Death in Devon. Ian Sansom

another of his mint balls, and ‘Oh, do spare us your Freud,’ he would traditionally respond, popping another into his mouth.)

      And then finally, towards evening, after much indigestion and some confusion in my dealing of the county cards – I had accidentally confused Somerset with Dorset, sending us on a rather round-about route – we made it to Honiton. The weather had remained calm all day, but now the sky closed in again, menacing, threatening more rain. This did not, however, dampen Morley’s mood.

      ‘At last!’ he cried. ‘Honiton! Gateway to the Riviera!’

      I looked around as we sped through the streets – street, really – of Honiton.

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Indeed, Sefton. Welcome to Devon! So, what are we looking forward to most in Devon, Sefton?’

      ‘Erm …’

      ‘Yes, Sefton,’ called Miriam. ‘What are we looking forward to most in Devon?’

      ‘In Devon?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘Or Dumnonia, as I believe the ancient kingdom was once called.’

      ‘And don’t say the cream teas!’ called Miriam from the front seat.

      ‘The …’

      ‘Moors, of course,’ said Morley. ‘Yes. Correct. Dartmoor. Exmoor.’

      ‘Of course,’ I said.

      ‘And it is renowned for what else, Devon? Topographically, geographically, I mean?’

      ‘Well, there are the moors, obviously, and …’ I was struggling rather.

      ‘The fact that it is the only one of our counties to be in proud possession of not one but two coastlines!’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘Correct! And any other particular places and sights of interest? I am myself particularly looking forward to visiting Torquay United, Exeter City and the mighty Argyle. But you’re not a fan of association football, are you, Sefton?’

      ‘Well, no, I’m more of a—’

      ‘Lah-di-dah?’ said Morley. ‘But we’ll say no more about it. What about you, Miriam?’

      ‘I can’t wait to just strip off and get into the water,’ she called. ‘I’ve brought my costume. Have you brought yours, Sefton?’

      I forbore to answer.

      ‘It’s emerald green,’ she said.

      ‘And some rockpooling perhaps,’ said Morley. ‘Crabbing. I do love a spot of crabbing.’

      ‘And surfing,’ said Miriam.

      ‘Indeed,’ said Morley. ‘Now, Devon: patron saint? Sefton?’

      ‘St Petroc?’ said Miriam.

      ‘Good guess. But wrong. Cornwall, Petroc. Though I believe he did pass through on his way down. St Winfrid I think is Devon’s, isn’t that right?’

      ‘Possibly, Father.’

      ‘Also the patron saint of?’

      ‘Germany?’ said Miriam.

      ‘Correct.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘Don’t know, don’t care.’

      ‘Brewers,’ said Morley.

      ‘Sefton will feel right at home then.’

      I blushed rather.

      ‘And we must make a visit to the Dartmouth pixies, Miriam, while we’re here. Or piskies, as I believe the locals call them. Pharisees, as they are known in Sussex. The little people. They like to ride ponies and lead unwary travellers to their doom in the bogs on the moors, isn’t that right, Miriam?’

      ‘Yes, Father.’

      ‘Pixies?’ I said.

      ‘Indeed.’

      ‘You’re not serious?’

      ‘Deadly,’ said Miriam. ‘Deadly serious.’

      ‘Pixies?’

      ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Absolutely. Father is as serious about his pixies as Conan Doyle was about his fairies. Didn’t you know? Deadly, deadly serious.’

      ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I suppose we must allow for the possibility of—’

      ‘Of course he doesn’t believe in pixies, Sefton!’ cried Miriam.

      ‘Joke!’ cried Morley. ‘Jolly good, Miriam.’

      They roared with laughter: they had a curious sense of humour, the pair of them.

      ‘Pixies!’ cried Morley, tears coursing down his face. ‘Pixies!’

      ‘Pixies!’ cried Miriam, sobbing with laughter also.

      ‘Do you think I have entirely taken leave of my senses?’ This was not a question that required an answer. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

      ‘People will believe anything, won’t they?’ said Miriam.

      ‘Indeed they will, my dear,’ said Morley. ‘Indeed they will.’

      ‘Ghoulies and ghosties!’

      ‘Gremlins and goodness knows what,’ said Morley. ‘Do you know Yeats’s poem “The Land of Heart’s Desire”, Sefton?’

      ‘I’m—’

      He began to intone, in Yeatsian fashion:

       The Land of Faery Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

      ‘Pure fantasy,’ said Morley. ‘Absolute nonsense.’

      ‘Pixies!’ cried Miriam.

      ‘Pixies!’ echoed Morley. ‘Marvellous! Marvellous!’

      And so, in characteristic fashion, we arrived at our destination.

       CHAPTER 4

       THE VERY BOUNDARIES OF ENGLAND

      ROUSDON, according to White’s History, Gazetteer and Directory of Devonshire (1850) – a copy of which Morley had usefully brought with us, along with several other dusty old directories, including Pigot’s, Kelly’s and Slater’s, and a small suitcase-worth of up-to-date guidebooks to the geography, topography, history, culture, coastal scenery and cider-making heritage of a county that most of them insisted on referring to, inevitably, at some point in their Exmoor sheep-herd-like ramblings as ‘Glorious’ – ‘is an extra parochial estate belonging to R.C. Bartlett Esq., and lying within the bounds of Axminster parish, adjoining the great landslip of Dowlands and Bindon’.

      This hardly does the place justice. Rousdon is not merely extra parochial. It is ultra-extra parochial. It is far, far, far beyond the parochial. It might best be described as a place at the edge of the world.

      The land, with its few original buildings, according to all accounts, was purchased some time around 1870 by a Sir Henry Peek, who undertook various schemes of improvement, including rebuilding