Westmorland Alone

by Ian Sansom

  ‘A bicycle?’

  The chief inspector removed his pipe from his mouth and used it to point towards a bicycle which was being held by another policeman. It sported a big wicker basket on the front.

  ‘I wanted to sell the bike to buy a horse!’ said Noname. ‘Ask Mr Morley. I just wanted to buy a horse!’

  ‘It’s not illegal to sell a bicycle, is it?’ asked Morley.

  ‘Well, that rather depends whether the bicycle is yours to sell, Mr Morley, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And who does this bicycle belong to?’ asked Morley.

  ‘It’s Maisie Taylor’s bicycle,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The policeman holding the bicycle turned the handlebars to face us. On the front of the wicker basket, painted in bold black, were the words ‘TAYLOR’S PHARMACY’.

  ‘What were you doing with Maisie’s bicycle?’ Morley asked Noname.

  But before Noname could answer Naughty came running into the clearing and threw herself around his legs.

  ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ She was crying.

  Miriam followed behind.

  ‘I told you to keep her away!’ shouted the gypsy woman.

  ‘She escaped!’ said Miriam. ‘She bit me, the little beast!’

  ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ cried Naughty, hanging on to Noname’s legs.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Noname. ‘I’m just going to talk to these men about something. Emerald,’ he called over to the gypsy woman, ‘you pack up here with Job. Everything’ll be OK. I’ll sort things out and then we’ll be on our way again.’ He had ceased struggling with the policemen. ‘I’ll not cause no more trouble.’

  ‘That’s better,’ said the chief inspector. He wandered over towards Noname. He had removed his pipe from his mouth and pocketed it. I thought for a moment he was going to strike Noname. But instead he patted him on the back and put his arm around his shoulder, as if they were long-lost friends. ‘Much better. See? There’s no need for all this fuss. We all behave like gentlemen and we’ll have this cleared up in no time.’ He gave a nod, and the policemen released the other man, Job, who had also given up the struggle. ‘My colleagues here’ll escort you to the station, sir, and we can resolve matters amicably there, eh?’

  ‘Noname!’ called Emerald.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Noname. ‘You just look after Naughty and the baby and we’ll soon be on our way again. Job, you take care of Mr Morley. Naughty, you look after your little sister.’ Then we all stood and watched as he allowed himself to be led away by the police down one of the pathways out of the copse. One of the officers wheeled away the bicycle, and Noname’s lurcher hirpled alongside. It was an odd, pathetic procession, like watching the capture and surrender of some great general – a general who’d gone to war on a bicycle, accompanied by his dog.

  The clearing was suddenly quiet except for the sounds of the birds and the river rushing by.

  ‘Well, this is unfortunate, Mr Morley,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said Morley. ‘Very unfortunate.’

  ‘I’m afraid you and your companions have rather tried my patience, sir.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry if that’s the case.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind reporting to the station this evening I’d finally like to take a statement from all of you.’

  ‘Very well, Officer.’

  ‘Including you, Mr Sefton.’ The chief inspector spoke directly to me. ‘We’ve not been able to have our little conversation about the crash yet, have we?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Matters seem to continue to keep arising, don’t they?’ He pushed his shoulders back. ‘And once we’ve all had our discussions this evening I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’ said Morley. ‘Leave the Tufton Arms, do you mean?’

  ‘Leave Westmorland, Mr Morley. I think you’ve caused quite enough trouble here, don’t you?’ With which he turned and walked away, before any of us could respond.

  ‘What have you done?’ Emerald asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Morley truthfully.

  I didn’t speak.

  ‘Oh, Father!’ said Miriam. ‘Honestly! This is absolutely …’ But she said no more. Her teeth were chattering – the sun was out, but so was the wind, and the clearing offered no shelter. Miriam’s fine silk dress offered little protection.

  ‘You look cold, miss,’ said Emerald.

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ Miriam agreed reluctantly, wrapping her arms around herself. She was always reluctant to admit to any weakness. ‘A little. I’m afraid I didn’t really come out prepared for this sort of … adventure.’

  Emerald spoke to Naughty in Romani and the little girl ran off.

  ‘Well, come and warm yourselves by the fire a minute.’

  I was certainly glad to do so – my clothes were beginning to feel increasingly like I was in a Turkish bath – and I was all the more glad when Naughty reappeared with her baby sister under one arm and some fine Scotch blankets for us to wear under the other.

  ‘One good turn,’ said Emerald, handing round the blankets and taking her baby.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Miriam. ‘Much appreciated.’

  We wrapped ourselves in the blankets and stared blankly into the fire, composing ourselves after the chaos of the police raid. Or at least Miriam and I wrapped ourselves in the blankets and composed ourselves. Morley decided to use his blanket as a towel – ‘Would you mind?’ he asked – and stripped off down to his vest and long johns, pegging out his trusty tweeds on a line above the fire to dry. He was fascinated by the campsite, asking all sorts of questions – how did they choose the spot, where did they draw fresh water – and paying particular attention to the big old Dutch oven with a ventilator on top that sat shuddering at the centre of the fire, threatening at any moment to explode, and also to Emerald, who was breastfeeding her baby. This was by no means a common sight at the time in the towns and villages of England, among any kinds or any classes. Indeed, it was the only time I witnessed the practice during all my time with Morley. There were wet-nurses, of course, and women must have fed their babies, but it was not a public spectacle. With Morley stripped down to his scanties and Emerald feeding the baby, and Miriam and I clad in blankets thick with woodsmoke, we might as well have been some primitive tribe. I was worried that Morley was going to ask me to take notes – or, worse, a photograph.

  ‘That’s quite a contraption,’ he said.

  ‘The oven, you mean, Father?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Yes, yes, the oven,’ said Morley.

  ‘Noname made it,’ said Emerald. ‘He can turn his hand to anything.’

  ‘I’m sure he can,’ said Morley. ‘It’s for—’

  ‘Cooking, isn’t it?’ said Miriam.

  ‘You can roast beef in it, if you can get your hands on it,’ said Emerald. ‘Or make a nice frying-pan cake, at least.’

  The other gypsy, Job, who was a man of few words, was busy noisily collapsing the tent, which he soon had strapped up under his wagon.

  ‘So,’ said Morley eventually, having exhausted all his other questions. ‘Do you want to tell us exactly what you think has happened here, my dear?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Emerald. ‘You’ve as much idea as me, sir. Everything was fine when I went looking for Naughty and then—’

  ‘Can you read your book to me, Swanton Morley,’ said Naughty, running up to Morley with his Book for Boys.

  ‘Not now,’ said Emerald. ‘Let Mr Morley get himself dried here first, and then we’ll read to you, OK?’

  ‘When is Daddy coming back?’

  ‘Very soon,’ said Emerald. ‘Very soon.’

  Naughty went to play and Emerald resumed, transferring the baby to her other breast.

  ‘I do know there’s no way Noname has anything to do with this dead woman, whoever she is. He wouldn’t have anything to do with a gorgio. Not after what his father did.’

  ‘What
did his father do?’ asked Morley. He wasn’t one to miss a good story – relevant or not.

  Emerald looked at the old woman. ‘Do you want to tell him?’

  The old woman shook her head, but then added, with a rasp, ‘You tell them.’

  Emerald adjusted the feeding position of the baby. ‘Sol was a respected man,’ she said.

  ‘Sol?’

  ‘Noname’s father.’

  ‘My husband,’ said the old woman.

  ‘Noname idolised him. But Sol had a … weakness.’

  ‘What sort of weakness?’ asked Morley.

  Emerald looked towards the old woman, who nodded.

  ‘He got involved with a woman. This was many years ago. At the Appleby Fair.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Morley. ‘Involved?’

  ‘Very involved,’ said Emerald.

  ‘Ah. Yes, I’m afraid some men are like that,’ said Morley. ‘A terrible weakness.’

  ‘She was a townswoman,’ said Emerald. ‘He couldn’t help himself.’

  ‘I see,’ said Morley.

  ‘Anyway, this townswoman had a child. Sol’s child. And Sol wouldn’t leave her. He felt more for her and her child than he did for his own wife – and for Noname.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Morley. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘He was cast out,’ said Emerald.

  ‘Marime,’ said the old woman.

  ‘Marine?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Marime,’ repeated the woman, as if Miriam were stupid.

  ‘To be made marime is to be no longer one of us,’ explained Emerald. ‘It’s our laws and our judgements.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve read about this. To be cast out is a terrible fate, is it not?’ said Morley.

  ‘It is, and Noname – he suffered because of it. To have a father or a husband who goes to be with the gorgio … When he died Noname couldn’t even mourn his father properly or bury his body.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Morley.

  ‘Yes. It changes you. Even now, we mostly make our own way without the others.’

  ‘Outcasts among outcasts,’ said Morley.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, that is terribly sad,’ said Morley.

  ‘That’s how I know Noname would never have had anything to do with a gorgio woman. He’d never risk anything to lose his own daughters, like he lost his father. He just wouldn’t.’

  ‘He’ll be able to explain that to the police, then,’ said Morley.

  ‘Ha!’ Emerald’s laugh was bitter. ‘And you think they’d be interested?’

  ‘But what about the bicycle?’ asked Miriam. ‘That was Maisie’s bicycle, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about the bicycle,’ said Emerald.

  ‘You don’t know where it came from?’ asked Morley.

  ‘We’re magpies, sir. We collect things. The things you discard. Noname must have picked it up somewhere along the way.’

  The old woman said something in Romani.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Morley, ‘I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘She says maybe the gorgio gave him the bicycle, as a trap,’ said Emerald.

  ‘Surely not?’ said Morley.

  ‘People always try to blame us for everything,’ added Emerald. ‘Something gets stolen. Somebody gets hurt—’

  ‘A train crashes,’ said Morley.

  ‘That’s right. What’s the first thing that happens? They blame us.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely true, is it?’ said Miriam.

  ‘It’s just what happens, miss. It’s easier for you to blame us than to look for the answers among yourselves.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Morley, carefully considering Emerald’s words. ‘There is certainly a terrible prejudice against your people.’

  ‘And getting worse,’ said Emerald.

  ‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘And no. All sorts of terrible prejudices are being stirred up everywhere at the moment, granted, but I fear ’twas ever thus. Which English king was it who passed the law that gypsies should be branded, Sefton?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Morley, was it—’

  ‘Edward VI, I think you’ll find it was,’ said Morley, answering his own question. ‘Many years ago. Utter barbarism. Even Cromwell executed gypsies for the crime of being gypsies. I’m afraid the history of the persecution of your people is a long and ignoble one, my dear.’

  As the conversation took this darker turn, the other gypsy, Job, sidled over to the fire, keen to keep an eye on things. He was a weasel-faced fellow with what one might describe as a miner’s build: thick, strong arms and legs, with a thick, knobbly, muscly neck. He looked like he’d make a good Westmorland wrestler.

  ‘This is my brother, Job,’ said Emerald.

  ‘Satismos,’ said Morley.

  Job spoke to Emerald in Romani.

  ‘He asked if you really speak Romani,’ said Emerald.

  ‘Only a very little,’ said Morley.

  Job said something else: ‘Gadje Gadjensa, Rom Romensa.’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Morley.

  ‘He was just saying, he’s …’ She looked at Job and he looked at her, threateningly, unpleasant. ‘He’s absolutely delighted that a gorgio can speak Romani.’ His facial expression seemed to suggest the exact opposite.

  The old woman, who had been tending to a pot on the fire, interrupted, saying something to Emerald.

  ‘A little jogray?’ asked Emerald.

  ‘Stew?’ said Morley.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Emerald.

  Job grunted, unimpressed, and then slipped away.

  ‘We call it greasy water stew,’ said Emerald.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Miriam. ‘Sounds delicious.’

  ‘But Mother’s thrown in a few other bits and pieces. Do you want some?’

  ‘Well,’ said Miriam. ‘When in Rome, I suppose.’ You could never say that Miriam wasn’t up for a challenge – whatever the challenge.

  The old woman spooned out a large helping of the stew into an enamel mug.

  ‘The Wedgwood’s away at the moment, I’m afraid,’ said Emerald.

  ‘No, this is perfect,’ said Miriam, taking the mug. ‘Thank you.’ Emerald and the old woman were watching her closely for her reaction. There was no knife or fork forthcoming. She took a deep breath and then took a glug from the mug and began to chew. ‘Do you know … It’s … rather tasty, actually,’ she said. ‘Is it … venison?’

  Emerald translated for the old woman, who burst out laughing – and not, I have to say, in a nice way. If one were permitted to describe an old woman’s laugh as a ‘cackle’ then on this occasion – at risk of offence, but for the simple purpose of accuracy – one might perhaps be permitted to do so. She jabbed a sharp finger at Miriam.

  ‘Hotchiwitchi!’ she said. ‘Hotchiwitchi!’

  ‘Hedgehog,’ translated Emerald.

  ‘Yes, I know what it is,’ said Miriam. ‘Thank you.’ I thought for a moment that she was going to be sick. But she wasn’t. She stared at the old woman, grinned widely, and choked down another mouthful. And another. And another. And when she finished she banged down the enamel mug in triumph.

  ‘Delicious!’ she pronounced, glaring.

  This seemed to win over the old woman, who whooped with laughter and said something to Emerald.

  ‘What did she say?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘It’s a saying we have,’ explained Emerald. ‘“A good daughter-in-law is one who eats unsalted food and says that it is salted.”’

  ‘I think she likes you, Miriam.’ Morley laughed.

  I think he was right. The old woman presumably recognised in Miriam a kindred spirit: headstrong, mischievous, unbeatable. Miriam’s consumption of the stew certainly brought about a warming of relations. While Emerald laid the baby down for a nap in the vardo, the old woman – at Morley’s prompting – agreed to reveal to us some of her ‘traditional’ food preparation methods. She led us over to a line strung up between Noname’
s vardo and a tree. I thought at first that what was on the line were drying socks, but as she began unhooking an item to show us I realised that they weren’t in fact socks, nor indeed any other item of clothing. They were hedgehogs. Morley of course was delighted. As we learned from the old woman, through a process of complex hand gestures, and Emerald’s translations – and as Morley later explained in detail in his book, Morley’s Backwoods Cooking (1938) – the best way to cook a hedgehog, contrary to popular myth, is not to bake it in clay, but simply to catch it, nick it on its underbelly, blow it up, peel off the prickles, peg it out, soak it in salted water, and hang it out to dry, before frying. It’s not a technique I have myself bothered to try. The old woman also kindly showed Morley how to hoick out snails from a tree stump, how to boil them in a bucket, and how best to eat them (with a good clean nail, eyes closed, and dipped in salt).

  After what seemed like hours of demonstration and instruction we parted with Emerald and the old woman on the best of terms. Morley read to Naughty from the Book for Boys, Miriam swapped her ruined silk dress with Emerald for one of her embroidered blouses and billowing skirts, and I was offered a bottle of Noname’s home-brewed spirits by the old woman. (It tasted rather like sloe gin, without the gin and the sloes, and there was a strong aftertaste of turnip.) Job had disappeared to I know not where.

  As we left, Morley gave Emerald a solemn promise.

  ‘I give you my word, madam, that I will do everything in my power to ensure that your husband, if innocent, returns to you as soon as possible.’

  It was typical Morley: intrepid, keen, well-meaning and utterly reckless.

  When we returned to the Lagonda to make our way back to Appleby we found that someone had let down the tyres.

  Morley suspected the boys from Kirkby Stephen. Miriam suspected the police. I rather suspected Job.

  I rather suspected Job

  CHAPTER 15

  A 22-LEVER MIDLAND TUMBLER

  WE WERE ARGUING, as usual, in the Lagonda. It was the site of many an argument – a kind of four-wheeled debating chamber in many ways, a small mobile contested territory of endless dispute. During the course of our travels I came to think of the Lagonda almost as a kind of province unto itself, an honorary county almost: ‘Visit Lagonda, the County of Argument and Debate’. (Interestingly, in Morley’s Atlas of Imaginary Places (1922), an utterly bizarre collection of essays, privately printed and hand illustrated by Fred Adlington, and now very much a collector’s item, Morley writes with tremendous and utterly disproportionate fondness for L. Frank Baum’s Land of Oz, as if it were an actual place, inhabited by actual people. He claims indeed to have visited the land himself – ! – and to have spent time in Rigamarole Town, in Merryland, in Thumbumbia and Squeedonia, and all the other ludicrous made-up places. He always had a tendency to confuse categories. Sometimes I wondered if his England was an entire invention, a dream kingdom, an intellectual curiosity rather than a real place.)