“We were invited to contribute in the library to the opening celebrations for the new Pools with a reading session of our work. This anthology, which is for our enjoyment, has been printed on the Lewisham blog.”
Contributors
- Rebecca Milligan
- Lloyd Paige
- Maggie Smith
- Alan Wallace
- Sheila Cornelius has entered her story in a competition so may not publish it here
THE
SWIMMING LESSON – C1980
The edge of the pool
began to blur as Sarah struggled towards it for the fifth time that
session. Her fingers clinging on to the
concrete had left their mark and the water began to spill over the side. So much so that she couldn’t see where the
pool ended and the hard-standing began.
She could feel her
shoulders sagging as she dropped lower in the water. It gurgled around her, noises cutting in and
out of focus as she pulled her head in and out of the blue of the pool.
‘Come on, kick those
legs,’ came the shout from the side.
‘Don’t give up now.’
She only heard half of
it, not enough to get the meaning, but she knew it wouldn’t be a rundown of
what was for tea tonight. She sucked in
another lungful of air, gasping a little as she fought to keep her head above
the water. It was no good, she could
feel herself getting lower and lower down.
The sounds of the surface drifted away, the swimming coach’s entreaties
and threats melted into nothing – until she saw the pole in front of her, as he
fished her out again.
‘Pathetic!’ he roared,
‘Absolutely pathetic, I’ve had kids half your age swimming across there by
now.’
Behind the pillar her
mother turned her head away and wept.
Sarah went in again.
Each lesson was an ordeal. It started the moment they got into the car
to go to the swimming pool, the feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, her
breakfast whirling around in her tummy, nausea and nerves. Then the smell of the chlorine as the double
doors opened into the pool. It hit her
in the back of the throat, almost making her gag. The tight swimming costume, the stretchy
rubber of the swimming cap that pulled back her hair, all of it, gradually
leading up to the moment where she had to go into the water.
It was different when
she came to the pool on other days, for birthday treats with friends, or with
her family. It wasn’t scary then. Then the water was an oasis of fun. The pool was light, the water’s blues and
greens dappled in the sunlight had a magical feel. Wave machines, water slides, shrieks of
laughter as you slithered in and out of the pool, all added to the charm. It was all so different when she was wearing
the magical armbands that stopped you from sinking.
The swimming coach,
‘Uncle Bill’ he was called, an ex-marine with tattoos up and down his arms, had
outlawed armbands. He’d seen her larking
about in the water, with her sister before their first lesson.
‘She can swim,’
he’d told her mother
and taken the orange life-savers away.
He was wrong though, she couldn’t, not without those rings of air around
her arms that lifted her away from the bottom of the pool. That had to be why she kept on sinking. He kept yelling at her as though volume would
make her float. It didn’t.
She clung on to the
side, wretched. She’d had her fill of
the chlorinated water. The tattoos came
closer and he bellowed at her again,
‘You’ve got to let
go.’
Her eyes stung, but she
couldn’t tell whether it was from tears or the chlorine. She took a deep breath and started the
tortuous progress again. Her arms ached
from flailing against the water. She couldn’t see anything, but this time, this
time she was going to make it across.
After a while she got
quite good. She mastered breaststroke,
backstroke, although the breathing in the crawl was always tricky. She was grateful when she got to secondary
school. The kids who couldn’t swim yet
were just chucked in at the shallow end and told to get on with it. No pole to fish them out. Mind you, there was no-one yelling at them
from the side either. She never liked it
though. Never enjoyed being in the water
like some did, but she got through those lessons without anyone really noticing
her, which felt like an achievement in itself.
After school she didn’t
have to go swimming anymore. There were
pools on holidays, but they were for lounging around. Make sure you get your sunbed at the right
angle to get an even tan, adjust your bikini when the waiter comes past, maybe
trail your toes in, if you’re feeling decadent.
The most you needed was a quick dunk in the water to cool down if your
skin started to sizzle, but that was it.
Now, twenty plus years
later, here she is again, outside the municipal swimming pool. She opens the door, her heart sinking in her
chest. As she walks in the wall of heat
and the unmistakable smell of the chlorine hit the back of her throat. She pauses mid-stride, the emotions flooding
back.
‘Come on Mummy!’
She smiles down at the
little blonde head beside her, shoves the panic down deep inside
‘It’s fine, we’ve got
plenty of time.’
The blonde curls quiver
with excitement, and she is half-dragged down the corridor
‘Come on! I want to try my new goggles.’
As the lesson begins,
Sarah watches closely. The children kick
their legs, hold floats and laugh. Their
teacher makes it fun. They sing songs
and jump into the water. At the edge of
the pool, she sits, tense, uncertain, fearful for her child. No ex-Naval tattoos here, but the sense of
relief is palpable when they walk
towards the exit. The blonde curls,
dragged down with water, nestle at her side,
‘Can we come again
tomorrow? Please? Please?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll be
back next week.’ She smiles.
Rebecca Milligan
MORE
PECULIAR THAN ME
As
a rule of thumb i won’t talk about politics, religion, or sexual orientation.
I’ll leave that for others. But what I can talk about is how to organise a
building before little blighters run in and destroy it all. I’m an old
fashioned caretaker in a modern world.
There are none more peculiar than
me.
I
was on my way to the opening of the new swimming pools when the skies decided
to weep and the front tyre on my bicycle exploded. i chained the bike to a
nearby railing and thumbed a ride, and although the downpour drenched my
clothes, the pools remained the only thing on my mind. yes, with water seeping
out of my shoes, my hair loose and floppy, and a bike in need of repair that
was all I could think of.
There are none more peculiar than
me.
A
van pulled up, rusty around the edges, coughing up smoke from the exhaust. I
opened the door to see the driver’s fishing hat cover the top part of his face,
leaving only his nose and lips visible. I should have felt apprehensive then
but I didn’t.
‘where
you going?’ he asked.
To
the new swimming pools up at Forest Hill please, my bike’s got a puncture and I
need to be there in a hurry.’
‘Buckle up then,’ he said.
I
closed the door, immediately shutting out the rain.
‘You
eaten?’ he asked.
‘Er
yes, cereal. it’s lighter on the stomach.’
‘Really?
i prefer a full English m’self. The name’s robbo.’
I
turned to him with a smile.
‘Patrick.’
Robbo
reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a cheese sandwich wrapped in
cellophane.
‘Cereal
won’t keep you. Have this,’ he said handing it to me, ‘Made it fresh this
morning.’
i
accepted it reluctantly but gasped at the blue mould which attached itself to
the corners so I wrapped it back, not wanting offend him and slipped it into my
pocket.
There are none more peculiar than
me.
‘why
are you desperate to reach the pools?’ he asked.
‘It’s
the opening ceremony and i’m the caretaker, the man with the keys. If i don’t
get there—’
‘Everyone will be stuck outside and you’ll be
in big trouble,’ he cut in, almost mocking my predicament. But he was right.
We
drove past the Horniman Museum then Robbo swung the van over to the kerb and we
sat in silence for longer than we should. When I turned to him he said,
‘You
never thought I’d drop you off for free did you?’
Well
actually I did, but felt embarrassed to admit it. Kindness was a dying art. I
pulled out my wallet, not happy at being held to ransom.
‘OK,
how much do you want: a fiver, a tenner?’
Robbo
chuckled and cracked his knuckles in an intimidating way.
‘Considering
the appalling weather, the dangerous driving conditions, I’d say it’s worth a
bit more.’
‘OK,
here’s £20,’ I said, ‘Daylight robbery if you ask me though.’
‘Twenty?
I think eighty should do it.’
Robbo’s
hands stayed glued to the steering wheel. Then he pressed a button and the
locks clamped down. He switched off the ignition too, which was not a good sign
and if i were twenty years younger then I’d have shown him. I had an idea.
‘Can
you swim Robbo? You have a swimmer’s physique.’
He
smiled at the compliment and broadened his shoulders.
‘Funny
you say that, I was the best in class until the accident,’ he said; ‘my dog
drowned, couldn’t save him. Never swam again after.’
I
saw a genuine sorrow emit from his eyes and almost let sympathy weaken me;
almost.
‘Look,
if I don’t open the Pools on time, imagine the disappointment. Think of the
little kiddies chomping at the bit to get in. Why deny them the chance to
swim? I’ll even see if i can fix you up
with a few free lessons, get you started again.’
His
face softened.
‘You’d
do that for me?’
I
nodded. Robbo restarted the van and moved off and the excitement swelled my
heart because somehow, my words seeped through his iron exterior.
We
zig-zagged through the traffic and reached the Pools in a matter of minutes. Robbo
released the locks allowing me to jump out. I grabbed my things, swept up in a
wave of relief and told him to come in and wait for the administrator.
‘We’ll
see about those free lessons,’ I said, not one to hold a grudge.
He
nodded but by the time I crossed the road and reached the entrance, he’d driven
away. i couldn’t understand why he would act in such as way, when he picked me
up in the first place then turn his back on my free lessons offer, and I
wondered if my words ignited his desire to swim again. Only he could answer
those questions but after meeting him I knew that I’d stop telling myself that
there are none more peculiar than me.
Lloyd
Paige
FROM BATHS TO POOLS
The
local historian is, as always fascinating
‘This
building is believed to have been the oldest working swimming baths in London.
It opened on May 2nd 1885 in a Victorian crusade for 'health & safety,' to
bring baths and clean warm water to many parts of the growing population in the
area who had no or limited access.….‘
The
voice fades; with the mention of ‘swimming baths’ she’s four again, at the
paddling pool, when pools were outside, mostly in parks -. Danson Park,
Bexleyheath, to be exact - and indoor swimming was always at ‘the Baths’
‘Gran
why can’t I go in?’
‘You’ve
not brought your costume.’
Costume
– another extinct word, probably hand-knitted and horrendously stretchy.
But
she did go in – not deliberately, she
tripped; sandals, socks, dress, probably knickers too, all soaking wet.
‘Just
you wait till I tell your mother.’
Gran’s
favourite sentence.
She’s
back with the speaker.
An Act of
1846, concerned with the hygiene of the lower classes, permitted only slipper
baths, laundries and open-air pools until an amendment in 1878 encouraged the
building of covered swimming baths.
She
smirks, her memory confirmed. Open-air pools, covered swimming baths. School swimming lessons, thumps on the
cubicle doors as she drags reluctant socks over damp calves. Thin, scratchy
wartime towels, far too inadequate to dry goose-pimpled skin in the few seconds
allowed by teachers anxious not to miss their lunch breaks. ‘Come on, now, it can’t take all
day to dress.’ Perhaps not, but …
‘I’m
going as fast as I can, Miss –‘ What was the teacher’s name? Winter increases the
discomfort – no heating, once out of the water. ‘Don’t
complain, there’s a war on.’ Another
never-forgotten chant. She learns to swim a width, a length, more. Never masters
diving, not after she’s neglected, after her first successful non- belly flop,
to turn her hands. The bump on her nose is too embarrassing to risk a repeat.
Few
authorities adopted the Act before the 1890s, when baths began to flourish, but
in 1882 Lewisham Vestry, a progressive authority, appointed seven Commissioners
with the objective of obtaining funds and land to build two swimming pools at
Ladywell and Forest Hill.
Where
do teenagers hang out these days? (not that ‘teenagers’ or ‘hanging out’ were
part of her youthful vocabulary) Shopping malls - or texting and social
networking - are surely less fun than the pre-mating games as they’d chased
around the pool in school holidays. Names and faces pass like the ghosts in
Macbeth - Bill Lack, Elspeth Ross, Monica Hudson, Colin Dexter. Now she’s
name-dropping – he was a clever-clogs even then, she saw him recently on BBC4.
Do any of them still swim? Are they still alive?
In 2006
the London Borough of Lewisham was forced to close the Pools for health and
safety reasons. The Council considered various options for bringing it back
into use… ‘
With
Janet, taking their first babies to Charlton Lido; Saturday morning
multi-family rendezvous at Greenwich baths while several children dog-paddle,
progress to bronze and silver. Gerry, a non-swimmer determined not to shame his
son, learning after work at Marshall Street, now gone the way of so many London
Baths. Modern Yummy Mummies cram buggies into St Davids or Canvas and Cream,
toddlers wriggling or sleeping. Already the Mums are gathering here, may even have
swum with the little ones. Will
certainly have signed up for the Zumba sessions.
In the
end the Council, with the community’s support, agreed to demolish and rebuild
the pool halls whilst retaining and integrating the original frontage building
into the design
Holmfirth
in the nineties, swimming no longer enough. Aerobics in the water, women- only
sessions, some sporting huge pregnant bumps, unheard of when she was expecting.
Back in London, taking her
grand-daughter to Ladywell for lessons, swimming and playing together,
beginning to wonder if she would still be alive by the time Forest Hill Pools are finally rebuilt.
He’s
putting his papers together.
‘It seems appropriate, in this glorious
Olympic year, that Forest Hill Baths were home to Linda Lovegrove, Commonwealth
Gold Medalist & World Record holder 1962-67 and that this is the year we
declare these pools open.
She’ll
swim, exercise. All for free – age has its compensations.
Maggie Smith
POOLS
I was never an athlete, even in my
dreams, but I liked swimming. As a child I was quite good at life-saving
drills, tying trousers in knots and recovering objects glittering at the bottom
of the pool – and there was the Singleton incident.
Singleton was a twit – my friend
Barlow and I were agreed on that. Manipulative – but still a twit. Barlow and I
used to spot trains, but Singleton spent his time being ill, or pretending to
be.
He persuaded Matron that it would
hurt him to walk and so he was given permission to go everywhere on his
bicycle. While we were playing football or cricket, he would be swanning around
on his bike, looking smug – or, as Barlow said, goofy.
Singleton got tired one day of
circling the playground and started riding round and round the swimming pool,
taking his hands off the handlebars and then seeing how slowly he could keep
going without falling off. That day, though, he fell in, at the deep end, bike
and all.
He broke the surface, waving his
arms and legs in panic. I remembered that he couldn’t swim; so I mastered the
urge to laugh and begun to think about getting him out. I couldn’t reach him
and in any case I didn’t want to risk getting pulled in, too.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ he
shouted, ‘Hurry up and get me out, you idiot!’
He was senior to me, by a term.
‘Just a moment – are you calling me an idiot?’
I slowed down slightly but, not
wanting him actually to drown, I carried on walking up towards the deep end. On
a rack by the changing room door were some poles with slings that the teachers
sometimes used to help those who couldn’t quite swim. He caught on fast and
tried to clamber straight out, but I wasn’t having that. I pulled sideways and
dragged him to shallower water.
‘There! You can almost walk now.’
‘‘What about my bike?’
I stopped.
‘What about it?’
‘You’ve got to get it out!’
‘Have I? You put it there in the
first place. Tell you what – you’re fairly wet already. We’ll go back and you
can maybe put the loop round the handlebar or something.’
‘How’m I going to do that?’
His voice rose in alarm.
‘Easy – use your feet. Come on.
I’ll lower the pole when we get there. You’ll see.’
It took several attempts, but with
my encouragement and him holding the end of the pole, we finally succeeded. A
week later, he learned to swim.
* * *
With the transfer to secondary
school, gone was that sunlit blue pool. Now, swimming meant entering a liquid
darker than soup in a place shaded from any warmth of the sun by lowering
trees. No doubt there were objects,
perhaps creatures, down there, but only a marine archaeologist would have
relished the chance to risk an encounter with that green Hades.
With my history then, watching
swimming on television is really the only way I can enjoy it. It is wonderful
to watch the human form at its most beautiful, whether racing, diving or just
playing, and recent coverage of the Olympics and Paralympics has added an extra
dimension of excitement.
Watching as the competitors turn
for a few moments into dolphins, undulating like living waves,
is truly awe-inspiring and utterly divorced from any other sport except
pole-vaulting, which is not only beautiful but unbelievable. In this, too, the
dolphins can outshine the athlete, bargaining with gravity, leaping, spinning,
curving, and all without the aid of even the flimsiest of poles.
It would be cruel to bring marine
mammals to SE23, but no doubt the Mayor will delight us with the initial plunge
and other eager swimmers will give us a glimpse of true beauty in our hard-won
new pool.
Alan
Wallace
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