in its proper place.
Rewriting Aeneid #64 1994
Through savage woods I walk without demur … why would I have that in my head all day stopping me, halting me in my tracks, unable to write a word without thinking of these other words, words already spoken. Petrarch owned them before me, as much as I own them now … Like him, I’m charged with oblivion and my ship careers through stormy … what’s the rest? … yes … through stormy combers in the depth of night … Who steers me? My enemies … Who? … Why do I even bother? What is there for me to gain here, out here? Nothing … Nothing … Nothing but oblivion …
[He gets up out of his armchair and can be heard off-camera.]
Where’s my fucking baccy? Bastards … I fucking own it … There, come here, you bastard … Baccy …
[He reappears suddenly.]
Fucking things …
Again I stop the tape. His gnarled face frozen on the screen, fuller, fatter around the cheeks, his piercing eyes staring at me. I’m not in the mood for this. Too much is happening, too quickly. All I can think about is the key in my pocket. I decide to get off the island for the day, to venture into Southend and see what’s in the safety deposit box. I check my pocket for the envelope; it’s still there. I switch off the TV, leaving the tape where it is. I get up off the bed and grab my coat and some money. I make sure to bring enough. I’ll spend some time there and arrive back here for dinner later tonight. I feel like walking, and decide to walk the whole way into Southend. I’ll start at Benfleet and follow the seafront in, past Leigh-on-Sea and down into Southend. It should be a leisurely walk, if I pace myself correctly. It should only take a couple of hours to get there; if it gets late, I’ll take a cab back here for dinner. Maybe I’ll be able to watch more of the recordings then, after dinner, when things are more settled.
the stick
I get waylaid right from the outset. I walk along the High Street, past the old Canvey Club and am immediately drawn into a ramshackle old shop called 2nd Hand Rose, a strange little place that seems to sell pretty much all the tat in the world. Rubbish, mostly. Inside the shop is an old man. He introduces himself to me as ‘Tony’.
‘Do you want to see some models?’
‘Pardon?’
‘My collection of model boats and cars made out of everyday rubbish?’
‘All right.’
I follow Tony into the back of the shop. Out on display is his collection: cars, boats, Ferris wheels, all with moving parts, all made from scraps of metal he’d found: tin cans, bits of machinery, household products.
‘I make them every day.’
‘They’re … great.’
‘They take me a long time to make.’
‘They’re really great, honest.’
‘I scour the island, especially the old dump, Canvey Heights, for rubbish, every day.’
‘You’re really talented …’
‘What’s everyone else going to do with the unwanted scrap of their lives, eh?’
‘Yes … Yes … Well, I’d better be going.’
‘I bring life back to the dead …’
As I’m about to leave I notice a big walking stick, carved out of a branch from some tree. It’s gnarled and twisted, perfect for my walk along the sea wall at Benfleet.
‘How much for the stick?’
‘It’s 50p.’
‘Here’s two quid …’
‘Thanks, son.’
‘No worries …’
I take the stick and walk on to Long Road. It’s a perfect fit: neither too long nor too short for my arms and legs. It feels normal, right; like it’s an extension of some part of me. I actually forget its presence within half a mile or so. Halfway along Long Road I spot a ‘Heritage Centre’ in an old church. It’s open. I don’t feel like I’ve much else to do so I walk inside, dropping a couple of pound coins into the visitors’ box. A man rises from a chair in the corner of the room to greet me – it’s obvious that he’s been sleeping and I’m the first visitor of the day. The church – including the old altar and confessional – is filled with all manner of strange and wonderful stuff; all of which, it seems, has had some historical connection to the island. I’m drawn to an old wooden axle and half a wheel, up on the altar. It’s part of an old horse-drawn carriage, I think.
‘Ah, you’ve found the wheel, then …’
‘Yes … it looks old, what’s it from?’
‘A sad story that one …’
‘Really.’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
‘The horse was pulling a carriage with a boy travelling to the island from London. It got stuck out in one of the creeks … before we had bridges. The whole thing stuck in the mud, the bog, the horse, the boy, his mother, the driver, the whole thing got sucked down into the creek in the night. They died there. People from the island couldn’t find them for years, they’d been sucked down so far … until it was eventually found, they recovered the bodies, the boy, the driver, but not the mother … I don’t think they ever found her. She was taken by the sea … the boy had been preserved in the mud. Do you want to see something?’
‘Sure … What is it?’
‘Over here … follow me …’
‘What is it?’
‘We’ve got the head …’
‘The head?’
‘Yes, the horse … We’ve got its head …’
‘Really.’
‘Yes, come with me.’
He ushers me into the next room, to the left of the altar – in what must have been a confessional, an extra prayer room, or the chapel to Our Lady. Then he shows it to me: it’s behind a glass cabinet: a horse’s skull.
‘There she is … a real beauty …’
‘Yes, she’s certainly something …’
‘She’s a specimen all right, our pride and joy …’
It looks like an alien being; I’ve never seen a horse’s skull before.
‘We’ve had it for years … they gave it to us, some farmer had kept it in his hay shed for years,
