The Norfolk Mystery. Ian Sansom

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      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Good. We’ve plenty of those already. You don’t mind dogs?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Terriers?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Cats?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Birds?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Aversions or allergies to any kind of animals?’

      ‘Not that I know of, sir.’

      ‘And you are not in current employ?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Good. So you’d be able to start immediately?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Very well.’

      My curiosity had certainly been piqued by my interviewer’s description of his enterprise, but after several rounds of questioning I was still keen to know more about the details. I made one more bid for clarity. ‘Can I ask, sir, exactly what the project is to be?’

      ‘The project?’ He sounded surprised, as though the nature of his work was widely known. ‘A series of books, Sefton, called The County Guides. A complete series of guides to the counties of England.’

      ‘All of them, sir?’

      ‘Indeed.’

      ‘How many counties are there?’

      ‘Schoolmaster, aren’t we, Sefton?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Well, then? Let me ask you the question: how many counties are there?’

      ‘Forty? thirty-nine?’

      ‘Thirty-nine. Exactly.’

      ‘So, thirty-nine books?’

      ‘We may also include the bailiwicks of Guernsey and Jersey, Sefton. In which case there shall be forty-one.’

      ‘An … ambitious project then, sir.’ It struck me, in fact, not so much as ambitious as the very definition of folly.

      ‘In a life, Mr Sefton, of finite duration I can’t imagine why anyone would wish to embark on any other kind of project. Can you?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘I intend the County Guides as nothing less than the new Domesday Book. I shall be going out into England with my assistant to find all the good things and to put them down.’

      ‘Only the good, sir?’

      ‘The books are intended as a celebration, yes, Sefton.’

      ‘Works of … selective amnesia, then, sir?’

      My interviewer frowned deeply at this untoward remark. ‘Among those I would call the “not-so-intelligentsia”, Sefton, I know there to be an inclination to talk down our great nation. Are you one such down-talker?’

      ‘I like to think I’m a realist, sir.’

      ‘As am I, Sefton, as am I. Which is why I am undertaking this project. You may wish to reflect, sir, that you are of a generation that may live to see the year 2000, from which distant perspective you will be viewing a nation doubtless very different from that which you see around you now. It is my desire merely to set down a record of this place before its roots are cut and its sap drained, and the ancient oaks are felled once and for all. I do not wish England – our England – to be unknown by future generations. Do you understand, Sefton?’

      ‘I think so, sir.’

      ‘Good.’ He shifted in his seat and he glanced around the room, as though someone were among us. ‘Because I believe I can feel the chilly hand of fate coming upon us, Sefton. The County Guides I hope shall be clarion calls: they may be memorials.’ He paused momentarily for reflection upon this profundity.

      ‘And how long do you imagine this great enterprise will take, sir?’

      ‘I intend to have completed the series by the end of the decade, Sefton.’

      ‘By 1940?’

      ‘1939 I think you’ll find marks the end of the decade, Sefton. 1940 forms a part of the next, surely?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘So, 1939’s our deadline.’

      ‘A book on every county? By 1939?’

      ‘On every county, yes, Sefton. And by 1939. A celebration of England and the Englishman. From the wheelwrights of Devon to the potters of the north, from the shoe-makers of Northampton to the chair-makers of High Wycombe, the books will be—’

      ‘The chair-makers of High Wycombe?’

      ‘Renowned for its chair-making, Sefton. Do you know nothing of the English counties? Anyway, as I was explaining. I envisage this not merely as my magnum opus, but as a magnum bonum. De omnibus rebus, et quibusdam aliis—’

      ‘But that’s … dozens of books a year, sir.’

      ‘Precisely. Which is why I need an assistant, Sefton.’

      ‘I see, sir.’ The sheer scale of the task seemed ludicrous, lunatic. Which is, I think, what appealed: my own life had already reached the brink.

      ‘I was ably assisted for a number of years, Sefton, by my daughter and by my late wife. But my daughter is … maturing. And so I find myself … seeking to employ another. Anyway,’ he announced, as the final grains of sand gathered to announce the passing of fifteen minutes, ‘tempus fugit.’

      ‘Irreparable tempus,’ I said.

      He glanced at me approvingly. ‘The hour is coming, Sefton, when no man may work.’

      ‘Indeed, sir.’

      And at this he rose from his seat and walked towards the door. I followed. ‘I do hope that you don’t imagine that because of our surroundings today’ – he gestured into the gloom around him – ‘that we shall be going in for ritzy social gatherings, Sefton.’

      ‘No, sir. Not at all.’

      ‘Or chatterbangs. No swirl of the cocktail eddies here.’

      ‘I understand, sir.’

      ‘Good. Well. That’ll be all, I think, Sefton. СКАЧАТЬ