Boogie Up the River

by Mark Wallington

  They asked me on board for a drink. I sat there on the hot plastic of the driver’s seat before an array of levers and switches. Basically all these boats were very similar, but the owners always managed to express themselves in some way or another, usually in the choice of name. This is the most difficult decision a boat owner on the Thames ever has to make, needing the ability to sum up your past, your future, your bank balance, your politics, your sexuality, your marital status, your creativity, your childhood traumas and whether or not you’ve read The Lord of the Rings, all in one word.

  The most popular nomenclature was the bucolic – names like Burwood and Skylark II. Then there was the naval – Pompey Boy, Jolly Roger; and the cute – Dollydrop, Pretty Penelope. Some were poetic – Windrush, Zephyr; and some were enigmatic – Zagala. Then there was the macho – Hesoutonisownagain. And the unashamedly sexist – L’autre femme II. The cost of these beautiful boats would, I’d have thought, made them the craft of the few, but that wasn’t the case at all. Some of the most unlikely sorts were at the helm. I got the impression some boats were the spoils of crime, they should have had names like Dunmuggin, or Brinxmat Job ’84.

  The boat I’d collided with was called Betibob, a member of the domestic set, simply a combination of the couple’s names, a symbol of their happy retirement. And they’d created that atmosphere perfectly. There was Bob on the deck with his arms folded, grinning, and there was Betty at the table putting hard-boiled eggs through the slicer.

  I said: ‘I saw an old Victorian houseboat downriver a few miles back,’ which was a complete lie but I was lost for conversation and so I thought I’d make something up. I had seen pictures of old Victorian houseboats though, and they looked the most splendid constructions, luxurious and stylish display cabinets in a fanciful game of oneupmanship played by the wealthy. I told Betty and Bob this, but they took it as a challenge to their own observation skills. Bob said: ‘Mmm, I saw a hovercraft just below Wallingford Bridge.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said. ‘I found a supermarket trolley with six traffic cones in it in the backwater up by Shiplake.’

  ‘We found a dead donkey in the weir by Boutler’s Lock,’ said Betty.

  ‘Really,’ I said. ‘I found a frozen chicken in Pangbourne Reach.’

  ‘We met someone who said they’d found a World War II mine in the marina in Reading,’ said Bob.

  ‘Yes,’ said Betty. ‘And they’d met someone who said they’d seen Lord Lucan in a narrowboat just past the Goring Gap.’

  I sat back. I couldn’t match that. The plastic seat stuck to the back of my legs and from the saloon came the smell of a hot television. Betty peered over at Boogie who was still asleep on Maegan’s back seat. She said: ‘Doesn’t the dog have a life jacket?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘The truth is he finds them more of a hindrance than a help. You see, he’s highly trained as a life saver. Don’t let that calm, dozy exterior fool you for a moment. He’s constantly on guard. If any child, or any person for that matter, was to fall in the river now he would instantly dive in and haul them back to shore, administering kiss of life on the way if necessary. A life jacket would only slow him through the water, losing valuable seconds that could mean the difference between life and death.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Betty, and Boogie yawned, stretched, licked his lips, rolled over, farted and went back to sleep again.

  The day grew hot then humid, gripped in a sweaty hand. As I sculled under the elegant Shillingford Bridge some sandwich crusts floated past me. I pulled my way through the sticky afternoon and into the evening until I reached the mouth of the river Thame. A low bridge prohibited larger craft access but I was able to scull up it to a sandbank and I moored there under a willow among the reeds.

  Later I walked through the meadows into Dorchester, a pretty Oxfordshire village crammed with cottages, coloured with wisteria, and all wrapped around its abbey.

  And there was a concert in the abbey that night – concertos and cantatas by Bach and Albinoni. I sat in the audience as the sun moved slowly down the stained-glass windows and the whole nave was caught in a prism. As the soloist lifted her head her voice hit the corners and alcoves, and in the sunbeams you could see dust fly and cobwebs vibrate. The musicians played selections from the Brandenburg Concertos and the audience sat there stiffly, all in evening dress, except for one sort who wore a T-shirt and wellingtons and had no one sitting next to him.

  At the interval there were refreshments. A woman in a long purple dress came up to me and said: ‘So what brings you to our lovely village?’

  ‘I’m on the river. I’ve got a skiff. I’m travelling to the source.’

  And she nodded her head and said: ‘What star sign are you?’

  ‘Star sign!? Er . . . Taurus.’

  Then she shook her head and said: ‘Oh no you’re not,’ and went back to her seat.

  There was something cryptic about Dorchester. Afterwards, I walked through the village and it was if the place were under some sort of spell. A face with a long nose poked out of a hedge. A toby jug sat on a window sill and its eyes followed me as I walked past. There was a chill in the air and everyone had a grin.

  And then the next morning when I climbed the Sinodun Hills, that rose above the trees on the opposite bank, I suspected that by coming to Dorchester I had walked through the looking glass. I crossed the river by the lock and climbed to a hilltop where some ancient earthworks lay smoothed by time, remnants of the earliest settlement on the Thames. The view was superb: ahead the river wriggled like a silver fish and the valley stretched away miles into the distance, while behind stood Didcot Power Station, a designated Site of Outstanding Natural Ugliness dominating the countryside the way only a power station knows how.

  There was an adjacent peak topped with trees like a tuft of hair on a bald head. As I walked over to it I heard a lone voice singing sweetly. It grew louder the nearer I got to the trees but when I reached them it stopped and I found no one. It suddenly felt like winter. Boogie stuck his nose in the air and sniffed. I sniffed and smelt burning leaves. A man and a dog approached through the trees. He stopped and said: ‘Was that you singing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Probably a transistor. They bring them up here at the weekend. My boy came up here for his birthday one year, at midnight. He’s got some strange friends. I think one of them’s a Druid. It’s a nice spot though. Shame about the eyesore down there. Is that a Swedish bulldog?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  I turned round to look at Boogie. From somewhere he’d got a french bread and honey-glazed ham open sandwich.

  I didn’t mean to spend long in Dorchester that day, but I was distracted and ended up staying until the afternoon. I lost a mooring iron and I was hunting round the bank for it when a man passed in his dinghy and asked me the problem. I explained my loss and he offered to give me a stake he had. ‘Let me pay you something for it,’ I said. It was only a bent bit of metal but it looked as though it was an important part of his boat.

  ‘Oh I couldn’t take any money,’ he said. ‘You’re in the country now; folk help each other out. You’ll do the same for me one day.’

  ‘Are you sure I can’t give you something for it?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, okay then, give us ten quid and we’ll call it quits.’

  He asked me where I was going and when I said the source, he said: ‘Well, you’re here.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Do you know anything about this Thames and Isis business?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Right, good. This is the start of the Thames here.’

  I looked over the bank to where the Thames was visibly continuing in a westerly direction and was about to protest when he said: ‘That’s not the Thames, that river up there. The Thames ends here. That’s the Isis up there. And that’s the truth.’

  I’d heard this story before: how, above Dorchester, the Thames becomes the Isis. Other theories claim it becomes the Isis
as far back as Henley. Another theory claims it is the Thames all the way to the source except for a brief interlude in Oxford where it becomes the Isis. Then again, others say it is the Isis in Oxford and Henley, but the Thames above Oxford and below Henley and between Moulsford Bridge and the third stile along past the caravan site just downstream from the Beetle and Wedge.

  But my friend had proof: ‘Do you know anything about the Romans and the Thames?’

  ‘Not much . . .’

  ‘Right, good. You see Thame is the old English word for river. So when the Romans arrived and asked the ancient Britons what the name of the river was they got the answer: ‘It’s called the river.’ But the Romans couldn’t cope with that. They liked giving rivers flowery names like the Tiber and so on, and so they decided to call the river the Isis after the Egyptian god. So it became known as Thame Isis, which in time became Thamesis and eventually Thames. And that’s the truth.’

  What he said was either a fascinating piece of etymology or absolute gibberish, but you can’t say that to someone when they’ve just supplied you with a boat hook and so I nodded and said: ‘I see. Listen, thanks for the boat hook. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘To the source of the . . .’

  ‘I’ve just told you. You don’t listen, do you?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘So, you can come to the pub. I’ve got loads of interesting things about the Thames to tell you. My name’s Jeff. Did you know, for instance, that Thames salmon frequently mistake Barn Elms Reservoirs for the North Sea?’

  The pub had a beautiful garden with many people balancing veal and ham pie on their laps. I bought two pints of beer and some mackerel-flavoured crisps. Boogie had some cold tongue with piccalilli and a gherkin. Jeff spoke with his mouth full: ‘Do you know anything about the Thames Barrier?’

  ‘Not much . . .’

  ‘Good, because in twenty years’ time the thing will be useless. It’s true. The polar icecaps are melting. By the turn of the century London will be underwater.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter who told me. What matters is that the Bank of England, Buckingham Palace, Wembley Stadium, the M25, all of them will be underwater.’

  ‘Buckingham Palace underwater?’ said an American voice behind me.

  ‘You bet,’ said Jeff, and introduced himself to the four American women sat at a table eating veal and ham pie. There was a great grandmother, a grandmother, a granddaughter and a great granddaughter. Boogie introduced himself as well, scoring off the great granddaughter, the granddaughter and the grandmother. The great grandmother though was harder to crack. She ate slowly and meticulously, never taking her eyes off her food. The grandmother said: ‘She likes to eat.’ Boogie gave his ‘we’ve got something in common’ expression, and moved in on her.

  The women told me they had a hire car and were just driving. ‘We’ve been to London, Bath, Stonehenge, York and Stafford,’ said the great granddaughter.

  ‘Why Stafford?’ I asked.

  ‘Because we thought it was Stratford,’ said the granddaughter.

  The pub closed. Everyone else had finished their meals a long time ago but the great grandmother still had a plate of blackcurrant and apple crumble and some cheese to go. Boogie was resting his head on her lap, giving her all his best faces, just waiting for her to look once into his eyes so as he could hook her, but she never looked away from her plate. He lay on the ground showing her his protruding ribs. Then he sat up and gave her his ‘you could make me one really happy little dog, old lady’ expression. But nothing. She spooned the food methodically to her mouth, scraped the bowl and sat back. Boogic hung his head in disbelief. I was shocked. The woman had had a three-course meal and Boogie didn’t get so much as a crust. I’d never known him fail so badly. Fortunately, Jeff offered a reprieve. He said: ‘Let’s go for a walk along the towpath, and then go to the Abbey Tea Room. A real treat.’

  ‘Did someone mention afternoon tea?’ said great grandmother.

  ‘She likes to eat,’ said the granddaughter.

  I wanted to get moving, but I couldn’t deny Boogie this re-match, so I joined them all on a walk along the river. Boogie lagged behind. Like a gambler whose system has failed him he was frantically checking and rechecking his mathematics.

  A swan came nuzzling up to us. ‘If only we had some bread,’ said the great granddaughter.

  ‘I’ve got some bread,’ said Jeff, and from his pocket he pulled out a packet of sandwiches.

  ‘Oh, we can’t take your sandwiches,’ said the grandmother.

  ‘Course you can,’ said Jeff. ‘You’re in the country now. Everyone shares everything.’

  ‘We must repay you somehow.’

  ‘Oh, all right, give us a fiver and we’ll call it quits.’

  The sandwiches were fed to the swan who was partial to corned beef and tomato.

  We found the Abbey Tea Room in the old cloisters that ran up the driveway to the abbey. Jeff led us to where the proprietress stood on the front step. He nodded to her and she completely ignored him. There was a Morris 1000 parked outside and I knew it was hers.

  In keeping with the Dorchester allure there was an element of surrealism about the Abbey Tea Rooms. We were sat at a big round table in the middle of the room. On the wall a sign said: ‘The taking of too much jam and butter will render the management violent.’

  The proprietress spoke with assertion. She said: ‘Your first time?’

  ‘I’ve been here before,’ said Jeff and she ignored him.

  ‘If it’s your first time I’d better explain. My ladies and I run this tea room to raise funds for the church. The system we operate is as follows: we supply the cakes and biscuits. You eat them and then tell us what you’ve had and we charge you a price slightly in excess of what it costs us to bake them, thus reaping a profit. It’s a system that works quite well, we find.’

  Then she turned and walked into the kitchen and immediately a troop of women bound in aprons descended upon us. They ran round with teapots saying: ‘The first cup of tea is twenty pence, the next ten, the rest five.’ Then they pointed their spouts of each of us in turn and said: ‘Strong, weak or normal?’

  Cakes, biscuits and scones were dispersed. At our table sat four generations of Americans all eating cake and shortbread and cream teas. Boogie positioned himself by the great grandmother. With cream tea at stake I knew his performance would be exceptional.

  He began with basic clinical hypnotism. His pupils small, but rotating in opposite directions. This achieved no response whatsoever. Next he moved on to autosuggestion – masticating, swallowing and licking his lips; he even belched for effect, but his opponent didn’t blink. She finished her cake and licked her fingers and moved on to the shortbread. Boogie looked at me in despair.

  The tea room filled up, but nothing was too much trouble for this noble collection of tea-ladies, they glided around the room as though they were on casters: ‘Party of twenty-nine? Certainly, how many with milk and how many without?’

  The great granddaughter said: ‘England’s just the way you expect it to be, isn’t it?’ And the granddaughter said: ‘It’s just like the films and the Agatha Christie books.’

  ‘More cake anyone?’ said a little lady in a cardigan with leather patches.

  ‘Did someone mention more cake?’ said the great grandmother.

  ‘She likes to eat,’ said the great granddaughter.

  Boogie sat down by her again. This would be his last chance. But I didn’t realize how desperate he’d become. As the great grandmother lifted a brandy snap to her mouth, Boogie nudged her chair. A cheap trick, but the brandy snap fell and Boogie opened his mouth in anticipation. Like a lizard the great grandmother flicked out a hand and caught the brandy snap, then dunked it in the cream and popped it in her mouth in one fluid movement. This was the knockout blow. Boogie started to watch the food rather than the face – a beginner’s mistake. I knew he was in big trouble wh
en he started to drool. Boogie never drools unless he’s worried. The great grandmother ate the last piece of coffee cake and that was that. To rub it in she wiped her hands on him.

  We all walked back to the boat, Boogie trailing, looking suicidal. ‘Are you travelling alone?’ said the granddaughter.

  ‘A girlfriend’s joining him in Oxford,’ said Jeff.

  As I climbed back into the boat the great grandmother gave me a paper napkin in which was wrapped a brandy snap stuffed with cream. She said: ‘Give this to your little dog, will you? He looks fed up.’

  They all stood on the bank and waved to me as I sculled away, and the granddaughter called out: ‘We must meet for dinner when you get back.’

  ‘Did someone mention dinner?’ said the great grandmother.

  ‘She likes to eat, doesn’t she?’ said Jeff.

  I sculled away into the evening past a house where a bust of the Duke of Marlborough peeped over the hedge. Then on through Clifton Hamden and under its pretty bridge. As it grew dark I camped by what looked like an abandoned swan’s nest, made up of reeds and moss and plastic bags, not to mention a car radio, a Lucozade bottle and an old deckchair. I noted all this in my wildlife diary under the swans’ section.

  The night was warm and I sat out on the old deckchair – just me, the willows, the water and the breeze, and the electrical glow, concrete, steam and wires of Didcot Power Station that sat in the distance like a city. Inside the tent Boogie lay severely depressed, confidence shattered, racked with self-doubt. I said to him: ‘Hey, don’t worry, champ, you’ve still got it. The woman was probably a witch.’ But he wouldn’t be consoled.

  Later, when I was eating my kedgeree with kippers – Delia has a way with kippers – he glanced at me and I pretended to be hypnotized by him, and spooned a great dollop of rice in his bowl. This cheered him up marginally, but I didn’t give him the brandy snap, that would have been cruel. It would also have been impossible since I’d eaten it myself.

  Power stations were to feature heavily the next day. I use the plural because although on the map you will only see one identified, there are at least five. They all look alike, I agree, and people will argue that there is only one, but if that’s the case it moves around a lot. That morning Didcot Power Station was round every bend in the river and peeping through every hedge. I sculled away from it and suddenly there it was behind me. I sculled towards it and it sneaked up on my port side. It was confusing for a while but then I realized that the river was hopelessly lost and was doubling back on itself as it wandered about trying to find Oxford.