Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

‘Uh…’ she starts.

‘But you should ,’ I say, grabbing her arm and steering her forward. ‘You must . There’s so much to see , and a fantastic café. Let’s go. Come on . It’ll be fun …’

She starts to pull her arm away. I tighten my grip, considerably. ‘ Fuck it, Bly,’ I growl, almost lifting her feet off the marble as we hurtle towards it, ‘I’ll pay.’

Hate you to get the impression I was tight or anything.

Although there’s nothing wrong in a modern man knowing the value of a pound , eh?

‘ Love this warship. Absolutely love it. Visited it — twice — as a boy. Bought the book, the craft model, three pencils, two pens, a balloon and an eraser. Bought the whole damn experience and the morello cherry on top.

Great kids’ excursion — great any -person excursion. The best, hands down, in this part of London. Nothing else comes even close to it. Not the Tower, not the Tate Modern, not the stupid, fricken’ Wheel …

Uh- uh .’

I spin Bly in through the entrance gate, buy us some tickets at the desk, belt through the shop, negotiate the gangplank — and the slightly ominous sailor-geezer stationed at its far end who wants to make us fill out a form to allow the price of our tickets to be eligible for some kind of charitable tax relief…( Woah . Hold on . We’re not even on board your damn ship yet).

Then off we sail.

The experience has been leavened significantly (you might actually be interested to know) by the advent of the interactive video. But it’s the same lovely old dust-bucket it ever was. Creaking. Sombre. Grizzled. Utterly monumental.

The big guns (rendered all the more delightful — in our eyes — for being focused pitilessly on our current place of work), the huge anchor (size of a small house), the portholes, the fore-deck, the aft-deck (okay, so if it’s the technical stuff you’re after then send a quick email to Ellen fuckin ’ MacArthur).

Bly is entertained (within reason — I mean my sell was quite a big one) by all the above-board activity, but she gets really excited when we head downstairs; backwards, grunting slightly, balanced precariously on a series of perilous, metal ladders (the kind of thing you might get — if you were a very lucky birdy — in a ramshackle aviary).

Down here ( mind your head) we get to snoop around the infirmary (couple of macabre masked waxwork figures hacking away morosely at the guts of an injured sailor), the pharmacy, the stores, the tuck shop…

It’s hot. Stuffy. Confined. And there’s this constant, all-pervasive drone (the air-conditioning, I presume), which makes you feel as if you’re staggering around aimlessly inside the ululating throat of a beatific pussy.

And talking of felines — Bly squeals with pleasure when she enters the sleeping quarters and espies the ship’s cat (stuffed), sitting smugly in its tiny bed alongside a charming coterie of waxwork sailors (in various stages of dress and undress) falling in and out (most companionably ) of their serried ranks of hammocks.

At this stage a helpful guide approaches and escorts her to the lock-up (not literally , but to see two, scary little steel-grey cells where the naughtiest sailors might sometimes be left to moulder).

Bly — and all credit to her for taking to this new experience (after her initial disquiet) with such untrammelled enthusiasm — then wants to go right down into the belly of this beast (the guts, the bowels), to the ammunition store, where the guide is now telling her that they used to manufacture all the shells etc. in readiness for combat…

Uh…

Yes.

It’s at this precise point — when I turn my head slightly — that I behold a nonchalant Aphra (I know. I know. I thought she was claustrophobic too) leaning provocatively over the tuck-shop counter (wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Remember the skirt? The short skirt ?) and reaching out her hand towards a waxwork storesman in a serious attempt to half-inch his cap.

One stretch.

Two stretches…

Phew !

And she finally manages it.

She applies the cap to her head (at a jaunty angle), jinks the brim down briefly in my direction (Ay ay Captain) , then turns sharply on her heel and minces off.

Bly and the guide are making their way over towards the ladder which leads down on to a lower deck, still full of chat. Bly clambers down first (she’s a lady, apparently) and the guide cheerfully indicates that I might like to follow, but I say, — ‘Uh. No . I just want to finish watching this fascinating documentary about the Belfast ’s sister ships…’ So he shrugs and heads on down after her.

Right. Where is she?

I walk past the tuck shop, the infirmary, pause, cock my head, and listen carefully (this girl’s wearing Scholls — that hefty wooden sole’s a slap in the face to any kind of anonymity).

Clink-Clank, Clink-Clank…

Straight on.

Clink-Clank, Clink-Clank…

Left turn–

Clink-Clank, Clink-Clank…

How’d the fuck she climb that ladder?

Clink-Clank-Clank…

Yup. Inevitable. One sandal’s fallen off–

Silence.

Bollocks. She’s removed both of the buggers.

I’m back on the main deck, peering frantically about. I walk towards the prow, stand, turn, glance back, look higher…

A- ha!

She’s up on the next level, perched on the captain’s chair, lounging seductively over the wheel and gazing out (cap— Lady and the Tramp -style — yanked low over one eye). I promptly follow. More deck, more stairs…

Hmmn . Captain’s chair now inhabited by a husky, pubescent American boy in Stars and Stripes trainers.

I head higher.

More guns. More gulls. I wait impatiently for a large family group to clamber down the stairs, then… hup ! A final flight.

Phew .

I’m a little out of breath. Sweaty.

I peer around me, trying to find my bearings. There’s an irregular beeping sound. Ah . We’re in the ship’s communications centre (heavily wood-lined; like a strangely incongruous Swiss-style chalet. Or a scruffy Swedish sauna. Take your pick). This ‘space’ is currently inhabited by a whole host of radio-style paraphernalia, a gruff waxwork wireless operator (‘working’ the Morse code) and Aphra.

The room is divided into two parts separated by a dark counter and a huge piece of glass. Aphra’s standing on the non-technical side of the divide, holding her sandals — one in each hand — and reading a poster about the manifold innovations in communications technology during the first half of the twentieth century.

When I step into the room, she glances distractedly over her shoulder, then freezes, then spins around to look at me, with an expression of naive surprise.

‘Oh,’ she says sweetly: ‘ You like warships too ?’

The cap is cute.

The cap is very cute.

(And she knows it, damn her.)

I walk over and kiss her. She doesn’t object. In fact when I pull back, she yanks off her cap and places it firmly on to my head. ‘Hello Sailor,’ she grins. I slide my hands under her skirt, bunch the fabric up, grab her, lift her up (she wraps her legs obligingly around my thighs), then stagger two steps to the side and prop her on to the handy, hip-level wooden counter, her back against the glass.