Westmorland Alone

We were back in the Lagonda, ready to head to Appleby. Morley was rubbing his fingers and thumbs together, in a gesture he sometimes used when trying to work out something difficult, as if literally sifting ideas through his hands.

‘Who?’ said Miriam, reapplying her lipstick in the car’s rear-view mirror: there were times when the Lagonda came to resemble a kind of mobile beauty parlour.

‘Can’t remember, Father,’ said Miriam, checking her application of make-up. ‘Sorry.’

‘Where did Mr Taylor say he was going?’ asked Morley again, trying to summon up the answer from between his fingers.

‘Whatever that is,’ said Miriam, puckering her lips together and blowing herself a kiss.

‘Ah, yes, the Egremont Fair, that’s right!’ said Morley. ‘Or the Crab Fair, strictly speaking.’

‘Something to do with crabs, presumably?’ said Miriam, manipulating an eyebrow and glancing in my direction.

‘Crabs?’ said Morley. ‘Crab apples, Miriam! The Lord of Egremont traditionally distributed crab apples to the people, I think. What’s the date?’

‘There we are then!’ said Morley. ‘Third Saturday of September. The Egremont Crab Fair! One of the great remaining English medieval fairs! Traditionally took place on the feast of the Nativity of St Mary, I believe, but was moved for practical reasons during the last century, probably to do with changing working patterns and—’

‘Fascinating I’m sure,’ said Miriam, starting up the car. ‘Anyway.’ We set off in the direction of Appleby.

‘I bet he would,’ said Miriam. ‘But no chance.’ She smiled sarcastically, her lipstick underlining the emphasis.

‘Egremont,’ said Morley. ‘Strictly outside our boundaries, of course, over in west Cumberland—’

‘Oh no,’ said Miriam, clearly foreseeing where the conversation was going. ‘No way.’

‘Not always then,’ said Morley. Another small linguistic victory. ‘It’s only a couple of hours’ drive.’

‘What would it be …?’ Morley consulted the map of the British Isles that he seemed to have on permanent display in his mind’s eye. ‘Penrith. Keswick. Whitehaven even? Or up to Cockermouth and then the road south … Mmm. Beautiful scenery. While we’re here, you know, it would be a terrible shame not to take the opportunity.’

‘It would add quite a lot to the book, my dear. We’ve hardly begun with Westmorland. Apart from the scenery there are all the monuments, and the castles, and the industry—’

‘And of course there’s the fair itself, for when we come to write up Cumberland. We’d be ahead of ourselves, actually. Two counties for the price of—’

‘And we’d be able to let poor Gerald know that the police need to speak to him back in Appleby. So it’s win-win-win—’

‘No it is not, Father. It is not win-win-win. It is no, no, no. Do you understand?’

‘Father! We are not driving all the way to Egremont. We are here, in case you’ve forgotten, to write a guidebook to Westmorland, plain and simple, in which task we are already conspicuously failing, without wandering off into Cumberland and goodness knows where. And besides, the policeman asked us to remain in Appleby, if you recall?’

‘Someone has died, Father, and I think you need to take it rather more seriously.’

‘I am taking it very seriously, my dear. Not only has someone died: a man’s wife has died.’ He paused, composing himself. ‘And Sefton and I discovered her body – so I think perhaps we have a duty to poor Mr Taylor to let him know as quickly as possible that the police will be wanting to speak to him, don’t you?’

‘Well in that case we can just let the police know where Mr Taylor is and save ourselves the bother of the journey. Obviously.’

‘But …’ Morley was clearly looking for reasons to justify the journey. ‘The journey is the journey!’ he said, gazing around, in that annoyingly mystical way of his.

‘The journey is the journey?’ repeated Miriam. ‘And what on earth is that supposed to mean, exactly?’

‘This is The County Guides, Miriam. This is it, the very spirit of the thing. The three of us, en route, in transit. In loco!’

‘Oh! Father!’ cried Miriam. ‘Sefton? Talk to him. We are not driving all the way to Egremont. And that’s final.’

We arrived in Egremont in the late afternoon. The drive there was, of course, utterly spectacular, the automobile equivalent of a ride on the Settle–Carlisle line, Morley taking notes and typing as we travelled, as well as continually tossing out observations about the history and topography of Westmorland and Cumberland, and the history of English fairs, and the meaning of the sublime in English literature, and the nature of traditions and customs in rural English life pre-, post- and during industrialisation – the usual sort of conversation for a pleasant afternoon’s outing. With Morley, every jaunt became a lecture, and every lecture a jaunt. The Egremont Fair, I discovered, dates back to the thirteenth century, and is to be clearly distinguished from the likes of the Appleby Fair, which is strictly a gypsy fair, dating back only to the reign of James II, and also from the Grasmere Sports, which is really a sporting occasion, though all three are apparently an integral part of the Lakeland social calendar and therefore play an important role in maintaining what Morley in The County Guides describes as the ‘ancient and noble traditions of Merrie Englande’. It was perhaps therefore no surprise to be greeted on our arrival in Egremont by the sight of a gang of merrie Englishmen happily brawling outside a pub far advanced in its decrepitude and cheered on by a crowd who one might easily imagine having enjoyed bear-baiting during the late Middle Ages.

‘Bloody gypsies!’ cried one woman in the crowd to the brawling men. ‘Go back to where you belong!’

‘High spirits,’ said Morley. ‘Nothing to worry about. Rather quaint in many ways. Now, a quick tour of the fair, we’ll find Gerald and then we’ll be gone. We’ll be back in Appleby by nightfall. Perfectly straightforward.’

In all my years with Morley nothing was ever straightforward – and so it proved at the Egremont Crab Fair.

Miriam parked the car on a residential street near the centre of the town. There were cars and vans and horses and carts everywhere you looked, men and women in their finery – and their not-so-finery.

‘Probably best if we split up,’ said Morley, ‘and then whoever finds Gerald can say that we’d like a word and we can perhaps rendezvous back here in – what? – an hour or so?’

‘Mind your car, miss?’ asked a young lad who had clearly seen an opportunity to make some money during the festivities.

‘Here you are, boy,’ said Morley, giving him a handful of coins. ‘Spend it wisely!’

‘It’s a fair, for goodness sake, Miriam!’ said Morley. ‘Go and enjoy yourselves!’ And with that he promptly disappeared into the crowd.

I was about to do exactly that and head for the nearest pub when Miriam called me back.

‘But Mr Morley said we were to split up and meet back here in an hour or so.’

‘I know perfectly well what he said, but I’m not at all sure I want to be on my own with all these … people.’

Miriam could be snooty and she could be snobbish, and there were times when she was just plain rude. The influence of her London set – the Mitfords and the Guinnesses and the actresses and the mannequins – could be quite unfortunate. But this was admittedly quite a crowd, and quite a mixed crowd, and quite an unruly crowd, and as we neared the centre of town more and more young men and women and families began pressing all around us from every direction, with hawkers and flower sellers and boys and girls begging for change, and women selling rag dolls and – could it have been? – puppies from baskets, and tea stalls and booths and tables piled high with tall pies and flat cakes. Someone had somehow attached a gramophone horn to the top of a tall pole and somewhere nearby – and very recently – a farmer had been spreading muck. The combination of the sound of Tommy Dorsey’s ‘The Dipsy Doodle’ and the stench of manure, and the sweet smell of crab apples crushed underfoot was really quite intoxicating. Miriam was accustomed to the city, with its strict and peculiar rules governing crowd behaviour: this was classic country chaos.

She took my arm and we began walking together. ‘Let me hold on to you, Sefton, just in case,’ she said. And sure enough, we’d not gone more than a few steps when we were accosted.

‘Hey, young lovers, do you want your fortune told?’ asked a gypsy woman, who really would have made a Carmen; she was wearing the typical clothes of her tribe, a costume of such fine colours, and with loud clacking bangles and bracelets, that it almost eclipsed Miriam’s own.

‘We are not young … anything, thank you,’ said Miriam, picking up her stride.

‘Is that right? Are you sure?’ said the woman, who had fallen into step alongside us. ‘Good-looking young lady like yourself, with such a fine young gentleman.’

‘We’re not buying anything today, thank you,’ said Miriam. ‘Good day to you!’

‘Quite sure, thank you,’ said Miriam. ‘I am practically engaged to someone else, actually.’

‘Ah! Ah, that’d be it,’ said the gypsy. ‘I could tell, you see. Dordi, dordi. It won’t go well.’

‘Oh, I thinks you know it, my dear,’ said the gypsy. ‘I thinks you know it. And I thinks you know that you two are destined to be together.’

‘Pah!’ cried Miriam. ‘I’ll tell you what I do know. I know we’re destined to go and visit the fair, madam, and I’d be very grateful if you could let us get on and do so in peace, thank you.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said, and began to speed up even more. ‘Come on, Miriam.’

But the gypsy grabbed my arm and brought her face close to mine. ‘Oh, I know all about you,’ she said.

‘I can tell. You’re one of those condemned to wander the world without ceasing, running and running, never finding peace.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, brushing her off and speeding away. ‘Much appreciated. Goodbye!’

Giving up with us, the woman immediately caught on to another man and woman and tried the same patter with them. ‘Hello, young lovers, do you want your fortune told?’ The man was rather more brisk with the gypsy than even we had been, and she duly passed on again to the next couple.

‘Bloody gypsies,’ said the man to me, as he walked past. ‘Gunnan folk. They’ve got their own fair, why can’t they leave us to ours?’

‘They say the crash down in Appleby is o’ alanga them,’ said the woman. ‘The children live on nobbut bread an’ scrape.’

We wandered together round the fair, Miriam rather irritated and anxious, clearly annoyed with the gypsy woman, and with me, and with Appleby and Egremont, and with the whole of Cumberland and Westmorland, but gradually she calmed down and began to enjoy herself. We drank tea and ate cakes. We watched men playing quoits and children attempting to climb a greasy pole. It was another warm September afternoon and the tea and cakes and the general air of gaiety slowly began to work a subtle autumn magic: we laughed at the same things, and shared a few small confidences. It was probably the most time we had ever spent in one another’s company alone, and certainly the most time we had ever spent together without arguing and without having to intervene to save Morley from some ridiculous predicament or other. I thought for a moment that life might actually be like this: some kind of surreal rural idyll. There was, in a field, a pipe-smoking competition; Miriam was sorely tempted to have a go, but participation seemed to be restricted to old men in flat caps and suits, all puffing up a storm. Elsewhere in the field we witnessed what a local informed us was something called ‘Gurning Through a Braffin’ – a sort of face-contorting contest that I wisely declined to enter. And a sign outside a tent advertised something called ‘Biskeys and Treacle’.

‘No, I think they mean “Biskeys”, whatever they are,’ I said. (See the entry under ‘Biskeys and Treacle’ in The County Guides: Westmorland.)

It was as though we were discovering a foreign country together, Egremont Fair being about as exotic as England gets, a spectacle of the utterly odd and the perfectly everyday. But there was no sign of Mr Gerald Taylor, and soon it was time for us to return.

As we began wandering back towards the Lagonda, away from the centre of the town, my eye was caught by what was effectively a mini-bazaar set up on a patch of scrubland by the side of the road, tended by an ancient being wrapped in layer upon layer of clothes as though for a Russian winter. The thick grey braided hair and the large hooped earrings through large low-hanging earlobes suggested a woman of advanced years, but it was difficult to tell: if it was a woman it was a woman with a man’s face; the defiant face of a Geronimo. She had a variety of items set out on a blanket before her: wooden spoons, lucky horseshoes, candles and jars of cloudy liquids.

‘Perfumes, miss?’ asked the old woman. ‘Ointments? Creams? Something for your fiancé?’

‘Let me buy you something,’ I said. I had started to feel rather comfortable with Miriam, perhaps for the first time. ‘I’d like to.’

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The defiant face of a Geronimo

She picked up a jar of cloudy liquid.

‘What’s this?’ she asked the old woman.

‘Oh no, no, you’ll not be wanting that, my dear,’ the woman replied, in her thin, strangulated voice.

‘I just wondered what it was,’ said Miriam.

‘No, I can’t let you have that,’ said the woman.

‘What do you mean, you can’t let me have it? Isn’t everything for sale?’

‘It’s not for you, my dear.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, shall I? I was simply enquiring what it was.’

The old woman fixed Miriam with a defiant stare. ‘It’s hotchiwitchi oil,’ she said.

‘It’s whatty withchy?’

‘Hotchiwitchi.’

‘Hotty witchy?’

‘Hotchiwitchi. You’d call it a hedgehog.’

‘It’s hedgehog oil?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How do you get hedgehog oil? Is it some sort of secretion?’

‘It’s from the fat, from the cooking,’ said the woman. ‘From when we bake the hotchiwitchi.’

‘Ugh,’ said Miriam, placing the jar quickly back down on the blanket. ‘And what on earth’s it for?’

‘Hotchiwitchi oil? It does for everything, my dear. Cure for baldness. Cure for heartache. Cure for chilblains. Cure for your diarrhoea. Cure for your constipation.’

‘A cure for constipation and for diarrhoea?’ said Miriam.

The woman laughed one short barking laugh so loud and so violent it sounded like someone coming up for air, and then she held up another jar that looked exactly the same as the hedgehog oil.

‘You don’t need that one. You want to try this one, miss. This one’s for you.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Comfrey ointment.’

‘It looks exactly the same as the—’

‘Comfrey ointment,’ insisted the woman.

‘And what’s that for?’

‘What d’you want it to be for, my dear?’

‘What is it actually for though?’ asked Miriam.

‘Comfrey ointment does for everything.’

‘Like hotchiwitchi oil?’

‘Totally different. Boiled up with a bit of lard, it does you for burns and cuts. Lubricates your engine. And it’s good in a nice stew.’

‘Are you mocking me?’ asked Miriam.

And the old woman laughed again. ‘Where’s your gorgio sense of humour then?’

‘I have a perfectly good sense of humour, thank you,’ said Miriam.

This made the old woman laugh even more.

‘Come on, Sefton. This woman is clearly not interested in our business.’

‘No, no, no,’ said the old woman. ‘Seriously, my dear. Seriously. This is for you,’ she said, scooping up a handful from a pile of what looked like small dirty pieces of diced ginger. ‘This is what you need.’

‘Really? And what is this? Dried starling oil? Purified pansy ointment?’

‘This?’ said the woman. ‘It’s mandrake, my dear.’

‘Is it?’ said Miriam. ‘I’ve never seen mandrake.’

‘Good for the blood, mandrake,’ said the woman. ‘You takes your little nutmeg grater, puts it in a pot, boils it up and then you takes it like tea, with sugar.’

‘And what does it do?’

‘It eases you proper,’ said the woman. ‘In every way.’

‘Well, perhaps I will take some of that then,’ said Miriam.

‘Told you,’ said the woman. ‘I know what you need, miss. And he knows, eh?’

Miriam clearly bridled and became tense at this suggestion: no one should ever know what Miriam needed, apart from Miriam. She produced her purse, as I reached for my wallet.

‘Let me,’ I said.

‘I pay my own way, thank you, Sefton,’ said Miriam, her tone hardening. The warmth of the afternoon seemed suddenly to have vanished.

‘Did you find the mandrake yourself, madam?’ I asked the old woman.

‘No, no. That’s the girl, Naughty, who finds the mandrake.’ She pointed to a little girl behind her who was bathing a baby in a handsome washtub made from what looked like half of an old beer barrel.

‘Naughty?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is that her name?’

‘That’s right. And her little sister’s Nice.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘Naughty finds mandrake. She’s a gift.’

‘I see.’ Naughty did not look as though she had a gift – she looked like a dirty ragamuffin – though of course it’s difficult to tell. (I have certainly met enough poets and artists in my time who have blurred the distinction between dirt and art, and who were neither naughty nor nice.)

‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything smaller,’ said Miriam, producing a crisp brown ten bob note.

I reached again for my wallet.

‘Here,’ I said, ‘let me, please.’

‘No, no,’ said the old woman. ‘That should suffice.’ And she snatched the note.

‘Hey!’ said Miriam. ‘I’m not paying that much for a handful of dried roots!’

‘Very rare, mandrake,’ said the woman. ‘Very rare.’

‘That’s outrageous!’ said Miriam.

‘Hey!’ I said. ‘Give the lady her money back.’

Suddenly a man came, as if from nowhere, from behind the old woman and stood protectively beside her. He was wearing a white vest and a leather apron and had a wild head of dark hair shaved high and tight on the sides. With wide-set eyes and a long profile he looked remarkably like a horse preparing to charge; indeed, he had a horseshoe tattoo on one arm, and was carrying an actual horseshoe in his other hand. In the near distance behind the woman I noticed that he had a makeshift workshop set up: a forge by a fire in a clearing by some trees, beside a vivid gypsy caravan.

‘Problem, Mother?’ said the man.

‘No!’ she said. ‘These good people were just buying some of our mandrake.’

‘Good.’ He stared at me. ‘That’s all good then?’

‘I’m afraid there’s been something of a misunderstanding,’ I said.

‘Is that right?’

At that moment Morley appeared beside us.

‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘Found you! Have you had a good afternoon?’

‘Very good, thank you, Mr Morley,’ I said.

‘Did you try your hand at quoits?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘What about the greasy pole?’

‘No.’

‘Oh you should have, Sefton! Reminds of the time I was in Lucknow, fabulous place, and they had a not dissimilar—’

‘Did you find Mr Taylor, Father?’ asked Miriam.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid not, but there’s some wrestling about to start. I think we might just find him there, if we’re quick.’

The horseshoe man had wandered back over to his anvil and was settling down to his bellows when Morley caught sight of it.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well, well, well. What is this? Tinsmith? Blacksmith? Silversmith? Worth an investigation perhaps, Sefton? A quick photograph, at least? “Cumbrian Country Crafts”? I can see the caption now. Come on.’

‘We just need to sort something out here, Mr Morley, actually,’ I said.

‘Miriam can sort it out, can’t she?’ said Morley. ‘She’s a big girl. Come on, quick. We need to get back for the wrestling.’

And so, reluctantly, I left Miriam arguing with the old woman over the price of the mandrake and made my way with Morley over to the man, fearing – in all honesty – for both Morley’s safety and my own.

‘What do you want?’ the horse-faced man asked, without looking up.

But Morley’s attention had already wandered.

‘I was just admiring your wagon here, sir, actually,’ said Morley. ‘It really is a thing of tremendous beauty, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘It is, and you may.’ The man stood up and looked proudly towards his caravan.

‘Did you build it yourself, may I ask?’

‘I did not, sir, no.’

‘Would you mind awfully if I asked who made it then? It’s just, I have always had rather a hankering after a vardo myself.’

‘You know the proper name?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Morley. ‘I am something of an enthusiast for the gypsy way of life.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Oh, very much so. Very much so.’

‘Well it’s a shame others don’t share your enthusiasm,’ said the gypsy, fixing his eyes suspiciously on me. ‘Lot of “misunderstandings” between us and the gorgio. No offence.’

‘None taken, sir,’ said Morley. ‘I understand completely. We are all, alas, as strangers to others, and sometimes even unto ourselves.’

Morley was by now in reverie, up close to the caravan, examining the big bright yellow wooden wheels and the carriage’s incredibly ornate carvings.

‘Look at this, Sefton! I mean, just look at it!’

‘Made by Tom Tongs of Manchester, sir,’ said the man. ‘Finest vardo maker in the land – in my and many another’s opinion.’

‘Yes. Yes. It really is quite magnificent,’ said Morley. ‘Like a cathedral, almost. Have you ever been to Notre Dame?’

‘Can’t say I have, sir, no. Palace on wheels, I calls it,’ said the man.

‘Exactly,’ said Morley. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself. A palace on wheels! A portable Versailles!’ Morley slapped the vehicle as if slapping the hindquarters of a prize-winning heifer. ‘And it weighs it, I’m sure. It must be, what?’

‘Fifty hundredweight, I would guess.’

‘My goodness,’ said Morley.

‘She’s a two-horse carriage, really,’ said the man.

There was a horse tethered by the wagon, and a lazy-looking dog lounging on the steps that led up inside. Morley glanced across at the animals.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ said the man. ‘Our other horse died that we bought at Appleby. Blue roan mare. We used her as a sider.’

‘A sider?’

‘To go alongside,’ said the man.

‘Ah, of course,’ said Morley. ‘Well, sorry to hear that.’

‘I knew we shouldn’t have bought her. Something wrong with her. But you know what the fair’s like. Allowed my heart to rule my head.’

‘Yes, I think we’ve all experienced that,’ said Morley, stroking the caravan’s woodwork. ‘The Appleby Horse Fair, you mean?’

‘That’s right,’ said the man.

‘I’ve never been, alas.’

‘You want to come next year, sir. It’s not like this. Proper gypsy fair, so it is. You get wagons all the way from Boroughbridge to Catterick Green; you could plot your way home by the fires at night. And horses everywhere. Piebalds, skewbalds, roans. Quite a sight.’

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Horse grazing in a field

‘Well, one year I would very much like to see that,’ said Morley. ‘Very much indeed. One of the great festivals and customs of the English year.’

‘That it is, sir.’

‘The Nottingham Goose Fair, the Durham Miners’ Gala, May morning at Magdalen College, Lewes Bonfire Night—’

I coughed very loudly, sensing one of Morley’s long lists in the making.

‘Are you all right, Sefton?’

‘Yes, fine, thank you,’ I said.

‘Well, you should look in on us, if you do ever make it to Appleby for the fair,’ said the man.

‘I will,’ said Morley, ‘thank you.’

‘You know Appleby?’

‘Just a little.’

‘It’s up by Gallows Hill but you get the vardos everywhere, all up Boroughgate. We usually try to set up down there. Naughty and my mother like selling the potatoes and pig’s trotters. They do a roast potato with a trotter for a farthing, plus your salt and vinegar.’

‘That sounds delicious,’ said Morley. ‘And very good value.’

‘Aye, better value than the horse,’ said the man, sighing, glancing at his weary-looking animals.

I’ll be honest: I rather doubted the man’s hard-luck story. I assumed that he had simply spotted Morley as an easy target – a soft touch. During our years together I saw Morley swindled out of hundreds if not thousands of pounds by men and women of all kinds and classes – businessmen, ‘artists’ and ne’er-do-wells – who clearly spied the same vulnerability in him. For someone so smart he could be incredibly stupid: I wondered sometimes if he made himself stupid for the benefit of others. I saw him give money to ex-servicemen who were clearly not ex-servicemen, to women pretending not to be prostitutes who clearly were prostitutes, and to children whose only appeal was the fact that they were indeed children. He was generous to the point of utter foolishness, if not complete idiocy. If I was right, and judging by the usual shape and structure of these scams, the man would avoid any direct appeal for cash, but would instead slowly reel Morley in with ever more pathetic tales of hardship: first, a dead horse; then, a dead child; a dead wife; a fatal illness. So far, the conversation was going exactly as I might have predicted.

‘I should never have bought that horse. Should have stuck with a piebald. You can rely on a piebald.’

‘Yes, a good reliable horse, a piebald,’ agreed Morley. ‘I think I’m right in saying that George Washington preferred a piebald.’

‘So we’re stuck here for the moment. We just need to make enough money to buy a good horse – a mare, so we can breed a foal – and then we’re gone. Not asking for much, is it?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ said Morley.

‘Trouble is, people are always trying to move us on.’ He looked menacingly at me again.

I looked menacingly back. I knew his game.

‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘It’s the old story, isn’t it, I’m afraid. You are fugitives and vagabonds.’

‘I don’t know about that, sir.’

‘In the biblical sense, I mean,’ said Morley. ‘“When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.” Genesis, chapter 4, verse 12. The fate of many of us, I’m afraid, whether we know it or not.’ Morley looked at me and I looked down at the ground. ‘Anyway.’ He was now at the foot of the steps of the caravan, stroking the dog.

‘You’re good with the dogs,’ said the man, buttering Morley up even further.

‘I am an animal lover,’ said Morley. ‘Yes, certainly. Lurcher, is she?’

‘That’s right. A good dog, a good horse, and maybe a game cock, for fighting – that’s all a man needs, isn’t it, sir?’

‘Quite,’ said Morley. ‘Though I’m afraid I can’t share your enthusiasm for the fighting cock.’

‘Well, you’re not one of us, sir, are you? You wouldn’t understand. You can’t stop a cock from fighting. It’s not natural.’

‘“Don’t be natural, be spiritual,” says St Paul.’

‘Does he?’

‘He does indeed.’

‘Well, I’m sure I don’t know much about the Bible, sir, but I can tell you what I do know: St Paul bain’t keep cocks, that’s for sure.’

‘Ha,’ said Morley. ‘Very good. I like that. “St Paul bain’t keep cocks.” I might use that, if I may.’

‘Free to you, sir,’ said the man. ‘Free, gratis and without charge.’ He was totally transparent: get Morley into his debt, and then Morley would feel obliged to help him out.

I thought it was probably time to go. ‘Mr Morley, we should probably head on here, if we’re to make the wrestling.’

Morley ignored me and stepped back to gain a better view of the vardo.

‘You know, your paintwork reminds me of something,’ he said. ‘I just can’t think what.’

The man looked up. ‘The purple and gold?’

‘Yes. Rather like Cleopatra’s barge, isn’t it?’

‘The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne?’ asked the man.

‘Indeed,’ said Morley. ‘That burned on the water.’

‘And the poop was beaten gold?’

‘That’s right!’ said Morley. ‘“Purple the sails, and so perfumed that / The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, / Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made / The water which they beat to follow faster, / As amorous of their strokes.”’

‘You know your Shakespeare then,’ said the man.

‘And so do you!’ said Morley. ‘So do you! Very impressive, sir. You are truly the scholar gypsy!’

‘I wouldn’t say that, sir. Learned it from a book, just, a long time ago.’

‘Well, you learned it well,’ said Morley.

‘It was a good book. You should read it. You might learn something,’ said the man.

‘I’m sure I might,’ said Morley.

‘Morley’s Book for Boys. One and only book I ever read.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ said Morley.

Neither did I. I assumed the man had saved this up as his coup de grâce: this was guaranteed to squeeze money out of Morley. He must have recognised Morley from somewhere.

‘Really?’ said Morley.

‘I can swear on the Bible I can read, sir. You ask me to read anything and I can read it.’

‘No, no, I believe you can read, my good man. But Morley’s Book for Boys? Really?’

‘I’ve got it in my vardo still. Taught myself to read with it.’

‘Well.’ Morley puffed out his chest a little, I thought; perhaps the only time I ever saw him do so during our years together. ‘That really touches me, sir, more than you will ever know.’

‘Does it?’

‘It does, yes.’

‘Have you read it then?’

‘Not only have I read the book, sir. I wrote it.’

The man looked at Morley for a long time, and then broke into a smile. If he was acting – and I was certain that he was – it was certainly a good act.

‘It’s you, isn’t it? I recognise your photograph from the book. You’re older.’

‘Aren’t we all.’

‘But you’re still Swanton Morley.’

‘For better and for worse,’ said Morley. ‘At your service. And you are?’ He reached to shake the man’s hand.

‘Noname,’ said the man, wiping his hand on his apron before shaking. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Noname?’ I said, in a tone that I hoped clearly suggested that he was called no such thing, and that this entire episode was a ridiculous sham.

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘That’s your name?’

‘It is, so it is.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever—’

‘You wouldn’t have done, sir. My mother, God rest her soul, took me to church to get me christened.’ He began climbing up the steps into his wagon. ‘And when the vicar asked what name she’d chosen she told him Jehovah.’

‘Jehovah?’ said Morley.

‘It’s a good old biblical name, sir,’ he said.

‘It certainly is,’ said Morley. ‘It is in fact arguably the good old biblical name.’

‘Anyway, t’ vicar kicked up a fuss and said she bain’t have that and so she said that was the name she’d chosen and if I wasn’t to be called Jehovah then I’d have no name. And so he christened me Noname, out of spite. But it’s served me well enough.’

He wiped his hands again on his apron. ‘Swanton Morley. Well, well. Swanton Morley.’ He stood now at the top of the steps, looking down on us, for all the world as if he had indeed been picked out as a Jehovah but was equally proud to be Noname. ‘Do you want to come and look inside?’

‘I would be honoured, sir,’ said Morley.

‘The wrestling, Mr Morley?’ I said.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Morley. ‘Plenty of time. Come on, quick look inside won’t take long.’

Reluctantly I made to follow Morley up the steps into the gypsy wagon. Noname glowered at me.

‘Sorry,’ said Morley. ‘I forgot to introduce you. This is my companion, Stephen Sefton.’

‘Funny name,’ said Noname. ‘Never heard the like of that before. But I suppose if he’s a friend of yours, Mr Morley …’

The inside of the wagon was all dark varnished wood but it was spick and span, with not a thing out of place. It reminded me of a little theatre, or an old London gin palace. There was a squawking parakeet in a cage in the corner, and a huge old oil lamp swinging from a chain, and piles of neatly stacked and brightly coloured Scotch blankets, and a little stove on the left, and a built-in bed at the back, half hidden by paisley curtains, and a woven basket full of cups and crockery by the stove.

‘Well, this is cosy,’ said Morley.

‘We like to keep the wagon nice and clean, sir,’ said Noname. ‘People say we’re dirty, but you can see for yourself.’

‘I’ve been in mansion houses that your wagon would put to shame, Noname,’ said Morley.

‘I’m sure you have, Mr Morley. I’ve met rich folk myself, and half of them live like dirty grunts, if you don’t mind my saying so. There’s not a lot you couldn’t learn from us gypsies.’

Certainly not a lot about sweet-talking and thievery, I thought – and then tripped over a bucket by the door, which rattled loudly, setting off the dog barking outside.

‘Quiet, Rusty,’ shouted Noname, and the dog immediately became quiet.

‘You have him well trained,’ said Morley.

‘You have to have a dog well trained,’ said Noname. ‘You teach him who’s boss, or he’ll think he’s the boss of you.’ He straightened up the bucket I’d kicked over.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘S’all right,’ said Noname. ‘It’s just the jar pot.’

‘The jar pot?’ asked Morley.

‘The children collect jam jars, so we can reuse what the gorgio throw away,’ said Noname. ‘They make candle-holders, little bit of solder with a metal handle. Beautiful.’

‘Very good,’ said Morley. ‘If only we were all as conscientious and industrious.’

‘Conscientious and industrious is right,’ said Noname. ‘That is exactly right. People forget that about us.’

The hypocrisy of the man!

Morley looked the caravan up and down, peering into every nook and cranny, asking questions about this or that aspect of construction, and about gypsy life generally, which Noname eagerly answered, while carefully looking Morley up and down in return, carefully examining his every feature and every move. I found it rather creepy.

‘You know, it’s funny, Mr Morley,’ said Noname. ‘I always thought one day I might meet you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I just … had a feeling, I suppose. An intuition. My father wasn’t around for most of my childhood, but it was him who gave me your book and I learned so much from it, I sort of felt like … I don’t know.’ He couldn’t take his eyes off Morley. ‘I almost felt like I knew you, Mr Morley. That’s stupid, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not stupid at all, sir. Far from it. I think that’s why we all read books, is it not, Sefton?’ Morley asked me.

‘Yes,’ I readily agreed. I wasn’t listening to a word he said. I was planning an exit strategy. The gypsy had clearly set his sights on Morley and was planning some sort of elaborate con, while Morley, like a fool, had clearly warmed to the gypsy, as he seemed to warm to everyone: it was one of his great failings. The best I could hope for was to get us out of there without him losing the entire contents of his wallet.

‘In order to get to know others,’ said Morley. ‘That’s partly what books are for.’

‘I haven’t read enough books to know, sir. I’ve only read yours.’

‘Well, I am honoured.’

‘I always felt I could trust you, Mr Morley.’

‘You certainly can, sir,’ said Morley. ‘You certainly can.’

I coughed loudly. ‘Gentlemen,’ I said. This seemed like the right moment to leave. ‘I hate to interrupt, but—’

‘You know what?’ said Noname, ignoring me. ‘Let me show you something, Mr Morley.’ And he reached up above his bed to retrieve something from a high shelf. ‘Here we are then. I don’t show this to many people.’ He paused. This would be the con, I thought. ‘My library.’ And he brought down a book. Or rather, the book. Morley’s Book for Boys.

‘There it is,’ he said, looking triumphantly at me. If this was a set-up then it had been elaborately planned. ‘What do you think of that?’

‘Well, well,’ said Morley. ‘It’s a while since I’ve seen this.’

‘I could recite you from every page, sir. “It is my hope and expectation that this book contains everything that a young boy needs to know and is likely to be interested in.” That’s how you start, isn’t it?’

‘I think it is,’ said Morley. ‘Yes.’

‘Can I just check?’ I said. ‘You don’t mind?’ I thought that Morley was now so entranced with the thought that a gypsy had learned to read using his book and his book alone that he would have believed it if the man had started reciting the opening pages of the Koran. I opened the book to the first page. Noname had it exactly right.

‘”But to be clear,”’ Noname went on, ‘”this is not a book of facts. It is possible for a boy to know many facts and yet still be ignorant.” Which is quite right, Mr Morley. “The truly educated boy knows how to find things out for himself.” Quite right again, Mr Morley.’

‘Yes!’ said Morley, absolutely delighted. ‘Yes! That’s absolutely correct. And then I go on about having to learn all the most important things in life for oneself, is that right?’

‘Quite right once again, Mr Morley; though I have to say that all the information things about camping and setting fires and tracking animals I certainly found them very useful, as you can imagine.’

‘Me teaching you of all people about outdoor crafts!’ said Morley. ‘My goodness me. Would you like me to sign it?’

‘Sign what?’ asked Noname.

‘The book?’

‘Sign what in it?’

‘My name. Write my name in the book?’

‘Certainly not!’ said Noname, snatching the book from me. ‘I’ve got my name written in the book.’

‘Of course,’ said Morley. ‘My apologies.’

‘How exactly did you come across this book?’ I asked.

‘Like I say, my father bought it for me,’ said Noname, holding the book close to his chest. ‘He used it to teach me to read and write.’

‘Unbelievable,’ said Morley.

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘Which was a rare thing among us, Mr Morley, I can tell you.’

‘I can believe it,’ said Morley. I couldn’t.

Noname held the book up in front of him, as if having unearthed some precious artefact. ‘I was about thirteen or so, I suppose. I knew how to shoe a horse, and how to cut willows and peel ’em and dye ’em and make bread baskets, and all the other things we learn. But I didn’t know how to read and I don’t know why but I got this hankering for it, this hunger to be able to put things properly in sentences and paragraphs, and so my father he got me this book and we worked our way through it together, him teaching me all the rudiments like as we went.’

‘That really is a remarkable story,’ said Morley. ‘Isn’t it, Sefton?’

‘Remarkable,’ I said.

‘I don’t know about remarkable, Mr Morley, but it is a true story, that’s all,’ said Noname, looking at me.

‘But surely all true stories are remarkable stories,’ said Morley.

‘Ah! And that’s how I knows you are truly Swanton Morley, sir, and not some impostor, saying things like that! That is the true sign of you being yourself.’

Miriam was calling from outside.

‘Father! Father!’

All three of us shuffled out and down the steps.

‘Ah, Miriam!’ said Morley.

‘Father, I’m afraid I am really having terrible trouble explaining something to this woman and I wondered if you could …’ The old woman was standing by her, leaning on a stick, looking entirely pathetic. ‘You see she has taken some money of mine for—’

‘That is a mistake,’ said Noname. ‘A misunderstanding.’ He looked at me. ‘Mother’ll not be charging today, will you, Mother?’

‘I won’t?’

‘No, she won’t.’

And then he said something in Romani and the old woman handed back Miriam’s ten bob note, glaring at her, before shuffling back off towards her makeshift stall, muttering.

‘What did he say?’ Miriam asked.

‘No idea,’ said Morley. ‘My Romani’s a bit patchy, to be honest. Best leave her be.’

‘As I say, Mr Morley,’ said Noname, ‘if you’re ever in Appleby, you must come and we’ll sit by the yog.’

‘The fire?’

‘That’s right, sir. You’re a true scholar!’

‘I wish,’ said Morley.

The little girl who had been bathing the baby came running over, carrying her little sister.

‘These are my little girls, Mr Morley, Naughty and Nice.’

‘You certainly have a fine line in names,’ said Morley.

‘I like to think so,’ said Noname. ‘Naughty,’ he instructed the little girl, ‘say hello to Mr Swanton Morley.’

‘Goodbye!’ said Naughty, sticking out her tongue and running off.

‘And goodbye to you,’ said Morley, laughing. ‘Actually …’ He consulted his wristwatch. And his other wristwatch. And his pocket-watch.

‘The wrestling!’ he said. ‘Sefton, why didn’t you say? You’ve made us late! Come on! Miriam! Quick! Goodbye, Noname! Pleasure to meet you, sir!’

‘Likewise, sir,’ cried Noname. ‘And you, Mr Sefton.’

I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.

CHAPTER 10

MERRIE ENGLANDE

The defiant face of a Geronimo

Horse grazing in a field