MANY, MANY HOURS LATER, Morley, Miriam, Molly and I were climbing into the Lagonda: Molly, as befitted a diva, had greatly delayed our departure; she had, in other words, won. She greeted me warmly with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. Neither of us mentioned the previous evening in her dressing room.
Miriam, as usual, was in the driving seat. She was – I can confidently state, having seen and experienced just about her every mood, from pleasing and pliant, through determined to furious and beyond – completely and utterly incandescent with rage. I sat up front beside her, with Morley and Molly in the back, like two naughty schoolchildren. However short the distance, the drive to Lewes was going to be a very long journey.
‘Alas, since we are now departing so much later than we had planned we are not going to be able to stick to our itinerary,’ said Miriam.
‘But Miriam—’ began Morley.
‘Father!’ Miriam raised a leather-gloved hand. ‘We did discuss this earlier, at breakfast, if you recall.’
‘Very well,’ said Morley. ‘But we’re still going to Ashdown Forest.’
‘I can confirm that we are not now going to Ashdown Forest.’
‘But Miriam!’
‘If we wish to make it to Lewes by nightfall, we are not going to Ashdown Forest.’
‘But couldn’t we—’
‘Can you drive, Father?’
‘No, as you know—’
‘Molly,’ said Miriam, twisting round to face her, ‘can you drive?’
‘No,’ said Molly.
‘I thought not. Which means I’m in charge, and which means we are not going to Ashdown Forest.’
‘But we—’
‘You, Father and Molly, will have every opportunity to visit as much of Sussex as you like over the next few days, but I am going to get us to Lewes on time for our appointment, or as close to on time as we’re now able to get. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Morley, doing his best to make light of the matter. ‘You are so much going to enjoy Sussex,’ he said to Molly. ‘“Something passes me and cries as it passes,/ On the chalk downland bare.” Miriam?’
Miriam ignored her father.
‘Sefton?’ said Morley.
‘Thomas Hardy?’ I guessed.
‘Masefield,’ said Morley. ‘Come on, Sefton. John Masefield. “On the Downs”.’
‘Of course, “On the Downs”.’
Miriam was determinedly undertaking some last-minute adjustments to her make-up in the Lagonda’s mirrors.
‘Sussex is quite extraordinary,’ continued Morley to Molly.
‘Isn’t everywhere, Father?’ said Miriam.
‘Quite different to her eight and thirty sisters fair,’ said Morley.
‘He means there are thirty-nine English counties,’ said Miriam.
‘And quite different to the United States, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Molly.
‘Unlike your own home country,’ said Morley, ‘England has a gentle temperate climate, with no extremes of variety in conditions. Our rivers are easily fordable, there are few marshes or mountain ranges—’
‘He means it’s deadly dull,’ said Miriam, finishing off her lipstick.
‘It is a unique habitat sculpted over centuries by man,’ said Morley. ‘The fells, the fields, the moorland.’
Miriam and I checked the map.
‘Sussex, you will find,’ continued Morley, ‘is basically composed of these geological strips, Molly.’
‘Strips?’ said Molly.
‘Strips, yes—’ said Morley.
‘I love a strip.’
‘That run parallel to one another, east to west. You have the alluvial land that goes down to the sea. Then there are the Downs, which are a sort of rampart, if you like.’
‘Rampart,’ said Molly, cosying up to Morley.
‘And then the Weald behind that, with marsh at either end and rivers that run north to south, obviously. The Arun, the Adur, the Ouse and the Cuckmere and—’
‘Excuse me,’ said Miriam. ‘Father?’
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘Before we go any further,’ said Miriam, ‘for Molly’s benefit, of course, but also for yours, Father, if you don’t mind, I’d like to lay down a few rules.’
‘Rules, Miriam?’
‘That’s correct,’ said Miriam.
She turned round again in the driving seat.
‘Rule number one. Not too much of this.’
‘Of what?’
‘County Guides-type stuff.’
‘But we’re writing The County Guides, Miriam.’
‘Not in the back of the car we’re not,’ said Miriam, ‘nor within my hearing.’
‘But—’
‘No ifs, Father, no buts, no …’ For a moment Miriam seemed to have run out of things to forbid. But she soon picked up again. ‘No Ye Compleat Anglophile. OK?’
‘Ye Compleat Anglophile?’ said Morley.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’m not sure I—’
‘And no endless quizzing and questions about the route.’
‘Miriam!’
‘Your father is my Baedeker, my dear,’ said Molly.
‘I don’t care what he is,’ said Miriam.
‘He is my Guide Michelin,’ continued Molly, ‘my Encyclopaedia Britannica—’
‘Well, you will just have to consult him privately later,’ said Miriam. ‘Which I’m sure will suit you both perfectly.’
‘Miriam!’ protested Morley. ‘Molly has never been in Sussex before and—’
‘I was here for Goodwood, actually.’
‘Some very pleasant Canalettos in Goodwood House,’ said Morley. ‘Did you make it to Chichester Cathedral?’
‘I did not, no, alas,’ said Molly.
‘The only cathedral visible from the sea,’ said Morley.
‘Which brings us to rule number two,’ said Miriam. ‘No church crawling.’
‘Church crawling?’ said Molly.
‘It’s like pub crawling,’ said Miriam.
‘What’s pub crawling?’ asked Molly.
‘There’s going to be no crawling of any kind, pub or church, so it doesn’t matter,’ said Miriam.
‘But there are so many churches in Sussex!’ said Morley.
‘I think you’ll find there are churches just about everywhere, Father.’
‘But you know that the one Sussex legend known to everyone—’
‘Everyone?’ said Miriam.
‘Everyone,’ said Morley, ‘is the story that the devil was so enraged by the number of churches in the county that he dug a dyke to let the sea flood them, hence the Devil’s D—’
‘No dykes, real or imaginary, Father.’
‘No dykes,’ said Molly.
‘None,’ said Miriam. ‘And no churches, flooded by the devil or not.’
‘But the Sussex milestones, Miriam!’ said Morley.
‘The Whatstones, Father?’
‘The churches in the Downs are called the Sussex milestones, Miriam.’
‘I don’t care what they’re called, Father. Let me be clear, there is to be no church crawling on this trip.’
‘Miriam!’
‘Father.’
‘St Andrew’s in Steyning?’
‘St Whosoevers in Wheresoever, no.’
‘St Cuthbert I think it was who was supposed to have cared for his mother, pushing her in a barrow—’
‘I don’t care which saint did what to whom or where, we are not wasting our time on this trip with churches, Father.’
‘Wasting our time?’
‘Is what I said, Father.’
‘But St Anthony’s at Cuckmere Haven?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Magnificent fourteenth-century building, Molly.’
‘Magnificent or not, Father. It’s a no.’
‘Lullington? Tiny little church, Molly. You could pop it in your waistcoat pocket. I think it’s only about sixteen feet square.’
‘A rather large waistcoat then, Father. Let me repeat, for the last time: no churches, however big or small.’
‘What about castles?’
‘Castles? No!’
‘Sussex is peculiarly well-endowed with castles, Molly. It has a history of coastal defence and feudal lords. Amberley, Arundel, Hastings, Herstmonceux.’
‘This is not going to be an Ancient Monuments, Tudor Cottages, Pewter, Oak, Ye Olde Inne and Kynde Dragons kind of a thing, Father. We are driving directly to Lewes and that’s it.’
Miriam had turned back to face the front.
‘Gardens?’ asked Morley rather sheepishly.
‘Are also verboten, Father.’
‘Gardens!? But there are extraordinary gardens in Sussex, Miriam!’
‘I’m sure there are, Father. But that’s no reason for us to visit them. There were lovely gardens in Babylon and we haven’t made a trip there, have we?’
‘I think strictly speaking, Miriam – I think I’m right in saying – all recent scholarship would suggest that the Hanging Gardens of Babylon were a poetic construct rather than an actual place. As well to say that we haven’t visited the Garden of Live Flowers in Through the Looking Glass.’
‘You know what I mean, Father.’
‘A better example might be to say that we have not visited the gardens at the Villa d’Este or the Humble Administrator’s Garden in Soochow.’
‘Father! No gardens.’
‘What about Bateman’s at Burwash, Kipling’s place?’
‘No.’
‘But it has a superb kitchen garden.’
‘I don’t care if Mr Kipling grows actual kitchens in his kitchen garden, Father. We are not wasting our time visiting gardens.’
Morley, ignoring her, started singing a tune. He liked to sing. His usual choice were hymns ancient and modern, but the tune he was now running through sounded distinctly operatic.
Miriam turned back again.
‘And rule number three,’ she said, grinding her teeth. ‘This is really for you, Molly, but also for Father. No singing.’
‘But Molly’s a singer, my dear,’ said Morley.
‘Indeed,’ said Miriam. ‘Though I like to think most of us could knock out a “Casta diva” or a “Nessun dorma”, if we needed to – but we refrain from doing so in public, while people are driving.’
‘But Molly’s a professional singer, Miriam.’
‘Which is precisely why she should be saving her voice for her performances over the next few days. We wouldn’t want the vast, expectant opera audiences of Sussex being deprived of her dulcet tones now, would we? And as for you, Father—’
‘Me, Miriam?’
‘Yes, you, Father. I don’t want to hear any more of—’
Morley continued warbling away.
‘The catalogue aria!’ said Molly.
‘From Don Giovanni,’ said Morley.
‘Yes, we all know our Mozart operas, thank you, Father.’
‘Molly is Donna Anna,’ said Morley. ‘Do you know the catalogue aria, Sefton?’
‘I can’t remember the whole thing, Mr Morley, no.’ Or indeed any of the thing.
‘Sung by Leporello. A list of Don Giovanni’s conquests.’
‘Madamina, il catalogo è questo/ Delle belle che amò il padron mio;/ un catalogo egli è che ho fatt’io;/ Osservate, leggete con me,’ sang Molly.
‘Yes, very good,’ I said.
‘In Italia seicento e quaranta;/ In Alemagna duecento e trentuna;/ Cento in Francia, in Turchia novantuna;/ Ma in Ispagna son già mille e tre,’ continued Molly. ‘V’han fra queste contadine,/ Cameriere, cittadine,/ V’han contesse, baronesse,/ Marchesane, principesse./ E v’han donne d’ogni grado,/ D’ogni forma, d’ogni età.’
‘Brava!’ said Morley. ‘Brava!’
‘Or bravo,’ said Miriam.
‘I love the catalogue aria,’ said Molly. (The gist of it, as Morley then insisted on explaining, is that the Don is a man with considerable appetites and the song is a catalogue of more than a thousand women – peasants, countesses, baronesses, women of every rank, size, shape and age – with whom he had consorted.)
Miriam started up the car.
‘Well,’ said Morley, in his usual way attempting to smooth things over and gee things up. I turned and noted that he had been clutching in his hand a book, Baxter’s Select Sketches of Brighton, Lewes and their Environs. It looked like the sort of book that would contain a lot of wood engravings: just his sort of thing. He silently tucked it away by his side, a sure sign of defeat. He straightened himself next to Molly.
‘Let us once more abandon ourselves to that oblivion of care, that solitude and that fond companionship that calls to us from the open road. There is surely nothing that has yet been invented by which so much human happiness is produced by so little human effort and—’
Morley always delivered some version of this little speech when we set off on one of our tours.
‘And rule number four,’ shouted Miriam.
‘What?’ said Morley from the back.
‘Rule number four,’ said Miriam. ‘None of that.’
‘None of what?’ said Morley.
‘You know full well what, Father.’
And with that, Miriam stamped on the accelerator and we were away.