by Ian Sansom
The Market Place of Appleby
Copyright
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.4thestate.co.uk
This eBook first published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate in 2016
Copyright © Ian Sansom 2016
Ian Sansom asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008121723
Ebook Edition © February 2016 ISBN: 9780008121754
Version: 2015-12-10
Dedication
For the other Morley
Epigraph
Here we entered Westmoreland, a country eminent only for being the wildest, most barren and frightful of any that I have passed over in England.
DANIEL DEFOE,
A Tour Through the Whole Island of Great Britain
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: The Infernal Streets of Soho
Chapter 2: Rise and Shine and Give God The Glory
Chapter 3: 72 Miles, 1,728 Yards
Chapter 4: Pandaemonium
Chapter 5: Wild West Appleby
Chapter 6: The Locomotive Accident Examination Guide
Chapter 7: Pencilariums and Pharmacopoeias
Chapter 8: English Archaeological Records
Chapter 9: Death and Deceit and Despair
Chapter 10: Merrie Englande
Chapter 11: Stephen ‘Jawbone’ Sefton
Chapter 12: The Stench of Cabbage and Onions
Chapter 13: The Joy of Pickling
Chapter 14: Gavver-Mush
Chapter 15: A 22-Lever Midland Tumbler
Chapter 16: The Hanging Room
Chapter 17: Ejecta, Rejecta, Dejecta
Chapter 18: Some Photographic Techniques
Chapter 19: A Totally Different Complexion
Chapter 20: Dora’s Station Café
Chapter 21: The End of the Story?
Chapter 22: Open to Closed
Footnote
Acknowledgements
Picture Credits
Also by Ian Sansom
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
THE INFERNAL STREETS OF SOHO
LONDON WASN’T KILLING ME. The opposite.
We had returned from Devon in a low mood. Things had not gone at all according to plan. Miriam was no doubt distracting herself with some dubious engagement or other and Morley was probably working on some mad side project – a history of war, perhaps, or of the Machine Age, or of Russian literature, or indeed of Russia, or of fish, of friendship, of God, of the gold standard, goodness only knows what. (See, for example, Morley’s War – And its Enemies (1938), Morley’s Forces of Nature in the Service of Man (1932), Morley’s Fish, Flesh and Fowl: A History of Edible Animals (1935), Morley’s Mighty Bear: A Children’s History of Russia (1930), Morley’s Studies in Christian Love (1934), Morley’s God: His Story (1936), and one of my favourites, published rather unfortunately in 1929, Morley on Money: How to Make It, How to Spend It, How to Save It.) I was just glad that I’d been granted a few days’ leave. I had been making the most of them.
I had been drinking late in the Fitzroy Tavern, and had then found myself at an after-hours club just off Marshall Street which was frequented by some of my old International Brigade chums. The club was run by a big Kerryman named Delaney who ran a number of places around Soho. Delaney self-consciously styled himself as a ‘character’ – all thick Irish charm, topped off with faux-aristo English manners. He wore a white tie and tails, carried a silver-topped cane with a snuff-pot handle and came across as everyone’s friend, the debonair host, generous, witty and easy-going. He was not at all to be trusted. I had been introduced to him by a couple of lads from Spain, Mickey Gleason, a tough little Cockney with a beaten-up face, and a classically dour stick-thin Scotsman named MacDonald. Gleason liked to boast that he had saved my life in Spain, when in fact all he’d done was to cry a well-timed ‘Get down!’ when we had come under unexpected fire one evening near Figueras. And MacDonald had loaned me money – dourly – on my return. So I was in debt to them both, in different ways. Delaney had also been in Spain, apparently, though I hadn’t met him there. It was said that he’d been working as some kind of fixer. I rather suspected that he had enjoyed as much business with Franco’s forces as with the Republicans.
Delaney’s places were famous for their wide range of entertainments and refreshments, and for the clientele. It used to be said that to meet everyone in England who really mattered one had only to stand for long enough at the foot of the stairs of the Athenaeum on Pall Mall: the same might just as truly be said of Delaney’s basement bars and bottle parties. Poets, artists, lawyers, politicians, doctors, bishops and blackmailers, safebreakers and swindlers: in the end, everyone ended up at Delaney’s.
I’d started out drinking champagne with one of Delaney’s very friendly hostesses, a petite redhead with warm hands, cold blue eyes, sheer stockings and silk knickers, who seemed very keen for us to get to know one another better – but then they always do. She told me her name was Athena, which I rather doubted. Sitting on my lap, and several drinks in, she persuaded me into a card game where I soon found myself out of my depth and drinking a very particular kind of gin fizz, with a very particular kind of kick – a speciality of the house. My head was swimming, the room was thick with the scent of perfumes, smoke and powders, I had spent every penny of the money that Morley had paid me for our Devon adventure, I was in for money I didn’t have – and Athena, needless to say, had disappeared. My old Brigade chums Gleason and MacDonald were watching me closely. Even through the haze I realised that if I didn’t act soon I was going to be in serious trouble: Delaney was renowned for calling in his debts with terrible persuasion.
I excused myself and wandered through to the tiny courtyard out back. There were men and women in dark corners doing what men and women do in dark corners, while several of the hostesses stood around listlessly smoking and chatting, including Athena, who glanced coolly in my direction and ignored me. She was off-duty. Out here, there was no need to pretend.
I picked my way through the squalor, past beer crates and barrels, and went to use the old broken-down lavatory in the corner of the yard. When I tried to flush the damned thing I found it wasn’t working. I stood pointlessly rattling the chain for a moment and then climbed drunkenly up onto the seat and quickly discovered the problem. There was no water in the cistern. And there was no water in the cistern for a very good reason: the lav served as Delaney’s quartermaster’s store. I had found myself a little treasure-trove. A honeypot. I glanced up and thanked the heavens above. Through the rotting makeshift roof of the lav I could see the starry blue sky. It was a beautiful warm autumn eveni
ng. Suddenly, everything seemed OK. And anything seemed possible. I seemed to have shaken off my torpor. Without hesitation – without thinking at all – I decided that this unlikely Aladdin’s cave presented me with the perfect opportunity to make up for some of my losses inside. I dipped my hand in and helped myself to some supplies. I took only what I needed.
I felt revived and reinvigorated. I considered returning to the game. I had a feeling my luck had changed. Athena and the other women had gone back inside and there were only one or two couples remaining in the yard. It would have taken a dousing with a bucket of cold water to get their attention. In the opposite corner to the lav was a convenient big black door out into an alleyway. I realised I could probably disappear and no one would notice.
I unbolted the door, slipped into the alleyway, and started walking.
The infernal streets of Soho were unusually quiet and I found myself once again wandering that blessed one-mile square, from Oxford Street to the north and Shaftesbury Avenue to the south, from Regent Street to the west and Charing Cross Road to the east, that strange other-world – or underworld – where so many of us come to escape, and where many of us find ourselves for ever trapped.
Unfortunately I wasn’t able to return to my temporary lodgings, a place just off Wardour Street that generously, if inaccurately, described itself as a hotel. I doubted that the management would be willing to accept an IOU for payment and there was no way I was parting with my recently acquired pocketful of treasure and so, eventually, exhausted from my wandering and still trying to flush the various excitements of the evening out my system, I found myself lying down to nap on a bench outside Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court. This was ironic.
In his Dictionary of Usage and Abusage (1932) Morley writes at great length, and with utter despair, about the common misuse of the term ‘irony’ by both the ill-educated and the over-educated. ‘An ironic statement,’ he writes, ‘is like a good lawyer or a politician. It says one thing but means another. An irony is not merely something odd or unusual. The word “ironic” should never be used to describe the merely unfortunate.’ My laying my head down outside Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court was not therefore, perhaps, strictly speaking, an irony. It was, however, at the very least, extremely unfortunate.
Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court was the first court in which I ever appeared. It was shortly after I had returned from Spain. I had become involved with a woman who was involved with a man who had treated her badly. Fortunately at the time I had money and resources and was therefore able to employ a good lawyer who managed to get me off with only a fine on a charge of common assault. This encounter with the law was an experience I was determined not to repeat. Morley would probably have called this hubris.
It was 3 a.m., I was cold and tired, and as far as I recall my reasoning went something like this: if the safest place to sleep rough is a police cell then the next safest is probably on the steps of a court. On both counts, alas, I turned out to be wrong.
I found myself prodded awake by three varsity types who had clearly enjoyed a long night at the opera. They were all in evening dress. There was a fat blond buffoonish-looking one who wore a yellow gardenia in his buttonhole, a greasy-looking one, with brilliantined hair, and the other – the other might almost have been me, before everything that happened had happened.
The first thing I knew was the greasy one tapping his cigar ash into my eyes.
‘Come on, man! Up! Up!’ He was leaning over me, breathing his fumes into my face. ‘Show some respect to your betters, you filthy swine!’
‘Hey! Tramp!’ called the fat blond, with an Old Etonian drawl. He ran his fingers through his unruly mop of hair. ‘What’s the matter with you! Have you no home to go to? Eh? Come on! Come on! Up! Up! Up! Queensberry Rules, old chap! I’ll take you on!’
The greasy one grabbed me by my lapels. I feared that at any moment he might reach into my pockets.
I acted on instinct.
I raised my knee, catching him on the side of the head. I had been involved in enough brawls in Spain to know that the important thing was just to get away. That’s all I was intending to do.
As he was falling back I hooked my foot around his ankle and then swung a punch at his head with the side of my fist. He twisted as he went down and it was his face that hit the pavement first. There was a sickening thud. The fat blond then came roaring at me, but I managed to push him off easily, and he too went down. The third man ran off.
The fat blond would be fine: he was just winded and shocked. But the greasy-looking one had gone down hard and had gone very quiet: there was a pool of blood haloed around his head. He did not look at all well.
To repeat, to be clear, and in case of confusion: I had been attacked; I had acted in self-defence; and what had happened was clearly an accident.
In his controversial pamphlet ‘In Defence of Self-Defence’ (1939), a much misunderstood little treatise, Morley sets out the criteria by which a person or nation might justly claim the right to defend themselves. Morley’s criteria are clear, detailed and as follows: self-defence may be permissible only if and when ‘1) a culpable 2) aggressor 3) knowingly initiates 4) an unprovoked attack 5) on an innocent victim 6) who is unable to avoid or escape harm 7) without causing necessary 8) or proportionate harm 9) with the sole intention 10) of defending himself’. Morley then further clarifies the permissible conditions and circumstances with a sentence that subsequently caused him much pain and harm: ‘Even when such conditions are met it is still debatable whether self-defence by a nation or person can ever be considered a moral good.’ His timing was unfortunate. It was a misjudgement: everyone, it seems, even Morley, makes mistakes.
All I would have had to have done at that moment was to explain what had happened to the police. It was perfectly simple. I was an innocent man, admittedly an innocent man with a criminal record, who had recently returned from Spain, admittedly fighting with the communists, and who had found employment with one of the country’s most revered and famous authors, admittedly on rather false pretences, and I had been enjoying a quiet evening in Soho, admittedly in an after-hours drinking establishment, from which I had fled, admittedly owing almost one hundred pounds in gambling debts, and with a pocketful of illegal and expensive powders, which were not, strictly speaking, my own … whereupon I had become the victim of an unprovoked attack by culpable aggressors and had acted with the sole intention of defending myself.
I did not in fact attempt to explain this to the police.
I owed it to Morley not to get him involved.
And, of course, I owed it to myself.
I did what anyone else would have done.
I ran.
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 w
ith 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.