Another of the rooms contained a boat
building scene – men with tools and wood and iron – a
plaque to the side with an illustration of an impressive
ship,
the AGAMEMNON.
The bolts alone were sixteen feet long, forged at
Boatswain’s Clench, it said.
Whoever drew the picture of the ship had angled it
as though it – sorry, she – were cutting through the
ocean at high speed,
the sails were full and strong,
cannon poised and ready,
a plethora of ropes straining –
what I’m saying, Ava, is
whoever the artist was, well, you could tell they were
very horny for this boat,
or war,
or both.
Similar atmosphere to the señorita at the bistro.
Something exposing in the enthusiasm of the line.
Perhaps you stir at the thought of commanding a fleet,
Ava. Strategy. Salty wood. Sixteen-foot iron bolts
holding fast.
As I said, I was going mad,
but to me it did seem a kind of porn – these exhibits.
The Trust had left me the museum key.
It wasn’t open to the public in the winter but, of course, I
should feel free to bone up on the history of the place.
I liked it.
Slipping out of the studio, through
the drizzle, past the silent cottages, switching everything
on and wandering from tableau to tableau – before
climbing over the barrier and sitting in the corner of the
‘pub’.
There in the faux-oil-lamplight, I’d stay very still
until the audio went quiet. And look at all the poorly
rendered faces frozen in their glee, surprise, sunk glumly
over their frothy, solid beers.
One evening the B&B owner rang to check on
things, I mentioned the white horse again.
