Written between 30th. November and 14th. December 2007, the scribbles are still very experimental and I was (still am of course) learning...
I must have then fallen asleep for a while or daydreamt at least. I remember briefly being back home, tending to the new stud zebra, ensuring that the keepers were looking after him correctly, and telling the young apprentice off for giving him a pink and lime green stripey paint job. Very 'OZ' magazine from the 1960's. Allegedly the zebra had asked for it as a reward for classy performance and high levels of stamina. (Hi Helen!). I recall Langly the wolfhound running round and round my house, all six legs a blur of canine action and power.
I remember being served a steaming hot yellow and white cleaning cloth for tea with a jug of engine oil at the side, which I ate out of British politeness to Gail, who had lovingly prepared it.
Finally, and a little more hazily, I thought I saw Old Tom, resplendent in his breeches, brocade waistcoat and tricorn hat, come out of a cupboard and proceed to tidy the room and pull the curtains together against the gathering darkness outside.
A tap at the bedroom door woke me, just as the ghostly Tom disappeared back into the cupboard. It was Gail, asking if I were coming down for tea, as it was 'all included in the price'. Answering in the affirmative, I roused myself, felt my way to the light switch and clicked it down. The curtains were closed, but I hadn't closed them, had I? The brochure I had been reading was back in a small rack on the bedside table...
After changing into some fresh clothing taken from the knapsack that I neglected to mention earlier (writing on the hoof has its pitfalls), I had a quick wash and brush up in the bedside sink and trundled down the two flights of twisty stairs to the 'Snug' where I had been told tea was served.
*****
An odd scene greeted me as I entered the small 'snug' bar. A podgy, red faced gentleman aged about forty something was sat over by the window, reading a horse racing newspaper and inhabiting a pair of blue, paint spattered dungarees. I discovered during the course of tea that his name was Romney Marsh and that he was decorator and "jack of most trades" for the 'Friendly Group' of companies.
A small lady of great but unguessable vintage, dressed all in black except for her feathered and be-fruited multi hued straw hat, stood at the servery. Thumping a milk jug onto the bar with surprising venom, she shouted at Brian who happened to be passing through. 'You can put that back in the cow, young man! I always take cream with my coffee. You all know that, and you always get it wrong! Always!'
'I'm sure that's not always so, Miss Milliner. I'll tell the lad. So sorry, so sorry!' Clutching the milk jug against a sheaf of official looking forms, Brian exited stage right toward the Kitchen.
'The Lad' turned out to be a young fellow with ginger hair who made the journey all the way round from the other bar and across the hallway so that he could personally deliver a small jug of cream directly to where Miss Milliner had reseated herself by the open fire.
Meanwhile, Brian passed the back of the bar in the other direction, wiping down a sheaf of official looking forms with a tea towel…
Nodding and smiling in acknowledgement of my fellow diners, I sat at the third table, tucked in a corner opposite the decorator. He folded his pink sheeted newspaper and asked if I liked horse racing. I said that I liked riding, but wasn't overly keen on watching or betting. Despite this, we seemed to strike up a good relationship, swopping tales of zebra husbandry and gaudy decoration, as you do…
Meanwhile, Brian passed by again from left to right, desperately trying to air-dry an official looking form by flapping it around. It tore: Brian swore.
'Can you enlighten me on something, please?' I asked Romney. 'Do you have cars, computers and all that sort of thing? You have electric light, but everything appears to revolve around horses – it makes no sense to me. Nothing looks what I would call modern, though some things seem to be old things, but only just made. You know what I mean…like antique reproductions, but nobody has tried to ruin them by faking the appearance of age.
'Romney pondered a while, holding up a forefinger to signal that an answer was on its way.
'The best way to explain things is to pose you some questions first', he began. 'Do you assume that your world is the real one and that this is the strange one? Isn't it possible that your point of view might change according to which side of The Bandstand you were on?'
I do believe that my jaw dropped – I hadn't considered this idea for a moment. Romney smiled and advised me to think it over during tea. With her usual excellent timing, Gail appeared from the Hallway with Romney's food which looked like toasted sandwiches and smelt (small joke for those who know) of fish. I looked at the short handwritten menu and made my order.
Meanwhile, Brian passed by fighting a roll of sticky tape and cursing the fact that it stuck merrily to his fingers, but not to the wet papers he was holding. Find a table to work on, man!
*****
Tea was served by the warm and gracious Gail. I had ordered the 'Marmalade filled pancakes with spiced fruit syrup' because it sounded odd and intriguing. It was wonderful, but I couldn't help thinking that it looked very similar to something that I had possibly eaten before…Perhaps it was the way that the pancakes were cut in very neat squares and the syrup was a clear golden colour? Who knows!
Romney had, by then, finished his 'fish dish', (which turned out to be bloater paste and horseradish- cream toasted sandwiches, which I highly recommend. Really!), and was ready to talk further.
He sat back and patted his generously proportioned belly. 'Have you had a think, then, Phil? Are you any the wiser about what this is all about?'
'Well', I replied 'I think that it's all a bit of a mental voyage of discovery. Everything seems very real – possibly it really is. Normal rules do not seem to apply, but I suspect that this land (what is it called, by the way?) has its own logic, and I just need time.'
'You are, at the moment, in the Marchlands of Britannica, my boy. Our company very quietly invites suitably minded people to visit. In answer to your previous question about old and new artefacts, we have simply followed a different route to all of you on the other side of the Bandstand. You may find it better, you may find it worse. This is up to you. We haven't approached technology the same way. I think the general way we look at things might be summed up as "If it isn't broken, don't fix it", although genuine improvements are always welcome. We also embrace abstract thought as a valuable resource.
*****
I decided to hit Romney with what I thought was a 'killer' of a question.
'Hang on a minute,' I had unsconciously leaned forward and set my head at a quizzical angle. 'What about the chalkboard outside the inn? You can't tell me that's not magic! How on earth (or wherever) can you draw and write in chalk on a simple blackboard and achieve buttons that actually work to summon people? Not to mention the fact that you can change the page that you are reading! Now that HAS to be magic - so the Marchlands aren't real!'
The odd job man grinned. 'Wrong! You have these things at home! They may not look the same, but you have all the technology to make such a chalkboard! You have computers, you have touch sensitive screens and you can code recognition of signs, symbols and colours into your machines. You have programmes that recognise handwriting and can change it in any way you choose. The board outside is a conceit - a bit of fun. It looks in keeping with the Biscuit and has been very well received. Brian allows Gail to use it because her work is amusing. She always runs out of room to write things and it adds a lovely personal touch,'
I think that I was disappointed by this answer, and not entirely convinced. This chat continued a little longer, during which I discovered that building things to last was very important here and that the largest industry was recycling. All rather too good to be true. Can you have a 'perfect' world which contains human beings? Now there's one for further thought (but not today).
We were interrupted by the ginger haired lad popping his head round the door. 'Anybody need a lift to Mothborough tomorrow morning? Mr. Glosse has business there and is setting off at eight o'clock sharp.'
There was car sharing as well? If it was going to be a car, that is – I wasn't sure any more. I wanted to move on, so I piped up in the affirmative and enquired who Mr. Glosse might be.
'Mr. Glosse, Mr. Wancote Glosse – sells paint and stuff,' answered the boy. 'You'll meet him at supper this evening. He always stays here when he's in the area.'
Right! I've been stuck in this pub for months now and at last the leaving of it is in sight! And I'll be blowed if I write in the first person for any future project. I'd read that it could be difficult - so of course, I had to have a go. I am an idiot!
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