and—’
‘I really need to go now though.’
Morley consulted his two watches – the luminous and the non-luminous dials.
‘Yes, the seven fifteen, would that be it?’ He had – naturally – memorised most of Bradshaw’s. ‘If you hurry you might just catch it.’
‘I’m going to catch it.’
‘Good, now let’s give the man the means, Miriam, shall we?’
Miriam looked at me suspiciously but nonetheless began rooting around in her handbag.
‘And the camera, Miriam, give him the camera. Come on, hurry!’
‘The new Leica, Father? But I thought I might—’
‘Now, now, Sefton is our photographer. We did buy the camera for him. It’s the new Leica, Sefton. I was particularly impressed by the set-up we saw in Devon, and I thought perhaps you might enjoy using it. Give you something to play with on the train.’
‘I’m sure Sefton will find something to play with on the train,’ said Miriam, handing over the camera and a handful of cash. ‘That should be enough to cover a third-class fare, Sefton. You’ll be travelling third class, of course?’ Miriam smiled at me.
‘For colour?’ said Morley. ‘Yes, good thinking, Miriam. Travelling with the people. Ours is a people’s history, after all.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
MacDonald was just five yards away. I could see the veins throbbing in his neck and his eyes bulging.
‘I think we’ll beat you to it,’ said Miriam, but I didn’t answer: I had already begun to run.
‘Sefton!’ shouted Miriam after me. ‘Where will we see you?’
‘Appleby!’ cried Morley. ‘The county town of Westmorland! We’ll meet you at Appleby, Sefton!’
I ran into the station, shouting to the porters for the seven fifteen: they pointed me to platform 3. I ran past the ticket inspector and made it to the last carriage of the train, where a young mother was struggling to get on with a young girl and a baby. The guard was calling the departure as I managed to lift up the girl and slam the door behind us – and the train shuddered forward.
I stood for a long time at the window looking out for MacDonald, but there was no sign of him. I must have lost him in the crowd.
Satisfied, I made my way to a compartment, squeezing past fellow passengers and their luggage. There was the woman with the baby and the child.
‘Mummy, Mummy,’ said the little girl. ‘It’s the nice man, Mummy.’
The young woman smiled at me warmly.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ I said.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for helping.’
‘The baby will cry,’ said the little girl. ‘But all babies cry. What’s that?’ she asked, pointing at the Leica.
‘It’s a camera,’ I said.
‘What’s a camera?’
‘It’s something that you can take pictures with.’
‘Like a drawing?’
‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘Is there a pencil inside it?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s not a pencil.’
‘Is there a pen?’
‘No, there’s not a pen either.’
‘Is there paint?’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Do you want to see?’
The girl looked at her mother, her mother nodded, and the little girl came and sat close to me; as we left London I showed her how to open the camera, how to check the shutter and the focus and how to frame a photograph. I took her photograph and she took mine.
‘Are you coming with us?’ asked the girl. ‘Mummy, can the man come with us?’
‘The man is on his own journey,’ said the mother. ‘He’ll be going somewhere himself.’
‘We’re going to Carlisle,’ said the little girl. ‘Where are you going?’
I looked at her. I felt suddenly exhausted. ‘I don’t know, actually,’ I said. ‘I don’t know where I’m going.’
‘You’re funny,’ said the girl. ‘You’re a funny man!’
‘He’s just tired,’ said the mother. ‘Let him rest now.’
IT WOULD NOT BE an exaggeration to say that Morley was obsessed with the Settle–Carlisle line. He was obsessed with a lot of things, of course, but the Settle–Carlisle remained for him one of the great foundation stones – ‘one of the canonical lines’, he famously called it – of England. I have no doubt that if he could have seen the destruction later wrought upon the railways he would not have despaired: he simply would not have let it happen. There would have been campaigns, organisations, books, leaflets, marches on London, a popular uprising: Mr Beeching would have taken one hell of a beating.
After our trip to Westmorland, Morley revised and updated his famous book, 72 Miles, 1,728 Yards (1935), in which he describes the route of the Settle–Carlisle line, mile by mile, yard by yard, tunnel by tunnel, viaduct by viaduct, every gradient, every ascent, every twist and every turn. I doubted that the new edition would sell a single copy. It became a bestseller. His most popular lecture series – by far – during our time together was on the Settle–Carlisle line, more popular than the ‘World of Wonders’ series and the ‘Home Husbandry’ series combined, more popular even than the infamous ‘Communism, Fascism: What Exactly is the Difference?’ lecture, which always drew a crowd (and which, indeed, on a number of occasions, caused a riot). In the Settle–Carlisle lectures he lovingly described the planning and construction of the line, its maintenance, and its day-to-day operations, beginning and ending with a sing-song recitation of the names of all the stations: Settle, Horton-in-Ribblesdale, Ribblehead, Dent, Garsdale, Kirkby Stephen, Crosby Garrett, Ormside, Appleby, Long Marton, Newbiggin, Culgaith, Langwathby, Little Salkeld, Lazonby and Kirkoswald, Armathwaite, Cotehill, Cumwhinton, Scotby, Carlisle. Anywhere north of Watford the recitation of the station names alone would often earn him a standing ovation. (Admittedly, the lectures
