The swimming-trunked foursome stands – or does not stand – disgraced. Freddie takes a hasty pull of whisky. Terry Coe – can it be possible? – has tears in his eyes. And your history teacher does not know where to look.
‘Unless,’ says Mary, thinking aloud and relishing the position of absolute advantage she has now acquired, ‘unless you – pass a test first.’
‘What test?’
Four raised, apprehensive heads.
Mary looks at the surface of the Lode. ‘A swimming test. From the wooden bridge. Whoever swims the furthest – under-water. I’ll – show him.’
‘But you know I can’t swim,’ says Freddie.
‘Too bad. You’ll just have to learn.’
By the ‘wooden bridge’ Mary means a narrow, rickety affair of planks and slats with a single hand rail, slung across the Lode and raised in its central section by two piers, some eight feet above the water, to allow the passage of lighters. A perfect diving platform.
‘So come on.’ And Mary, to taunt us, takes her arms once more from her scarcely developed yet fully perceptible breasts, then puts them back again.
We get up, the whisky causing us difficulty in finding our balance and producing renewed qualms in our bellies. It is doubtful whether we are prompted any longer by the prize of glimpsing what makes Mary different from us between the legs, so much as by the desire to prove ourselves to each other. Just as Mary, perhaps, is no longer motivated by curiosity but by this undeniable power she has discovered and is wielding.
But as we turn to walk along the Lode bank to the wooden bridge we stop and both our masculine pride and Mary’s feminine authority receive a check. For Dick has joined us. He has come down from the top of the bank. And not only Dick but, attached to him, concealed, if scarcely contained by his straining swimming-trunks, a tubular swelling of massive and assertive proportions.
Now, given brotherly closeness, I had had occasion enough to observe my brother’s member – flopping and dangling, inert. A fair specimen, sizeable but not gross, in its unprimed state. But I had never glimpsed— I had even reflected – considering Dick’s other sluggish characteristics, his potato head, his lack of words, his muddy gaze – that Dick just wasn’t interested. But I had never glimpsed—
And nor perhaps had Dick. Perhaps this occasion was for him as for us one of astonishing and traumatic discovery. For he thrusts this prodigy before him, bracing his pelvis, as if holding away from himself something he is uncertain whether to acknowledge.
‘Me too. M-me swim too.’
Mary’s eyes – we all notice this – goggle. A flush ignites her cheeks. Her brow wrinkles. And while these symptoms take place, she considers perhaps (my swift, bitter surmise) that, quite apart from this fact of sheer and astonishing dimension, Dick is four years everyone’s senior. Here, after all, wrapped in infantile trappings, is a man (a little tuft of hairs in the centre of Dick’s breastbone). What other wondrous faculties might this otherwise dumb creature possess …?
In Mary’s eyes, rekindled, refired, curiosity. And fear. Just a touch of fear. The kind of fear which because it jostles with curiosity and because it contains something else – a touch of pity too, of strange, charitable intent – forms a dangerous mixture.
To the wooden bridge. Fast. To conceal in impetuous and desperate action the effect of this cat among the pigeons, this goat among sheep. To avoid, at least, having to stand and look any more at that little giant. Even Freddie, despite his not unreasonable protestation, hurries along the Lode bank. Because he is going to have to learn.
On the central section of the wooden bridge, five figures, in the following order, from right to left: Peter Baine, Terry Coe, Tom Crick, Freddie Parr, Dick Crick, all in sundry postures of bravado and apprehension (and in one case distinct sexual arousal) and all (with one exception) in varied states of inebriation. Five figures staring at the Hockwell Lode – a man-made water-course which drains into the River Leem which in turn drains into the River Ouse – waiting for the signal to dive.
The art of underwater swimming as practised during the fine summer spells by the male children of Hockwell, Wansham and elsewhere, is neither sophisticated nor, on the other hand, undemanding. It consists of a combination of lung-power and muscle-power; against which are pitted the murky, muddy waters of the Hockwell Lode which offer little to choose between the open-eyed and closed-eyed style of swimming and which, when unintentionally if unavoidably swallowed when air supplies give out, taste foul. It has been the subject before of challenges, mild bets and boasting. But never before of such urgent provocations as this.
Your history teacher believes he is not unskilled in this art. He believes he can beat Peter Baines and Terry Coe (has beaten them before). And as for Freddie Parr— But turbulent emotions and an unexpected rival make him tremble as he stands on the wooden slats.
Five figures on the bridge. And one on the bank (in navy blue knickers) who – still with arms clasping shoulders – shouts ‘Ready!’ Allows a merciless pause, in which fiercely inhaled draughts of air are half wasted. Then ‘Go!’
The younger of the two Crick brothers dives and loses sight of his opponents. Determined that his lungs shall burst rather than that Mary shall have cause to scorn him (let alone refuse him the sight of her—), he swims deep. No breaking of the surface to disqualify him. His eyes encounter a brown and silent fog. Suspended silt. Stirred-up silt. A domain where earth and water mingle. His limbs struggle, his throat makes little gulps. He must come up (what must it be like to drown?), he must come up—
And does, fifteen yards from the bridge, to gasp, gasp again, and to see Peter Baine, also gasping, some three yards behind him and Terry Coe a yard behind that. But no Mary on the adjacent bankside to proclaim Tom Crick is first, Tom Crick has won. Because what is happening at the bridge? Freddie Parr is taking a swimming lesson. Freddie, indeed, not to suffer utter humiliation, has dived in, and now he thrashes, flails, splutters, yelps, rolls, sinks, comes up again, gurgles, sinks again. Mary stands in agitation on the bank. And my brother, who has not dived in, who remains on the bridge, looks down at Freddie with an air of fascination, with an air also of someone waiting till so many seconds have elapsed, and then – as those in the water swim towards the scene – kneels, lies down on the slats, hangs over the edge, secures himself with one hand, and extends the other, without hurry, to Freddie. Who grabs it and – now in a state of humiliation greater than that he sought to avoid – is hauled up on to the bridge by the manifest strength of his rescuer’s long arm.
Brief and callous enquiry-session, as Peter Baine, Terry Coe, and I climb out on to the bank.
‘He’s all right.’
‘What happened?’
‘His own fault.’
‘Did Dick push him?’
‘No, he dived – sort of.’
‘Stupid idiot.’
‘Didn’t have to. No one made him.’
But Dick says nothing. He stands on the bridge, vacant-faced, swelling stiffer than ever.
Freddie slumps on the bank, chest heaving.
‘But did you see? Did you see who won?’ A petulant, insistent voice. (Because even at the risk of appearing smug, your history teacher doesn’t want his achievement to go unreckoned.)
‘I saw—’ says Mary, wandering, disconcertingly, in the direction of her clothes.
But as she speaks a hoarse cry and a loud splash make all heads swivel.
Dick has dived. Dick has expressed his opinion that the contest is not yet over.
Ripples. Bubbles. A glimmer of sallow limbs beneath the grey-brown surface. Then nothing. For a long time nothing. For fifteen, for thirty seconds, nothing. Then nothing again. Then when nothing must surely have gone on for the utmost period allowable to it, still nothing. And, after a further, amazed stretching of credibility and while Freddie, on all fours, expels on to the grass a stream of whisky-scented vomit, still nothing. And still nothing. With the result that all (excepting Freddie) rise to their fe
et and Mary (neglecting the complete concealment of her nipples) lifts one hand to shield her eyes. Because, basing a spatial reckoning on the lapse of time, it is now a question of looking into the sun-glinting distance.
Blue-haze sky. Hot banks. Flat, flat Fens. Rasping rushes. Mud between the toes. Weeping willows. Mary …
And when it seems that this astonishing nothing has merged into that wondrous and miraculous possibility For Ever, a head – that is, a far-off dark blob – breaks surface, some seventy – can it be eighty, can it be a hundred? – yards from where we stand. Shakes water from hair; shows no sign of discomfort, as if in emerging at that point it has done so merely out of whim and not out of necessity; travels towards the bank; pulls out behind it the (long, but finless, scaleless) body of my brother; and, without rest or pause, comes towards us, perched on its six feet of lean, potato-coloured flesh, while we watch (even Freddie, restored by his vomiting, watches) in awe.
What other prodigies can be in store to add to this aquatic marvel and that great truncheon shape inside his swimming-trunks? Will Dick claim his prize? Will Mary present it? Where will they go so Mary can drop her knickers unseen by us unworthy failures and where Dick (though he is not obliged) can unharness his—?
But as Dick draws near us something is evident, or evident by its absence. That monstrous swelling, that trapped baton – he no longer pushes it before him. It is gone – or sunk, contracted into that indeterminate sack of baggage which requires room inside every pair of male swimming-trunks and on which, after swimming, the drips gather then fall.
What can have caused this disappearance? Can it be that Dick is afraid? Can it be that now the moment is nigh he too suffers from perverse shrinkage? Can it be that the cool waters of the Lode and his extraordinary exertions have temporarily diverted his energy and in a moment all will rise up again? Can it be that Dick’s purpose in diving was expressly to suppress this rebel rod of flesh? Or – more wildly speculative still and adding a new enigma to his prolonged and wondrous immersion – can it be that Dick has achieved thereby some satisfaction, some ecstasy that even Mary cannot give, and has already—? So that, even now, twisting strands of Dick’s congealed seed are floating down towards the Leem, where they will surely float to the Ouse and thence to the sea. Or at least such would be their journey if there were no hungry fish to lap them up first.
Mary steps back, steps forward, keeps her eyes fearfully, curiously, on Dick’s swimming-trunks, prepares to yield herself like a captured slave-girl to this lumbering victor. But Dick, with a watery gaze (from behind flickering eyelashes) which combines two stares – one for Mary (uncertain, possibly plaintive) and one for the rest of us (indifferent, possibly reproving) – does not claim his trophy. He checks his stride momentarily before Mary. Moves on. Picks up the bottle of whisky, which still contains three fingers or so of sun-warmed liquid. Hurls it into the Lode. Gives us all a blank glance. Tramps (avoiding the splatterings of Freddie’s vomit) up the bank to his former station. Sits; raises knees; clasps them, stares over them. Sulky-sullen.
‘Hey – how d’you do that?’
‘My whisky. My whisky—’
‘How d’you hold your breath?’
‘How d’you—?’
‘You haven’t, have you? You haven’t done it in your—?’
No answer. Eyelashes whirring.
‘Hey, Mary, aren’t you going to?’
No answer. Taut silence.
‘Mary, you said—’
Mary moves towards her jettisoned clothes.
‘Aren’t you going to play the game? Aren’t you?’
Peter Baine crosses her path, deftly snatches up the larger part of her scattered garments; dodges away; stops; holds Mary’s skirt by the waistband before his own hips; wiggles hula-hula style; pulls away the skirt as Mary makes a pounce at it, in the manner of a clumsy toreador; skips backward; throws part of his bundle to Terry Coe who, quick on the uptake, catches it and proceeds to do another brief dancing-girl routine, Mary’s novice’s brassière held against his chest.
A game of tag, of piggy-in-the-middle, up and down the bank, in which clothes are tossed from hand to hand and in which Mary is compelled to twist, turn and reach this way and that, all the while endeavouring to keep one arm in the covering position; but in which neither Dick who sits, lashes beating, watching, nor his brother Tom (for reasons which can only be called fraternal, but for reasons also of his own) participates.
Nor does Freddie join in. Also for reasons of his own. Because Freddie sits with one eye taking in the tag game but another, more fixed eye directed testingly at Dick. Because while the tag game is only in its earliest stages and all other eyes are diverted by it, Freddie slips off along the bank to the wooden bridge and beyond, to where, as Freddie knows, there are eel-traps. He has another game in mind. Because when the throwing and catching and chasing have exhausted themselves and Peter Baine and Terry Coe decide to scatter Mary’s clothes hither and thither so that she can at least, if with little dignity, retrieve them, Freddie suddenly runs from the direction of the wooden bridge, so quickly that there is scarcely time to see what he is carrying and, while Mary stoops, unsuspecting, to pick up her skirt, clasps her from behind, pulls forward with the clasping hand the sturdy elastic of her school-regulation knickers and with the other hand thrusts the eel, a good three-quarter pounder, inside.
Whereupon Mary, who has suddenly lost all interest in her skirt and even in the so resolutely maintained shielding of her breasts, spirals, hunches her shoulders, digs her elbows into her ribs, holds out two quivering forearms on either side of her, takes in breath but, making no other sound nor any other movement to relieve her situation (not having encountered it before), freezes stock-still and wide-mouthed while something squirms, twists, writhes inside her knickers and finally (because eels are adept at extricating themselves even from the most unlikely predicaments) squeezes itself out by way of a thigh-band, flops to the grass and with unimpaired instinct snakes towards the Lode.
At which Mary breaks into a fit of prolonged and disconcertingly shrill giggles.
25
Forget the Bastille
HEY, this is good. This is juicy. Forget the Bastille. Forget the March of History. Let’s have more of this. So he really put an eel in her—? And your brother had a big—? And. How big exactly? Come on, tell us—
Prurient mutterings around the class. Exchanges of leers. Judy Dobson and Gita Khan in the front row cross their legs, feminine-defensive, experiencing, no doubt, inside their knickers, navy blue or otherwise, uncomfortable sensations; but up top are all eager and pricked ears.
So, old over-the-hill, lost-in-the-past Cricky can let it all hang out. Doesn’t mind admitting that he once—
So he really means it. He’s really going to teach what he damn well likes. Really intends to chuck out the syllabus …
Only Price looks wary, only Price looks begrudging. Because I’ve won them over, by unfair methods? Because I’ve licensed subversion?
(Class-mates beware! See what he’s trying to do. See the old dodge he’s trying to accomplish. That he – is one of you. The king is but a man, the tyrant is but flesh and blood. Do not be fooled by this sop to common humanity. And beware this other trick he’s simultaneously playing. Distracting your insurrectionary impetus, diverting your revolutionary zeal by indulging in lewd talk and appeals to your idle curiosity—)
Now who’s the rebel round here?
But supposing it’s not like that, Price. Supposing it’s the other way round. Supposing it’s revolutions which divert and impede the course of our inborn curiosity. Supposing it’s curiosity – which inspires our sexual explorations and feeds our desire to hear and tell stories – which is our natural and fundamental condition. Supposing it’s our insatiable and feverish desire to know about things, to know about each other, always to be sniff-sniffing things out, which is the true and rightful subverter and defeats even our impulse for historical progression. Have you ever c
onsidered that why so many historical movements, not only revolutionary ones, fail, fail at heart, is because they fail to take account of the complex and unpredictable forms of our curiosity? Which doesn’t want to push ahead, which always wants to say, Hey, that’s interesting, let’s stop awhile, let’s take a look-see, let’s retrace – let’s take a different turn? What’s the hurry? What’s the rush? Let’s explore.
Consider that in every era of history, no matter how world-shaking its outward agenda, there has been no lack of curious people – astronomers and botanists, fossil-hunters and Arctic voyagers, not to mention humble historians – for whose spirit of stubborn and wayward inquiry we should not be ungrateful. Consider that the study of history is the very opposite, is the very counteraction of making it. Consider your seventeen-year-old history teacher, who while the Struggle for Europe reaches its frantic culmination, while we break through in France and the Russians race for Berlin, spares little thought for these Big Events (events of a local but still devastating nature having eclipsed for him their importance) and immerses himself instead in research work of a recondite and obsessive kind: the progress of land-reclamation (and of brewing) in the eastern Fens, the proceedings of the Leem Navigation and Drainage Board, the story, culled from living memory and from records both public and intensely private, of the Crick and Atkinson families.
And what a strange and curious tale that turned out to be…
Yes, there’s something – is there a name for it? – that doesn’t care two hoots about History, or what the history books call History.
And even while Price tells us where History’s got to, even while we pool our nuclear nightmares, you can still find time—
So you’re curious. So you’re curious. You’d skip the fall of kings for a little by-the-way scurrility. Then let me tell you
26
About the Eel