This was better, Ava – fireside, people, life – a little
nook to think in.
How’s it going down there? The barman asked me.
Good, I said, the river’s really gorgeous, I feel very lucky.
He raised an eyebrow.
Boatswain’s Clench? You’d be surprised
how many people have drowned down there – right
where that studio is, he said.
How many do you think that is, Ava?
How many drownings would surprise you?
I wanted to ask, if he meant recently, or
since the dawn of time.
I guess I’d be surprised if it was in the
thousands…
like the diggers, Ava –
that surprised me.
There was a group of rowdy men and boys on
a nearby table who overheard the barman.
They told me they were from a boat building
school – one where you learn all the old techniques.
We do a couple of weeks down Boatswain’s Clench,
we’ll come and say hello.
When I came out of the pub I had a voicemail from
the chairman of The Trust.
I just walked Talbot up the hill but couldn’t see you
in the studio window – are you there? Do let us know if
you can’t use it for some reason. There are plenty of
young artists who’d be happy to step in.
I walked back up to Boatswain’s Clench.
Lit the stove until the alarm went off,
opened the door, froze, shut it until the alarm went off,
opened the door, froze… trudged back to the B&B, made
soup, watched the spider busying itself on the black and
white TV, sat against the radiator, peered out of the
window at the strange, white horse, slept fitfully.
On the art front, I’d made nothing, Ava – had tried
to draw the river,
to write about the leggy birds,
the skies, the shiny mud, but my brain was empty,
achey,
