A fortnight later I saw Jennifer again. We arranged to meet in the Prospect of Whitby in Docklands. She was forty-five minutes late. I watched her as she parked her TVR outside and snarled at a youth who leant against a lamp post. As she crossed the road to the pub a vagrant shuffled towards her and asked her for money. She gave him ten pounds and kissed his head.
In the pub we sat underneath a photograph of Dennis Waterman and George Cole being pally with the landlord. Since I’d last seen her Jennifer had been to Munich once, Bologna twice, and had had lunch with Adam Faith. I’d spent a fortnight in my attic writing about Shropshire. She said to me: ‘I like meeting with you. You lead such an exciting life,’ and I smirked when I sensed the desperation in her voice. Jennifer is a woman who wants to be reached and I suddenly knew I’d have no better chance of reaching her than by travelling with her on a long journey, so I said:
‘I’ve been thinking. You’re right. We should go to the source of the Thames together.’
She went straight to the bar and came back with a bottle of champagne and said: ‘Shelley did the same sort of journey in the summer of 1815, you know?’
Then she kissed me and I felt that this would be the trip I’d always wanted to make. It wasn’t until the end of the evening as we parted that she said: ‘Before we go, promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You won’t bring that horrible little dog of yours along, will you?’
3.Listen, I’ll Have to Meet You in Hampton Later
BOOGIE ISN’T MY dog. Boogie isn’t anyone’s dog. Boogie is a freelance.
He was found abandoned as a puppy, and taken home to a darkened room in south London and fed crisps. There he grew up the hard way, a London mongrel, devious and streetwise with a strong sense of survival and little in common with other dogs. He would never fetch sticks, only hubcabs.
He came to stay with me in north London a while ago for a weekend and never left. I still don’t know how long he’s here for. We live our own lives, Boogie and me. For this reason I never thought leaving him behind while Jennifer and I went on our trip would be a problem. To be honest I assumed he’d make his own arrangements.
Besides, my attention during that pre-departure period was directed in other areas, mostly in the search for a boat. I had quickly decided there was only one sort that would suit an expedition to the source of the Thames, and it wasn’t an eight-berth fibreglass tub with a chemical toilet and bedside lights and magazine racks in the saloon. I wanted something classical, and I wanted something beautiful. I wanted a camping skiff, and nothing else would do.
Skiffs are low wooden boats based on the design of the traditional passenger craft of the Thames, the wherry. They first appeared on the river in the mid nineteenth century when messing about in boats became a popular pastime and a more stable and forgiving hire-craft was needed. With a canvas top they were easily converted into campers; the upper Thames was there for the exploring and no boat represented the heyday of the river better. In these days of fibreglass, however, skiffs have become an endangered species and I’d all but given up hope of finding one until I came across Mark Edwards, a man who restored old models at his Hampton boatyard. I phoned him and explained that I was planning a trip to the source of the Thames, that I wanted a traditional camping skiff and that I understood he was my man and he said: ‘You’re lucky you caught me, I was just off down the pub.’
I asked him if he had a boat that would suit and he said: ‘Maegan. Maegan is the perfect skiff for what you have in mind.’
‘What’s so special about Maegan?’
‘She’s a hundred years old.’
‘So?’
‘So whenever people sitting in their gardens by the riverside see you, they all go: “Look at that boat!” Then they ask you in for champagne.’
Maegan sounded ideal. She slept ‘eight at a squeeze, two comfortably’, and came fully equipped right down to tupperware. It was only when I explained I wanted to start the trip from Tower Bridge that complications arose. Mark said he could arrange for Maegan to be taken down, but then he pointed out that for the inexperienced waterman the tidal river up as far as the first lock in Teddington could prove to be tricky. It was prone to sudden tidal surges and unpredictable currents. It was a commercial as well as a pleasure craft’s waterway and we could well find ourselves rowing alongside battleships. We’d need to know what we were doing.
So for the next week I spent a lot of time round at Jennifer’s flat studying tide timetables. And there is nothing like tide timetables for dampening one’s enthusiasm. Jennifer yawned and asked how long the trip would take and I said that that would depend on where the source was, but I imagined in the region of three weeks. Since Gloucestershire is only eighty miles away this astounded her and she suggested we take a speedboat and do it in an afternoon. I explained to her about locks and other delays, including the four-miles-an-hour speed limit on the river, and she explained to me about the ten thousand pounds in salary she would lose by being away from work for three weeks. At this remark I protested and said that it didn’t appear to me she was entering into the spirit of the expedition. I told her that three weeks was hardly a long time in which to unravel a geographical riddle and that, to be honest, I was surprised she hadn’t resigned from her job as a gesture of her commitment. Then the phone went and she had to go back to the office.
I persevered though, and each evening stayed up late reading information from the Port of London Authority, reading reports from river pilots and studying navigation manuals. I learnt that a blue and white flag means scuba divers are in the vicinity. I learnt that a bale of hay hanging from beneath a bridge means Men At Work above. I learnt that boats give way to other boats on their starboard bow. I learnt all sorts of codes and practices, and I learnt a variety of regulations and rules. Then one night Jennifer said she’d learnt that a pleasure boat with a sun-deck and a cafeteria selling teas, coffees, alcoholic drinks and an assortment of light refreshments chugged up from Tower Bridge to near Mark Edwards’ boatyard in Hampton twice daily and cost just five pounds, and I had to admit that seemed a far more sensible idea.
That was two days before departure and Boogie was still without accommodation. I’d hoped the people at the Kohinoor Curry House might take him in since he spends most of his evenings round their dustbins. Or I thought the local Radio Rentals might put him up since he spends his days sitting outside their window watching the racing. Or perhaps the local police station since he frequently ends up in their cells. But everyone made impressively imaginative excuses, and so I turned first to the telephone and then finally to providence.
Crouch End in north London is a fine place to start a journey. It’s on high ground, and as you walk out of your door you feel that wherever you’re heading it’s going to be downhill. A millennium or two ago, from the top of Crouch Hill you would have been able to look down over a forested valley to where the rivers Fleet and Tyburn joined the Thames and the Roman city of Londinium stood within its defensive walls. On the banks of such a strategically well-placed and piercing river the city flourished. It grew and then spread and ultimately sprawled, and now from the top of Crouch Hill you can see no further than the block of flats across the road.
I took a train to Tower Hill and sat there nervously, reading the adverts, rehearsing how I should break the news about Boogie to Jennifer: ‘I didn’t want him to come but what would you have done, let him starve? . . .’ No, that wouldn’t work, she’d say: ‘Yes.’ She’s hard Jennifer is; fair but hard. ‘Dogs are for life, you know? When you go away you can’t just switch them off and take the plug out . . .’ No, that was sarcastic. Jennifer has a strange sense of humour. ‘I think you’re being unfair to Boogie. You’ve just never taken the chance to get to know him.’ Maybe that was the way to handle it, be constructive. Boogie was a seasoned traveller after all. A river journey would be a good way for Jennifer and him to get to know each other. It would be a good way for us all to get to
know each other.
It’s not as if Boogie is a dependent sort of animal. I watched him as he sidled up the carriage to a man with a briefcase on his lap. Boogie put his head on the man’s knee and looked him straight in the eye and within two stops the man had opened his case, taken out his packed lunch and fed it to Boogie piece by piece. Some people say it’s wrong to let a dog beg. Maybe. The point is, begging has nothing to do with Boogie’s performance – it isn’t part of his repertoire and he wouldn’t humiliate himself so. Middle age may have slowed Boogie down, in so far as he prefers to stay indoors now and watch a good documentary rather than go out and chase a cat, but it has also brought him experience and the realization that the best method of persuasion is not plaintive pleading but hypnotism.
The man with the briefcase didn’t make the decision to give Boogie his lunch; he simply had no say in the matter. One look into Boogie’s yellow, gas-filled eyes and he was in a trance. From him Boogie moved up the train as passengers rummaged through their pockets in an effort to find something to feed him. I sat back and watched the show. Seeing him perform like this I get the feeling Boogie is never more at home than he is on the London Underground system. It’s his natural habitat. I quite expect to get off a train one day and find him busking. His only problem is escalators where he has to be carried. If ever you see a dog at the bottom of an escalator hitch-hiking, pick him up, it’s Boogie.
I was at Tower Pier at eleven o’clock on the dot. Half an hour later there was still no sign of Jennifer. I strolled up the pier and watched the river roll: a fat, grey slob of a river with the tide slipping out, leaving a mark on the embankments like a ring around a bath. I followed a wave downstream and sensed an irresistible force. Any notion I had of this journey being an easy ride was forgotten here. I suddenly had the feeling this was going to be a far more demanding project than I’d imagined. My research had shown me that as far as Lechlade we could rely on a well-regulated waterway serviced by the Thames Water Authority, but from there on to Cricklade and beyond there were rumours of an untamed stripling river, and I knew that our chances of success would depend greatly on conditions. I looked in the water and tried to imagine the source in a field, and how somewhere among that flow was a drop that had come all the way from Gloucestershire.
With fifteen minutes to departure there was still no sign of Jennifer. The waterbus to Hampton sat looking bored, framed by the grey and blue twin towers of Tower Bridge. This was the last crossing before the sea, the grandest most famous bridge over the river, and it annoyed me the way it reminded me of a giant cruet. I sat down and counted the pigeons. With five minutes to go I went to telephone. I tried Jennifer’s home, her health club and her car phone. Eventually I traced her to her office. Her personal assistant answered.
‘Is Jennifer Conway there?’ I said.
‘Can I ask who’s calling?’
‘Mark Wallington.’
‘Can I ask what company?’
‘It’s a personal call.’
‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘No.’
‘Jennifer Conway is engaged, can you call back tomorrow?’
‘She was supposed to meet me at Tower Pier an hour ago.’
‘It’s not in her diary.’
‘I want to speak to her.’
‘She’s just left the room. She’ll be back on Friday.’
‘Tell her I’ve smashed into her TVR. I’ve caused an estimated five thousand pounds’ worth of damage, and I thought I’d give her my name and address. But if she’s not there . . .’
Muzak came down the line, something from West Side Story. On the river a tug ploughed upstream and black-headed gulls circled overhead.
Jennifer came on the line. I said: ‘Jennifer, what are you doing at work!?’ and Boogie started barking as he always does when he hears her name.
Jennifer said: ‘I’m sorry. I had to come in here on the way. Panic stations, I’m afraid. I’ll be late. I’ll have to meet you later in Hampton. What’s that barking?’
‘What barking?’
‘That barking I can hear.’
‘I don’t hear any barking.’
‘It’s familiar barking.’
‘It’s the foghorn on the boat. It’s leaving. I’ll see you in Hampton.’
I ran on board and felt the turbulence push us away from the wharf. Boogie sat down next to me with an ice cream in his mouth. On the pier stood a confused eleven-year-old schoolboy. The kid didn’t stand a chance.
John Hanning Speke and Richard Burton are the two names that most readily come to mind when one thinks of journeys to the sources of great rivers. I thought of these two great rivals as I headed upstream under London Bridge, how they departed from Zanzibar in 1856 and ventured into regions of Africa no white man had seen before, how they endured a year or more of privation in their obsessional quest for the source of the Nile, and how my journey had nothing whatsoever in common with theirs.
But I was beginning to relax now. In some ways I felt pleased to have this time to myself before Jennifer arrived. I’d felt tense. Now I sat back and watched the sun sparkle on the water. Boogie too decided to collect himself. He lay sprawled across the deck in typical fashion – i.e. in such a position as to cause the maximum inconvenience to everyone else on the boat. It’s a rare gift he has. If you took him to a field he’d lie down so that he blocked the gate. Everyone took great pains to step over him and say: ‘Aww’, and feed him biscuits which of course just encouraged him.
A voice came over on the Tannoy: ‘Hello, my name’s Ken, any questions don’t be frightened to ask. I know London better than the pigeons. I used to be a cab driver.’ We passed Cleopatra’s Needle and Ken said: ‘Something to do with Egypt that is. Word of advice if you’re driving along the Embankment here – you can’t turn right at the lights going up to Charing Cross. I had a nasty accident there once. Blocked both lanes of traffic for three hours. Oxyacetylene job. Got a fine for that one.’
Most of the passengers were American and Spanish tourists. They listened to the commentary and looked at the view for a while but were far more interested in the Chelsea Pensioner on board. They kept buying him drinks. They lit his cigarettes and posed for pictures with him. He had the same sort of potential for attention as Boogie. People wanted to stroke him. An American woman said: ‘Well, well, look at that coat, what do you wear underneath it?’
‘I’m eighty-eight I am,’ said the Chelsea Pensioner.
‘Are you?’
‘Course I am. I just said I was.’
We slipped under Westminster Bridge. A barge gave a blast on its siren and Ken took evasive action just in time. He said: ‘Here’s a building you’ll all recognize: the Houses of Parliament. Particularly unpleasant roundabout behind there. I had three accidents in one afternoon there once. Got an endorsement.’
‘Eighty-eight! Is that right?’ said a Spanish woman to the Chelsea Pensioner.
‘Eighty-eight, and I’ve only had one hip replacement.’
‘I’m going to buy you a drink,’ she said.
‘Suit yourself,’ he mumbled and took out his tobacco tin.
With the water so low and the Embankment so high we felt dwarfed by the city. We passed the Battersea Dogs’ Home and Boogie hid under the seat. We passed Battersea Power Station and the Chelsea Pensioner said: ‘I live there.’
Everyone took a step back.
‘Not there, there!’ he said, and pointed to Wren’s Royal Hospital on the opposite bank. ‘It’s nice there; too many old people, though.’ Someone handed him a can of lager and he said: ‘It’s not everyone can become a Chelsea Pensioner, you know. You have to have served your King and country for a kick-off. And have a clean record, military and otherwise. They wouldn’t let you in if, say, you had a conviction for armed robbery. Forging bank notes would be right out as well. A parking fine and you might be okay, but arson and you wouldn’t stand a chance. Treason and they’d show you the door immediately. Littering or not paying you
r television licence on time you might get away with.’
‘Putney Bridge,’ said Ken and a raspberry-flavoured Slush Puppy sailed over the parapet and landed on the boat’s roof in an explosion of red ice. ‘Of particular personal interest to me Putney Bridge is. It’s the only bridge in London I’ve not had an accident on.’
The Chelsea Pensioner escaped from his fans and sat next to me. His coat had a few medals on it and lots of stains. His shoes were highly polished but his collar and cuffs were frayed. He leant over to pat Boogie.
‘What sort is he?’
‘Italian terrier.’
Actually, Boogie isn’t an Italian terrier. In fact he’s nothing like a terrier. He’s nothing like a dalmatian either, or a beagle or a pekinese or a spaniel. He bears no resemblance whatsoever to a dachshund, and red setters and Boogie have nothing in common whatsoever. He couldn’t be more unlike a Pyrenean mountain dog. No one could ever mistake him for a labrador and if you suggested he was descended from a husky you’d make yourself look foolish. The idea of confusing him with a bulldog is absurd and those who propose he has alsatian in him are talking nonsense. You could call him a mongrel but you’d be pushing your luck. Boogie is a dog – just.
‘Italian terrier, eh?’ said the Chelsea Pensioner.
At this point most people who try to guess Boogie’s lineage realize the complexities of the family tree they are faced with, say: ‘Thought so’, and then try to change the subject.
‘Thought so,’ said the Chelsea Pensioner. ‘I had a cat once,’ and he puffed on his roll-up.
Boogie Up the River Page 2