Ten years ago I decided it was time to bring E.F. Benson’s Mapp & Lucia tales up to date. Five years ago I started to sketch some plots and characters. Out with the bridge and the golf club…and move the setting from Rye Citadel in the 1920s to the boatyards on Rock Channel in the 1990s. Up Rock Channel Creek…my everyday stories of boating folks…eventually got the working title of Creaky Tales.
In the spring of 2004 I got away to Västeräs and Hersonissos for two months. I returned to Rye with a hundred thousand words on my laptop and the ability to invent plots, create characters and write dialogue. Since then I have seen plots everywhere and don’t really need to make them up. True facts are implausible. Fiction writers lie to tell the truth. They tone down reality.
The Cheeky Girls live in Rye. In 2004 I worked out behind them at Hilden Gym. I caught glimpses of muscles I didn’t know existed…on them. Ray Semal…their father-in-law…insisted they give me their autographs. At the gym Ben taught me how to avoid being thrown off a running machine. Ben has been seen on Hove Station in the early hours with Heather Mills…who has split from her husband Paul…whose daughter Heather learnt pottery from Connie. Son James learnt karate from Mike Avery…and my daughter worked on Barnaby Rudge…moored in Rock Channel.
Mr. McCartney has a cameo part in Creaky Tales. ‘Councillor Williams reflected upon his forthcoming meeting with Mr McCartney. He had resolved a small dispute with the locals a year ago. Complaints about the danger to local children from Paul’s wildlife park had required his diplomatic touch. He saw himself as a born conciliator and was pleased with the outcome. But it was not good enough for Her Indoors. ‘All well and good until some young girl gets gored or a Jack Russell gets eaten alive by his wild boars and the paparazzi are camping out on our doorstep.’
'To show his appreciation Councillor Williams had been given permission to stroll the woodland paths of Mr. McCartney’s Peasmarsh Estate. Being nervous of wild boar he had not done so . Councillor Williams was not a brave man…nor a fast runner. In fact running was not in his repertoire. But there was a first time for everything.
Councillor Williams decided that tomorrow he would stroll. And he would invite the Efficient Morgan to ride shotgun. Having the Efficient Morgan chased by wild boar might concentrate everybody’s mind.’
The author then has a few words about our man from the ministry…and the rights and wrongs of removing him from Blandings Castle in Shropshire. After this brief interlude Councillor Williams’ phone rings in his study. It is the Efficient Morgan speaking.
‘Today’s the day. I have the solution. I need your OK.’
‘What solution? Whose problem? Where?’
‘Allotment Association. Dredging. Bypass. Skulduggery. Rock Channel. Men of Dark & Dismal Fate. Today’s the day.’ There was a pause.
‘Hello! Are you there?’
‘Yes…yes…Rock Channel...No I haven’t forgotten…You want my OK…Has anything happened?’
Councillor Williams was irritated. Morgan had this effect on him. Why on earth did he slip into Morgan’s ridiculous monosyllabic mode of address. He was on the telephone not writing a telegram.
Then he heard himself say the fateful words.
‘You have the answer…Good…But not on the phone…’
The fates began winding in their threads.
‘I am meeting the owner of Barnaby Rudge at two. Meet me at The Queen’s Head in Icklesham at one thirty. Leave your car in the car park. We’ll go up to Peasmarsh in mine. Bring the file. I want him on our side. He moors Barnaby Rudge in Rock Channel so he’s an interested party. Not that it made a blind bit of difference when his wife went for us over that Memorial Hospital business. No…not her…the first one. We’ll take a walk in the woods afterwards. No…no…just the two of us. Mr. McCartney’s a busy man. I have the run of his estate. A thank-you after that wildlife park incident last year. Well…that’s what he calls it. Yes I know what the locals call it. Wear stout shoes…steel toecaps if you have them…we might be attacked by wild boar. Now I must get on.’
Yet how can this compare with reality? Sir Paul McCartney has revised his deal for building in an area of outstanding beauty without planning permission. His ‘beloved’ log cabin would come down if he could keep his pavilion. Beanacres and two agricultural barns could go as well leaving ‘the intrinsic landscape quality and character of the High Weald’ better off than before his wooden lodge and pavilion went up.
Beats me why he doesn’t get John Prescott to nod it through. Cash for Honours? Autographs for Planning Permission? Can’t see the difference myself!