B) Marigold's Story

"There he is, " I say excitedly, jabbing a finger towards the
roundabout.

The taxi-driver is completely unconcerned, he has seen this all before.
He has collected my friends from the train station, they are here for
the weekend. Jean has been here before and she is too busy with her
choc-ice, but Mike and Neil are curious and twist their gaze to see
what I am pointing at.

Just a policeman, directing traffic, pulling it here and there, taking
cars out of the thick stream and sending them elsewhere. We all watch
the twitching of his gloved hands, his aura of command. He is a large
fellow, broad and in his early forties. Still fit and always
beaming.

"So that's him ? " asks Neil, who knows the story, "That's Marigold ?
"

Jean groans and buries her face deeper into the choc-ice. I know that
I'm a bore, but there is something about Marigold that fascinates me.
He is an echo of an earlier, happier time.

"That's him, " I say, "Ipswich's phantom policeman. He's been there for
years, directing traffic. "

"So he's not a real policeman ? " asks Mike, in faint surprise, "Why
doesn't anyone stop him ? "

I glare at him, scandalised, "He's an institution. Nobody's going to
move him. "

"They will, " says Jean, "Sooner or later, he'll be moved. "

I ask the taxi-driver to take us onto the roundabout rather than
turning off. He complains that that will take us the wrong way, but I
tell him that I am happy to pay the extra. This is a tourist
attraction, this is local history.

Marigold just arrived one day, nobody really remembers when. He turned
up, dressed as a traffic policeman and began showing cars where to go,
controlling the flow of events. After a while, people began realising
that he had sent them out of the town, that his directions took cars
out of the town centre, whether by accident or design, people weren't
sure. Locals got used to him and ignored the signals, secretly pleased
that foolish tourists obeyed the gestures and left the town. It made
the roads a little clearer.

Officials didn't like it, complaining that it was spoiling the tourist
trade, that tourists were arriving later into the town to spend their
money in the same shops and pubs that were available in every other
English town.

"As far as I know, " I tell them, "There was either an outcry or a
legal appeal when they tried to move him. Either way, Marigold is still
here and the locals love him. "

We come close to the roundabout, all of us looking at the genial
policeman, all of us realising that we have never seen a look of such
contentment on a human face.

"That's why he's called Marigold, " I say, pointing at his yellow
rubber gloves, "Nobody knows why he wears them, but he always does.
"

"Cool, " says Mike.

Jean says, "I don't know why it gets you so excited. He's just a
nutter, that's all. "

I don't feel that. Some people say that Marigold used to be a policeman
and got the sack, some say that he was hit in the head with an axe by
his wife's lover and went mad after. Whatever his reasons, all I can
see as we pull away from the roundabout, ignoring the rubber hand
signals, is someone who is far happier than I have ever been or ever
will be.