by Tom Gregory
Poor Anna, meanwhile, had the task of taping all the TV appearances and marshalling all the press cuttings. Members of the extended family got in touch; I had made the CNN morning news, according to Auntie Esther in New Orleans. Dad’s best mate sent a telegram from Zambia saying he had heard it on the World Service. John had ordered me to bed for a couple of days to recover. Things needed to get back to normal, and I needed to get back to school.
‘I don’t want you getting cocky, Tefal. I won’t let you become a big’ead,’ John reminded me in the car to the TV studios. John and Dad were both worried about this but Dad had been more circumspect. ‘This is phase one,’ he said. ‘You will be news for a day, but it will die down and get back to normal. Then there will be things you get asked to do for a while – phase two, we will call it – and you should do these with good grace. But at some point this achievement will disappear into the background of your life, and only re-emerge from time to time. That is phrase three. Of all of these, I think phase three will be the best.’ And so it was.
The TV appearances were largely done by the Friday after the Tuesday of the swim. When I arrived back from Dover with John, to HQ, the TV cameras were rolling, but John made himself scarce. He never spoke to the media. Reporters scribbled on notepads while TV crews interviewed me, and to my huge pride, Marcus Hooper had been summoned to comment on the breaking of his nine year record. He was kind and generous. He knew, more than anyone, what this meant and how it felt.
I was asked to open a shop on Eltham High Street called Knobs and Knockers, which sold brass fittings. Mum joked as we walked there that I could be the knob and she could be the knockers. I cut the ribbon and grinned at the photographer. They gave me a voucher for £100 of brass gifts to say thank you, so I picked out some things for the next swimming club raffle. On the way home some kids about my age stopped me to ask for an autograph – they had seen Blue Peter.
I found myself in Hyde Park, with a Sport Aid VIP badge pinned to my ‘Run the World’ t-shirt. A man called Bruno Brookes, who I recognized from Top of the Pops, beckoned me onto the massive stage. Bruno introduced me to the crowd as the kid who had just swum the Channel. I in turn introduced Five Star, and watched from the wings as they sang their song. In the VIP area Lionel Blair came over to say hello, but others largely ignored us. Producers and coordinators ran around with clipboards and handheld radios. We were surrounded by pop stars, media and a free bar. We roamed around the chaos, unsupervised and out of place.
When asked to open a private gym in the Docklands I arrived to find that no one knew who I was, or why I was there. Phase three so soon? I thought. A famous actress who I recognized but couldn’t name was being eagerly snapped by the press, cutting the ribbon. Lost for something to do, I got changed and did a few lengths in the pool as people milled around drinking champagne. No one spoke to us, so we left – we had a better offer anyway.
That afternoon we headed off to Leyton Orient. The club had sent me free tickets for the Directors’ Box. I walked out onto the pitch with my two favourite players, Alan Comfort and Peter Wells, who gave me a ball signed by the whole team. There was a tannoy announcement and I heard clapping from the lightly attended stands. I sat in the players’ dressing room before kickoff as Frank Clarke, the manager, issued a plan cum pre-emptive bollocking to the team. We lost 1–3 to Hereford. ‘Rise and fall,’ Dad said as we left the ground.
Two days later I was in Wales, in the hills above Barmouth Bay in southern Snowdonia for school Outdoor Pursuits week. John was unhappy because I was still on call to be part of the Junior Relay team who were waiting for a tide and weather combination to make an attempt. On the second day, I was out orienteering on the hill and fell awkwardly. My foot swelled up like a balloon and so the Master in Charge, Mr Gardener, drove me at speed to Aberystwyth hospital in his Audi Quattro. I had broken my foot quite badly according to the x-ray, having chipped off a large chunk of bone that was now floating in blood and deciding whether to reattach itself. They set my leg in a cast, placed a giant leather ‘Quasimodo’ boot over my foot, and gave me a crutch. As she wheeled me out of the hospital the Welsh nurse sang a song that was in the charts, ‘A Groovy Kind of Love’ by Phil Collins. She had a beautiful voice and sang so we could all hear her. I began to cry.
In 1988, the twenty-first year of his swimming club, John achieved only half of his ambitious list. Clair had not made it on her solo, and the Junior Relay never even left the shore, poor tides and weather cited as the reason. That young team, which took on a reserve in my injury-enforced absence, never got the chance to make an attempt after months of preparation. But as November arrived, I was to be welcomed into an exclusive club at the Annual Channel Swimming Association Awards dinner, as the 333rd and youngest ever swimmer to have made the crossing. Anna and her team mates were there too, honoured for their outstanding two-way relay – a first for the club.
I studied myself in the mirror of my B&B bedroom and let out a long nervous breath. My bowtie was straight and my shirt ironed; my school shoes were polished, and my grey flannel trousers pressed. The hastily sewn-on and newly made blazer badge glinted back at me. I had seen one before, worn by John. The main crest was beautiful. Within the central shield were England on one side, France on the other, the sea in the middle. England’s cliffs were recognizable – high and with Dover Castle atop. Where England was in daylight the French cliffs on the other side were in the dark, and instead of a castle, Calais was marked by an enormous radio mast that was transmitting a radio signal, light or both. The contrast of night and day made a point: that Channel Swimming was often measured in hours, rather than minutes. The waves that joined England and France were shared, filling the bottom of the ‘V’ as if to emphasize the scale of the obstacle. Outside of this centrepiece a mermaid and a merman, for this sport regarded swimmers of both genders equally, faced each other to frame the scene. Together, they held aloft a laurel wreath to symbolize achievement. The gold and black scroll underneath the scene spelled out the name of this peculiar club, ‘Channel Swimming Association’, of which I was one of the latest members. The badge looked massive in proportion to my chest. Mum and Dad had made sure it was the nicest one, with silver and gold wire. At the bottom were embroidered the words
France to England
1988
Youngest Conqueror
The taxis arrived and the entourage from Eltham made their way to the smartest hotel in Folkestone. The swimming club were dressed up for their moment: Anna and her five team mates, John and JC, Mother Duck, my parents and other families. John’s loyal tribe were all present. The confidence and aspiration of Eltham Training and Swimming Club – self-taught, self-funded, and the vision of just one man – had reached a new high-water mark.
I sat next to John as waitresses in black and white uniforms brought plates of food that resembled a Sunday roast, only with smaller portions. We could have been back in the Little Chef, only the setting was grander. John was slightly on edge that night, dignified and polite, but with an undercurrent of defiance. The audience in the large room clapped as speeches were made and awards handed out.
A man called Richard Davey had broken a record for the fastest crossing from France to England (eight hours five minutes) and received the Rolex watch. Alison Streeter, who I knew of, took the female record for the same thing (eight hours forty-eight minutes). John said he expected her to become the next female two-way swimmer, and I shuddered at the idea of turning around and trying to swim back to France three months earlier. Mike Read, who I liked, having once met him on the beach at Dover with John, retained his title as King of the Channel for the most crossings (twenty-five in all), despite not swimming that year. I marvelled at the idea that anyone would ever consider doing this more than once. A man called Kevin Murphy seemed to be looking to displace Mike as the King, catching up his tally year on year. This was the royal family of Channel Swimming, and I felt slightly out of place.
My swim was eventually announced, but
not as a world record. I collected my certificate from the chairman along with a trophy for youngest swimmer of the year. There was a sense of non-acknowledgement that continued throughout the evening.
It explained John’s defiant posture. It seemed some people just didn’t approve of this type of thing, and therefore of me, or John. I saw for the first time that he was an outsider on the inside – a maverick with his own rule book.
The next morning the blazers reconvened for the Annual General Meeting. John explained that he would be voting against a motion to ban people under the age of twelve from attempting the swim, and that I might wish to do so as well, but that it was my decision. As a successful solo swimmer I was now a member and had voting rights. He told me if I wanted to speak at the meeting, I could.
A sense of crisis pervaded the ballroom. The top table was laid out formally and the atmosphere was one of hushed tension, as if a mighty argument could break out any moment. The French authorities were pursuing manslaughter charges against Renata Agondi’s swimming coach, the pilot of the boat, and potentially the observer from the CSA, though the outcome was not yet known. The authorities both sides of the Channel had expressed grave concern that another life had been lost and wanted immediate safeguards to prevent further tragedy.
The sport of Channel Swimming, pioneered by Captain Matthew Webb, who in 1875 became the first known swimmer, was fighting for its survival. The Channel Swimming Association had been set up to control and promote the endeavour in 1927, when fewer than a dozen swimmers had matched Webb’s achievement. Observers, they decreed, would verify claims and validate crossing times, a badge was devised and a committee set up. Although traditional, it was also an internationally facing organization – part of the great British tendency for codification of sport and achievement. But it could not afford another death, especially not that of a child. Sailing and other sea-going pursuits were largely unregulated in the UK, but the fact that swimmers were required to cross the heavily controlled waters of the world’s busiest maritime route meant that without the consent of the authorities there would be no sport. To attempt a swim without supervision of the Association was pointless: more dangerous and with no prospect of recognition. In the aftermath of my swim, there was anecdotal evidence of novice coaches and parents pushing kids into the sea in Dover harbour, even throwing stones at them as they stumbled out from the cold. The CSA was being inundated with requests for youth solo attempts for the following 1989 season, mostly from the Indian subcontinent and South Africa. To refuse them all without any reasonable assessment mechanism would be, perhaps fairly, seen as tacit racism. This was 1988, and the blazers had a major problem.
By the time I stood up I already knew it was too late. Successive speakers had made the case for an age ban, initially for anyone under the age of twelve, but to be extended to those under the age of sixteen. There was no logic in passing safety legislation for an eleven year old but not a twelve to fifteen year old. ‘A child is a child!’ someone had said passionately. I could feel people looking at me for a reaction. ‘Calm down,’ John had whispered. A reporter in the corner scribbled.
Eventually I rose to my feet, and began an unscripted speech. ‘Records were there to be broken’ and ‘I was proof that age was not a barrier’. I said that ‘good coaching was the answer, by people like John Bullet, and there should be other ways to determine the ability of a swimmer … Windermere for example’ … ‘And …’ At that point someone interrupted, shouting that they didn’t want a dead kid in the Lake District either. There was no special protection for me in here. Wrong-footed at the interruption, and suddenly aware of being outnumbered, I ran out of words. Stumbling to recover, I looked down at John, who showed me a face of pride before nodding gently at me to sit back down.
A vote was taken. It was all but unanimous. My world record would be locked in for ever. We had lost, and I felt deflated; Marcus had been kind to me, and inspired me, but my chance to do the same for someone else, perhaps another of John’s swimmers in years to come, had been taken away. John’s face had been unreadable at first, but then, for the first and only time, I saw a hint of sadness in his eyes.
‘Rise and fall,’ said Dad in the car back to London, ‘rise and fall.’
The club Christmas party was at our house that year. Dad had volunteered to host in a spirit of alliance and concordat with John. Anna was in charge of the music, Mum the food, but bar duties, much to Dad’s chagrin, were traditionally a matter for John Bullet himself.
‘Come to me for your drinks, please,’ he said quietly and conspiratorially. I did as I was told, and soon received my first ever brandy and Coke. He held up a finger to his lips as if to emphasize the secret, and winked at me naughtily. The sweetness of the Coke was normal, but the addition of the brandy made me cough when I sipped it, a hot sensation warming my mouth. I felt the effects almost instantly. I went back for another one, and later, another. The next morning I awoke in my bed to a pool of sick. I had been drunk, aged twelve, and was nursing my very first hangover. There was little parental reaction, to the point where I wondered if anyone, apart from Anna, had actually noticed.
I didn’t spend much time with John that night, but I knew our relationship had moved on. The drinking was just the latest piece of evidence. We had spent much time in the preceding weeks talking about other challenges, normally while driving to an event where we were asked to be present together, or to check out another young swimmer who had been in touch. Our conversations were changing, as was the balance of power and authority. There was less telling, and more asking. Opinion suddenly came into things. ‘Sounding out’, Dad would have called it.
John, who was also well known to the British Long Distance Swimming Association, had the idea of a helicopter-supported back-to-back swim of all the major waters of the Lake District. We talked of swimming the Thames, which had only been completed once to anyone’s knowledge. Then there was the Irish Sea … Loch Ness. All with the old rules: trunks, goggles and a bit of grease. The trauma of 6 September was beginning to fade, and I began to wonder what else we might accomplish together. Other people from the world of swimming had arranged to come to see me swim too. John had seemed almost defensive in these moments, while I was immediately resentful of the people interrupting our world. I hated racing, wasn’t very fast, and I didn’t want or need another coach. Swimming was about the swimming club, my friends and Anna, but above all else it was about John. I wanted nothing more than was already the case.
As 1989 loomed on the horizon and Christmas Day finally arrived, the family prepared for a magical time. Mum said there were more cards this year, and the one from John was placed in the centre of the mantelpiece, tucked among mine and Anna’s accumulated trophies. Around the walls hung mementos from the preceding months, and in a cup given to me by John himself were the hat, goggles and grease-stained Adidas trunks I wore on the crossing.
On Christmas Eve Dad, Anna and I dropped a smart bottle of brandy over to John’s small flat in Ladywell Road near the baths. It was the place he had rented for as long as anyone could remember. We left the bottle with his landlady, along with a card Mum had written, and I wondered where he was. Probably working at the pool, or maybe at his caravan. Or maybe he was with the Wetherlies, Cynthia, Dennis and the family – who were very close to John. Perhaps he was with the Kents, Mother Duck’s parents. It struck me that maybe we ought to have invited him over for Christmas at ours that year. John had no family to anyone’s knowledge, and spent all of his time with us, the members of his club.
It was curious just how little any of us knew about him. Now our relationship was changing I resolved to find out more … Where was he from anyway? Where did he grow up? How did he get into swimming? How had he learned what to do and say? I had spent as much time with him in the last two years as with my own family, yet I knew nothing about him really.
‘Dad, we should have invited John over for lunch tomorrow,’ I said in the car, feeling suddenly guilty for ha
ving abandoned him just because it was Christmas. I normally saw John every day of the week – even if I just popped into the pool on the way home from school to say hello.
‘You know, maybe you’re right!’ replied Dad after a pause. ‘Ah well, I am sure he will have fun, Tom. And there is always next year.’
The call came about halfway between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve. Anna had answered the phone. Cynthia Wetherly was ringing people to let them know that John was in hospital. The situation was still unclear but it sounded serious. He had had a stroke at the baths, and now a series of them. He was paralysed down the left side and there was a possibility of brain damage. Or even death.
In his hospital bed John lay perfectly still. His eyes were closed and his arms lay symmetrically on top of a thin blanket. Wires and tubes were attached to his nose, hands and arms. His colour was pale. The sterile light in the room, his own room, made everything more sinister. There was a peculiar smell I had learned to associate with hospitals – of bodily things, but not of any one thing in particular. He looked small and diminished in the bed. Machines bleeped to break the silence. The nurse allowed us in in groups of four, to stand at the foot of the bed. As reality confronted each of us, someone ran out in tears. Anna moved to the side of the bed and held John’s hand, beginning a one-way conversation. One by one the rest of us added to the dialogue, with awkward statements of no consequence. There was no reply. Eventually, on the orders of the nurse, we left the room. Most of us were crying. Finally came the dark humour. ‘Fuck, I wish I could have pretended to be that fast asleep when it was my turn to swim,’ offered Rabbit. The gags continued, in a moment of hope.
I got home from school on Tuesday 31 January 1989 and let myself in through the front door. Unusually, I heard Mum’s footsteps hurry from the back of the house. She stopped hurrying and froze, standing stock still in the hallway as soon as we made eye contact. She looked at me, with a look that only a mother can muster. She said nothing, but I knew. I fell to the carpet and wept. John was dead.