Flaming Sussex. Ian Sansom

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘It’s very pretty.’

      ‘Pretty, Sefton?’

      ‘Very pretty.’

      ‘Very pretty? For goodness sake, man, it’s a nineteenth-century Tiffany orchid brooch with diamond-edged petals.’

      ‘Yes, I thought so. And very pretty.’

      ‘It was a gift from a friend, actually.’

      ‘Very good.’ Miriam was forever receiving gifts from friends, always men – and always jewellery, though once there was the gift of a De Dion Bouton car, which for a moment rivalled the Lagonda in her affections. The men came and went but the gifts remained.

      ‘Do you know, Sefton,’ she told me on more than one occasion, ‘the perfect condition for a woman is either to be engaged, or to be widowed.’

      We were about to leave the apartment, Miriam equipped with bag and key in hand.

      ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ She dashed back into her bedroom and reappeared moments later carrying what looked like a small furry blanket clutched to her chest.

      ‘What is that?’

      ‘It’s a Bedlington, Sefton.’

      ‘A Whatlington?’

      ‘A Bedlington. A Bedlington Terrier.’

      ‘A dog?’

      ‘Yes, of course a dog.’

      ‘Oh, Miriam.’

      ‘What do you mean, “Oh, Miriam”?’

      ‘A dog, Miriam.’

      ‘I like dogs, Sefton.’

      ‘You didn’t get it at Club Row?’

      ‘I certainly did,’ said Miriam, offended. ‘There was a chap as I was leaving the market who was packing up for home and he had this little thing all on his own and—’

      ‘From Club Row? You’ll be lucky if he lasts a week,’ I said.

      ‘Sefton!’ She covered the dog’s ears. ‘Don’t talk like that around Pablo.’

      ‘Pablo?’

      ‘Picasso, yes.’

      ‘You’ve named your dog after the artist.’

      ‘Yes. Why shouldn’t I?’

      A dog that looked less like Picasso it would be hard to imagine: he was a dog that looked like a Picasso. Everything about him was wonky, or wrong: rather than a dog, he resembled a lamb, except he was a lamb with a bluish, velvety sort of coat, a high arched back, a narrow but bulbous head, a tail that tapered to a point, and ears that hung down to what looked like two little white pom-poms. He had a mild, bewildered expression on his face and was without a doubt one of the most peculiar-looking creatures I’d ever seen. Miriam obviously adored him.

      ‘Take these,’ she said, thrusting a brown paper bag into my hands. ‘The chap threw in a bag of arrowroot biscuits.’

      ‘Marvellous,’ I said.

      ‘Now. Pablo has left a little present in the bedroom.’

      ‘Oh no.’ So this was the source of the smell.

      ‘And I just wondered if you’d be a darling and tidy it up, while I run down to the car? There’re some old newspapers in there that should do the job.’

      ‘Miriam!’

      ‘Thank you, darling! See you in a min!’

      Pablo’s gift duly disposed of, I made my way down to the Lagonda, which was parked at the back of the building.

      Miriam had donned her leather driving gloves.

      ‘Are we not waiting for your father?’ I asked.

      ‘Oh no, no, no,’ said Miriam. ‘Sorry, I should have said. We’re meeting him down in Brighton.’

      ‘Right.’

      ‘Come on, Sefton. In you pop. No time to lose!’

      With Miriam driving, I was left in the passenger seat with the Bedlington, who instantly – quite understandably – became unsettled as Miriam started up the engine and gunned down towards Camden Town. I held on tight to the poor pooch and did my best to calm him: in return, he relieved himself over my trousers.

      Damp and headachy, heading out of London, I listened as Miriam recapped for me some of the things her father wanted us to see in Sussex, including Arundel Castle – ‘The archetypal English castle, Sefton, according to Father. Norman and Early English, Gothic and Gothic Revival, Victorian and Modern, absolutely unmatched’ – and many other high points, including Beddingham, Seaford, Alfriston and Litlington, all places I’d never heard of and had absolutely no desire to visit.

      ‘Do you know Elgar?’ asked Miriam, somewhere around Crawley.

      I admitted that I did know Elgar, forgetting, as so often, that for Miriam knowing someone of renown meant actually knowing them, rather than knowing of them.

      ‘Marvellous, isn’t he? Father and I have spent many happy hours with Elgar at Brinkwells in Fittleworth. He has marvellous views to Chanctonbury Ring. When did you visit?’

      I had not visited. I had no desire to visit.

      It had been a long day.

      And I had no idea when we eventually reached Brighton that it was going to be an even longer night.

       The Bedlington

       A Late Night Sort of Town

       CHAPTER 9

      DUE TO CIRCUMSTANCES partly within my control (poor map-reading) and partly without (slow-moving vehicles; cattle being driven along the road on the way to an abattoir; a family apparently moving house using a large cart, upon which they had balanced СКАЧАТЬ