A Boy in the Water

by Tom Gregory

  ‘I know, son. I know.’

  I wondered how he knew, and assumed that Uncle John must have had some inside information.

  As we left the baths that night I glanced across at the club display board that was bolted to the wall in the large entrance hall of the baths, and which was protected by a locked glass screen. Across the top read ‘Eltham Training and Swimming Club’. I noticed the mass of black and white photographs and press cuttings of swimmers, both past and present, who had presumably done great things. It was a Hall of Fame. The older, yellowed cuttings showed kids wearing flares and tank tops that dated them as from a decade ago or more. In some photos they appeared in groups of six, in others they were on their own. The groups were all smiling, and either holding up certificates or huddled together in heavy clothing in wild-looking surroundings. The lone swimmers were normally pictured in action, with hat and goggles on, either entering or coming out of the sea. They also seemed to be covered in a white lotion – probably sun cream, I thought. I wondered if Carolyn and Victoria were in any of the photographs and whether Anna or I would ever do anything good enough to get on the notice board too. I wouldn’t mind being famous, I thought, especially before Anna.

  6.15 a.m., 6 September 1988 – 1 hour, 2.5 miles off the French coast, English Channel

  I knew that the darkness that enveloped me would shortly be lifted as dawn began its daily conquest of the English Channel, delivering a new day, Tuesday 6 September 1988, into the Dover Strait. Daybreak would herald a maritime transition from one set of rules to another. I had never experienced this transitory phase from the sea, let alone swum through it. Come to that, I had never really experienced the darkness either, especially not offshore. We had done some night swimming in Dover harbour, but the black water near the shoreline had still been bathed in the yellow lights of the promenade, and our bright orange hats must have been as bright as stars in the night sky when set against the water and reflected light.

  The dark hours this morning had been the most exciting hours of my life. The fishing boat rendezvous had worked smoothly. By the time I caught up with the trawler (I had to look forwards every few strokes and pick out her lights to avoid getting lost), the tender was tied on, the occupants had boarded the larger vessel and it all looked to be calm and organized. Up close the boat was larger than I had expected; it was carrying more people than I had expected too. The wheelhouse was near the bow and had a hard covering on three sides, with a sliding door facing the stern. Forward of the wheelhouse ‘FE41’ was stencilled in large white letters across what looked in the dark like navy-blue painted bows. The registration marking was visible even in the darkness. There was a small amount of deck space forward and the prow of the boat looked stubby and industrial. The gunwales that led up to the bow rose steeply, protecting the main boat and giving the impression she was built for heavy weather. Behind the wheelhouse was the large flat working area. I wondered how many fish Willy could catch when he wasn’t escorting people like me. A heavy but open-sided canvas canopy was held in place by a metal frame, and a pair of neon strip lights were stationed on the underside to illuminate the area completely. It was a harsh light – sterile and cold, not cosy or warm. Good, less reason to want to join the passenger list. Watching the activities of the occupants was like peering into a large floating dolls’ house. Along with the motion of the sea, it was vaguely hypnotic. I had come to love the sensations of sea swimming – the movement of the water and of my body’s smooth path through it. It was roughly three and a half years since I had first experienced this, over Easter.

  In 1985, there was no family roast at Easter. Instead Anna and I reported to the baths early on the Saturday morning for extra training. Not at the pool this time. The Easter long weekend was to be spent camping with the older kids, teenagers, 70 miles down the A2 near Dover, for cold water training. The fast forward button had been pressed again … And this time it was stuck.

  There was limited information available on what was likely to take place at Dover, save for the inevitability of getting wet and cold. The cousins just said that there would be a lot of swimming, but added casually that we ought not to worry about it. I was worried about it. And so was Anna. On the Wednesday night before the camp itself we were each handed a typed letter on official-looking swimming club letterhead, which advised us what to pack. Once home I handed my copy directly to Mum for the maternal oversight I craved, even though it guaranteed a level of interference in the days to come. There were some more hints about what to expect in the packing list:

  Woolly hat and gloves

  Thick jumpers

  Thermal underwear, and spares

  Waterproof jacket

  Slacks (what were slacks?)

  Swimming kit and towel, to include spare hat and goggles

  Sleeping bag – no pillow

  Wash kit

  Report times (7.30 a.m. on the Saturday) and expected return times (mid-afternoon, Easter Monday) were in there, as was a requirement to pay £5 to the club secretary. Other than that there was little to go on.

  The night before we left the house, Mum, who was notably anxious about the whole thing, ‘prepared’ the most enormous meal of Marks and Spencer’s Chinese Chicken – boxes of the stuff. Anna and I had discovered a love of this expensive form of fast food after Mum had bought some by accident and nearly incinerated the contents in our new-fangled microwave. As we gorged our way through the pile of sticky, spicy red chicken, Mum offered me some advice. ‘Tom-Tom. Remember to put your shoes at the end of your sleeping bag when you go to bed. It may be that John Bullet is a military man, and people like that appreciate such things.’ Baffled, I returned to the pile of chicken. Anna, who was unusually silent, devoured as much as she could, fearing the catering arrangements that lay ahead.

  The next day we arrived, packed, nervous, but on time, only to find others had been there even earlier. The Seniors had been busy loading a minibus and its rickety roof rack with a large amount of communal camping equipment that had emerged from a lock-up within the precincts of the baths. The minibus itself was old. The white Bedford, with its rounded lines and bulbous curves, looked very much to be from the 1960s. It reminded me of the old police vans from various dated TV shows that were on after I was supposed to have gone to bed. It even had an old-style number plate, just like the cars in the London to Brighton vintage rally. There was rust all over it, like spots on a Dalmatian dog, and, on both sides, in broken and fading letters, the words ‘Eltham Training and Swimming Club’ were stencilled in what was once a dark blue.

  The bus, now packed and loaded under the supervision of Mother Duck, was already straining on its axles under the weight, but was ready for its passengers. John Bullet appeared, dressed in his normal attire of cardigan and t-shirt, but with a sportier-looking pair of trousers. Perhaps these were slacks.

  ‘Right, let’s go. I fuckin’ ’ate traffic,’ John announced with a stern expression, climbing urgently into the driving seat as he did so. I glanced around quickly, hoping Dad had left. He would have raised an eyebrow at the swearing, even though Anna and I knew all the worst words. But Dad was long gone, and then I suddenly wished him back.

  The group of us, about fourteen, clambered in. There were only ten seats in the back, but the spare tyre that sat between the rearmost benches and just in front of the bulbous back doors formed an extra one. As the smallest by some margin, I was told to squash in among the bags in the aisle between the double benches. I did as I was told, relieved not to have to sit next to any of the girls, secretly hopeful that I had been conferred the status of group mascot. I was by far the youngest, with Anna, three years my elder, the youngest after that. I felt out of place; to me the other swimmers were closer to adulthood than childhood.

  The engine spluttered into life, and the gears ground heavily until one was located. As we rolled out onto Eltham High Street, the noise levels inside the bus steadily increased as multiple conversations began. Loud pop music suddenly added to
the din. It was Wham! and was coming from a big silver stereo on Miss Piggy’s lap. The girls alternated between their excited conversations and singing along. The boys tried to mask their secret approval by rolling their eyes, and instead picked out the flashiest cars on the road. Justin Palfrey (one of the few swimmers not to have a nickname, and the fastest swimmer in the club) then unleashed a vicious fart from his position on the spare wheel seat. He grinned, smugly, amid howls of protest from his fellow passengers. There was some laughter, a firm punch to Palfrey’s thigh from Bear, and a reprimand from John in the driver’s seat as he struggled to wind down his window. The chaos continued.

  I remained wedged among a pile of kit bags, nervous, excited and wide-eyed. This was my first trip away from home without my parents or grandparents, and I would probably have refused to go the night before, in a flood of eight-year-old tears, but for Anna. We had sat up late in her room, bags packed, anxiously discussing what might occur. She was nervous too, but she trusted in the cousins, and I, in turn, trusted in Anna. Meanwhile, Mum and Dad, it seemed, trusted in John Bullet.

  Anna, who like me had said nothing for a while, sat still, quietly mouthing the words to whichever song was playing. The early morning Easter sunshine lifted spirits still further as we filtered onto the A2. I wondered what Mum, Dad and our dog Flossie were up to. Probably on their way to the special secret café on Shooters Hill …

  From my nest of bags I became steadily more nervous as we neared the coast. Dover was getting closer, just 5 miles away according to the last signpost. My tummy turned in a knot … What would happen now? Would we just drive up to the seafront somewhere and be told to get in and swim? Would it be very cold? Would I freeze to death, or be unable to get in? What if I had forgotten something? As the bus pulled off the dual carriageway just outside Dover, I felt the sudden urge to cry.

  After a few minutes winding our way down some country lanes we arrived at a large campsite where a sign read ‘Martin Mill’. The bus had gone quiet after the initial euphoria on the A2. Now everyone looked a little reserved. John drove into a clearing – a small field partitioned from elsewhere by its own hedges and trees. No one spoke.

  ‘Let’s get on with it,’ he announced, cutting the silence. The doors of the old bus burst open, and the Seniors sprang into action, just like in The A-Team. As swimmers scaled the sides of the Bedford and worked loose the ropes holding the luggage in place on the roof, bags tumbled off and began to form a pile on the grass. Teams of two or three waited below to catch the very heavy canvas bags of tentage and poles, while large crates of tinned food and other gear appeared from elsewhere. This was clearly a well-practised drill, but not one that Anna or I knew.

  Within an hour the field had become our shared home. There were three large tents arranged in an open square: the boys’ tent, the girls’ tent and the food tent. The tents were unlike others I had seen – very large, made of a single layer of heavy canvas, and box shaped. They were held up by frames of strong metal poles that seemed quite complex to construct, yet no one referred to, or needed, any instructions. Guy lines were run out from every corner and fastened to large wooden stakes, rammed home with heavy mallets. Inner tents were erected to sleep in, thick canvas matting from a boxing ring laid for a floor in the sleeping quarters, and, in the food tent, a camping kitchen assembled and rations stowed. Water canisters, not to be moved, were placed outside each tent in case of fire. With bewildering pace things had come together.

  In the boys’ tent sleeping bags were rolled out, like multicoloured keys on a piano. There was clearly a hierarchy. My sleeping bag had been laid out for me at one end. John Bullet’s was at the other. In between, I gradually deduced, the bags were roughly in order of age and so ability to swim in cold water. I had been particularly scared about the sleeping arrangements; partly because nothing was discussed in advance, and partly because there was a lack of information regarding life in the boys’ tent – Anna and the cousins simply saw it as a mystery. Nonetheless, my bed was made, and our camp soon looked as though it had been there for weeks.

  Then it started to rain.

  ‘OK, on the bus then,’ ordered John.

  I collected my swim bag from the pile and followed others into the bus, relieved to get out of the rain, which had grown heavier. Leaving the campsite behind, we motored off back through the country lanes, the minibus clipping the hedges as we bowled along. The tunes on the stereo resumed, but there was no talking this time. The music was filling what would otherwise have been a tense silence. As we turned off the country lanes and onto a main road marked Jubilee Way, I glimpsed the sea for the first time through a huge road cutting. The dual carriageway swept its way down through the chalk cliffs above Dover. It was so steep and fast there were even escape-lanes for runaway trucks to crash into on one side, with big piles of sand and shingle to stop them. There were towering and important-looking radio masts on the tops of the cliffs – probably to detect hostile Russian aircraft, I thought.

  We descended noisily, John using the gearbox to control the speed of the bus, and as we progressed through the cutting in the cliff towards Dover harbour, my heart began to thump with excitement at the magnificent scene that unfolded below us under the wet, grey rolling sky.

  Massive ferries, bound for France and who knew where else, lay in dock, connected to giant gantries that loaded them with queuing cars. The circular length of the harbour wall stretched out to sea like enormous concrete arms, as if trying to gather the water back in towards the white cliffs. As we descended the tarmac slide I saw for the first time the promenade of Dover on the right through the drizzle. The grand-looking buildings along the seafront reminded me of Brighton. Beyond the promenade, the long harbour beach was spread out, bounded by the concrete walls on either side. The beach looked pebbly from a distance – like Brighton, not sandy like France.

  I looked out at the brown, turning sea, stretching to the horizon. Its surface looked very different either side of the harbour wall. Beyond the harbour the sea was alive and crested with white specks. Ferries travelled to and fro. Inside the harbour the water looked calmer, but rippled and busy nonetheless. I perched on some kit bags to get a better view, only to find that the bus had travelled so quickly down the giant ramp that we were nearly at the bottom, and turning sharply round a right-hand bend. It was over too quickly. This was the most exciting road in the world by far. A giant helter-skelter, which felt perilous to travel, let alone drive down. I was suddenly glad John Bullet was at the wheel – he looked like someone who could be trusted to handle it.

  John parked the bus on the seafront, which, despite the Bank Holiday weekend, was nearly empty, no doubt on account of the rain. The music stopped abruptly, and still no one spoke. John cut through the silence once more from the driver’s seat. ‘Right, you lot. Get changed.’

  Another rush of nerves, another knot in my stomach. The doors to the bus slid open again, but slowly this time, as the swimmers, kit bags in hand, made for the protection of one of the shelters on the promenade, which were dotted along the front at regular intervals. They looked like posh bus stops: made of painted white iron and wood, with ornate details all over, and with long benches to sit on either side. I followed some of the others to the bench facing the sea. The boys had ended up on one side and the girls on the other. The swimmers began to get changed out in the open and I realized there was a skill to be mastered in using a towel to avoid a naked moment when putting trunks on in public. Still no one said anything.

  One by one the swimmers put on the rubber orange swimming hats, whose real purpose immediately became clear as their brightness stood out against the wet early-April sky and dark backdrop of the sea. A man strolled by under an umbrella, his face a mixture of confusion and surprise. We looked odd – fourteen children with bright orange rubber heads, in swimming costumes, standing outside in a shelter avoiding the rain.

  ‘Right, now. I want you IN, UNDER – and I mean UNDER – then OUT!’ barked John loudly. ‘N
o fannying around. Just get in, and get it done.’

  I joined the procession down to the water’s edge, across the pebbles and through the rain. The tide was in, so there wasn’t far to walk, but the stones hurt my feet. I heard a desperate-sounding noise, looked up from the stones and saw that Mother Duck was already in the sea. She had cried out involuntarily at the moment she became fully immersed. Rather than get straight out as instructed, she stayed afloat, treading water in the freezing sea. She called out to the group, who hesitated on the edge of the water. I shivered in the rain, at the back. ‘Come on, guys, it’s not that bad,’ she encouraged, struggling for breath, and with a smile that seemed to mask some amount of pain.

  One by one the swimmers walked into the brown sea – ducklings forced to comply, lest they risk abandonment. The beach came alive with a fusion of screaming, shrieks and angry shouts. I could delay the moment no longer and pulling the goggles onto my eyes walked in up to my ankles. The shock of the cold made my feet hurt. Fearful of being last I took a big step forwards only to find the stones had vanished beneath me and so I tipped forwards into the deep water. My body convulsed and my lungs filled up in one huge involuntary gasp. Pain gripped my body and there was a moment of panic. Was this sudden death? My head moved rapidly from side to side trying to process the moment, my arms and legs keeping me afloat with their unplanned movements. Gasping, I looked over, tears in my eyes, and saw Mother Duck, floating, calmly now, and still treading water. ‘Under you go, Young Marcus,’ she said.

  ‘Young Marcus’ was my new nickname, conferred on me by John himself. I hadn’t liked it initially. I preferred Tom to Thomas, but Thomas was certainly better than Marcus. But Anna had been kind about it. She explained that Marcus was a reference to Marcus Hooper, the greatest swimmer in the club’s history, and current world record holder for age. He had been just twelve when in 1979 he swam from England to France in fourteen hours and thirty-seven minutes, becoming the 232nd person ever to have done so. Now grown up, he was no longer a member, but his photo was the most famous of those on the board in the foyer of the baths in Eltham. Not such a bad thing, then.