by Tom Gregory
‘Nothing, John,’ I said, panicking, ‘nothing at all.’
‘Really? Nothing at all, eh?’
I paused. I trusted John, even though he was very strict and scary, or maybe because of this. Perhaps I would half let him into the secret. After all, he alone could protect me from the others if the pants were ever discovered. With a serious face, I began to explain. ‘The contents of this bag, John, are quite personal. I would like it very much if you would not look inside the bag, or say anything at all about the bag, to anyone. Anyone at all.’
He looked back at me with his usual hard gaze and studied me, frowning a little.
‘OK, Young Thomas. I promise … not to look inside your paper bag, or even to mention the paper bag, to anyone. Anyone at all.’
‘Thank you, John,’ I replied and couldn’t help smiling at the relief. He smiled back. With just the two of us there in the tent, I felt safer and more at home. I tucked the brown bag out of sight, between a couple of large tins of baked beans on the food rack, and went to sit down, hoping I might get to talk more to John. Perhaps he would tell me more about swimming, about himself, or a story of the great lake and Channel swims of the past. He sat in his deckchair, tea in hand. Only John had a china mug. His eyes began to close for a moment, before he jolted himself awake, but it happened again. I said nothing from the far corner. He began to snore quietly. In the distance I could hear the others laughing and splashing in the stream, the sound carrying clearly in the twilight of the campsite. Sheep somewhere on the fell cried out intermittently. Nowhere sounded like this place.
‘Sound travels at night,’ John mumbled, half asleep. He was fond of saying this in a stage whisper once it got dark. Before long it would be time for tea, a biscuit and bed. The Tilley lamp would be lit in the food tent and the swimmers would gather around it before going to sleep. Jokes would be told. Someone would fart loudly before attempting to claim innocence. Any large insect unfortunate enough to enter the tent might become an experiment in burn-time on the surface of the lamp. The week was nearly over.
Dennis popped his head cheerily around the door of the tent and startled John awake. ‘JB, I gave Young Thomas those pants … Just so you know.’ I sighed to myself.
‘Bugger off,’ replied John, before closing his eyes again.
‘A hundred metres to go!’ John shouted at me. ‘Stay with the fuckin’ boat!’ I was jolted back into the present very suddenly. I looked up, and could just make out a crowd of people on the lake shore. Bleachy was already there. And then finally, after what felt like an age, I was too.
Dad’s hug was different to normal – urgent almost. He swept me up in his arms before I could even take the three steps – the three unaided steps on dry land that meant I had completed my first solo open water swim. I felt his rough beard on my bare shoulders as he carried me to the kit bags, assembled swimmers and a pile of warm dry towels. He smiled. I shivered violently.
‘Thanks for coming up, Dad,’ I said with quivering lips as he rubbed my body vigorously with a rough towel in an attempt to warm me up. Flossie barked around my feet, jumping up and down in her excitement.
‘Well done, son. Well done,’ said Dad.
‘We will always be here when you need us,’ he added.
Soon after, Mum and Dad disappeared again, along with a few other parents, including Uncle John, who had also popped up from nowhere that morning, and within an hour or two all the swimmers were in Bowness on an end of week shopping trip. I had £2 left of my £5 pocket money. I felt wonderful after completing my swim: I’d let no one down and was sure I was part of the group, even if I didn’t have a nickname yet. The tourist shops were full of colourful gifts, trinkets, shortbread and Kendal Mint Cake. I bought Mum and Dad a little glass with a tiny painted map of Lake Windermere on it. They would like that, and probably put it in the special glass cabinet once at home. At 90 pence this was quite an outlay so I kept the other pound note in reserve for the journey back, in case I got hungry. I decided to buy a quarter of sherbet lemons with the remaining 10 pence and went off in search of a sweet shop, before discovering Anna shortly afterwards.
‘Hi Anna. Look at this … For Mum and Dad!’ I announced proudly.
‘Hi Tomsk … very nice!’ she replied, using a name from the Wombles she often preferred to my own.
‘I still can’t believe they were there to see us swim the mile.’
Anna didn’t reply this time, but was clearly masking a slight smile as she looked away. Dad’s words from the landing point came back to me and I opened my eyes wide in a moment of discovery.
‘It was you, wasn’t it.’
Again no reply, just a wider smile this time as she looked back at me fondly.
It turned out Anna had used the payphone at the campsite to call home earlier in the week at a point where she felt I might not cope. I reached into the pocket of my shorts for the heavy 10 pence piece, before remembering I had just spent it on sweets.
‘It’s OK, Tomsk. You can pay me back,’ she smiled, reading my mind. I held out the little white paper bag and I offered her the first sherbet lemon. The first one out of the bag always tasted best.
3. Summertime
7.15 a.m., 6 September 1988 – 2 hours, 4.5 miles off the French coast, English Channel
The sun was almost blinding, refracting its morning rays into a white haze through the grease that I had accidentally smeared on my goggles. My right eye was a fraction higher in the water when taking a breath, but the effect of the sun was worse as the lens carried more grease. I knew when I put on the goggles back on the dark French beach that I had made a mistake, but I hadn’t foreseen this. It was dazzling, uncomfortable and it made me lose my bearings, especially in relation to the boat, which was the only constant reference point in the moving sea. If I got closer to the boat, I could take advantage of her shadow and avoid the sun, but if I did that the diesel fumes from the marine engine exhaust were much stronger and made me feel sick. I was not allowed to touch the boat nor anyone on board for the entire swim, else the swim would be abandoned at that moment. The rules were strict, hence the presence on board of an observer from the Channel Swimming Association, and I wasn’t about to chance it. The risk of being washed into the boat, or simply swimming into her in an absent moment, was too great.
What was confusing was why the sun was in my eyes at all. I thought I’d be swimming away from it, swimming west. But I was facing into it on a right-hand breath when I looked behind me, so I must be swimming north. Or at least north-west. I had a habit of breathing slightly ‘behind’ me, as if trying to speak into my armpit (it was useful to do this in heavy weather to avoid gulping in water), so everything I could see was probably offset by more than 90 degrees to my body. I was probably ‘looking backwards’ at things while swimming away from them at the same time. I sighted the bows and port side of a large ferry coming out of Calais, which confirmed things – the ferry was taking a more direct route. Swimming on my current course I would eventually cross its track, although it would long since have motored past me. I wondered how long the wash of the huge vessel would take to reach me, and if it would be fun when it arrived – like a wave machine.
Given England was due west of Calais and over my left shoulder, our direction could only be because of the tide. According to John, the currents off the French coast were especially strong, the headland at Calais acting as a slingshot to the mass of water heading north for six hours and then south for the six after that. This was one factor that accounted for so many failures among swimmers who chose to set out from England. Some people thought that swimming from France was easier as a result, although I wondered if the Dover and Kent coast tides could really be any different for getting ashore. Regardless of the direction of travel, more than 3,000 people had attempted this in the past, though fewer than 300 had ever made it. John had once spoken of a small current that could push you off the French coast, towards England for a while, if only it could be found. Assuming this was
the plan, we must have failed to find it if I was heading north-west. As to being easier, well, nothing about this swim felt very easy so far.
To be hand-railing the French coast felt like a very long route to take. If only I could get further out into the middle then maybe the currents would be less, and I could just swim west. Maybe I was trapped in a stream of water heading the wrong way. I sped up for a while. Perhaps we could find the friendly current, I thought. Then ‘FOLLOW THE FUCKIN’ BOAT, TEFAL’ rang in my head – a lesson learned on Windermere. Trust Willy, I thought. He knew which way to head. Willy’s job as pilot was to set the course that maximized the chances of success for the swimmer. He would be getting a constant flow of information from John – my expected average speed, and the rate of deterioration caused by fatigue – and then applying his real knowledge of tidal direction and speed to the situation at hand. Good pilots were like gold dust, and, according to Anna, John only ever used Willy.
The excitement of the night swim faded, giving way to a nagging feeling. These were the early hours. I could see France a few miles behind me on every breath. I knew that by far the greater part of the swim still lay ahead. I was not even halfway – not even close. Probably not even a quarter, bearing in mind I had not yet stopped for a chocolate biscuit or spoken to John from the water since we left France. The nagging feeling gnawed away. How was this possible? How could I expect to effectively double my best and longest ever swim on Windermere (of 15.5 miles in seven and a quarter hours), at the very first time of asking and in the English Channel? I knew that I could do things at my age that other people could not. But my implied one in ten chance was slim, even in the best of conditions. The anxiety built slowly. Eventually it became fear. Without a release valve, fear soon tends to become panic.
‘Calm down, settle in … (Recover leading arm, exhale.) Calm down, settle in … (Recover leading arm, exhale),’ I repeated to myself out loud underwater. Maybe for twenty strokes or more. I realized that mentally I had been here before. The scale of the challenge had gripped me. My mind stepped back, to the moments and the swims, especially those on Windermere, that had brought me here; into the middle, with John, somewhere off France on what looked to be a bright sunny morning. This was just fear. Nothing more. I decided to find another way to pass the time.
I looked at the crew of the boat with renewed interest on every breath for a while. Breakfast was being served. People were busily moving around the deck, a couple of them holding sandwiches. Bacon sandwiches? My favourite. Cups of tea were handed out. ‘Fuckers’ – I heard my own voice underwater. I had discovered that sometimes it helped to make sounds while breathing out to keep myself company. I’d hear my words inside my head but also as if from an underwater speaker. John Callaway, the assistant coach, appeared on the rail and leaned over to communicate with me visually, as I inhaled on every stroke. He was dressed in an immaculate soft tracksuit that had ‘Canada’ printed across the front and patches embroidered on the arms. JC never looked scruffy. He seemed in high spirits as he beamed at me. I grinned back. But taking a breath made this hard, so I threw an arm high instead, half swim, half wave, as a kind of acknowledgement. It worked and he gave me the thumbs up sign, accompanied by a quizzical face. He was asking me if I was OK. In response I ‘dolphined’ down on my front crawl stroke to indicate things were fine and looked up for his reply on the subsequent breath. He just smiled at me, hands now clasped in front of him. Our line of communication was open.
JC stayed on the rail for a while, keeping me company though we could not speak. I enjoyed this while it lasted. It was sometimes enough just to look at someone, and have them look back at you. At one point he pulled a lollipop out of his pocket, unwrapped it dramatically, and made exaggerated faces of joy and satisfaction as he sucked on the thing. He knew I liked Chupa Chups lollipops, and had clearly brought a whole bag of them with him, just to tease me. I shook my head in the normal way to register my disapproval. The teasing, which had been perfected over three years on Lake Windermere, was strangely comforting. After a while he left, and so I went back to my thoughts. The sun was higher, somewhere behind my legs as I swam. We were making progress.
In the February of 1986, finally, it snowed properly. There had been many days where snow ‘settled’, as Dad put it, but never like this. The days where it just settled before quickly melting always felt like a let-down; Father Christmas-like excitement where nightfall promised so much, only for things to return to normal in the morning, just with more aggravation and more traffic. The winter of 1986 had so far been dark, cold and grey, and with Christmas gone there was little promise of fun for months to come. Until this.
The secret radio hidden under my pillow confirmed it. Well after bedtime, with all the upstairs lights out, the disc jockey on LBC announced that London was being hit by a major snowstorm. As my favourite jingle played just before the 10 o’clock news I thought about the task ahead. There were at least three problems to solve: getting a day off school; persuading Mum that we had to go sledging; and finally, putting the never-used plastic sledges into action.
Flossie woke the house. She yelped and yapped at the back door knowing that something was new. I drew the bedroom curtains and gasped. Everything was pure white: the garden, the surrounding roofs, the trees in between. I ran down the stairs calling out excitedly to Mum and Dad as I passed their room. Anna appeared at her bedroom door wearing her dressing gown and a grin. I unlocked the back door. Flossie took a leap into the unknown, barking as she launched herself into the smooth whiteness piled up higher than the steps themselves. For a moment she disappeared beneath the surface, before carving herself a dog-sized hole and wriggling back to the top. The garden sounded different. It was so quiet – every little sound somehow muffled and muted. Better still, it was still snowing.
‘School will be cancelled,’ I announced confidently over an unusually formal family breakfast. Come to think of it, we never had breakfast together, so this was already a special day. Dad declared he would not give in to a ‘bit of snow’ and intended to drive to the office in Greenwich. In his day school would have ‘gone ahead regardless’.
‘Don’t be so silly,’ Mum replied. ‘Besides, who on earth would come to see you today anyway?’
‘I think we should all go to the park, together,’ interjected Anna, pre-empting any paternal retaliation, ‘… with the sledges.’ She paused again. ‘… And take Flossie,’ she added with a satisfied look. ‘She’s very excited.’ Her suggestion silenced the impromptu family conference, which was now effectively over.
Flossie was often a unifier when it came to family meetings, despite not being able to talk. It was an accepted fact that Anna was her chosen spokesperson. Many family arguments had been avoided in recent months by acquiescing to Flossie’s unspoken wishes. I finished my Marmite toast and decided to take on the last of the three problems. The sledges were in the shed, and the shed was at the bottom of the snow-bound garden.
By the Friday after the Monday much of the snow had melted, but life still felt better for its visit. Dad only took one day off work, school was back on by Wednesday, and the sledging on the Tuesday had been far less fun – newly formed ice made it painful to fall off at speed on the hills of Eltham Park.
The snowball fights at school were quite violent. Each year groups of boys came out onto the playing field in force, sticking together as a tribe and launching lumps of the icy compacted snow at other tribes both bigger and smaller than themselves. It reminded me of the scenes on the TV news of football fans running at each other, throwing the newly installed seats from the stadium, and anything else in the vicinity. Last year had been the same, but it was the miners fighting with the police instead. Dad said the miners’ strike was about a ‘battle for control’, and about jobs, but that the football fans were just mindless. But there were no police at school to keep order, let alone mounted police who seemed to sort out the football fans’ and miners’ fights, and so some of us came off the field with a bl
oody nose.
By Thursday the comedy willy on the big snowman on the playing field had fallen off, but the sludge and slush clung on regardless. The roads were moving again, the grey-black icy edging making everything look dirty. I was relieved. It meant there was no reason not to go to the baths on Friday after school, and to see John.
‘Tefal, I want you to come to the hydropool after school on Fridays from now on,’ John had announced at the end of the summer of 1985, following my first trip to the Lakes. ‘I need some help with the youngsters.’
I was pleased to no longer be considered a youngster myself. After all, I was nearly nine, could swim at least a mile in the cold, do all four strokes well, and, unlike some of the older swimmers, do a full length of underwater breaststroke in the big pool with one breath. I even knew all the latest pop songs. And I had a nickname – Tefal. I had a big forehead, so when the company that made kettles, irons and other kitchen appliances put an advert on the telly featuring a nutty professor with an impossibly large forehead, I was named after that. I didn’t mind the nickname, and was relieved to finally have one that stuck, though I was upset to learn from Dad that the company in question was French. The initial slapping of my forehead, known as ‘spamming’, was a pain, but this died down once people got bored of it. All in all, I felt I really belonged, and helping with youngsters made this true most of all.
The little hydrotherapy pool resembled a giant elevated bath tub, with a fence halfway across that separated the shallow and deep water. It was hot rather than warm, and full of chlorine, which made my eyes sting if I didn’t wear goggles. The sessions were for toddlers and smaller children up to the age of five, and John needed me to keep an eye on the bigger children in the deeper part of the pool, while he coaxed and cajoled the smallest in the shallow part. I enjoyed messing around with the kids, watching them grow in confidence. Often the bigger ones would want to wrestle and be thrown around. After a few weeks, some of the parents began to thank me at the end of the session. Once the children could doggy-paddle and stay afloat, they were considered too good for the class and would leave. I wondered if any of them would join the swimming club in years to come.