'I'm a friend,' I said.
'You don't know her name, her address or telephone number. Funny friend!'
I stood there without an answer. Just stood there. Then I struck lucky as you sometimes do:
'Oh...Oh,' the lady said. 'The girl with the red hair? We know her. She lives in the yellow shack.'
So, I got instructions: had to pass through quite a lot. Everything's flat and there are no built-up areas, just single dwellings here and there with the occasional short terrace of six or so houses, surrounded by nothingness. Pylons leak out of Dungeness. Cold sheep in fields exposed to the radioactivity and to the worst the Channel can throw at Kent. One horse in a big field. One horse, buddies. A closed-down police station. What good is a shut-up cop shop? Just a little concrete hut. And there are some areas which are part stone, part sand and part...well, weeds. Strange plants you find only at the seaside. What's the definition of a weed? Do you know? Some experts say: any plant in any place you do not want it to be. Surely a weed's more, and less, than that? Is digitalis a weed? Are all weeds poisonous? I must consult Weeds: an International Compendium. London: Foxglove Press, 1984. [See also: World Symposium on Weeds: Towards a New Definition. London: HMSO, 1953 (o.p.).]
Anyway, I cycled round according to the instructions I'd been given and ahead of me was the yellow wooden shack. The paint was blistered and fading, the garden ill-defined and once you left the road you just walked over pebbles to reach the front door. There was no bell, no knocker, so I tapped.
'Come in, Charlie,' she shouted. 'It's open.'
I lifted the latch, pushed the door.
'How did you know?' she said, side-lit by the sun, her hair catching fire.
'I guessed you'd be here.'
'No,' she said. 'You knew.'
'Guess I did.'
Once we'd sat she came straight to the point:'I'm not seeing Martin anymore.'
'I'm pleased to hear it.'
'He was no good for me.'
'I know.'
'He hasn't grown up.'
'I know.'
'But it would never work out between you and I...'
'...and me...'
She furrowed her brow: 'Between you and yourself?'
'No: between you and me. You said between you and I.'
'Okay,' she said. 'It couldn't work out between you and me.' She smiled. 'How's that for someone who majored in Romance Languages?'
I smiled inwardly.
She said, 'It can't work.'
I said, 'Is it the moral thing?'
'No.'
'Is it the fact that I'm married?'
'No,' she said. 'It's me.'
There was a silence as we both considered the situation. I looked around: there were no signs of anyone else. I said,
'Are you here alone?'
'Yes.'
'But this doesn't belong to you. Does it?'
'It does now.'
'What about your London gaff?' I asked.
'I'm leaving it.'
I looked around again. 'But where are your books?'
'They're following on.'
Following on...
She said, 'I'm chilling at the moment. I must sort out my life and need to be alone to do that.'
'Well, you've picked the right place.'
She now did one of those unpredictable things: she smiled and you could see a sort of warmth go round her heart. She came up to me, cupped my face with her hands—those freckly hands with perfectly manicured nails and wonderful cuticles—then kissed me warmly, softly on the lips.
'Oh, Charlie,' she said. 'If only it could have been different.'
Now, babies, I couldn't tell the doc all that, could I? He'd think I'd really flipped. Although he sort of did, anyway, didn't he? So I think we'll just leave him on the back burner for the moment. Mm? Yes, I know Belinda's on one. So, he's on the other. Thus: Belinda's on the back burner; doc's on the rear ring. Okay?
'Have you eaten, Charlie?'
Wow, babes!!! Was I in for a repeat treat? Would it be another chilled lager and some Mediterranean concoction? Mm........? Was I in for something laced with an expensive olive oil? Or was it going to be a rancid cheese sandwich? Listen to me:
I said, 'No. What have you got?'
'I'll make you something nice,' she said, disappearing into the kitchen.
I noticed, next to a small vase of what appeared to be crocuses, a half-completed newspaper crossword. I wanted it all to be different. I wanted life to be simple. I wanted life to work out easily. I didn't want complications. Could it work out this time? The sense that I was betraying Belinda ate into me and yet it didn't seem wrong to be here.
When Ffion reappeared I could smell smells. I said:
'Why the double vellum?'
She gave me a quizzical look. I said:
'Why the two epistles?'
She didn't understand. I said:
'You dropped me a pair of painful parchments. That second papyrus was a killer.'
'What are you on about, Charlie?'
'After our second meeting you disappeared and put a note through my door. And when I next saw you, with Martin, you sent me a vicious vellum, a poisonous papyrus.'
She said, 'I know you.'
'What do you mean?'
She said, 'You like words on paper, don't you?'
Oh, buddies. She'd seen through me. Hadn't she? She knew—she knew. Oh, yes:
'I know you,' she said. 'You don't like electronic words. Do you? You want ink on paper. I wish it could have been an organic dye—a mixture of oak galls, gum arabic and rainwater—on handmade rag paper. You'll never be satisfied, Charlie, with an electronic missive, a virtual message. Perhaps I should have had it tattooed on my forehead, then come round to see you.'
'Tattooed?'
'Yes: CHARLIE, IT WON'T WORK, etched in organic, Celtic blue on my forehead.' Then she laughed, disclosing a set of small, perfectly-formed teeth. There were at least thirty-two, possibly more. I've spoken with my dentist about that. Oh, yes: more of him later... But listen: she displayed those perfect teeth but they were slightly discoloured by cigarettes although she no longer smoked.
'Oh,' she said. 'I used to, as a student.'
Now listen: we all have thirty-two teeth and dentists number them from one to eight, front to back, in four quadrants, viz. upper left, upper right; lower left, lower right. So, your wisdom teeth are number eights. Now, my dentist tells me he's seen some nines!!! Wow, buddies!!! Imagine that for a gift. Anyway, look, I couldn't just say to Ffion, 'Open your mouth a mo and let me count the contents of your quadrants.' Could I? Thought about it, though. Perhaps later... Now, listen:
She said, 'We're having pulses.' Said she'd given up the flesh.
I asked why. She was turning vegetarian. Turning...? Turning...? TURNING...? TURNING...? TURNING...? ing...? ing...? ing...? ing...? ing...? ing...? Why...? why...? why...?
She didn't want to kill animals. Was she macrobiotic? Not yet, but she was considering it. You could have predicted that, couldn't you? I said:
'What are we having—a bowl of lentils, a plate of beans and a slice of bread with organic spread?'
'Wait and see, Charlie.'
So, we just sat there for a while and nattered. She tossed me a clue from the crossword which we nearly finished but she said she didn't have a dictionary with her. I said that using a dictionary or thesaurus was cheating. She said I was too hard on myself.
I said: 'You're assuming I stick to the rules.'
She smiled at that and showed me thirty-two white ones again. They were like...discoloured jewels, faded ivory. They said, I'm young but not that young. They said, Belinda's got better teeth. (And Belinda does have better teeth.) They said, We've sucked a lot of cigarette smoke through us, we've given ourselves a patina of nicotine and rinsed ourselves in Rioja. Her lips said: We've eaten, we've kissed men; we've kissed Ffion's mum, kissed her dad, we've kissed her sister, kissed her brother. Ffion's tongue has licked us. We've become chapp
ed in the cold, blistered in the sun. We've had lipstick painted on to us but not anymore: Ffion prefers us natural. Can you see them, buddies? Can you see her lips? Can you see an oh so delicate saffron tinge above the top one? Can you see that...can you see those oh so delicate, oh so faint eyebrows?
The smells from the kitchen are getting stronger. A loaf of bread appears on the table. Ffion sets cutlery. And it's a bowl of bean broth each. And to drink is just tap water. Tap water? Tap water?? TAP WATER??? Faucet juice? Faucet drips?? FAUCET DROPLETS??? What's happened to her designer water with twists of raspberry?
I said, 'Have you bought the place?'
'Yes.'
'Is this where you originally came to chill out?'
'Yes.'
'So, you knew the owner?'
'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Very well.'
Ah, buddies, there's a past.
The bean stuff was very hot. Burnt my tongue. Bread was nice. After eating:
'So, Charlie, what'll it be? Back to your programming?'
I said I would go back to my work but was thinking of giving up the extracurricular stuff—Cybernurse, and all that. I said it was silly, pointless. I said:
'What is the point in doing that?' She said:
'Charlie, the best hobbies are pointless.'
And for a moment I was back in my grandmother's garden smelling lupins, nasturtiums and wild roses. There was a feeling of foreverness. She asked where I was. In the garden. Which one, she said, Garden of Eden? I laughed and said yes but told her I wasn't tempted because it was before Adam and Eve. That sounds clever, she said.
And as we talked I thought: I can't tell all this to the doc, I can't tell my dentist. I can't tell all this to Martin or Belinda. I can't tell anybody. What am I going to do? How am I going to resolve the situation? But:
When we'd finished our bean bonanza she offered me the fruit bowl; I took a banana, she an apple, which she ate noisily: that dinky dentition again. She sat back in a comfy chair, flicked back her hair and spread amber all around. She was wearing knitted purple tights and cork-soled flip-flops. She asked, to confirm, whether I was giving up my sideline in order to concentrate on my work. I advised I'd had enough of programming and of work. Why didn't I branch out on my own? I had thought about it.
Through one of her windows you could glimpse the sea which today was calm, the sun shining on it; but I could foresee bleak winters here.
'Can I visit you again?'
'Do you think that's wise?'
'Why not?'
She said: 'Because it's about time you faced reality.'
I said, 'I don't want to. The fiction's easier. I prefer the appearance. Unlike the Lady of Shalott I'm quite happy to look in the mirror. I'm not sick—not even half sick—of shadows. Nay, I'm almost in love with shadows.'
She smiled. 'Half in love...?'
I smiled, said, 'There, that's romance for you.'
She kissed me again, this time on the forehead. She said,
'You've got a fine brain, Charlie.'
I smiled, thanked her very much.
'Yes,' she repeated: 'a fine brain. But, Charlie, how's it all going to end?'
'End...?'
'Yes,' and she put her arms around her knees, pulled her legs up and rocked back into the easy chair. The posture excited me for a moment. She said:
'Charlie, I think you want me to say something like: Charlie, this can never work out, because I'm not real.'
I smiled at her perspicacity. She released the grip on her knees and stood to look in the mirror above the wood-burning stove before turning back to me:
'Charlie, you can't force other people to do what they don't want to. Life's spontaneous, you never know what's going to happen next. The greater likelihood is that I turn round to you and say that it will never work out because you're not real.'
I laughed. 'Ffion, you're more intelligent than I thought. I see I've seriously underestimated you.'
'So, Charlie, where does that leave us?'
'Shall we complete the crossword first?'
I asked again for the clues which had stumped us:
'Make unusual coin fit slot machine for novel—seven letters.'
I smiled, the way you do when the solution just pops into your head: 'Is that FICTION?'
She said, 'It fits.'
'Ah, ha! I can see where this guy's coming from. Come on,' I said, 'let's finish it.'
*
In and off? Strange...Welsh girl wasn't vague! (5)
Fool with affection around start of game. That's poisonous (8)
Confuse two singles with unmarried man. Put a lid on it and shake the medicine (9)
Enter temperance group with trembling hand. It's the information (4)
Part of cat flat on mat. That's odd but is it fiction? (4)
Make unusual coin fit slot machine for novel (7)
Cup of Darjeeling? Not the truth: I felt a right one but am still someone's darling (7)
And bile, oddly enough, gives blonde beauty (7)
Rome, New York has Mr Strange in a spin but he won't get bogged down here! (6,5)
Odd home, say, for RNR man? Possibly not: this is flat land (6,5)
Take off a sword, means strange behaviour. Less singular makes this sound charming, but it's lethal! (6,7)
Food fear was NM, oddly, not GM: an unmodified pasture plant that delivers poison (6,7)
Us, Vita—scorch us! Drop the initial heat then cultivate to give food colour and flavour (6,7)
Yellow alkaloid, red dye or red herring? Remove initial atropine from red colorant, add a toxic twist to give meadow killer's essence (10)
*
'And finally,' she said, 'Part of cat flat on mat. That's odd but is it fiction?'
'How many letters?'
'Four.'
'Is it FACT?'
'It fits.'
She showed me the whole grid which she had completed in pencil and was now inking in. Why? To win a book token. Problem solving in itself was not sufficient: she required a tangible reward. She looked up suddenly:
'Time to go, Charlie?'
'I guess.'
'Last cup of coffee?'
'Okay.'
Neither of us enjoyed the drink. We'd spent too long together and had become too familiar. She broke the moment:
'On your bike, Charlie...?'
Yes. Why hadn't I driven? I was off driving at the moment. Ah... So, now, back to Belinda? Well, I'm going back home. I looked round her house which had a feeling of impermanence. Would she be all right? Yes.
At the door I kissed her cheek; she kissed nothing next to mine. I tucked my trousers into my socks. She laughed, revealing again those perfectly-formed teeth. I attempted a quick count but couldn't. (Nines are very rare...) She said:
'I hope things turn out the way you want them to.'
'So do I.' Pause. 'Are you sure you'll be all right?'
'Don't patronise me, Charlie. We were enfranchised last century!'
I rode off but didn't look back. I could see her waving but didn't turn round. I cycled back to Camber where I received my deposit in return for the bike. While I was there I walked along the beach before catching the bus into Rye which felt very much like reality and where I bought my ticket to London. As I sat on the railway platform the early afternoon sun shed peacefulness. I thought about my meeting with Ffion, wondered what I was going to say to Belinda, felt I really should go to see the doc because I wasn't feeling well. But what could I say to him...? Hey, I went looking for somebody who... But somebody who what?
I swapped trains at Ashford and was whisked to London. Okay, babes, you know about my meeting with the doc, but I haven't told you yet about my reunion with Belinda.
But, of course buddies, Belinda's on the back burner, isn't she? So, I've got Belinda on the back burner, the doc on the distant gas, Martin on the rear ring. I mean, how many positions does this hob have??? There's barely any room left to cook, is there?
Hang on a minute, chaps a
nd chapesses. Hold it one mo, buddies. We must get this right: Bel, the doc and Mart are all on the back of the stove; Ffion's in Romney Marsh, Cybernurse doesn't exist. That leaves me, and I'm telling the story. But it got a bit sombre again, didn't it? All to do with wretched Romney Marsh and Ffion. I wanted life to be simple, predictable and comfortable; but it's jagged, edgy, spiky and...CONFUSING. Isn't it? Do you sometimes find that, buddies? That life is so, so C–O–N–F–U–S–I–N–G.
Don't want to be sombre, babes. Don't want to be grim. Want to lift it, want to be high. Perhaps you want me to say that when I got home Belinda said:
'Want to fool around, big boy?'
And so:
I went to kiss her but nearly missed her; at first I fumbled, I practically stumbled, before she tumbled. We played hunt the thimble: I found a pimple; she said, 'Help me, I've found Anoushka Hemple.' I caught hold of a hemp plant, made some manila envelopes; she took hold of the egg plant, made some vanilla ice cream. And we coasted along quite nicely. Then we primed it and timed it, found a bell and chimed it; we hubbled and bubbled without any trouble despite her contortions and my legs bent double. Yes, we continued to pump it and then on to hump it, I played a queen and she went and trumped it. So, we humped and we pumped—did the hop, step and jump—till we'd drained right down to the very last sump.
Finally, striving and straining—feeling glad of the training—outside it was raining, and my pump was draining—undulating and raving—huffing and puffing—puffing and panting—both of us ranting—we blew the house down.
By this time it was Christmas and we'd all passed the litmus test except Alan—Belinda's father—who was in the outside loo. What's the matter with that guy?
He always looks forward to Christmas, can't wait for it. But on the day itself, when faced with the printout which Belinda has produced for him, he goes to pieces, throws a tizzy—just walks out! To the OUTSIDE loo, my loo (—igloo, in January). Sits there for half an hour. You wouldn't think he'd been an air traffic controller. Thank goodness he's retired. Jesus! Can you imagine an emergency with him in charge? You'd brown your Y-fronts, wouldn't you? Air traffic controller??? Belinda adores him, she goes:
The Information Junkie Page 7
