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CHAPTER 2
RISE AND SHINE AND GIVE GOD THE GLORY

AS DAWN BROKE I found myself wandering up Great Portland Street, onto the Euston Road and along towards St Pancras.

The arrangement had been to meet Miriam and Morley outside St Pancras at 7 a.m. in order to set off on our next adventure. The first of the County Guides – to Norfolk – had been published to a few lukewarm reviews by the sort of reviewers who regarded Morley’s work as beneath contempt. ‘Yet another pointless and whimsical outing from England’s self-styled “People’s Professor,”’ wrote some pompous – anonymous – twit in the Times Literary Supplement (or the ‘Times Literary Discontent’, as Morley called it). ‘A work of enthusiasm rather than of serious scholarship,’ complained some frightful bluestocking in The Times. ‘Essentially frivolous,’ concluded the Manchester Guardian. But Morley was not discouraged. He was never discouraged. He was not, I believed at the time, discourageable. The Grand Project, Le Grand Projet – The County Guides, a complete guide to the English counties, a people’s history, forty or more volumes in all, a volume to be completed every three to four weeks, his mad modern Domesday Book – was not to be derailed by anyone, rich or poor, educated, uneducated, varsity, non-varsity, dead or alive.

During my time with Morley I did my best to share his enthusiasm, and his enthusiasms, but I was really always trying to escape, to get away and to start again. The work was not uninteresting, of course, and our adventures became renowned but I was never really anything more than a glorified secretary. Morley referred to me variously over the years as his amanuensis, his assistant, his apprentice, his accomplice, his aide and, alas, as his ’bo. None of these descriptions were really adequate. For all my work and for all that the photographs featured in the books were mine I was only ever an acknowledgement buried among the many others, the page after endless page of Morley’s super-scrupulous solicitudes. ‘With thanks to the ever-accommodating British Library, to the staff of the London Library, to the University of London Library …’ and to all the other libraries, ad nauseam. ‘To H.G. Wells, and to Gilbert Chesterton, to James Hilton, to Nancy Cunard, to Dorothy Sayers, to Rosamond Lehmann, to Naomi Mitchison, and to dear Wystan Auden …’ and to all of my other famous friends. ‘To the dockers of east London, to the factory workers of Manchester …’ and to the fried fish sellers, to the piemen and piewomen, and the dolls’ eyes manufacturers of this great island nation. ‘To the people of Rutland, of East Riding, of west Dorset …’ and of everywhere else. ‘And to Stephen Sefton, and the Society for the Protection of Accidents, without whom …’ Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Every time we finished a book I vowed never to return. Sometimes I dreamed of going back to Spain, or of going back to teaching, of worming my way into the BBC, of pursuing photography seriously as a profession, of starting again somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere but England. And every time I failed. I was always drawn back, again and again. I never quite understood why.

With St Pancras up ahead and the prospect of another tiresome cross-country jaunt before me I was thinking that this time I might simply trail off into deepest darkest north London, to lick my wounds, clear my head and devise a plan.

And then I saw Miriam.

In one of his very strangest books, Rise and Shine and Give God the Glory (1930), part of his ill-fated Early Rising Campaign – hijacked by all sorts of odd bods and unsavoury characters – Morley advises the early riser not only to practise pranic breathing and vigorous exercise, but also to utter ‘an ecumenical greeting to the dawn’, a greeting which, he claimed, was ‘suitable for use by Christians, Jews, Mohammedans, Hindoos, and peoples of all religions and none’. Borrowing words and phrases from Shakespeare, Donne, Thomas Nashe, Robert Herrick and doubtless all sorts of other bits and pieces culled from his beloved Quiller-Couch and elsewhere, the greeting begins with a gobbet from William Davenant: ‘Awake! Awake! The morn will never rise / Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.’ I was never a great fan of this ‘ecumenical aubade’ of Morley’s but this morning it seemed to fit the occasion.

Miriam sat outside St Pancras enthroned in the Lagonda like the sun on the horizon: upright, commanding and incandescent. Her lips were red. She had dyed her hair a silvery gold. She wore a brilliant green dress trimmed with white satin. And she had about her, as usual, that air of making everyone and everything else seem somehow slow and soft and dull, while she alone appeared vivid and magnificent – and hard, and fast, and dangerous. Une maîtresse femme. For those who never met her, it is important to explain. Miriam was not merely glamorous, though she was of course glamorous. Miriam was beyond glamour. Hers was an entirely self-invented, self-made glamour – a self-fulfilling and self-excelling glamour. And on that morning she looked as though she had painted herself into existence, tiny deliberate brushstroke by tiny deliberate brushstroke, a perfectly lacquered Ingres wreathed in glory, the Lagonda wrapped around her like Cleopatra’s barge, or Boadicea’s chariot.

‘Good morning, Miriam,’ I said.

‘Ah, Sefton.’ She took a long draw on her cigarette in its ivory holder – one of her more tiresome affectations. She brought out the ivory holder, as far as I could tell, only on high days, holy days and for the purposes of posing. She looked at me with her darkened eyes. ‘Early, eh? Up with the lark?’

‘Indeed.’

‘And the lark certainly seems to have left its mark upon you.’ She indicated with a dismissive nod an unsightly stain on my blue serge suit – damage from my night outside Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court.

I did my best to rub it away.

‘I’m rather reminded of Lytton Strachey’s famous remark on that stain on Vanessa Woolf’s dress—’ (This ‘famous’ remark is not something that one would wish to repeat in polite company: which is doubtless why Miriam enjoyed so often doing so.)

‘Yes, Miriam. Anyway?’

‘Yes. Well. Father’s away for the papers, Sefton, so really it’s very fortuitous.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. It means that you and I can have a little chat.’ This sounded ominous. ‘Why don’t you climb up here beside me.’ She patted the passenger seat of the Lagonda.

‘I’m fine here, thank you,’ I said. It was important to resist Miriam.

‘Well, if you insist,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I have bad news, Sefton.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Yes. I’m afraid this is going to be the last of these little jaunts that I’ll be joining you on.’

‘Oh,’ I said, and said no more.

‘Well, aren’t you going to ask me why?’

I paused for long enough to exert control. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ she said triumphantly, ‘I, Sefton, am … engaged!’

‘Oh.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s traditional to offer congratulations.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘Who’s the lucky fellow?’

‘No one you know!’ She gave a toss of her head and looked away. ‘He gave me this diamond bracelet.’ She waved her elegant wrist at me. ‘Isn’t it marvellous!’

It was indeed a marvellous diamond bracelet, as marvellous diamond bracelets go. Men had a terrible habit of showering Miriam with marvellous gifts – diamonds, sapphires, furs and pearls, the kind of gifts they wouldn’t dare to give their wives, for fear of raising suspicion.

‘Isn’t it more usual to exchange rings?’ I asked.

‘Oh, the ring is coming!’ said Miriam.

When the poor chap had finalised his divorce, I thought, but didn’t dare say.

The sound of the city was growing all around us: horse and carts, cars, charabancs, paperboys, and above it all, the sound of a woman nearby selling flowers. ‘Fresh flowers! Fresh flowers! Buy my fresh flowers! Flowers for the ladies!’

Miriam smiled her smile at me and glanced nonchalantly away.

‘Anyway, Sefton,’ she continued, ‘this means that I won’t be joining you and Father on any more trips. And so I just wanted some sort of guarantee that you’d be around for as long as this damned project takes. Father has become terribly fond of you, Sefton, as I’m sure you know.’

There was in fact very little sign of Morley’s having become very fond of me. Morley didn’t really do ‘fond’. I don’t think he’d have known the meaning of ‘fond’, outside a dictionary definition.

‘Sefton?’

I didn’t answer.

‘As you know, Father needs a certain amount of … looking after. After Mother died …’

Mrs Morley had died before I had started work with Morley; he and Miriam rarely spoke of her.

‘He needs a certain amount of care and attention. I hope you can—’

We were disturbed by the sounds of what seemed to be an argument – of an English voice uttering some low, strange, unfamiliar words, the sound of a woman shouting in response, either in distress or delight, of voices calling out, and of general confusion and hubbub.

‘Thank you!’ called the voice. ‘Gestena! Danke schön. Grazie. Go raibh maith agat! Xie xie. Muchas gracias!’ It was a Babel of thanks-giving. It could only be one person: Morley.

He approached us, be-tweeded, bow-tied and brogued as ever, and carrying what appeared to be every single British daily newspaper, and very possibly every European paper as well. He appeared indeed like an emblem or a symbol of himself: Morley was, basically, a machine for turning piles of paper into yet more piles of paper. He was also carrying, rather incongruously, an enormous bunch of gaudy and distinctly unfresh-looking flowers.

‘Ah, Sefton!’ he said, thrusting the flowers at me, and the newspapers at Miriam.

‘Flowers, Mr Morley?’

‘Oh no, sorry, they’re for Miriam. The papers are for us, Sefton, 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.