‘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, God knows what happened to the rest of her … At least we have something, something here of importance, historical importance, the actual horse’s head, here in the centre … to remember them by … They say the mother … the mother of the boy … they say she haunts the creeks … The “lady of the lake” they call her … There’s an old book, a novel, I forget its name, in which she makes an appearance …’
‘I think I’d better get going now … I’m walking into Southend today.’
‘I did wonder about your stick …’
‘This thing … I just bought it from 2nd Hand Rose …’
‘Good old Tony … I’m hoping to have him in here one day … Ha ha! I’m only joking.’
‘Okay. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
Long Road is so named for obvious reasons and it takes me quite a while to reach the end of it. Once I cross the creek, back onto the mainland, I find it easy along the sea wall from Benfleet and before I know it I’ve reached Leigh-on-Sea. I take a rest at the Crooked Billet pub, feeling quite at ease with my stick. I order a pint of beer and sit outside at one of the many tables overlooking the estuary and fishing boats. I order a seafood platter from Osborne’s Cockle Shed to accompany my beer. The sky’s beginning to open out into a vast blue, which seems to fade to milky white the closer it gets to the horizon. I drink and eat and think of nothing.
towards the sea
Here I am now, and Southend is busy. I’m not ready for it. The streets are teeming with all sorts of people: mostly gaggles of teenagers on skateboards in low-cut jeans with their arses hanging out. The place feels alive, buzzing. People are going this way and that, groups of scruffy men with bulldogs shouting at each other, smoking weed and drinking Tennent’s Super. Old ladies jostle for position through the general brouhaha of mothers and their assorted children hanging around the High Street on their way to M&S. I notice a crowd of people gathering around Waterstones; at first I think there’s a celebrity in town, but on closer inspection I realise what’s attracting the crowd: it’s the local ‘owl man’. The same one I remember seeing in my youth, when I came here on holiday. I hated him back then, too. He’s standing there with his pet owls, showing them off in broad daylight, allowing all manner of people to have their photo taken with these two magnificent creatures. The owls — both tethered at the leg by a rope — are passed from child to teenager, to mother to random man, eager parents snapping away with their phones. It’s a terrible sight. Those poor things. Those beautiful creatures. I walk over to the ‘owl man’.
‘Are you aware these are nocturnal creatures?’
‘I have authenticated approval from the council … I’m doing them no harm. They’re well looked after …’
‘It’s wrong.’
‘I don’t care what you think, mister … I have the papers to prove it.’
‘I don’t care about your fucking papers, you’re holding these beautiful creatures captive … it’s wrong. It will always be wrong. You cruel little man.’
I walk away in disgust, children looking at me, shielding themselves behind their mothers’ legs.
‘DO-GOODER!’
I turn to look at the woman who shouts this at me. Her sour face is contorted in a tight fist of hate, her fingers pointing at me. I smile after a moment or two when I realise that her face is stuck like that and is not a result of my actions. She moves forward from her pram to give me the Vs. I smile again, knowing this will aggravate her more than her own tired old gesture aggravates me. I turn and carry on walking down the High Street towards the seafront. At Royal Terrace I find a bench to sit on, overlooking the pier and the estuary. Uncle Rey loved Southend Pier. He loved its history. He used to bring me here to see it when I was young, I don’t remember when, or how many times to be exact, maybe only the once, I don’t know. We’d walk all the way together to the very end — the longest pleasure pier in the world — to see the bell. We’d never get the train to the end, we’d always walk there and back. I loved it out there on the pier, above the sea and the mud. I decide that after I’ve been to the safety deposit box I’ll walk along the pier to see the bell, in memory of Uncle Rey if nothing else.
box 27
The safety deposit box is on the other side of town. It takes me a while to find it, even with directions on my phone. The man behind the desk looks at me disapprovingly, so I have to explain to him that I have a key. I hand it over. I tell him that I’m here to pick up something. He stares at me for a while, then leans back in his chair after handing me back my key.
‘Ah, number 27 … Yes, we were told about this one … It’s held under Mr Rey Michaels …’
‘Yes, that’s right … My uncle.’
‘Can you give me your name please?’
‘Jon Michaels.’
‘Jon, right, that’s the ticket … You were here earlier, right?’
‘Pardon …?’
‘You came by earlier … Without the key?’
‘Er. no … I don’t know what …’
‘I have some instructions for you … I’ll need to check with the manager first … Can you just hang on?’
‘Sure, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Ah, sorry, may I …’
I hand him back my key. He walks off. I feel a little panicked; tiptoeing from one foot to the other, like I need the toilet. What does he mean I ‘came by earlier’? Without the key. I begin to shiver. I look around, out through the window. I see someone sitting on the wall outside, but it’s hard to make out who they are. At first it looks like they’re looking back at me, but they turn away. I turn back to the desk, hoping they’ll let me through. I’m desperate to find out what’s in the box. I can hear the man talking with his manager. I listen to them.
‘You know …’
‘Which box?’
‘Key 27 …’
‘Eh?’
‘You know, that man … He came in …’
‘What man?’
‘Mr Michaels.’
‘Oh, him … a tricky one, that.’
A tall man appears who I presume is the manager. He looks me up and down, as if scrutinising something just washed up on the beach. He makes me feel uncomfortable, but I manage not to show it. I hold on to my stick like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
‘Right … Hello … Box 27 …’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you just fill this out?’
‘Sure.’