Boogie Up the River

by Mark Wallington

  And after a while I have to admit I grew a certain affection for the power station. The sun beamed on its grey cooling towers, and the silver pylons that surrounded it were all embedded in fields of dazzling rape. It had a symmetry and a brilliance, and clearly the longer one lived with it, the more an integral part of one’s life it became. The lock-keeper at Culham lock was a great fan. ‘I love that power station,’ he said. ‘I dream about it. Sometimes on a nice Sunday I’ll go and drive round it with the wife and our Peter and Lucy and we’ll have a picnic by the perimeter fence.’ I nodded sympathetically, and slowly rose to his level as ninety thousand gallons of water burrowed beneath me.

  ‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘I’d much rather have that power station there than a scenic beauty spot. You know, an oak forest or an example of glacial drift, or a windmill or something poncey like that. Give me the hum and the glow of Didcot any day.’

  He seemed like a sage, so I asked him if he had any ideas on where the source was, and he said:

  ‘In Gloucestershire somewhere.’

  ‘Could you be more specific?’

  ‘Yes. It might be in Wiltshire.’

  He went back into his cottage and I moved off. Then after I’d gone about a hundred yards he ran out again, waved his arms at me and shouted something. I hurriedly sculled back to him and he said: ‘I almost forgot. You must call in at the Swan in Radcot. It’s the best pub on the river.’

  I made good time to Abingdon, a neat, double-yellow-lined, hanging-basketed town with friendly policemen. There was a great abbey here as long ago as the seventh century, but none of the original building remains. Instead there’s a beautiful County Hall and around that there’s a Halford’s, a Dixon’s, a Woolworth’s and a Curry’s, and a shopping precinct with ornamental tubs similar to the ones in Basingstoke, Exeter and Hull.

  I spent my half hour in the town in Budgen. From the conversation in the queue I learnt that the one-way system was not what it should be, that the Nugent’s boy was getting married (again), and that mature English cheddar was much cheaper in the market in Aylesbury. When I went in to the supermarket it was a peaceful spring day and I was cheerful. When I came out a gale was blowing and I was in a bad mood.

  Litter blew down the medieval streets and fresh green leaves were ripped from their boughs and whistled hard down the river. Sculling was hopeless. It hadn’t taken me long to get fit on this journey, just for my hands to get hard, but no amount of preparation could have equipped me for the battle with the wind. I’d be pulling away for all I was worth, and I’d look at the water and see the stream rushing past me, giving me the impression I was travelling at speed, then I’d look at the bank and realize I wasn’t moving.

  That evening, never in the history of sculling has there been so much mental effort devoted to the invention of a contraption that would enable a dog to row. I began to get frustrated, then angry. On the towpath a man with a poodle waved and said: ‘It’s all right for the dog, eh?’ and I swore at him. ‘Pardon?’ he said. And I swore at him again.

  Before long I made camp by the entrance to a backwater called the Swift Ditch. There’s a theory that this was once the true course of the river, and that the monks at Abingdon diverted it to drive their mills. I took Boogie for a walk down the channel to see if I could find any trace of a navigation but it was all overgrown. I lost the path and emerged in a field where I sat in the shelter of a hedge until it grew dark, just watching a whole rape crop sway in the wind. I was feeling chatty. I said to Boogie: ‘I bought another packet of Winalot today. Five more tokens. Only a hundred and fifteen more for the giant wool-and-mixed-fibre blanket measuring sixty by one twenty-five inches.’

  Boogie sniffed a rabbit hole and gave me his ‘what do you want me to do jump up and down and do a cartwheel and bark at the moon?’ expression.

  We walked on. An owl made a noise that resembled the end of a factory shift. I said: ‘So, Jennifer arrives tomorrow. I bet that makes you feel happy. I mean, I’m happy to an extent. Although I’m not really bothered one way or the other. It would be nice to have her here, that’s for sure. But I’m not going to let it worry me.’

  In the distance electricity cables were slung across the land and the pylons strode towards Didcot.

  Next morning I had breakfast with my shirt off sitting in the sunshine on the quay at Sandford lock, and I decided I’m at my best when I’m having breakfast with my shirt off sitting in the sun on a quayside.

  Then a large woman in sunglasses said with glee: ‘It’s not going to last, you know. There’s a low coming in.’

  She said she lived in Oxford. She said she had a house by Folly Bridge. She said if I saw people waving at me from a red-brick house by Folly Bridge with a cheeseplant in the window, it would be her and her grandchildren.

  I said: ‘I’ll come in for a glass of champagne shall I? . . . Ha.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t do that,’ she said.

  Sandford had some pretty horses in its meadows and some rotting, sinking barges on its riverside. These were old college barges, the craft on which the Oxford colleges would gather to watch their fraternity rowing teams in action. Once they were lavish and exquisite queens of the river but now they were full of weeds and old newspapers.

  But they were the first sign of what was to come – a stretch of the river dominated by the university, and, in particular, the university eights. I’d seen a few of these rowing teams in action before. One had flashed past me in the Pangbourne Reach, and then near Wallingford I remember being woken early one morning by a megaphone. There was a huge inhale and exhale of breath, a coordinated grunt and then a wave had hit Maegan harder than anything from a cruiser had ever managed. I whipped back the canvas and saw nothing but a ruffled river. But a few minutes later the thing returned. It resembled an animal more than anything. An octopod slicing through the surface like a glasscutter. The eight bodies balanced in the boat were glistening and steaming, all shoulders, and anything that got in their way wasn’t struck so much as cut cleanly in two.

  One boat I could cope with. I could cower in the willows till it passed. But above Iffley lock was something quite different. Here was a school of them waiting in the pound above the lock like sharks, blind with sharp edges. The crews were less impressive than the one at Wallingford, varying from gangling skinny youths to whom this activity was clearly compulsory, to squat chubby sorts stuffed into their seats, to whom the activity was also compulsory. They all had a freshman’s innocence, but at the stern of each boat, wedged into position, sat the cox, and there was lodged the jaws of the vessel.

  I watched for a while as the boats basked in the sunlight. Then I left them and set off upstream, imagining that they practised in that little corner of the river only. I did find it hard to imagine how they produced teams to win the Boat Race with that sort of training, but television is deceptive, and besides, I thought, if they used the whole river there’d be no room left for other craft like me, would there?

  Suddenly there was a draw of water and a scream of sweat being forced through pores and round the bend it came, oars flapping in a fury, heading right for me, sharp end first. And from those little heads on the back of the boat came a string of abuse reserved traditionally for the rowers, but on this occasion redirected at me: ‘Take the pressure, row, row, row, feel for the stroke . . . what the? . . . Get out of the bloody way! You! Yes you, you cretin! You with the ugly dog and the stupid hat. Clear off!’

  I splashed wildly for the bank only to find myself in the path of another boat skimming along the water from the other direction, blades drawn. ‘You’re dead!’ came a voice from somewhere and as the boat passed me I had the feeling I’d just been run through with a sword. Somehow I managed to weave a path as far as the boathouses and there I decided to wait until the rowers took their lunch break.

  Inside the boathouses, the boats were carefully stacked. I snooped around, went up close to them and carefully touched one with my finger as if it might bite. Out of the
water they’d lost none of their grace or their venom. They sparkled with gloss and varnish. They seemed as fragile as insects.

  Above the boathouse were the grandstands that had taken over the role of the barges. A woman in a bright blue rowing shirt was sunbathing and drinking Pimms. She’d seen me moor Maegan and she laughed at Boogie and said: ‘It’s all right for the dog, isn’t it?’ which disappointed me, I’d have expected something more original from an Oxford undergraduate. She had a book open on her lap and I said: ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m a buyer for John Menzies. I’m a friend of Dave’s. How about you?’

  ‘I’m not studying anything either. I’m just passing through. I don’t even know Dave.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, no one here goes to the university. At least Mike, Clive and Tina don’t. We just hang around.’

  She explained the activity on the river. The boats were training for the Summer Eights, an important social and athletic occasion. The races were called Bumps because the river wasn’t wide enough to enable the boats to race in line and so they competed a length behind each other, the aim being to bump the boat in front. A successful team ascended a position the following year.

  We were interrupted by a commotion in the water up by Folly Bridge where the eights turned. A couple of drunk skinheads had hired a dinghy and were in the middle of the river behaving like pirates, trying to disrupt the college crews. The row boats came flying for them and the skinheads laughed and jumped up and down and then fell in the river. The eights’ coaches, patrolling the towpath on bicycles, asked them politely if they’d mind behaving less obstructively, and the skinheads’ response was to drop their trousers.

  Oxford had its fair share of drunk skinheads on this balmy lunchtime. While the undergraduates were all rowing on the Thames or punting up the River Cherwell clutching strawberries and cream, behaving just as they were supposed to, the skinheads were outside the Head of the River with their shirts off, drinking Swan extra-strong lager, behaving just as they were supposed to. One big egg-headed lad was standing on the balustrade of Folly Bridge shouting to his mates: ‘Watch this, watch this!’ then he’d leap in the river with all his clothes on and climb out giggling, and repeat the stunt. It was harmless and mildly entertaining until Maid Unexpected appeared from upstream heading for the bridge. The skinhead, oblivious to the approach of the boat, climbed up on the bridge and prepared to launch himself once more. His mates could envisage just what I could – Maid Unexpected emerging from under the bridge to twelve stones of closely shaven and vividly tattooed youth smashing through her roof. This isn’t the sort of thing you see every day and I was tempted to stand by and watch the performance, so indeed were his mates who were suddenly paying far more attention than they had before. Fortunately, someone warned him just in time and Maid Unexpected motored under the bridge with the occupants sitting at the dining table eating salads. They smiled and waved at the skinheads who responded with the bare bum treatment again.

  I had some time before I met Jennifer but I’d planned it this way because I wanted to visit Merton College, one of the earliest Oxford colleges, dating from 1264, and a fine example of the Decorative and Perpendicular period. The fourteenth-century library had a rare collection of old books and manuscripts and it was these I particularly wanted to see.

  But it was shut, so I bought some strawberries off a couple of undergraduates pedalling a strawberry and cream wagon about town and then lay down in Christchurch Meadows until two o’clock when I was standing outside Boots as prearranged. By three Jennifer hadn’t shown and the staff in Boots were giving me funny looks. I closed my eyes when I heard the familiar roar of a powerful motorbike from round the corner, hoping it would pass by, but it stopped of course, and Michael the motorcycle messenger strode towards me.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Me again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He handed me the familiar carrier bag, ‘Indonesian today. Satay with peanut sauce and coconut pieces.’ I took the bag and put it straight in a bin marked Keep Oxford Tidy. Michael then gave me an envelope. I tore it open; it read: ‘Call me as soon as you get this. I’ve got bad news.’

  I screwed it up and threw that in the bin as well. Michael said: ‘You’re angry now, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I think that’s good. Now you’ve got to show her you’re angry. It’s all very well coping with it but if you really care for her, you’ll risk everything and express your anger directly. Anger is a positive emotion. You must always remember that.’

  ‘Oh fuck off!’

  I found a phone box and called her. Her PA answered.

  ‘Hello, it’s me. I want to speak to Jennifer Conway, now!’ Boogie started barking. Passers-by peered at me through the broken glass of the kiosk.

  ‘She’s not here,’ said the PA with an unfamiliar urgency. ‘But I’ll give you a number where you can reach her.’

  I dialled the new number. I’d be angry with her all right. I’d tell her to forget it. I’d announce that Boogie was here. I’d say: ‘Boogie’s here, and he’s good company . . . well, he’s not bad company . . . well at least he’s here.’

  Jennifer came on the line. She said: ‘Mark, I’m so glad you’ve called. Thank you for worrying about me. I suppose you thought something had happened to me. Well it has. I’m in hospital. I’ve had a car accident. I was on my way, I really was.’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘Nothing serious. They want to keep me in for a couple of days for observation. The firm have insisted. I smashed the car up. I’ve bought another one though. Another TVR. A blue one. I hope you’re not angry.’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’

  ‘I mean I suppose I could discharge myself but . . .’

  ‘No you mustn’t. You must stay there. This is terrible.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault even. A taxi driver hit me on Putney Bridge. He’d just got his licence back, he said. Did you get the satay?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. Listen are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be with you on Thursday, promise. I can’t wait. I’ve got my bag with me now, all packed. I’ll come straight from hospital. What’s that barking? I can hear barking again.’

  ‘I’m calling you from outside a pet shop. Oops, my phone card is running out. See you Thursday.’

  I stayed in Oxford a while and peered in at some undergraduates sitting in big rooms swotting, but the city was choked with traffic, and the heat was getting to everyone. I felt I should stay longer and look round, but I felt happier out of urban areas. I also felt happier on the river and it seemed to ignore Oxford once it passed Folly Bridge. In most towns the Thames attracted parklands and salubrious housing and was a desired area. But in Oxford, after the splendour of Christchurch Meadows, it took on the appeal of a canal and snaked through the back yard of the city past terraces, under railway bridges and round the back of factories and allotments.

  ‘Not putting your spinach in now are you?’ said a voice from behind a hedge.

  ‘Course I’m putting my spinach in now,’ said another.

  ‘Too early.’

  ‘I always plant my spinach two days after the full moon in May.’

  ‘Rot!’

  That was the sort of talk I wanted to hear, and I gave an extra tug on the sculls.

  The only other event to mark my exit from the city was an episode at Osney Bridge. As I emerged there was no empty yoghurt tub in the back of the boat, no newspaper, no drink container and no fresh fruit cores, instead there was a ten-year-old lad, dripping wet.

  And suddenly I was under attack as a group of his mates swung from the trees on ropes and splashed into the water round Maegan and tried to clamber over her gunwales. Boogie sat up at this point which caused the pirates to stop and reconsider. One said: ‘What sort of dog is that?’ and I replied: ‘he’s a doberman alsatian, and he’s in a bad mood so I should clear
off.’

  Boogie’s problem is that he doesn’t quite have what it takes to be a ferocious guard dog. His natural disposition is to smile at intruders and say: ‘Hi there! C’mon in.’ He’s about as aggressive as a welcome mat. His only weapon is his tongue, although on this occasion that did the trick. As the kids started to grab my sculls and anything else they could lay their hands on, Boogie leant over the boat and licked the leader.

  ‘Eagh, he licked me. He licked me,’ screamed the kid. ‘I’ll get Aids.’ And that did it.

  Osney Bridge was low, just how low I didn’t realize until the other side where I saw a sign proclaiming 7’6”. This prohibited many cruisers from continuing upstream and one could sense the river beginning to enter another new phase. Past the entrance to the Oxford Canal the land flattened and stretched. On one bank was a shady blaze of sycamore and hawthorn, while on the other, water meadows stretched for miles, and horses, cattle, swans and geese all stood together in the heat haze, drinking at the water’s edge.

  Gone now were the No Mooring signs. No longer were the spires of the towns and villages and the metallic flash of motor cars drawn to the water. The river was suddenly wilder and more exposed. I put my hat on for the sun and set off for Gloucestershire. A grebe swam across my path and disappeared into a clump of weeds. There were a few thumps, some gasps and some squeals and a moment later a couple of bruised ducks, a limping magpie and a Canada goose with most of its feathers missing crawled out.

  8.See You on Tadpole Bridge. And That’s a Promise