Westmorland Alone. Ian Sansom

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ