I drew a wobbly line across the page, then tore it out,
tried to fight the sudden boredom that was
rushing in at an appalling rate.
A slow and sickly sense of doom descended.
Why did I think that this was something that I’d like?
That I could do?
The B&B they’d booked for me was three and a
half miles from Boatswain’s Clench.
The Arts Trust hadn’t asked if I could drive – I can’t, Ava –
can you? – And so I walked. Suitcase, miniskirt,
impractical leather boots with a little heel – a block-heel,
mind – through the forest, along the river, down the road
where cars sped wildly past me, forced me flat against
the wet and thorny hedge.
The B&B was equally deserted. Off-season.
The Trust had got a deal.
Just you and me, the owner said.
Divorcée in her sixties, brusque but kind.
She let me use the kitchen and in return I cooked enough
for her most nights – stew or soup, spaghetti bolognaise,
a pie…
It’s nice to be cooked for, makes a change!
Every day it rained.
Every day I trudged the hour-fifteen out to the studio, sat
there staring into space, trudged back.
There was no internet by the river.
Hardly any signal.
I saw no one.
I was yet to meet a single person from The Trust,
though I’d spoken to their chairman on the phone –
…so you’re our lucky artist! I’ll pop by at some
point – check on how you’re settling in. Until then, you’ll
probably see me in the distance – I walk my dog round
there most days.
He did.
Each day at different times, I’d see a distant figure on the
hill across the river. He’d stop and turn and wave –
enormous strides, deerhound, wooden walking stick – I’d
wave back from the window of my studio – stove puffing
away there in the drizzle, in the quiet, in the cold.
