’s Joy of Pickling (1934), and which was said to be a great favourite of George V and Queen Mary, ironically, see his article ‘Sauerkraut Connections’ in Human Nutrition, vol.26, no.4.)

  I enjoyed my customary breakfast of two cups of coffee and a cigarette, with a delicious side order of a lecture on the health benefits of fermented food and the role played by Captain Cook in developing methods for the storage of perishable food items on long journeys, and we were eventually joined by Miriam around nine. She arrived wearing a silk turban, a supercilious smile, and a grey silk dress that might have been nightwear and might have been evening wear but which was certainly not breakfast wear. She was whistling a dance tune.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Morley. ‘Good evening?’

  ‘Fabulous!’ she said, over-emphasising the ‘fab’. ‘Fab-u-lous. Out of this world!’

  ‘Out of this world? Literally?’

  ‘Literally, Father. You really should have come.’

  ‘I would only have cramped your style, my dear.’

>   ‘Do you think?’ She struck a pose, like a mannequin in a shop window. ‘I doubt it. Sefton, you should have come too. You might enjoy frisking your whiskers occasionally.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, because it was easiest.

  ‘Or on second thoughts, maybe not.’ She lit herself a cigarette, poured a cup of coffee and proceeded to do her best to slouch languorously at the breakfast table.

  ‘Now, children,’ said Morley, ‘you’ll be delighted to hear that I do have a plan for today.’

  ‘Good!’ said Miriam. ‘Can we go home?’

  ‘Hardly, my dear. The police are still very interested in what we have to offer.’

  I coughed. The police were about as interested in what we had to offer as a pig is interested in the people who throw out the swill: it is a purely functional relationship.

  Morley continued. ‘And there’s still the rest of Westmorland to cover.’ It was difficult sometimes when he was speaking about a county to know whether he was referring to the actual county or to his book on the county: for him, the two were synonymous. Norfolk was Norfolk. Devon was Devon. Westmorland was Westmorland, and etcetera.

  ‘But is there really much more of Westmorland for us to see, Father? I know we’ve only been here a few days, but I do feel we’ve seen enough now for the book.’

  ‘Oh, plenty of things left to see,’ said Morley. ‘I mean, apart from Ambleside – and we must see Ambleside! – there’s Barbon and Barton and Beetham and Bolton and Brough and Brougham and—’

  ‘Yes, I don’t need an alphabetical list, thank you, Father. I’m really just looking for the highlights.’

  ‘The highlights?’

  ‘Yes. Something uplifting and sublime.’

  ‘We had Shap, Miriam.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d count that – lovely as it undoubtedly was. Little bit spoiled for me by the discovery of a dead body. I was thinking more of pretty mountains and lakes. Something with grandeur.’

  ‘We might have to leave the pretty mountains until we get on to Cumberland,’ said Morley. ‘I’m afraid the highlight today is probably going to be a trip to Kirkby Stephen.’