Boogie Up the River

by Mark Wallington

  The barmaid sat down with me as if I’d just walked into her house and needed to be entertained. I asked if the animal in the field by the side of the pub was a donkey and she said: ‘It’s a hinney.’

  ‘A hinney?’

  ‘A hinney.’

  ‘What’s a hinney?’

  ‘A cross between a stallion and a female ass. You’re not from round here are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve got a boat on the river haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A rowing boat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rowed from London haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought so. I go to London sometimes. The Tower. Hampton Court. Vince Hill’s house. I don’t like it much.’

  ‘I’m looking for the source of the river. I want to speak to Kelvin.’

  ‘He’ll be in later.’

  A couple of elderly regulars came in and sat down. ‘Put my spinach in today, I did,’ said one.

  ‘Too early,’ said the other.

  ‘Too early be buggered.’

  ‘Too early. Don’t put spinach in till third weekend of May,’ and he laughed and put his head back to show off his hairy nostrils.

  ‘Ha, you’ll be laughing when you’ve no greens.’

  ‘You have to have greens,’ said the barmaid. ‘A meal’s not a meal without greens.’

  ‘Too early for spinach.’

  I chipped in with my newly acquired knowledge on the subject: ‘It’s best to plant spinach two days after the full moon in May, I’ve always said.’

  ‘He’s waiting for Kelvin,’ said the barmaid.

  Everyone looked out of the window. They seemed like people who had come to the pub every single night for the last forty years, and yet they could still amaze each other with a conversation about rhubarb. But, it was more than just a conversation. It was a celebratory recounting of the day. They sat in silence now but silence was a very important part of the process. And I was so obviously the stranger because the silence made me fidget. I felt responsible, I could hear the clock tick. I smiled a few times; smacked my lips a few times. Then looked round the room, pretending I was fascinated by a picture or an ornament.

  The eldest man brought out a coach timetable and flicked through it. ‘Taking my girlfriend on an outing, I am,’ he said.

  ‘She won’t go with you,’ said his mate.

  ‘She will. I’ll make her.’

  ‘Where’re you going anyway?’

  ‘Romsey. They’ve a good brewery there.’

  ‘I used to go to Romsey to buy cattle.’

  ‘Don’t see so many cattle about now. I was just thinking tonight as I walked here and saw the empty field. You don’t see many cattle like you used to.’

  I bit my lip then said: ‘There’s more money in sheep, isn’t there?’

  ‘Kelvin will be here soon,’ said the barmaid.

  Everyone looked out of the window again. There was another silence. A car pulled up.

  ‘There’s Dave,’ said the barmaid.

  ‘That’s never Dave. Since when has Dave had a green car?’

  ‘It’s his sister’s.’

  ‘It’s his mum’s,’ said the barmaid.

  Dave came and sat down. He said: ‘Whose dog is that?’

  ‘Mine,’ I said.

  Everyone in the pub looked out of the window at Boogie. He was eating a leg of chicken with rice and pepper salad and garnish. I said: ‘He’s getting old. But they get old, don’t they, dogs?’

  ‘He’s waiting for Kelvin,’ said the barmaid.

  ‘Kelvin’s on holiday on the Algarve,’ said Dave.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the barmaid. ‘Kelvin’s gone on holiday to the Algarve. I forgot.’

  ‘Yes, he’s gone to the Algarve,’ said the other two.

  I walked back to Maegan across the fields and under the pylons. A handful of swallows darted in and out of the wires. We reached the towpath and walked back towards the sound of the weir stream. It would take time to become a local in Northmoor, I decided.

  I said to Boogie: ‘I’ve been thinking. It might be an idea to live together when we get back.’

  He licked some cuckoo spit off a thistle.

  ‘Not you. I don’t mean live with you. I do live with you. Unfortunately. I mean live with Jennifer. I feel as though I’ve somehow got to know her better on this trip. Even though she’s not arrived yet. How would you fancy living with Jennifer?’

  Boogie looked up at me, he had a dead fish in his mouth.

  Back in the boat I lay down surrounded by the sound of the weir stream but it was as murmurous as a lullaby now.

  Then it was Thursday afternoon and I was on a telephone at Tadpole Bridge speaking to Jennifer’s PA.

  ‘Is Jennifer Conway there?’ I said.

  ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, she says she’s coming this afternoon, although I don’t believe it myself.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to her please.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  The Muzak was Chariots of Fire. Jennifer came on: ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Tadpole Bridge.’

  ‘I’m on my way. I’m coming tonight. I can’t wait.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No, I’m not joking. Meet me on the bridge at six.’

  ‘You’re really coming?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s something you should know . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you this for some time . . . I’ve got . . . I’ve got a shortage of spoons, can you bring some?’

  ‘Spoons?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right.’

  There was a pub by the bridge. I went to the gents’ and looked at my reflection. I was filthy, knotted and hairy. I looked at Boogie. He was filthy knotted and horrible. I walked back to Maegan. She was filthy and littered, full of willow and hawthorn, duck feathers, crisp packets, soft drink containers, sweet wrappers, colour magazines and apple cores all lobbed at me from countless bridges.

  First I turned to Maegan. I swept her out, scrubbed her gunwales, coiled her ropes, tidied her cabinets and aired her canvas top. Then I turned to myself. I stepped into the shallow river, shaved in my reflection, dried out my sleeping bag, washed my clothes, and laid them out over the canvas. I combed my hair back, scrubbed my nails, and put talcum powder into my wellingtons. Lastly I turned to Boogie. After which I had to turn back to myself and the boat again. On the dot of six o’clock I was sitting on the handsome parapet of Tadpole Bridge wearing damp underwear. Boogie was at my side sitting to attention, hair parted, not a scrap of muck on him. How could anyone resist him?

  The first hour passed quite quickly and pleasantly. When the sun set it cast a magnificent one-eyed reflection of the bridge on the water downstream. The second hour passed more slowly and was more boring. I counted the radio masts in the fields to the north and I squinted at the military aircraft just a few thousand feet up. Presently a local character with slippers on his feet sat down next to me and told me his name was Ivor.

  ‘That your dog?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Messy, isn’t he? What sort?’

  ‘Nicaraguan dachshund.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  Before he could change the subject a car had stopped and a woman wound down her window and said: ‘Can you tell me where Bampton is?’

  Ivor stroked his chin, looked both ways and said: ‘Two miles that way, turn left and it’s on your right. This is a Nicaraguan dachshund, by the way.’

  The woman looked at Boogie and smiled and said: ‘I once had a dachshund. It was called Roman. We bought it off a family who were going to have it put down becau
se its leg was damaged at birth. But we nursed it and looked after it and it grew healthy and was a marvellous pet for years, wonderful with the children. It even won prizes. Then it squeezed under the garden fence one day and ran across the road and a car hit it.’

  We sat in silence. I could hear rooks down by the river. The woman looked very sad. Ivor said: ‘What sort of car?’

  She drove away. I said to Ivor: ‘Waiting for the pub to open?’

  ‘No. I don’t go in there. It’s got a stuffed fish on the wall. I often come and sit on the bridge, though. I direct the traffic. I live in Bampton.’

  Another car pulled up. The driver wound down the window and said: ‘Is Hinton Waldrist round here?’

  ‘Two miles that way, turn left and it’s on your right,’ said Ivor.

  The car drove off. Ivor said: ‘They need directing, see. People in cars are always lost. They depend on people like me.’

  We sat there in silence. I was getting to understand the timing of these silences now though, growing more comfortable with them. As Ivor mused I imagined Jennifer and me lying in separate sleeping bags at either end of the boat. Then I imagined us in a double sleeping bag in the centre of the boat. Then I imagined Boogie lodged in between us. Ivor said: ‘I’ve been sitting on this bridge looking at the river for years.’

  ‘I bet you’ve seen it change?’

  ‘Everyone asks me that. He’s ugly, your dog, isn’t he?’

  The woman who had stopped earlier drove past and stopped again. I asked her if she’d found Bampton. She said she had, eventually, and added: ‘When I was a young woman I walked up from Oxford to Lechlade along the river towpath. I remember there was a wonderful village square at Bampton; tonight I was just passing and wondered if it would be how I remembered. I seem to recall having my sandwiches under a big tree and a woman came up and gave me a bag of raspberries and I ate them all the way to Lechlade. I imagined the square would be much smaller than I remembered, but strangely it was bigger.’

  There was a silence. The woman looked sad once more. The rooks were quietening down as the light faded. A low-flying aircraft roared overhead polluting the moment. When peace returned Ivor said: ‘What sort of sandwiches?’

  The woman smiled and said: ‘Can you tell me how I can get back on the Oxford road?’ And Ivor stood up and said: ‘Two miles that way, turn left and it’s on your right.’

  I waited two hours exactly and then went into the pub. It was called the Trout. Boogie had a half gammon steak, some grilled tomatoes, and some creme caramel, then he came and sat down under the table. I patted him. ‘I’m through with that woman,’ I said.

  Boogie belched.

  ‘If she turned up now I’d tell her to go home again.’

  There were a few people at the bar. I made comments about the stuffed fish on the wall, about the beautiful reflection of the bridge in the water at sunset and about the assortment of military aircraft in the sky. This earned little response, so then I asked the barmaid how she cut her finger. She looked at me and said: ‘It’s always quiet on a Thursday. Only gets busy when we get a nice day, and we never seem to have those on a Thursday. Is your dog hungry?’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  I sat down. People were looking at me strangely. I wanted to get back to my boat and get sculling. A stool squeaked on the stone floor. A man with his shirt outside his pants turned to me to speak but before he could say anything a blaze of light hit the pub as outside four headlights spun through the car park. There was the crunch of tyres that cost £97 each on the gravel. A car door slammed.

  ‘Hello,’ said a man looking out of the window, ‘a TVR,’ and into the Trout walked Jennifer.

  Behind her came Ivor.

  Ivor was the first to speak. He said: ‘This young lady has asked me out for a drink.’

  Jennifer stood there in a green jump suit and baseball cap. She looked at me hard for a moment, and took in my new waterman’s appearance. Then I strode towards her and kissed her and I remember the rim of her hat dug into my forehead. The local characters watched silently with drinks poised. One man had hiccoughs. Jennifer took her hat off and I expected to see her hair fall. But she’d had it cut, cut short. At first I didn’t like it then very quickly I decided it looked lovely. She said: ‘I’m here.’

  I said: ‘Yes.’

  She said: ‘I’m late but I’m here. I’ve got luggage. Where’s the boat? It’s a beautiful night. I’ve got luggage.’ And I think she may have been about to kiss me again when there was a shuffle below the table and Boogie struggled out from under a chair. He had a baked potato skin in his mouth. Jennifer looked at him. Boogie looked at her. Her face fell. So did his. Her body stiffened. His tail went between his legs. She said: ‘What’s he doing here!?’

  I panicked and said: ‘I don’t know . . . he must have followed me.’ But she didn’t see the funny side of that remark, so I said: ‘Listen: whilst you were in Paris, Oslo and Bologna, Boogie has been my faithful companion for a hundred miles of river and . . .’

  ‘Well, introduce me to your friends,’ she said, but she was already introducing herself. ‘That’s a fine fish,’ she said, indicating the stuffed job in the glass case.

  ‘Chub,’ said the local character with his shirt hanging out of his trousers. ‘Interesting fish the chubb, shy, likes cover, tricky to coax out. Got to be up early to get a chub.’

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ said Jennifer to Ivor.

  ‘If you insist I’ll have three pints of bitter, please.’

  Jennifer moved to the bar. She said to the landlady: ‘Is it always this quiet on a Thursday?’ And the landlady said: ‘It livens up later.’

  We all played darts. We all bought rounds. As the night progressed the pub filled and we all made friends. Ivor followed Jennifer around all night. The chub fisherman offered to take her fishing if she’d like to meet him on the bridge at five thirty. It was the best night of the trip so far. Then I said to her: ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Starving!’

  We walked back to the boat along the towpath. Boogie lagged behind. We carried armfuls of luggage. She’d brought her tennis racket. She’d brought bathroom scales. She’d brought six pairs of shoes. She’d brought the collected works of W. B. Yeats, Wilfred Owen and John Donne. She’d brought spoons.

  ‘You’ve brought spoons,’ I said, excitedly. ‘Great. Spoons.’

  She looked at me and smirked and said: ‘Have you been all right on your own?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Fine. I’ve had a great time. Boogie has been a good friend and . . .’ As I spoke I could have sworn I heard a telephone ring.

  ‘Can you hear a telephone ringing very close to us?’ I said, but she was already digging into her bag. ‘It’ll be for me,’ she said and produced a white Vodaphone. I looked on aghast as she composed herself for a moment – ran her fingers through where her hair used to be – and then answered the instrument: ‘Jennifer Conway . . . Why? . . . Why? . . . No . . . Why? . . . No.’ Then she put the phone away, smiled and walked on.

  As we approached Maegan I could see a cruiser had moored next to her. A big fat chrome-and-Formica job with a lifeboat and a deep freeze. It was named How’s your Father. It dwarfed Maegan, made her look like a broken branch off a tree. Sharp lights pierced the blinds and I could see the flicker of a TV.

  Jennifer said: ‘Oh she’s splendid. She’s magnificent. She’s everything I ever thought she’d be. She’s even got a lifeboat.’

  ‘Er . . . No, this is Maegan over here,’ I said, pulling back the damp moth-eaten flap.

  Jennifer is used to not showing her emotions. That’s why she’s such a good businesswoman. That’s why she’s good at poker. That’s why touching her you often get an electric shock.

  She said: ‘She’s splendid! She’s magnificent. She’s everything I ever thought she’d be.’

  I climbed in and lit the lamp. Jennifer followed and immediately the boat was full. Boogie decided to sit outside. I fed him his daily tin but he
hardly touched it.

  ‘I’m going to cook you fried mozzarella with a Provencale sauce,’ I said and I took out Delia Smith. ‘This is Delia Smith.’

  Jennifer looked askance and said: ‘Are you sure you’ve been all right while I’ve been away?’

  ‘I’ve been fine. I’ve had lots of adventures,’ and as I added the garlic, chopped tomatoes and basil to the onion and pepper I told her about the wild supermarket of Weybridge, the mad dog of Hennerton Backwater and the deadly rowing eights in Oxford. She sat there entranced, and then as I sliced the mozzarella in quarter-inch strips and coated them with seasoned flour, then dipped them in the egg mixture, Jennifer told me about Paris, Oslo, Bologna and Lisbon and her lunch date with Tiny Rowland.

  ‘Lisbon?! I didn’t know you went to Lisbon!’

  ‘Just for the day. Waste of time. I did write a poem though: “Cabo di Roca I’m standing on your tip, like a rocking stone I’m trapped, with just a tumble or a trip, what voyage of discovery I would map . . .” It’s awful, isn’t it?’

  ‘It needs just a touch more basil, and it’s ready.’

  We toasted each other with a bottle of claret and she said: ‘I’m glad I’m here at last. I’ve always wanted to come away with you.’

  And I said: ‘I always knew you’d come.’ From outside the boat came the sound of a dog being sick.

  The meal was a disaster. It tasted strange. We struggled to eat it. The most memorable moment of the meal came when Jennifer dropped a mouthful from her fork on to her lap. She went to pick it up but there was suddenly a black flash as Boogie dived into the boat and grabbed it. Jennifer, playfully, went for him with her fork, but I held her back and explained that Boogie considered anything fallen on the floor as his. She protested. She said it had landed on her lap. I explained that since she was sitting on the floor Boogie had been confused. She said in that case Boogie had better watch his Kennomeat from now on because if he dropped any she’d have it in a sandwich out of spite. I told her not to worry: Boogie had never in his entire life dropped a morsel of food.

  But this didn’t spoil the evening. Jennifer quickly calmed down and we talked about the journey. She asked me if I’d visited Oscar Wilde’s cell in Reading Gaol. I admitted I hadn’t. She asked if I’d visited Mapledurham House where Alexander Pope was inspired, not to mention Galsworthy. I told her no. She asked me if I’d visited the meadows between Eynsham and Godstow of which Matthew Arnold wrote: ‘Through the Wytham flats, Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among, And darting swallows, and light water gnats, We track’d the shy Thames shore.’ And I said I must have passed it but I couldn’t exactly remember that bit.