by Tom Gregory
‘JB, JB, this is Dennis the Menace … OVER!’ said Dennis into the black plastic mic. After a moment, John Bullet’s voice came back through the same mic, all the way from the other side of the car park. ‘Menace, Menace, this is JB, JB. Roger, loud and clear. Ten-four.’ Dennis twisted some dials, the set went quiet, and he turned to another task. I stood staring at the CB, still glowing in the darkness, mesmerized.
We drove through London’s deserted streets in silence and I saw my city in a new way. All the traffic lights were green, and the hushed hours felt dangerous, even though there was no one to be seen. I recognized our route through the South London boroughs of Peckham and Southwark.
The city changed. As we crossed the Thames over Westminster Bridge the lights of Parliament reflected back at me from the black flowing river. Westminster looked serious and magnificent. The lights round Buckingham Palace were less bright and more spaced out. Their icy white shimmer somehow gave the place a sense of added importance. I looked for the flag to see if the Queen was in, but with none visible decided she must also be on holiday. Recognizing the exciting landmarks as we sped by (Marble Arch was next) meant I knew roughly where I was, which was a comfort and kept me occupied. But at some point soon afterwards, the landmarks, and all the things I recognized, ended. We filtered onto a motorway called the M1. The large blue road sign showed distances to places I had heard of, like Birmingham, and at the bottom the sign confirmed that this was the way to ‘THE NORTH’. But the North was so far away it had no distance quoted, not yet. Miss Piggy’s stereo was now playing quietly, and nearly all of the swimmers were asleep. As we rolled steadily up the motorway, further and further from home, and from Mum, Dad and Flossie, I kept looking out the window, even though there were no landmarks to see any more … I didn’t want anyone to notice me crying.
On the hill we had made solid progress and I realized I could no longer see the campsite, which had disappeared into the now hidden valley floor. We sat on the grass alongside a drystone wall and drank in the setting. This was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. After an hour we were so high the fells of the western Lakes were laid out on the horizon. To our right the northern fells climbed higher still into the blue sky, which acted as a fast conveyor belt to numerous fat white clouds. If we climbed much further I would be able to touch one.
Bleachy (whose hair went white in the sun) and Dickie (real name Richard) were jumping around between the large flat slates that were scattered on the steep hillside. There was a lot more animal shit to avoid here compared to Eltham Park. Bleachy had perfected the art of lobbing a stone into a pile of the stuff, causing all in the vicinity to dive for cover to avoid being freckled. I turned one of the stones on its side and rolled it away from me, but the steepness of the hill caused it to stay upright and gather pace. ‘Oh shit!’ someone said. We watched on as the large stone disc began accelerating down the mountainside. Far below a sheep ambled into line with the tumbling round slate and we held our breath. At the last moment the slate hit a small lump just in front of the sheep, and bounced up suddenly, clearing the sheep’s white woolly coat by inches before clattering into another drystone wall further down the mountain. The laughter that followed was more in relief that we hadn’t decapitated the sheep. No more stone rolling happened after that.
There was a growing rumble to the right, like the sound of distant thunder. Two black shapes appeared on the horizon, moving impossibly fast towards us. In a second or two they were upon us; a pair of RAF fighter jets thundered down the valley. As they reached us they dipped quickly in height so that we were able to look across at them. They were so close I saw the silhouette of the pilot in his cockpit. My chest felt the vibration of the ground-shaking roar of the engines as they passed, ridiculously loud, and getting lower still. How could they not crash? How could they fly so fast? The aircraft turned sharply through the valley, the hills now above them on either side, and began to bank steadily downwards as they headed lower still towards a large expanse of water in the distance. In a moment they were gone, but the rumble of their thunder faded more gradually. I was on my feet, jumping up and down, cheering, but when I realized no one else was, I quickly sat down again.
‘Where are they going, Bear?’ I asked, in a fast and excited voice.
‘Dunno,’ he replied calmly. ‘They do that a lot here. You’ll see ’em all week, provided it ain’t rainin’ – but it’s usually rainin’.’ Bear was less excited by the whole event, but he’d been here before.
‘What’s that big lake over there?’ I asked.
‘That’s Windermere, durr-brain.’
I gulped. It was vast even from here, and I could only see some of it from our perch on the mountainside. At least the RAF were around in case anything went wrong. The Senior squad had come here for one reason – to train for swimming the Channel. Lake Windermere was very cold and the swimming conditions were hostile. There was no better place to prepare, according to John.
The rain arrived later that afternoon, and it didn’t stop. The July daylight began to fade, already darkened by the heavy clouds above. The stream next to our camp began to rush and swell – the only possible escape for the mass of water that was now falling between the mountains that defined the valley. Our camp was to be tested.
In the boys’ tent, my sleeping bag had again been rolled out for me at the far end, as far away from John as it could be. The entrances to all the tents were now strewn with large white pads called ‘incontinence sheets’, which had somehow been acquired from the local hospital. I did not understand their medical purpose as I didn’t know what incontinence meant, but they were clearly very good at soaking up the mud and water that were already starting to make living conditions difficult.
When it rained there was another rule to the campsite. ‘Don’t touch the tent,’ John would bark. It was a bad idea to break the rule on two counts. Firstly I had seen at Dover that touching the inside caused the fabric of the tent to lose its waterproof effect. The rain would seep in through the canvas in rivulets, rather than run down the outside in the way that reminded me of the ducks in Eltham Park. Secondly, if John or a Senior swimmer saw the offence, ‘the ladle’ would be mentioned. The food tent was home to two ladles. One had holes in it, the other was smooth. It was a source of debate as to which one was better to be whacked with. I was in the ‘holes are better’ camp on account of there being less surface metal to injure the victim. Others, like Tetley (who, thanks to his dog-ear-shaped specs, looked like the cartoon tea man from the TV advert), claimed that holes could only increase the speed of travel, resulting in a heftier clout. Thus the flat ladle was preferable for the offender. Physics, apparently.
Dinner in the food tent that first night was taken in silence, less for the constant hammering of the rain on the canvas above than because the group had not rested since the 2 a.m. meet in Eltham, a forgotten universe. John sat on one of three deckchairs, lined up on one side of the tent like thrones, and placed so as to look over the rest of us who sat on the tent floor, cold but happily still dry. Tinned minced beef, mash and tinned processed marrowfat peas on the menu. I had learned to like this meal in Dover and, much to Anna’s disbelief, normally asked for seconds, despite being the smallest. There was a pudding too, of tinned Ambrosia creamed rice, with a spoonful of sweet Robinson’s jam plopped in the middle.
John’s chair was nearest the wire food rack, and the ladles. The other two chairs were reserved for the most senior of Seniors: Mother Duck (who had prepared the food) and, on this occasion, Tetley. In the days to come, the third chair would be reserved for the swimmer in most need. This was yet to mean anything to me, but then I had never tried to swim Lake Windermere.
I gulped down the creamed rice, happy not to be told off for being fussy, like those who were ordered to clean their bowls. I still felt nervous. A couple of the girls wore the same t-shirt that instructed everyone to ‘RELAX’, but I was finding this quite hard, despite rehearsals in Dover. Everything felt new a
gain in this wild place. Thankfully, Anna was sitting next to me, so I helped her finish her rice pudding when no one was looking. As we sat in silence, far from home, I suddenly longed for the safety of Eltham, school, Rat-Bag and Miss Morgan. Just two weeks ago I had won my 25 metre swimming badge in Miss Morgan’s final lesson. It had been easy and didn’t feel like an achievement. More to the point, it was utterly useless up here, in the North.
The next morning I was awoken by shouting. I could hear John outside, barking orders at people. I had slept well but could feel a warm dampness under my body. I thought I had wet my sleeping bag and began to panic. If the elder boys found out, I would be in big trouble. Bleachy and I looked around the tent, which was now mostly empty. I said nothing, hoping to cover my shame somehow, and followed Bleachy outside.
The stream was now an angry river and had burst its banks. The bubbling clear water had been replaced by a grey-brown torrent, sweeping its way through the campsite, rushing up towards the girls’ tent. The girls, including Anna to my relief, had been evacuated in their pyjamas, and were watching on from inside the food tent. John, wearing a vest and rolled up trousers, was frantically trying to untie guy lines and remove the big wooden stakes with a mallet. Bear, Mother Duck, Tetley, Panda and Palfrey held the frame of the large tent as he did so. Within a few moments the entire structure was unhitched, lifted clear of both the waterline and the contents of the tent within, and moved a few paces uphill. The girls rushed from the food tent, grabbed the groundsheet, which held their sleeping bags and possessions, and dragged it back under the frame of the relocated tent. The panic subsided and people began to laugh and cheer. John beamed a smile. ‘That was fuckin’ close!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Still, could have been worse … at least it wasn’t the boys’ tent.’
Further down the valley all hell had broken loose. Many tents were flooded and some were being dragged away by the river. Traumatized holidaymakers sat in their cars trying to warm up and consider their options. Children could be heard crying. I looked up. The storm had passed and the morning sky was a fresh bright blue. I realized I had not wet the bed after all, but that my sleeping bag was on the edge of the tent and so had less protection from the rain and condensation. I was so relieved I decided to say nothing about it. I would lay the sleeping bag out in a way that might allow it to dry off; tents got very hot when the sun was out. It was the same reason why we never left Flossie in the car in summer. Perhaps I had also found another new use for the big white pads; maybe I would hide one under my sleeping bag, I thought, pleased with my ingenuity. The cars of the displaced began their slow exit procession through the emptying campsite. It still felt very early. For some reason John allowed no one bar himself to wear a watch. He gave another order. ‘Kettle on! Breakfast is late …’
For a moment no one moved …
‘Bloody get on with it then!’
Things got moving in earnest on the Monday as John set in motion a punishing schedule of relay swims and solo attempts on the length of the lake with his Senior swimmers. The schedule was secret – no one knew who would swim on any given day – and I wondered if John even knew himself or whether he made up his mind as his head hit the pillow (the only pillow allowed in the boys’ tent) late each evening, in a state of physical exhaustion.
We woke on the Monday to find John had already left, along with Shovel, Bear and Tetley. Any one of them could have been the swimmer, with the other two there to row the boat and act in support. Everyone else had been left in camp. Mother Duck took charge, which was good news as there was much to be done. There was breakfast to cook – the same every day: porridge, followed by beans and scrambled eggs with white bread, and tea, always lots of tea. Then there was washing-up to be avoided, especially on days where the eggs and porridge had been burned badly on the base of the huge shiny cooking pots. We would all have a wash in the communal ablutions next to the washing-up block. I was admired for the double-sided yellow bath mitt Mum had thoughtfully packed.
Dennis seemed to appear every morning after breakfast from nowhere, which meant it was time to go, and, once loaded, the bus came alive with pop music. Miss Piggy had recorded the charts on Radio 1 the Sunday before, which was apparently a tradition. There were always clunky links between songs, where the DJ’s voice came in over the top, before jumping to the next tune. With a few other favourite tracks thrown in, the tape was a full ninety minute time capsule of the summer of 1985, and it rarely fell silent.
The charts were a big deal. ‘Frankie’, by Sister Sledge, was number one and the girls loved it, so it became the theme tune of the week. Within a day or two we all knew every word and sang in unison as we journeyed up and down the 10 mile lake to the next rendezvous. The Eurythmics were threatening to topple ‘Frankie’ from the top spot with ‘There Must Be an Angel’. Madonna, Kool & the Gang and Marillion were among many others. Occasionally, the boys would insist on something cooler, and so Techno 1 – a compilation album of computerish music – would be heard for a while, before the girls vetoed it for ‘being weird’ and went back to ‘Frankie’.
As the week unfolded I began to understand the routine: breakfast, minibus trips and pop soundtrack, swimming, and then more swimming. But on that Monday I didn’t know what to expect. Getting changed for breakfast in the boys’ tent with the others, I rummaged through my kit bag looking for a fresh pair of pants. They were proving hard to find even though I didn’t have many clothes with me. I realized that there were fewer pairs of pants than I had expected. Only three in fact, and since one already had skid-marks, that left just two pairs for the whole week. Even my poor maths allowed me to compute that I was likely to end up with no clean pants by Wednesday, and if that happened it would be a catastrophe. I hunkered down in the tent hoping no one was watching me, and began to panic. Others left for the food tent and I was alone. Another feeling took over; like panic, but mixed with a loss of some kind. I felt my face go red and I began to cry. I heard Mother Duck from the food tent … ‘Erm, where is Young Thomas?’ she demanded. ‘I’ll go,’ called out Panda. I was about to be discovered. There was nowhere to hide.
Panda’s real name was Graham. Anna said that as a Senior swimmer he was in training for a possible solo attempt of the Channel. He was called Panda because he tanned easily in the water, and so after a long swim the skin around his eyes was whiter than the rest of his face, thanks to the goggles. He was one of the biggest in the group, tall and broad. He had a wide smile, framed by a large friendly face. I guessed he must have been about fifteen years old. He appeared in the entrance of the boys’ tent and fought his way over the mass of bags to reach me before sitting down alongside. He had a deep voice – a man’s voice. ‘What’s wrong, little man?’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ I said – mostly a lie given I had now discovered the pants shortage. I also knew my bottom lip was making an ‘r’ shape and that I couldn’t make it go back to normal.
‘Well, did you know that John has asked me, personally, to look after you?’
I looked up at him, tears still budding in my eyes, but offering no reply.
‘… to look out for you, and make sure you are OK,’ Panda added.
‘No?’ I sniffed, as if asking him a question.
‘Well, he has, so it will all be fine,’ he said in a low reassuring tone. ‘I think …’ he paused, ‘I think you might just be a bit homesick.’
I thought about this. I didn’t remember ever being diagnosed with homesickness – I normally just got tonsillitis – so was not sure how it would feel even if I was. ‘Maybe,’ I said. Gradually my downturned lip returned to normal, possibly on account of the medical diagnosis.
‘Well, the good news is that homesickness can be cured,’ carried on Panda. ‘You just need to think of other things, and keep busy.’ I didn’t offer a reply to this either. I already knew we would be busy. Panda put his big arm around my shoulders and said nothing for a moment. We sat there in the tent for a minute in silence. Then Panda stood u
p, picked up my small swim bag from among the pile and headed out of the boys’ tent. ‘Come on!’ he said, smiling. I followed him, wiping the tears away, hoping no one would notice I had been crying. In the food tent everyone was tucking into porridge. Mother Duck handed me a bowl as I walked in. She winked at me, and I went and sat next to Anna, who studied me briefly before offering the very faintest of smiles. My plastic plate of scrambled eggs, beans and bread arrived. A few minutes after that I asked for seconds. Maybe the worst of the homesickness had passed already.
The CB cracked back with the loud chhhhhhhcchh as Dennis let go of the mic. But there was still no reply. Dennis adjusted the dials again. ‘JB, JB, this is Menace, do you read me, OVER!’ he repeated. Chhhhcchh. Still nothing.
‘Let me ’av a go,’ said Cynthia, his wife.
‘JB, JB, this is Snowball … Av you got yer’ boots on, over?’ Chhhhhchhh.
Cynthia, whose handle was a reference to her favourite drink, gave Dennis a look that I could not decode. We listened in silence. There was no music playing now. The only noise was the rain drumming incessantly on the roof of the minibus.
After a long pause, John’s voice crackled back at us from somewhere on the lake, breaking the tense hush. ‘Snowball, this is JB, JB …’ I looked around at the others smiling excitedly, amazed … ‘Reading you loud and clear. How am I back, over?’ John had been reminded by Cynthia to flick on the power booster – his ‘boots’ – to his CB rig, which was now on the rowing boat and powered by a car battery. He was out there somewhere, in the boat and the squall, with Tetley, Bear and Shovel.
Our bus was filled with a combustible mix of fear and excitement, for someone who wasn’t even there – the swimmer. He or she was trying to conquer the lake, end to end, in one long swim. Windermere was vast, 10.5 miles long, and cold, especially in early summer. Water temperature was key. Windermere was colder than the Channel at this time of year according to John, and after a snowy winter and cool spring the temperature remained in the mid to low 50 degrees Fahrenheit, or between 12 and 15 degrees Celsius. The bus was parked in a lay-by, an elevated spot halfway up the steep-sided valley on the west of the lake. We looked out of the windows of the bus through the heavy rain, wiping away the condensation inside the glass. From this distance, even from this vantage point, trying to locate a 12 foot rowing boat within the immense expanse of the lake – or the few miles of it we could see – was not easy. But there were very few vantage points to choose from. Unable to locate the boat and swimmer, a sense of collective nervousness had begun to build.