Boogie Up the River

by Mark Wallington

  Inside, we were wrapped in the thick and heady aroma of a Sri Lankan egg curry. I sat at one end with Delia Smith in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other. Jennifer sat opposite, chopping up onions. Boogie sat behind her, his eyes full of tears.

  As I added the garlic and ginger to the chopped vegetables, I told Jennifer of my desire to be a lock-keeper. As I blended in the turmeric, flour and curry powder just as Delia instructed, and stirred it to soak up the juice, I said: ‘We could get a lock-keeper’s cottage – something like the one at Sonning. I could be the lock-keeper and you could be the lock-keeper’s wife.’

  ‘I want to be the lock-keeper, you can be the lock-keeper’s wife.’

  ‘I don’t think there are any female lock-keepers.’

  ‘Well, we’ll soon see about that, won’t we?’

  As I mixed in the creamed coconut and added a tiny bit of lemon juice to sharpen the flavour and then poured the sauce over the eggs and rice and chutney, Jennifer asked me how much lock-keepers earned. I told her I imagined about eight thousand pounds a year but that included electricity and the house came rent free. She told me she’d earned eight thousand pounds in the time I’d been on the river.

  The curry tasted dreadful. It was a disaster. Boogie loved it but that meant nothing. We ate what we could then piled the rest into his bowl and he ate it the way he always eats curry – quickly. Afterwards, I washed the plates in the river and watched the orange slick drift off towards London. Then Jennifer said: ‘It’s Friday. I want a night out on the town.’

  We walked up the lane to the village pub, arm in arm, Boogie at our side. ‘See, he’s cute once you get used to him,’ I said. Jennifer patted him and something brown came off on her hand.

  ‘It’s only curry,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure.

  The pub was empty but for a few men sitting round the bar. The landlord said: ‘It’s always quiet on a Friday.’ Jennifer ordered the drinks. She said: ‘Pint of bitter and . . .’ She was interrupted by one of the wits at the bar. He said: ‘And what’s your fella having, a Slimline tonic?’ He laughed and all his mates laughed with him. I cringed. Jennifer calmly continued: ‘. . . And another pint of bitter and a Castella.’ Then she lit the cigar and swigged back half a pint, and said: ‘Okay, who wants a game of arm wrestling?’

  The men weren’t local. They came from Yorkshire. They were itinerant barn erectors. They travelled the country putting up barns wherever they were asked. ‘We even went to France to put one up once,’ said a lad with shaving cuts on his face. ‘Have you ever been to France? Great place, France.’

  I remember him because he was the first to take up Jennifer’s challenge.

  ‘Arm wrestling with a woman?’ he said. ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘For a fiver,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘I wouldn’t take your money,’ said the lad.

  ‘A tenner,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘I wouldn’t rob you.’

  His mates were gibing him. ‘Fifty quid,’ said Jennifer.

  There was a hush. ‘Put your money away,’ said the lad, feeling uneasy now.

  Jennifer leant over him and said: ‘Beat me and you can sleep with me.’

  His mates yelled and pushed him off his seat.

  ‘Er . . . okay,’ said the lad, and blushed.

  They sat at a table in the middle of the room. The lad put fifty quid on the table. They held hands; their grips tightened. The lad’s hand hit the table so hard it caused the ashtray to leap on to the floor.

  ‘Next,’ said Jennifer and a big lad from Featherstone got up and sat at the table. He put his fifty quid down in front of him and said: ‘Can I sleep with you as well?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jennifer, and she nearly broke his wrist.

  The next challenger was a man in a T-shirt with the word Rams on the back. He said: ‘I once built a barn on the Glasgow Ring Road all on my own.’

  He sat down and fixed his upper lip into a snarl. Then he grabbed Jennifer’s hand, and for a moment it seemed as though she had a match. But she was only playing with him. Suddenly she lunged, bringing his arm down to the wood with such force he nearly fell off his stool.

  She pocketed a hundred and fifty pounds, then walked back to the bar and ordered another round and said: ‘Anyone else fancy a go?’

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ I said.

  ‘Okay sucker,’ she said and we sat down at the table. I took her hand and she let it go limp and I slapped it down.

  ‘You win,’ she said. ‘Your place or mine?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  We walked back through the village, laughing. The night was so bright it was blue. Jennifer’s shorn hair sparkled. I felt very close to her at that moment. I was about to tell her so when the phone rang.

  She stood there in the icy grey reflection of the Kelmscott stone. She breathed in heavily and exhaled slowly, then she picked up the receiver. ‘Jennifer Conway . . . No!’ Then she replaced it in her bag again and we walked back to the boat through a field of cows.

  Maegan looked more of a home now she had two people living in her and pot plants dispersed around her deck. But as we climbed inside and settled down, an appalling smell threaded itself through her. The air had taken on a different consistency and I knew instantly that Boogie had farted horribly.

  Jennifer looked at Boogie and grimaced. I said: ‘That’s not Boogie. It’s the cows. I’ll go and frighten them off.’

  I took Boogie for a walk along the towpath, a longer walk than usual.

  ‘Now look! I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to antagonize her, aren’t you? You’re trying to show what disgusting company I keep. Well let me give you a word of advice: she’s trying to get on with you. And I think the least you can do is try and do the same. Now, I know you’ve just had a curry, and I know what an impressive farter you are, and I know you’re merely exercising your right to fart, but I’m warning you – you are living on a knife edge, boy. One more word out of your bum tonight and you are going home Red Star.’

  When we got back to the boat Jennifer was in the sleeping bag. I ordered Boogie to the stern and crawled in beside her. She said: ‘Do you really think my aggressive image is just a veneer? Do you think that beneath this selfish and cynical exterior there’s a woman you could live with?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You’re not trying.’

  ‘It’s always the same. The people I like don’t stay around me long and the people I dislike stay around even less. I’ve a self-destructive streak in me. Anyone who gets close to me I hurt. It’s because of what happened as a child.’

  I had a feeling I was about to hear something she told very few people. I remember thinking to myself: The river has got to her already. I said: ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve never told this to anyone . . . My mother deserted me shortly after I was born. I was left on a doorstep. The nurses called me Jennifer after the policewoman who found me. I was brought up in a variety of foster homes around the Docklands. Once, when I was six, I was locked in a darkened bedroom for three days. I’ve always had to look after myself. And now it’s instinctive for me to think of no one but myself. I’m full of resentment.’

  The water lapped on the mahogany. Outside an owl made a noise like a washing machine. I suddenly realized how alike Boogie and Jennifer were. I felt elated. I said: ‘Of course! You’re just like Boogie. He was . . .’

  ‘What!!’ And she was up and out of the bag and staring at me with tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve just told you the most private thing I can, and you say I’m like your dog. You’re sick . . .’

  ‘No, the point I was trying to make was that I’m used to the problem of . . .’

  ‘You’re weird. I’ve heard you talking to that animal as well. I don’t know what you’ve been up to on this trip but it doesn’t seem very healthy to me. I don’t know how much more of this I can stand.’

  ‘No, listen to me . . .’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t listen to people. That’s the first thing all the people I know, know about me. I’m unreasonable.’

  ‘We can work on it. I’m just the opposite. I’m incredibly reasonable.’

  But she’d turned away.

  I lay there feeling the chill in the air. I felt helpless. I leant over to touch her but as I did so I plunged my head into a cloud so vile it made my nose run. At the back of the tent I could see Boogie’s eyes green with mischief, his teeth starry in a grin.

  ‘Not now, Boogie, please. This is a very insensitive time to fart,’ I whispered.

  Jennifer stirred and sniffed. ‘What’s going on? What on earth is that smell? It can’t be . . . Oh my God! Get that dog out of here. Get him out!!’

  I thought quickly: ‘Er . . . actually, that was me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was me. I did that. I’m responsible for that rather distasteful smell. Sorry.’

  In the half light I could see a look of disbelief on her face. She shook her head and settled down again. I glared at Boogie. He glared back and lifted his rump and trumped again. The canvas around us sagged.

  ‘You’ll pay for this, you will. I promise you, you will pay for this.’

  Like a marsh slick, the fetid cloud slipped from beneath him and drifted towards me. I furiously wafted my hand at it but it was too powerful. Jennifer stirred again. She looked at me, her face creased in pain. ‘That can’t be you?’

  ‘Yep. Sorry. That was me again. The curry, I’m afraid. Huh.’

  At the back of the tent Boogie released another. It curled its way towards us. ‘Oh no!’ said Jennifer as she inhaled the fresh blast. ‘That’s the most foul . . .’

  ‘Sorry. Me again,’ and I tried to grin. ‘These little idiosyncrasies are what you learn to get used to when you live with someone. You know, the Real Me, and all that.’

  ‘If that’s the real you, you can sleep on your own!’ she said, then climbed out of the boat and went and slept under a willow.

  The river was becoming more shallow. In the past few days we’d passed the confluences of sizable rivers like the Evenlode and the Windrush and their contribution to the stream was missed. I began to grow concerned about the water level. If it was this low here what would it be like past Lechlade? Jennifer’s arrival had distracted me and I felt it was time we re-established our commitment to the river. I decided we should hold an expedition meeting.

  I was roused the next morning by a flash of light as the tent was ripped off the boat and there stood Jennifer panting and dripping. She’d been for another run and swim. She had little white socks on that just covered her ankles. She threw her arms out and said: ‘Happy birthday!’ and then she dived on top of me and kissed me like a vacuum cleaner. ‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ I asked.

  ‘I never forget birthdays. C’mon, breakfast is ready. Today is your day. I’m doing all the cooking.’

  We had scrambled eggs and crispy bacon with garlic mushrooms, followed by pancakes and maple syrup and espresso coffee. The day was dazzling and the ducks flew in and gathered round the boat. The sun shone on their beaks and we threw them some wholemeal toast. Jennifer seemed to have put the events of the previous evening to one side, although I noticed that when she cut the rind off her bacon she threw it to the ducks rather than to Boogie. He went for a walk along the towpath at this point.

  After breakfast Jennifer pulled a box out of her bag and presented it to me. ‘Many happy returns,’ she said. I unwrapped the box carefully and folded the paper. It was a pair of binoculars and from that moment on the journey was never the same.

  I focused on the ducks and immediately they took to the air and disappeared. I focused on a family of coots and they flapped and panicked and splashed into the safety of the reeds. I saw a rookery in the distance and the moment I focused on it the birds ducked down into their nests and became quiet. I saw a swan upstream but when it realized I had my lens trained on it it up-ended and showed me its tail. It was as if nature could tolerate only a certain amount of intrusion by man. Casual appreciation was encouraged, but binoculars were voyeurism and that wasn’t allowed.

  But I didn’t tell Jennifer. I told her instead I was thrilled with my binoculars. I told her what a thoughtful, kind person she was, that she couldn’t have given me a nicer present and that I was so glad she was here with me to see all this. She said there was nowhere she’d rather be, that she spent too much time in the city and not enough in the country, and that she needed to have people like me around her instead of the sycophants she worked with. She needed to change her priorities, redirect her energies in more spiritually rewarding areas, and she should begin by properly involving herself in this trip, and if the phone were to go now she wouldn’t even answer it.

  At that point the phone rang. Jennifer tensed then answered it. ‘Jennifer Conway . . . Why . . . Of course . . . No . . . I don’t care.’

  She put the phone back in her bag. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘It takes time to acclimatize, that’s all,’ I replied. ‘It takes time to slow down into the rhythm of the river. You’ll see. I’ve been wanting to say I think we should concentrate our efforts now on getting to the source. We should put all our petty differences behind us and remember we have a goal.’

  She nodded and picked up her orange juice and stood up in the boat: ‘To the source,’ she toasted.

  ‘To the source,’ I replied, and we packed up and sculled away with the sun in our faces. A bark from the bank reminded me I’d forgotten Boogie.

  At Buscot lock, Jennifer said to the lock-keeper: ‘We’re heading to the source of the river, any advice?’

  ‘Yes, my advice is you’ll kill yourself at the Castle Eaton Rapids. If you do get to though to Cricklade though, there’s a pub you should call in at but I forget the name.’

  ‘The Swan?’ I said.

  ‘No, there’s no Swan in Cricklade.’

  This was the first sign that Cricklade was a place beyond the limit of navigation. The lock-keeper said: ‘It’s different up there. Wild and, well . . . different.’

  Then past the lock the spire of St Laurence’s of Lechlade came into the view for the first time. I stopped sculling and ran to the bow, and stood on the end of the boat with my hands in the air: ‘Lechlade. I can see Lechlade!’ I said.

  ‘What? Already?’ said Jennifer.

  ‘What do you mean, already? This is the beacon I’ve been heading for ever since I left London.’

  ‘What’s so special about Lechlade?’

  I told her that Lechlade was the end of the navigable Thames; how from here on it was everyone for themselves; how the Thames Water Authority didn’t advise any boats to venture further; how cruisers would run aground within a mile or two.

  I tried to impress upon her the significance of the first sight of the spire of St Laurence, how the sight of it filled me with a spiritual warmth that only a traveller who has journeyed under his own steam could appreciate. I also tried to impress upon her how from here on the comforts of the downstream river would be denied us. Ahead lay the period of privation that must be endured in any search for the source of a great river, and that from now on things would get tough.

  And she said: ‘Great. Let’s have lunch. Spaghetti with a Mexican sauce, I think.’

  We moored under a willow. Jennifer dug out her hat. It was squashed and chewed and largely ruined. She sighed and said: ‘That dog has slept on my hat. Look at it!’

  ‘I’m sure it was an accident.’

  ‘It’s my new hat. He’s squashed it.’

  ‘Its green; it looks like grass. You’re lucky he only slept on it.’

  ‘I’m a tolerant person but there’s . . .’

  ‘You’re not tolerant. You’re intolerant. You’re confusing the two.’

  She screwed her face up which made her look painfully attractive, then she sat on the bank with Delia Smith in one hand and a clove of garlic in the other. A heron flew past and landed on a bough near
by. I picked up my binoculars and focused on it, and it flew away to hide in some trees.

  As Jennifer cooked the chopped pepper and added the garlic she said: ‘There are dog hairs in the olive oil.’

  I said: ‘I feel as though I’ve formed a special relationship with willows on this voyage.’

  As she added the minced beef, red wine, chilli powder and parsley she said: ‘There are dog hairs in the tomato puree.’

  I said: ‘Willows are such mournful trees. I feel their arms reaching out to me. Weeping is the only way to describe willows.’

  As she brought a pot of salted water to the boil and fed in the spaghetti, she said: ‘There are dog hairs in the boiling water.’

  And I said: ‘I see faces in their bark; devilish faces.’

  She started to grate some Parmesan cheese but then stopped and said through clenched teeth: ‘There are even dog hairs wrapped around the cheese grater.’

  ‘I’d like to be buried under a willow.’

  ‘Did you hear me? There are dog hairs wrapped around the cheese grater.’

  ‘Yes . . . they’re mine.’

  She held one up. ‘Your hairs are not black and curly.’

  ‘Ah, that could be one of Boogie’s.’

  ‘Of course it’s one of Boogie’s; they’re all Boogie’s. The dog is falling to bits.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a problem. Dog hairs in your bed, dog hairs in your bath, dog hairs in your soup. You’d be surprised how quickly you get used to it.’

  ‘I don’t want to get used to it. I don’t feel as though I should have to get used to it. It needn’t be like this, you know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well . . . it’s unkind to have a dog in the city.’ She served out the spaghetti. It smelt strange. ‘It’s unkind to have him on the boat.’

  I looked over at Boogie. He was looking very suspicious.

  ‘We could find a nice home for him,’ went on Jennifer

  She put some Mexican sauce on my plate. It looked like mud.