Boogie Up the River

by Mark Wallington

  I said to him: ‘I bet you’ve seen some changes in your time?’ and he nodded and said: ‘Everyone asks me that.’

  We passed through Barnes and Chiswick and the river was now a place where people lived. Syon Park looked like a rain forest surrounded by property development. At Kew a number of people disembarked, and even more at Richmond where the Star and Garter Home stood high on the hill like a palace and the meadows below were full of buttercups. We passed islands and undergrowth and suddenly the city was gone. The Chelsea Pensioner said: ‘By boat is the best way to see London, it’s just that when the tide’s out all you see is slime.’ And then in the afternoon sunshine he nodded off, only waking once when we passed a strange collection of timber and plastic sheeting tied together on a raft and moored under a willow to make a sort of houseboat. A dirty little face poked through. A child waved, smiled and stuck its tongue out. ‘Gypsies,’ said the Pensioner, ‘nothing wrong with gypsies.’ He waved back and stuck his own tongue out and then fell asleep again.

  It took us five hours to reach Hampton. ‘Which may seem like a long time,’ said Ken, ‘but driving it can take two hours if the South Circular is chocker. Ah! Hampton Court, I know a lot about Hampton Court, or I should do – I hit it once. Got banned for that one.’

  I walked down the towpath to Mark Edward’s boatyard. It was early evening now and the river was on fire with reflections. Oarsmen and canoeists cut waves that lapped briefly at the bank but the river quickly reclaimed its inertia. Swan feathers floated on the water and there was a smell of diesel and old wood. There was no sign of Jennifer though.

  I lugged my stuff into the boatyard and found Mark Edwards covered in wood shavings and smelling of preservative. He looked like the sort who, no matter when you called, would be covered in wood shavings and smelling of preservative. He smiled and said proudly: ‘I’ll show you Maegan.’

  He led me down to where the skiffs were moored, and pointed to twenty-two feet of sparkling mahogany with the name Maegan inscribed in uncial on the backboard. She was broad-hipped and round-shouldered and looked more like a piece of furniture than a boat. She was exquisite. Mark said: ‘Have you had a good look?’

  ‘Not really . . .’

  ‘Right, let’s go to the pub.’

  I pinned a note for Jennifer on the door and we went to a pub in Hampton village. The landlord said: ‘it’s always quiet on a Thursday.’

  Boogie went round the pub and despite there being only three people in he managed to score a crab sandwich, a piece of quiche and some pâté and pickle. I asked Mark if he had any tips for me and he said: ‘When you get to Pangbourne call in at the Swan, best pub on the Thames. And when you go past Vince Hill’s house in Bray, wave, ’cos likely as not he’ll wave back from his veranda.’ I suggested he might have information of a more technical nature, perhaps pertaining to the stretch of river above Lechlade. ‘Oh,’ he said and leant over his glass: ‘It’s been a dry spring, lack of water is going to be your problem.’ Then with the aid of two beer mats and some dry-roasted peanuts he demonstrated how I could build a makeshift flash-lock – an age-old locking system for hauling craft up river.

  ‘That’s the theory anyway,’ he said, ‘but it’s a tricky trip to Cricklade.’

  ‘How tricky?’

  ‘Well, put it like this. I’ve never known anyone make it. Just you and the dog, is it?’

  ‘No, a girlfriend’s coming with me.’

  ‘Sort of like Three Men in a Boat.’

  ‘Well, sort of, except there are only two of us and one is a woman.’

  ‘It’s the centenary of Three Men in a Boat, you know? What you should do is dress up in a striped blazer and put on a boater and grow a Victorian moustache and recreate the trip. A number of people use my boats to do that. One a week this year. Bunch of prats if you ask me. Here, your glass is empty. We can’t have that. Mine’s a pint of Websters. Ta.’

  Three Men in a Boat was the book synonymous with the Thames, and many people had made references to it when Jennifer and I had announced our intentions. I’d not been aware it was the centenary of Jerome’s trip but now knowing only made me feel more uncomfortable. A recreation was the last thing I wanted to do. I loved his story and to re-create it would be like seeing the film after reading the book and I knew I’d be disappointed.

  I went back with the drinks and Mark said: ‘But Maegan’s a good boat. My oldest. If anyone can get you there she can. She deserves a trip like this. I found her under a pile of rot in a Godalming boatyard. She had moss on her gunwales. Abandoned she’d been. She still bears the scars.’

  I said: ‘A bit like Boogie.’

  He studied Boogie. ‘Yes, I can imagine him with moss on his gunwales.’ Boogie put his head on Mark’s lap and Mark gave him his crisps.

  ‘He likes you,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t like to look after him for three weeks, would you?’

  ‘You take him with you. He’ll be good company when your girlfriend leaves you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A camping skiff holiday can destroy any relationship. I never told you about Doreen and me did I? . . . Well, look at that, there’s a dog hair in my beer.’

  We were interrupted as a powerful motorbike pulled up outside, and the peace of the pub was broken as the door swung open and there stood a large leather-clad figure. He strode over to us. In one hand he had a crash helmet, in the other, a carrier bag. He looked at me through his moustache. ‘Mark Wallington?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He handed me the bag. Inside was a pile of spare ribs, some barbecue sauce, some coleslaw, a baked potato, some strawberry cheesecake and a poem – ‘Cars head down the rubble roads, travellers to far-off places. The darkness hides their dreams, their windscreens hide their faces, – Bon Appetit. Call me. Love from Jennifer.’

  ‘That’s a dreadful poem,’ said Mark, leaning over my shoulder.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ said the biker. ‘It shows an inability to properly express herself at a time when she most wants to. If you ask me she’s under stress and needs support.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Michael, the courier for her firm. But most people say I’m too intuitive. Sign here please.’

  Michael roared off and we walked back to the boatyard in the failing light. Mark showed me how to turn the skiff into a camper. What looked like an extremely complicated manoeuvre turned out to be very simple, involving a set of hoops inserted at intervals along the length of the boat to form a frame, and a canvas cover pulled over the lot. Maegan looked like a fairground caterpillar when all was finished.

  Mark said: ‘You’ll be getting an early start I suppose, so I won’t see you in the morning. Good luck. Make sure Maegan gets there. She can take anything you can give her. She’s based on the design of the Viking longship, you know? See that curve on the gunwale? That’s where you’d hang your axe if you were a pillaging Norseman.’ He turned to go and then stopped and said: ‘One more piece of advice. Watch out for your spoons – they go missing on trips of this nature.’

  ‘Spoons?’

  ‘Spoons.’ As he spoke there were two sploshes. One was the sound of a dessert spoon falling in the river. The other was the sound of a three-stone mongrel doing just the same. I spun round and through the watery muck a little black head appeared in panic. I hauled him out and shouted to Mark: ‘Run!’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Run!’ But it was too late, and a gallon of turbid river water was sprayed over him and the rest of his boatyard as Boogie shook himself dry.

  ‘Forget what I said about him being good company,’ said Mark. ‘He’s going to be a bloody nuisance.’ And he walked off home.

  I sat on the river bank and had my spare ribs and made a mess of myself. Then later I found a phone box and tried to call Jennifer. I tried her home, her office and her health club, and finally reached her on her car phone. She was in Birmingham.

  ‘Jennifer! What’s happened?’ I said, and Boogie started
to bark.

  Jennifer said: ‘Listen. I’m sorry. Something big has come up. I can’t make it tonight. You’ll have to leave without me. I’ll meet you at the weekend. I’m really sorry. I wish I was with you. Did you get the spare ribs? What did you think of the poem? I wrote it in a hurry. It’s not finished. What’s that barking?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’m sure I heard barking.’

  ‘The boatyard guard dog. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  I took Boogie for a walk along the towpath.

  ‘I suppose you think I’m wasting my time with her?’

  Boogie went down to the bank and gargled with some river water.

  ‘I suppose you think she’s using me.’

  Boogie shoved his nose into a rubbish bin and brought out an old running shoe which he started to chew.

  ‘Well you’re wrong; you just don’t understand her. She’s got integrity, Jennifer has. And you’d be well advised to try to get on with her. She’s good company.’

  Boogie licked something off the path and started to foam at the mouth.

  ‘Better company than you anyway.’

  We strolled back to the boat. I lit the lamp and the shadows leapt across the water. A moth crashed into the glass and plunged into the bilges. A swan drifted past like a cloud. Somewhere a bicycle bell rang and an owl made a noise nothing like a hoot.

  I looked round for Boogie and saw him watching from the bank, nonplussed. Then he saw me unpack my stuff and climb under the canvas and he started to chuckle. Oh how he chuckled. He grasped his sides and he began to roar. He held his stomach, lay down on the grass and rolled and giggled. He stood up, regained his composure then pointed at the boat and burst into a fit of hysterics.

  Then I told him to get in.

  I found him an hour later in the waiting room of Hampton station.

  4.Be on Windsor Bridge at Seven – Prompt

  THE THAMES IS 216 miles long, an unimpressive length for a waterway of such stature. Diminutive, for instance, when compared to the Amazon. Insignificant when spoken of in the same breath as the Yangtze. A joke when placed side by side with the Mississippi. Nothing but a pathetic brook by the standards of the Zambezi.

  The Thames is an undramatic river as well. In its meander to the sea it travels through water meadows for much of its length, falling only 350 feet from top to bottom. In that time it slips unmysteriously through places like Staines, Slough, Reading and Pangbourne, passing no waterfalls, no lakes and no swamps. The classic Thames animal is the duck. The classic plant, the geranium. The only tribe, the commuter. The Thames is a place where anything other than serenity is considered embarrassing. During my research it didn’t take long to realize that to follow this river to its source had all the potential of one of the dullest journeys ever made.

  And yet no river has influenced world history as much as the Thames, except for perhaps the Euphrates and the Rhine, and perhaps the Tiber, and then of course there’s the Nile, and you can’t rule out the Ganges. The reason for this is that the Thames refuses to compromise. It is a celebration of understatement. Its qualities are subtle in the extreme. In books about the Thames you rarely come across the adjectives awesome, stunning or spectacular. Peaceful you see quite often, and tranquil frequently, evocative is a favourite and ethereal crops up now and again, but breathtaking – never.

  So I planned a departure from Hampton in keeping with the ambience of the river. I planned to rise at first light and get under way while the sun was a red button on the horizon and the mist still crawled on the water. I wanted to be the only boat on the river. I wanted to see the Thames without its wrinkles, without the sound of traffic. I wanted to be on it before the ducks even.

  Instead I overslept, sleeping long after people who are about to set off to the source of a great river are supposed to sleep. This wasn’t entirely my fault though, Maegan quickly established herself as a cosy and curvacious craft built for comfort not speed, and with the canvas overcoat stretched on top of her she cocooned all within in a tunnel of watertight sleep, so that it was still the dead of night inside the tent while on the outside buses were rolling past on the main road and newspapers were being rammed through letter boxes.

  When I finally had the sense to lift up the tent flap and inspect the situation for myself, a laser-like beam of sunshine burst in and I was confronted with one of those yellow, green and blue days so perfect you feel envious of nature and the ease with which she can conjure up such beauty, and this makes you depressed and you want to go back to bed again.

  I squinted at the reflections on the water. The river was still motionless; the same scum of wood chips and swan feathers surrounded the boat. In the workshop I could hear people building boats. I hurriedly dismantled the tent and dumped it in a bundle in the stern and arranged myself for departure. But I wasn’t quick enough. A lad from the workshop came out with a cup of tea and said: ‘Still here then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘I bet you Robin Knox-Johnston never had a lie-in the morning he left Plymouth to become the first man to sail single-handed round the globe.’

  ‘No I don’t expect he did.’

  Rowing – or rather sculling – isn’t a particularly complicated activity, not on paper anyway. It’s largely a question of rhythm, of getting both oars – or rather sculls – to do the same manoeuvre at the same time, then compensating for one’s superior strength in one arm with an extra half stroke every five with the inferior arm, not forgetting to navigate a course in one direction while looking in the other, plus, in my case, coping with a hydrophobic dog trying his utmost to get out of the boat while at the same time trying his utmost to stay in it.

  The result, that first morning, as I covered the stretch from Hampton through Sunbury and headed on to Weybridge, was a highly uncoordinated one. The onlooker on the bank would have seen a boat heading in the general direction of Gloucestershire but doing it the hard way, staggering from one side of the river to the other, ricocheting off islands and turning the occasional circle.

  Fortunately there was little traffic about and, although my technique meant I was seeing rather more of places like the Molesey Reservoirs than I intended, it mattered little since the great thing about going to the source of a river is that it is very difficult to lose your bearings. As long as the channel gets progressively thinner and more shallow the traveller can assume that he or she is on course. I calculated that all I had to do was keep heading uphill and at any confluence follow the largest piece of water, and sooner or later I would reach the inevitable pool in a field.

  Besides I was in no hurry. I had a couple of days to familiarize myself with the river: to harden my hands, to become au fait with the terms and techniques of the activity, to victual the boat and learn how to manage life afloat. That way all would be in order by the time Jennifer arrived, and I could impress her with my waterman’s appeal. Boogie, too, would have time to acclimatize. The truth is he’s not really used to the outdoors. Scenic places confuse him. He needed a little time to find his river legs, and then scenes such as the one at the first lock we entered would less likely be repeated.

  This was Sunbury lock, and I arrived in a fashion befitting Meagan’s Viking heritage – full pelt, bow first, straight into the doors. A jolly little man wearing a cap and a shirt with epaulettes peered over the walls: ‘Sorry, I was putting in my bedding plants,’ he said and proceeded to operate the hydraulic gates. I paddled Maegan into the lock. The gates swung shut, there was a tremor beneath us and slowly we rose.

  ‘What sort of dog’s that?’ said the lock-keeper.

  ‘Argentinian ridgeback.’

  ‘Thought it might be,’ he said, then changed the subject: ‘Going upstream?’ I told him I was going to the source and asked him if he had any advice to offer. He contemplated this for a while then said: ‘Yes, make sure you call in at the Swan in Staines, best pub on the river.’

  He opened
the upstream gates and that was when I noticed Boogie had jumped from the boat and was standing on the bank. ‘Stay!’ I said with authority and he immediately made a return leap. This time he didn’t make it though, or rather half of him didn’t. He remained suspended above the lock in a splits, two legs on land two on the boat, his attempts to reunite both sets pushing the boat further away.

  I’ve never seen an animal’s body elongate with such style. Boogie’s back legs stretched until he was holding on to the bank with his claws. His front set did likewise, and when they failed him and he was falling towards the water, his teeth grabbed hold of Maegan’s hundred-year-old mahogany. He resembled a canine gangplank for a while but ultimately he ended up where he was getting used to ending up. And if I’d thought the slick round Mark Edwards’ boatyard was gruesome, it was spa water compared to the version found in locks. When Boogie surfaced and crawled up the steps to the lock-keeper’s garden he looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, only less attractive. The lock-keeper took one look at him and dropped his trowel in fright.

  ‘Run!’ I shouted to the lock-keeper and ducked down in the boat, but it was too late and he and his house and half of Sunbury took a filthy shower.

  At Shepperton I parked – or rather moored – on a rare piece of public bank among all the river frontages and No Mooring Strictly Private Stop Here And You’re Asking For Trouble signs. I put the kettle on and lay back in the boat, the air so still, the water so calm that every noise was amplified: a man took his dustbins out in a house behind the trees; an expensive car door slammed beyond the next hedge; a hammer hit a piece of metal in an engineering works somewhere upstream and the noise carried over the river like birdsong. Above me jets from all nations circled looking for a parking space, or climbed and banked and quickly became a speck in the blue. At a lower altitude insects revved their motors, and on the water ducks flew in like seaplanes. It was a perfect spring day in suburbia; the ideal habitat for beasts such as Midnight Rider II.