style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Him?’ said Miriam.
I could see that she was considering causing mischief. I prepared to sprint.
‘Of course!’ she said. ‘He’s my fiancé, aren’t you, darling!’ She leaned across the car and offered her cheek for me to kiss. I had no choice but to oblige. ‘He’s just bought me some flowers, Officer. Isn’t he adorable?’
‘Ha!’ came a laugh from the back seat.
‘And this gentleman?’ asked the policeman, nodding towards Morley.
‘This is my father, Officer.’
‘And where are you all headed this morning, might I ask?’ The policeman addressed his question to me.
‘We are headed to …’ I had no idea. Miriam and Morley usually didn’t tell me where our next destination was until we were en route. I rather suspected that this was often because they didn’t know themselves.
‘We are headed, sir, to the very heart of the country!’ said Morley. ‘The hub! The centre! The cultural capital!’
‘And where is that exactly?’ asked the policeman, having extracted a notebook from his pocket and taken down the registration of the car.
‘Westmorlandia!’ said Morley. ‘Westmoria! The western Moorish county.’ He began whistling the Toreador Song from Carmen. (He had a recording of the Spanish mezzo-soprano Conchita Supervia singing the role of Carmen, which he claimed was one of the great cultural achievements of all time. He also claimed this, it should be said, for Caruso singing ‘Bella figlia dell’ amore’ in Rigoletto, Rosa Ponselle in Tosca, and John McCormack singing just about anything.)
‘No. Still no wiser, sir. If you wouldn’t mind spelling that for me?’
‘Westmorlandia! One of the truly great English counties!’ continued Morley. ‘Home of the poets! Land of the great artists! We shall be visiting the mighty Kendal. Penrith – deep red Penrith! Ambleside. And we shall follow the River Eden as she rises at Mallerstang and makes her majestic way to the Solway Firth—’
‘We’re visiting the Lake District, basically,’ said Miriam.
‘Ah,’ said the policeman, writing in his notebook.
‘Westmorland!’ cried Morley. ‘Do get it right, Miriam, please. Westmorland! Which – combined with Cumberland – might together accurately be described as “the Lake District”, though of course the designation is rather misleading because—’
‘And what is your business exactly in Westmorland, sir?’
‘Our business? Our business, sir, is to do no less than justice and no more than to offer honest praise!’
‘Exactly what is your business in Westmorland, sir?’ The policeman was getting tired: I’d seen it before. Morley’s eccentricities could be extremely wearing.
‘We are writing a guidebook,’ said Miriam. ‘To the county and its—’
‘Roofs!’ cried Morley. ‘The roofs of Westmorland are some of the finest in the land, Officer. Did you know?’ Morley had a great enthusiasm for roofs. He began explaining the quality of the roofs of Westmorland to the policeman, who wisely decided at that point that it was time to give up.
‘On you go then, please,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind. Move along now, people,’ he told the crowd. ‘There’s nothing to see here.’
‘Thank you, Officer,’ said Miriam. ‘Come on, darling,’ she said to me.
I remained silent and did not breathe a sigh of relief until the policeman had plodded his way far enough from the car and the crowd had begun to disperse, and then I breathed a very big sigh of relief indeed.
‘Let’s go,’ I said to Miriam, moving quickly around to the passenger side of the Lagonda.
‘All aboard the Skylark!’ cried Morley.
‘You’re keen all of a sudden,’ said Miriam to me.
‘Charming man,’ said Morley. ‘The British bobby – curious, steadfast, and yet always polite.’
‘Indeed,’ said Miriam. ‘Now, gentlemen, shall we just check our route.’ She produced a map and several of the boards onto which Morley had mounted his county maps. ‘Our route. We begin in London, obviously.’
‘Starting at the GPO?’ said Morley. ‘The traditional starting point of the Great North Road?’
‘Starting here, Father. And then Herts, and Beds, and Cambridgeshire, Rutland, Lincs, Notts, West Riding—’
‘And then a left turn at Scotch Corner?’ said Morley.
‘And then a left turn at Scotch Corner,’ agreed Miriam.
I was half listening and had already begun opening the door when I saw him: MacDonald. He was perhaps a hundred yards away, across the other side of the Euston Road. I recalled him mentioning before that he lived somewhere up around King’s Cross. When he saw me, as inevitably he would, he would doubtless want to raise the small matter with me of my having abandoned our card game, and possibly the no less small matter of my having departed with several packets of Delaney’s precious ‘snuff’.
I stood rooted to the spot.
‘Scotch Corner,’ continued Morley, ‘being of course the junction of the traditional Brigantian trade routes in pre-Roman Britain, and the site where the Romans fought the Brigantes. The Brigantes being?’
‘A Northern Celtic tribe, Father,’ said Miriam wearily.
‘Correct! And they fought the Romans at the Battle of?’
‘Scotch Corner?’ I said.
MacDonald had seen me. He stared for a moment in surprise and then smiled a dark smile and began making his way hurriedly through the traffic. I had less than two minutes. If I stayed with Miriam and Morley and the car we wouldn’t be going anywhere fast.
I had a choice. I could either make a run for it or …
‘The Battle of Scotch Corner is correct!’ said Morley. ‘You know, perhaps you’re finally getting to grips with this stuff, Sefton. We’ll also have a look at the Stanwick fortifications, which are about five miles north-west of Scotch Corner, and which I think I’m right in saying form the most extensive Celtic site in Britain—’
‘I think I might get the train, actually, Mr Morley, and meet you there.’
‘The train?’ said Miriam.
‘Ah!’ said Morley. ‘You’re thinking of the Settle–Carlisle line, Sefton, are you not? Possibly the greatest railway line in the country. A sort of railway companion to our Great North Road journey?’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what I’m thinking, Mr Morley.’ MacDonald was twenty yards away and closing fast. ‘I would just need some money, to—’
