Poet-in-Residence Journal: Avro Heritage Museum, Woodford, Cheshire (March-September 2026) Part 4

MY FIRST THURSDAY AT AVRO HERITAGE MUSEUM

When I returned to the museum on Thursday morning, there was a small group of members standing near the reception desk. They turned, smiled, and greeted me. It was going to be a busy day, they told me. I signed in and noticed that the lights in the hangar were not yet switched on. There was a soft, gentle calm coming from the exhibition floor.

            The men were engaged in conversation. News from America was as fascinating now as it had been in the early 1900s, when the Wright brothers were experimenting with flight. Alliott Verdon-Roe had been enchanted by the brothers’ ambition and had once written to them about their early experiments.

            “If you hear gunfire,” one of the members said, pausing to inform me, “don’t be alarmed, it’s only the O.K. Corral. They’ll be far away from the museum — there’s no need to worry,” he said after seeing the surprised look on my face.

            He then introduced me to a member whom I hadn’t met before. We shook hands and the conversation returned to America.

            “Did you know that in the White House all the members’ names are fixed to the walls by Velcro strips?” one asked and I tried to visualise it. White laminated rectangular placards on the walls in the White House — I asked myself, was it about economic sense?

            “I know,” said another. “Who would believe that the names of the members of congress were held onto the walls by Velcro strips? That’s America for you.”

            I was beginning to wonder if this was an inside joke that I wasn’t aware of, or was it an actual truth?

            “Did you know this, Christine?” one asked me.

            I laughed and said that I didn’t know. Then the vivacious volunteer who was in charge of the museum’s hygiene wheeled a mop and bucket across the floor towards the hangar, while whistling tunefully.

            The conversation continued, but I was reluctant to share any political views, because I had decided before starting my residency, that I would stay well away from politics — that my interest would remain on archival memories, personal stories and achievements. As I reminded myself of this, the director declared that it was time for him to switch on the lights and monitors in the hangar before the school children arrived.

            There was to be a group of neurodivergent children visiting with their teachers from the Pennines within the hour. He excused himself and the group drifted off in different directions. I continued to the members’ room and noticed an A4 paper resting on the coffee table. I stood for a moment looking down at it.

            It contained a poem, by a poet I did not recognise. I picked it up and read the first few stanzas then let it fall back onto the oak surface. Perhaps someone was trying to tell me something, I thought.

            Upstairs, the archive room was slowly coming to life as the members filed in. There were four new members that I hadn’t met before. They were the men responsible for sorting and filing all aircraft diagrams. They looked at me with mild curiosity. A poet-in-residence was becoming something of a mystery to many. No one really knew what that meant. Or how the creative process worked.  

            I sat down at my requisitioned computer, while the owner smiled and removed his glasses case from the desk drawer.

            “I will leave my lunch here,” he said, pointing to a small grey bag near the keyboard. “Try not to eat it,” he said, and we laughed simultaneously, while he continued to the library room once more.

            I pulled up the diary again, 1901 was an active year for Alliott Verdon-Roe. As I read the final entry on the 31st of December 1901, I was glad to be starting a new year. But as I returned to the main file, I noticed that 1902, 1903, 1904 and 1905 were missing. The next present diary was 1906. I quickly scanned the screen again. The diaries from 1902-1905 were nowhere to be seen. My heart raced.

To be continued...

The story continues next Sunday 31st May at 18:00.

If you like what you read here, leave a comment below.