The Information Junkie (8 page)

As a result it is a particularly fertile region, ideal for grazing. William Cobbett notes in 'Rural Rides' that the Romney Marsh sheep are "Very pretty and large. The faces of the sheep are white; and, indeed, the whole sheep is as white as a piece of writing paper". It is also a habitat for wild flowers: Marsh Mallow, Phragmites, Sea Kale, Viper's Bugloss and Foxglove, a few of the many species. The rootstock of the Marsh Mallow (
Althaea officinalis
) is used to make marshmallows.

Several small towns and villages break up the vast, flat area, their very names—including a pair of ancient manors and two lost villages—spelling out Romney Marsh's chief characteristic:

D
ymchurch,
E
astbridge,
S
nargate,
O
ld Romney,
L
ydd,
A
ldington,
T
inton,
I
vychurch,
O
rgarswick,
N
ew Romney.

If a person wanted to be alone in England it is difficult to imagine a better place; in some spots the only company is flora. Pink and White Valerian, Wild Mignonette, Bird's-Foot Trefoil; Yellow Horned Poppy, Marram-grass, Great Reedmace.

Early records tell of pastures of buttercups, and fields of hemp dotted with meadow saffron. The flowers of the meadow saffron (
Colchicum autumnale)
resemble a crocus but instead of three stamens have six. The plant yields the poisonous drug colchicine—a yellow alkaloid—which is used to treat gout.
Colchicum
is named after Kolchis in Asia Minor, famous in Greek mythology for drugs and sorcery. The king's daughter, Medea, helps Jason obtain the golden fleece then flees with him. Later Medea kills her two children by Jason, and his new bride, Creusa, with the gift of a poisoned garment which burns her to death.

Culinary saffron is not produced from the meadow saffron but from
Crocus sativus.

An atomic power station dominates the shoreline at Dungeness and rows of pylons are visible for miles around. Dungeness also has two lighthouses: one in use, the other no longer used, but open to visitors. Each year as fresh shingle is deposited the sea recedes about seven feet, so over time replacement lighthouses have had to be built closer to the water's new edge.

Romance surrounds the history of smuggling in Romney Marsh, which benefits from shallow beaches and a closeness to France. The many large churches were used for storage. (William Cobbett notes that some village churches are far too large for their small populations.)

In 1927 the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Light Railway, with a gauge of 18 inches, was opened. It still operates today.

The region is well documented by writers who have lived on, or been inspired by, it. From the Rev Richard Harris Barham in 'The Ingoldsby Legends', through H. G. Wells ('The War in the Air'), the poetry of Ford Madox Ford, E. Nesbit (who spent holidays here and is buried at St Mary-in-the-Marsh), to Russell Thorndike and his Dr Syn novels, and to Rudyard Kipling.

Once you set foot in the area you notice a transformation in the environment and in yourself. You feel as if you have stepped into a kingdom where time has moved more slowly than elsewhere. And the sense of solitude is remarkable; which possibly explains its power to attract and inspire writers and artists. But at one time people avoided Romney Marsh believing it to be an
unhealthfull
place occupied by witches.

"Beware if you stray on to Rumn-ea Marshe for fear of divers witches..." warns Yelired in the Saxon Rockland Chronicle.

Iklyd the corn-dealer in Norse legend also counsels against entering the region which is "full of noxious evils" and where teams of horsemen have been sucked under its waters.

10

'Doc, I'm in love.'

He gave me one of his oblique looks. 'How's Belinda?'

'She's fine,' I said, 'but it's not her.'

'Who's it this time, Charlie?'

'It's the Fierychick, doc: she's poisoned me. Ffion's passed me a posy of poison, dealt me a dose of digitalis, teased me with tincture of toxin and made my heart race. She's slipped some venom under my skin and I can't forget her. What can I do?'

'I think it's about time you saw another specialist,' he said.

'Doc, she's cast a spell on me.'

'These are fantasies, Charlie. You're losing touch with reality, again. I know just the guy you should see.'

'He won't give me tests, will he, doc? None of those silly word associations.
"What's the first thing that comes into your mind, Mr Smith?"
I don't want to speak to any specialists. I want to speak to you. I trust you, doc. Anyway, I'm worried.'

'Why?'

'I went looking for her.'

'Who?'

'Ffion'

'Looking for her...?'

'Went to Romney Marsh.'

'Is that where she lives?'

'No. She lives here, in town. But after our second meeting, when she said she had to chill out, to Romney Marsh she went.

Well, I went too, but nobody had heard of her. And I gave them a really good description: five-eight, five-ten, long ginger hair, the colour of saffron. Sometimes wears it up, sometimes down. Freckly complexion. Wears a lot of purple and violet.'

'So, what did you do there, Charlie?'

'Looked around: studied the pylons coming out of the power station. Thought about the meaning of life. All that sort of stuff.'

'Charlie, I'm too busy working to worry about the meaning of life.'

'Touché.' Pause. 'So, what's the score, doc?'

'Nil-one to you so far.'

'She consumes me, doc. First thing on my mind in the morning, last thing on my mind at night.'

'And Belinda...?'

'Oh, she copes, doc. Got her friends, close to her parents. Always seems to be doing something.'

'I still think you should see the specialist.'

'But, doc, you and I have such a good relationship. We go back so far.'

'Charlie...I think they've seen through me.'

'You mean, as they did through Martin?'

'Precisely.'

'So, time for you to go?'

''Fraid so.'

'No speeding car, for you, doc.'

'No...'

'Would you like to choose your exit?'

He raised an eyebrow.

'Tell you what, doc. Why don't we leave things open? I'll just walk out of your surgery.'

He nodded agreement, tipped me that
sage
look again.

'Oh, and, doc...how much do I owe you?'

'I'll send you my final bill.'

So, I'd lost two sources of support: Martin and the doc. And Ffion didn't exist except in my mind. But you've worked out something else, haven't you? I mean: I'm not real either, am I?

So, you want
me
to go now? Aw, and we'd enjoyed such a good relationship. Buddies! What are you doing to me?
Come
on, you can't do this. What's that? You've had enough and you want a resolution? Oh, come
on
. So much more to tell you, especially about Ffion. But I understand that you were becoming confused.

So, now I've got to make my exit. That's not so easy. Martin chose his own, I made it easy for the doc, all of the others were fantasies. Which just leaves Charlie.

But, of course, as you know, there's
another
behind all this. And he's a bit of a Charlie, too. So, there are bits of Charlie in him and parts of him in Charlie. But if you get rid of me, like this, how's it all going to end? Because nobody will accept a story without a conclusion: all the loose ends must be tied up. Oh, you can do that yourself...? Ah, very clever. What are you going to do: fax me, bounce it off a satellite, E-mail me? It's okay, I accept what you say. May I choose my own exit...?

Thank you very much.

Okay. Here goes:

When I got back from Romney Marsh Belinda wasn't in but I read her note which ended:

Darling, I've been thinking. I haven't needed to work since we married. We've got plenty of money, nice house, nice cars. I know you don't like facts and figures, sweetheart, but I've been doing a few sums. You actually don't need to work any more. You could draw your company pensions straightaway and the state one in fifteen years.

I thought you'd been looking a bit strained lately. Perhaps too much on your mind. Give up work, Charlie, and let's start living!

See you when I see you.

B.

X...O

Well, she'd made me an offer and given me an exit of sorts. I'd be a fool not to take it, wouldn't I? Then, of course, I still had to get in touch with Martin who wanted to talk about
Cybernurse
. Apparently he only grazed himself jumping from the car. I thought carefully and decided that as soon as I'd retired I'd change to a hobby very different from my work. And Martin had been getting too familiar with Belinda. So, I'd ease him out of my life. And Ffion? She's still there.

If you're a lad she's waiting for you at the end of the corridor: it's your flat, the door's open and she's gesturing you in with that freckly arm: 'Come on, Charlie. I'll make you feel good. I'll sort it all out for you. I've opened the door. Come on in.'

So, who does that now leave? Just Belinda: she seems to have taken her own exit, doesn't she? But, of course, you know who Belinda is. If you're a lass, she's the person who loves your chap; if you're a lad, you know what it's like to be loved
by
Belinda. And if you're a chap or a chapess without a partner at the moment I hope you find your Belinda or Charlie soon. Of course, you may be a Charlie who prefers Charlies or a Belinda who prefers Belindas. Cool by me! But don't spend too much time with Ffion (or Fergus): she (he) is just a stage through which to pass.

How are we doing so far, buddies? Sort of drawing it together, aren't we?

Earlier on, when I asked how old you had to be to get wise, I said I'd tell you. Well, I'm telling you now. I wish I had half the wisdom I sense in you and if I had one quarter the wisdom of all the writers whom Charlie acknowledges I'd be a wise man. In order to know how old you have to be to get wise, you first of all have to be wise. Now, that's a bit of a catch, isn't it? Sounds like the fruitful basis for a novel...

Martin said he was an actor. He was. Charlie's a bit of an actor too. But I'm the real actor because I've been performing all the parts—even women. When the curtain's down and I've removed my costume and make-up I'll come to mingle with you in the bar. But you won't recognise me because my face is forgettable. I blend too well. The only way you're going to see my face is by doing what Charlie did when he returned from that place which some people call home. When Ffion showed him into the flat he greeted the books then looked in the mirror. And if you look into the mirror you will not be in some Magritte nightmare with a train steaming out of the fireplace.

I've just about used up my time. Haven't I?

A thought on mirrors: why was the Lady of Shallot only
half
sick of shadows?

Keep your powder dry, keep your floppies away from strong magnets, always SAVE, SAVE, SAVE. Don't try to cram too much on one disc and don't surf at the expense of proper human relationships. These toys are means to an end, not ends
per se
. Now it really is coming to the end of the performance and I'm sweating underneath my costumes and make-up. All I want now is the curtain to drop so I can get to the pub.

We'll go as a group, most of us anyway, and after the drink we'll stuff ourselves silly at the Star of India before at least one of us throws it all up again outside. Martin might even be in the group. He, or someone else, will suggest:
This is rather silly, isn't it? Couldn't we just order it electronically, let someone else eat it and sick it up?

Does Sainsbury's offer that service, yet?

How old do you have to be to get wise, buddies? How old?

And if you drink and eat too much you might well end up in hospital where you'll be attended by the Cybernurse who, if you ask, will give you a local before inserting the needle of the drip.

But isn't this where you and I came in?

11

Help!

I'm locked inside this place. Full of tubes to keep me alive—or do they guy me down? There is no escape. I know that. This is it. You finally reach a point from which you cannot fly. Butch it out with me: we're going to make it. You can trust me, knowing me a little; I trust you, not knowing you yet.

You said you wanted a story. Snap! Do you know my problem—? I'm locked inside literature.

PART THREE

Conclusions of a Crimson Fish

There are two things which I am confident I can do very well: one is an introduction to any literary work, stating what it is to contain, and how it should be executed in the most perfect manner; the other is a conclusion, shewing from various causes why the execution has not been equal to what the author promised to himself and to the public.

—James Boswell, 'The Life of Samuel Johnson'

*

The author assures the reader that each page in Part Three is correctly formatted. There are no omissions or pagination errors.

12

Hi, buddies. How's your belly where the pig bit you?

I'm back!

Phew! Wow!! Feel as if I've been away for ages. Anyway, great to speak with you again. How's it been hanging while I've been away? All right? Good...great. Now listen: gonna continue with my story. Because that's what you like. Isn't it? Me too.
Moi aussi. Ich auch
.
Anch'io.
 Fabuloso!

Oh, by the way, Romney Marsh was a dog, but I'll tell you about that later. First of all I must tell you about Ffion, because she's an amber drug (with an auburn rug). Oh, yes, buddies. Wow! What a rush that girl gives you. Now, listen to me: I'm telling you. Didn't tell the doc because thought he wouldn't believe me. But I found her. Oh, yes: she was there: discovered her in a kind of wooden house. Bleak house. Belinda was right when she suggested Frontiersville: as if you're on the edge of the world.