I HAD HEARD THIS LINE BEFORE. Miriam’s idea of her father being in terrible danger included his being overworked, underworked, unduly praised, under-appreciated, slighted, patronised, put-upon or indeed treated in any way other than the way in which Miriam treated him, which is to say with absolute, unquestioning devotion and utter dis-dain.

      ‘Aren’t you going to ask me what sort of danger, Sefton?’

      ‘What sort of danger, Miriam?’

      ‘He is being hunted.’

      ‘Hunted?’

      ‘Precisely.’

      ‘Hunted by?’

      ‘An American, of course.’

      ‘Oh dear.’

      ‘An American adventuress.’ If Miriam had had pearls to clutch, she’d have been clutching them.

      ‘I see.’

      ‘Americans being undoubtedly the most dangerous among all the world’s adventuresses.’

      ‘Undoubtedly,’ I said.

      Morley was, admittedly, rather susceptible to the attentions of women whose interest and affection he was, alas, entirely incapable of returning. This had caused problems in the past, would cause problems in the future, and had indeed sown considerable confusion among a large swathe of the forty-plus, middle, upper and aristocratic single, divorced and widowed female population of Britain, Europe and North America.

      ‘Honestly, Sefton, this one has more hooks in her than the proverbial poacher’s hatband,’ continued Miriam, ‘and she is tickling him like a trout.’

      ‘Like a trout, Miriam?’ I said, smiling.

      ‘Precisely, Sefton. Like a trout.’

      ‘Tickling him?’ I said, smiling again, though to no answering smile from Miriam, who was most definitely not in a playful mood.

      ‘Like a trout, yes, as I said, Sefton. She adopts this low husky voice whenever she’s talking to him.’ Miriam had a low husky voice of her own, I should say, which she used to good effect, and indeed now for the purposes of mimicry. ‘“Mr Morley, you must have the biggest brain I have ever encountered.”’

      ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

      ‘It’s quite, quite disgusting,’ said Miriam, raising an eyebrow, the fashion back in those days having been for eyebrows to be plucked to a single line, a fashion that Miriam had mercifully resisted. ‘And anyway, where is Maryland?’

      ‘Maryland?’ I said.

      ‘Where she’s from, apparently.’

      I wasn’t entirely sure I could have identified Maryland on a map of the United States.

      ‘Is it a land of Marys?’ I asked.

      Miriam ignored this weak joke, a sure sign of her being both irritated and distracted; usually she’d have pounced without hesitation.

      ‘She was once a keen horsewoman, so she says, though frankly it’d take a shire horse now.’

      ‘I’m getting the impression you’re not over keen—’

      ‘And she claims to be an expert on posture, of all things – she’s the Lady President of the American Posture League. She’s written a book, God help us. Slouching Towards Gomorrah. And she’s a divorcee,’ she said. ‘Her first husband was called Fruity.’

      ‘Was he?’

      ‘I simply cannot take seriously a woman whose ex-husband is called Fruity, can you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘And her second husband was called Minty.’

      ‘Minty? Are you sure, Miriam? You’re not making this up?’

      ‘Of course I’m not making it up, Sefton.’

      I only asked because Miriam herself spent much of her time during those years with various unsuitable Fruitys and Mintys, while I spent much of my time when I wasn’t with Miriam in the company of Sluggers and Rotters and other ridiculously named low-life Soho characters. I rather miss the nicknames and sobriquets of the dog-end days of the thirties: they were, I see now, for all their squalor, the last days of innocence.

      ‘The woman is mounting a campaign, Sefton,’ Miriam continued, and she was certainly someone who knew a campaign being mounted when she saw one, so I suppose it must have been true.

      ‘What sort of a campaign?’

      ‘A campaign to marry Father, Sefton!’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes! She might as well be wearing a veil and carrying a bouquet, for goodness sake. It’s quite ridiculous.’

      ‘Would you like another cup of tea, Miriam?’ I thought this might calm her down.

      ‘No, I don’t want another cup of tea. I want you to take this threat seriously.’

      ‘Of course I take it seriously, Miriam.’

      ‘Do you, though?’

      ‘Yes. Entirely.’

      ‘She is bogus, Sefton, that’s the problem.’

      ‘Bogus?’

      ‘Yes. She’s a singer.’

      ‘What sort of a singer?’

      ‘Opera. Allegedly.’

      ‘Allegedly?’

      ‘Well, I’ve never heard her sing. She may be terrible. Father seems to think she’s marvellous. And she’s American – did I say?’

      ‘Yes, you—’

      ‘American par excellence. She’s like … Uncle Sam—’

      ‘Uncle Samantha, perhaps?’

      ‘But I can tell you, I think her excellence is rather far from par.’

      ‘Far from par,’ I repeated.

      ‘Correct. She is flirtatious and gay.’

      ‘You’re gay and flirtatious, Miriam.’

      ‘Yes, but I’m twenty-one years old, Sefton, I’m supposed to be gay and flirtatious. This woman must be – I don’t know – fifty if she’s a day.’

      ‘Fifty?’ I said.

      ‘Fifty!’ said Miriam. ‘And she’s a terrible boozehound.’ Like Morley, Miriam had a habit of adopting hardboiled slang more suited to the pages of Black Mask magazine. Her other favourite tough-guy Americanisms included ‘the bum’s rush’, referring to what or where I never quite understood, and the term ‘spondulix’ for money. In later years she also adopted the habit of saying ‘OK’