Boogie Up the River

by Mark Wallington

  ‘Have you ever thought about having him fostered?’

  ‘Yes . . . No! He’s my companion. He’s my sidekick. How can you say such a thing? How can you be so cruel and thoughtless? That dog has come through thick and thin with me. He’s . . . why has my Mexican spaghetti got hairs in it?’

  In the afternoon we sculled towards Lechlade at speed. We had aggression to release again. At one point we overtook a cruiser called Bridget’s Legs and Jennifer shouted at it to get out of the way. The driver shouted back: ‘Look, it’s Three Men in a Boat,’ to which Jennifer stood up and retorted: ‘I’ve three points to make here: 1) I am not a man 2) Three Men in a Boat is, in my opinion, a self-indulgent, blinkered book and nothing but English sentimentalism at its worst, not to mention being flagrantly sexist and I resent being in any way connected with it. And 3) I think your boat stinks.’

  The driver of the Bridget’s Legs reddened. I said to Jennifer: ‘How could you say that?’

  ‘His boat does stink.’

  ‘About Three Men in a Boat?’

  ‘Oh, not you as well!’

  We passed through St John’s lock, the highest on the river, where the statue of Father Thames reclines in front of the lock-keeper’s house like a centrefold. Then at four o’clock in the afternoon, Maegan slipped under Lechlade’s Halfpenny Bridge. A young girl waved and shouted. I waved and shouted back and she threw an empty milk carton into the boat, Jennifer caught it and threw it back and hit the girl on the nose.

  We moored and I tied a double clover bowline with a reef on the second loop and a granny spring. ‘We’re here,’ I said and put my arms out in a reconciliatory fashion.

  Jennifer smirked and hugged me and said: ‘Right, into town; we need provisions.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Your birthday party of course.’

  Lechlade had pretensions of being a port. It took its role as the end of the recommended navigation seriously and modelled itself on a place of embarkation and arrival, rather like Zanzibar did. I imagined Lechlade would be a place where boats were bought and sold, where you could have a tattoo done if you felt like it, where watermen sitting in the corners of bars would tell stories of the river that would make you go out and check your knots. I imagined I’d meet the sort of people who’d give me firsthand advice on the stream ahead – on the perils of Hannington Bridge and the Sargasso Sea of Water Eaton, not the mention the route to the true source of the river.

  But Lechlade isn’t like that. It’s a neat, well-swept, well-weeded, well-behaved town with a Lloyds Bank, a Barclays Bank, a Shell garage and a BP garage, and a Londis supermarket.

  But the church in Lechlade is beautiful. It’s weathered and worn and one’s eyes climb slowly to its clock. Shelley, who rowed up to Lechlade from London in 1815, was inspired to pen ‘Summer. Evening in a Churchyard’ here. The line ‘Here could I hope, like some inquiring child sporting on graves, that death did hide from human sight sweet secrets’ was printed on a plaque in the churchyard. Jennifer and I stood gazing at it. There was a chill in the air again. Jennifer said: ‘ “Or beside its breathless sleep that loveliest dreams perpetual watch did keep.”’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘The next line of the poem.’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  Old leaves were crackling in the wind, caught amongst the tombstones. The new graves had flowers, the old ones had stagnant water in their vases with insects floating on top. But there was a sense of celebration in the churchyard as well as one of peace. I put my arm through Jennifer’s and we walked between the graves. Jennifer suddenly stopped and said: ‘Quick, give me a pen and paper, I’ve had an idea.’

  I tore a page off my notebook. She scribbled for a moment, crossed out a bit and then scribbled some more. She paused for a moment then looked to the church spire and with a flourish finished the poem. She said: ‘I’m thinking of putting together a volume of poetry inspired by this trip. Poems on a Journey up the Thames, I think I’ll call it. Listen to this: “Last night I slept neath a willow tree while the mist crept into my head, this river is sucking us into its mouth, it’s a beast that must be fed.” What do you reckon?’

  ‘It’s good, it’s good.’

  ‘I like the metaphor of the river being an animal and we’re being drawn towards its mouth, helplessly, as if we were addicted.’

  ‘That’s what I said to you the other night.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you first arrived. I said the river is like a drug.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Are you saying this is your idea as well?’

  ‘I’m not exactly saying that, I’m saying that I’ve had that idea.’

  ‘But I’ve just written it.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m not disputing that, I’m just saying I had that idea as well. It was the first thing that occurred to me on the river – the river is like opium, I put.’

  ‘Listen, from now on, don’t tell me your ideas and I won’t tell you mine.’

  We went into the supermarket. We bought pork chops, onions and garlic. We bought celery, parsley and fennel seeds. We bought oil, cider and cream. There were six people in the queue at the checkout. Jennifer said to them: ‘Could I possibly go in front of you? I wouldn’t ask but I’ve only got six months to live and I want to make best use of my time.’

  Back in the boat Jennifer got out Delia Smith and said: ‘We’re going to have stuffed pork chop with fennel; a birthday treat,’ and she set about softening the onion and garlic and mixing them with the celery, parsley, fennel seeds and bread crumbs. As she worked Boogie came and sat next to her and gave her a wink.

  Next she cut out a hole in the pork chop and packed the stuffing in, then dusted it with flour and placed it into the hot oil. Boogie licked his lips.

  Then she poured the cider over the chop and let it simmer for thirty minutes. Boogie grinned as the smells filled the boat.

  Jennifer was just about to pour on the cream topping when the telephone rang. She breathed in deeply, picked up the receiver and said: ‘Eeurgh . . . That’s disgusting!’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Look what the little bastard has done all over my Vodaphone.’

  I looked at it. It certainly was disgusting. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He does have bouts of being vile. It’s amazing how quickly you get used to it though.’

  She threw the Vodaphone to the floor and screamed: ‘That’s put me right off my food, that has,’ and quick as a flash Boogie grabbed one of the pork chops and leapt out of the boat.

  Jennifer screamed. Some coots paddling nearby ran for cover. She screamed again and the curtains were pulled back in Maid Mind your own Business across the water. She cried: ‘I hate dogs. I really hate dogs. In fact . . .’ and here she hesitated, ‘I’m a cat person! I’ve never told you this but I’m a cat person! I like cats! I hate dogs! Understand. I hate dogs!’

  There was a silence. The water slapped on the mahogany. An owl made a noise like a duck. I backed away from Jennifer. Boogie stuck his head back inside the canvas and looked at me with his ‘did I just hear her right?’ expression. There was an embarrassing silence, the first time I’ve ever had an embarrassing silence with Jennifer in the room.

  Then she sniffed and said: ‘Let’s go and have lots to drink.’

  We left Boogie behind and went to the Crown, then to the Red Lion, then to the New Inn and then to the Swan. In the Swan we had a meal: cheese and herb crusted cottage pie. It was delicious. I said to the barman: ‘This is delicious.’

  ‘One of Delia Smith’s,’ he said. ‘Comes from that One is Fun! book. I just multiply the ingredients by sixty-five.’

  We went back to the Crown, then back to the New Inn, then back to the Red Lion, then back to the Swan. By the end of the evening Jennifer had had two arguments and swopped addresses with three people. We called in at the Red Lion for a last one before closing time.

  The bar was packed. A party o
f bright young things wearing clothing from Next surrounded the bar. One of them called out: ‘Jennifer! Jennifer Conway?’

  ‘Ray!’ shrieked Jennifer and threw her arms around a man with a square head and a shirt with a green banana pattern. Then she pulled me over and said: ‘Come and meet Ray.’

  Ray was horrible, so were Fliss, Michele, Clive and Dominic. They were down for a wedding. ‘There was a marquee and we all got blotto,’ said Clive, who had a video camera.

  Jennifer told them I’d rowed from London and Michele said: ‘We rode from London too, we rode in Dominic’s Cabriolet.’ I suddenly wanted to be back on the river, moored to a meadow miles from anywhere. I started to miss the anonymity of the electricity pylons. Then Jennifer said: ‘Let’s all go back to the boat and have a party. It’s Mark’s birthday!’

  They all insisted on singing happy birthday to me as we walked through the town. Clive filmed the occasion. I felt a real prat, Jennifer put her arm around me and I said: ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘They’re a laugh, aren’t they? I can’t stand them. But I like lots of people I can’t stand. They are a laugh though.’ As she spoke I noticed Ray was walking down the street and changing round the notes in the milk bottles on the doorsteps.

  When we reached Maegan they all said what a beautiful boat she was. Clive filmed her from three sides. Jennifer proudly swept back the canvas flap and said: ‘C’mon in, folks; make yourself at home.’

  We piled in and I lit the lamp and there at the back of the boat was Boogie with his legs wrapped round the hind quarters of one of Lechlade’s least virtuous bitches. Michele screamed. Ray said: ‘That’s disgusting.’ Clive said: ‘What’s he doing?’ but didn’t stop filming. And Dominic said: ‘Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it all over your sleeping bag.’ Jennifer clambered up the boat, picked up her wok and belted Boogie over the head with it. It made a noise like a bell. Boogie and his girlfriend leapt out and brought down the tent. Jennifer stood alone in the stern covered in green canvas. She began to cry. ‘He’s spoiled my birthday party!’ she sobbed.

  ‘It was my birthday party!’ I said. .

  ‘I don’t care whose birthday party it is; he’s spoiled it, like he spoils everything else. I’ve had enough. That’s it! Either he goes or I go!’ And she appeared from under the canvas in a rage. I wasn’t so sure her short hair suited her now. She said: ‘I’m going to make some telephone calls. When I come back I expect you to have had him put down,’ and she grapped her Vodaphone and strode off.

  There was a silence amongst the rest of us. Clive, who didn’t like silences, said they ought to go home but that he had the whole episode on film and we should all go round to his house one day and watch it. They left. I was suddenly on my own. Then from the back yard of the nearby tea room. Boogie appeared. We went for a long walk along the towpath.

  ‘The country is the place, you know, Boogie. The country is the place folks like you and I should live.’

  Boogie licked something off a No Mooring sign.

  ‘The trouble is I work in the city. But you? You could live anywhere. I mean, wouldn’t you like to move out to a nice home in the country?’ Boogie sat down and scratched his ear even more violently than before.

  ‘Maybe it would be better if you were to stay in the country.’ He stopped and gave me his ‘typical! Well, just give me my can opener, mate. No need to worry about me’ expression.

  ‘Now c’mon. Be fair,’ I said. ‘What can I do? I know she appears unreasonable but I’ve got myself to think of. It’s either you or her. It’s an impossible situation. You’ll be all right. You make friends easy.’

  We walked a long way that night. When we got back to the boat Jennifer was in bed. I got in quietly beside her and touched her arm. She didn’t turn to me; she just said: ‘I feel desperate sometimes.’

  I said: ‘I know what you mean. I used to feel like that sometimes too. But since I’ve been on the river I’ve felt different. I feel the river flowing through me now like blood. All things change but the river keeps on rolling. Things are a lot clearer now. I can look at my life from a distance. I can feel the force of a natural flow in all that I do. And there’s an inevitability about everything. I see now that birth and death are irrevocably linked.’

  She turned over and said: ‘Why have you been talking such inane rubbish the last few days?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  I had a vivid dream that night. I dreamt Delia Smith was in the back of the boat. She was wearing a black velvet evening dress and a sparkling tiara and she was cooking the most glorious meals for one then eating them all herself. She was angry with me. She offered me a glass of wine but it had a dead beetle floating upside down in it.

  I woke with a start. In the moonlight I could see Boogie crawling out of Maegan and up on to the bank. A lump came to my throat. What a noble dog this was, and I was witnessing his finest hour. Like Captain Oates he was sacrificing himself so that the expedition to the source could continue. He could sense this was not a happy party. To end the conflict he knew there was only one course of action to take.

  He walked off into the meadow. I called softly: ‘Goodbye, Boogie. And thank you.’ He stopped and turned. A car’s headlights flashed in his eye, and in his mouth I saw a white object. At first I thought it was a bone but then I realized it was a Vodaphone.

  He buried it, then trotted back to the boat, stuffed his nose under his tail and went back to sleep.

  10.Meet Me at the Source if You Like

  IN THE HISTORY of exploration there is one man who towers above all others in the department of portage. He is Charles Sturt, an explorer with conviction if ever there was one, a man so sure that a country as vast as Australia could not possibly have such a poor water supply, that when he set out from Adelaide in 1844 in search of an inland sea, he took a boat with him.

  I thought of Charles Sturt a lot over the next two days as I made my quest for Cricklade. He was an inspiration. He even managed to inspire me to take a jog the morning I left Lechlade, although after I’d run a hundred yards or so I felt silly and walked back to the boat. I felt drained from the previous forty-eight hours. But I also felt nervous and wanted to get moving. I knew from here on I would need to have my wits about me, from here on I would need to try to put aside all that had happened and concentrate my mind, from here on I was on my own again.

  I doused my head with river water, and looked at my reflection. I had bags under my eyes. So did Boogie. He sat expressionless on the back seat. ‘I understand,’ I said and patted him. Presently the sun blasted through the mist and glinted off an ice-cream sign across the river. Lechlade tremored with church bells and I stripped down to my shorts and hat, and set off. Boogie, as if sensing the gravity of the moment, positioned himself on the stern, casting a cold, discerning eye upstream, seemingly alert to all the dangers ahead, actually alert to not a single one of them.

  Our last contact with the civilized river was at the Inglesham Roundhouse where the abandoned Thames Severn Canal met the Thames. This link between London and Bristol was the first canal project to excite investors when news of Leonardo da Vinci’s lock reached these shores at the beginning of the seventeenth century. So excited were they that a hundred and fifty years later they actually got round to building the thing. But it was beset with problems from the start, and as canals nationwide became more efficient, traders realized the Thames was a slow waterway and were reluctant to use it. The owners worked hard at bringing the navigation up to standard, finally turning it into an efficient route around about the same time that railways were invented. The rest is a predictable story of decline, and in 1933 all was abandoned.

  The Inglesham Roundhouse – one of a series of buildings along the canal built as watch-houses for the lock-keeper – stood at the junction of the canal with the Thames and the river Coln. I’d seen many fine and beautiful houses on the river over the previous hundred miles, but this Roundhouse with its cottage hiding amongst a veil of wi
llows was the most appealing of them all. It was all chimneys and vines and seemed a wonderful place to be born, grow up in and then come back to. It was more like a nest than a house. I looked hard but couldn’t see a burglar alarm.

  The house and the hamlet of Inglesham disappeared behind a bend and ahead of me was nothing but sky and field. Immediately the river narrowed and shallowed. For the first time I could see the bottom. No dredger had ever come up here, and without traffic the weeds and reeds flourished and soon grew out of control. It would have been possible just to force a passage, but I hated doing this, the coots built their nests on precarious platforms amongst the reeds and more than once when I pushed my way through I had ended up staring into the forlorn faces of five chicks whose home I had just bulldozed.

  By now though I was useful with my sculls. I could turn Maegan on a lilypad and twist her through the narrowest inlet. The struggles I’d had coming under Maidenhead Bridge and through Hennerton Backwater now proved their worth as I picked and paddled a course through the obstacles.

  I saw only a lone canoeist all day. He looked at me strangely and wouldn’t have stopped had I not called out to him. I wanted encouragement more than anything, but he said: ‘Cricklade? You’ll be lucky, you’re too heavy. You’ll never make Castle Eaton Bridge,’ and he wriggled his hips and swerved through the reeds like a water snake and was gone.

  I kept going while the sun reached for the top of the sky. There was no shade here; this was wild country and for the first time on this trip I felt completely committed. At Hannington Bridge were the first shallows. I leapt out and felt the water fill my wellingtons, and I cringed as I dragged the boat over the river bed and the gravel scored Maegan’s belly.

  But I had a different kind of energy that day. At one point when the sun was high, I remember I came to a mound of gravel that seemed like an unbreachable barrier, and the effort to haul Maegan over too much. But I closed my eyes and thought back over the previous three days, and I saw Jennifer standing there with her fists clenched, shrieking. I grunted and tugged and the boat rode over. Afterwards, I leant over the gunwales panting, and Boogie eyed me approvingly. He hadn’t moved from the back seat since Lechlade. He’d won his battle and he wasn’t going to give his position up for anyone.