gigantic
ceiling-height windows. We came through the footbath, always the first cold
shock, dodging the showers and their fine spray, and took our time to pierce
the surface and surrender to the glassy buoyancy.
More
usually, we arrived when it was already full. We queued to get in. The changing
rooms reeked of chlorine and thundered with noise. The pool was choked with
bodies. The water was a continuous maelstrom, stinging the eyes with chemicals.
Everybody swam in all directions at once.
You had
to twist to avoid collisions. And the great barn roof threw back a constant,
never-lessening, hollow shriek of adolescent clamour.
It is a
measure of its size that, whereas everything — forest trees, town centres,
school halls, houses, streets and people —seemed smaller than I remembered,
Harlow Pool still struck me as massive. I had taken a safety nappy pin with a
key attached from the locker downstairs where I changed and felt rather foolish
trying to poke the blunt needle through my shorts. Did they really mean me to
make a hole? It seemed oddly dangerous. We had had rubber arm bands, in
different colours. They were uncomfortable and rode up the arm when you dived.
And it
was diving we came for; or jumping, mainly. We swam the odd width entirely
underwater to show off. Sometimes we had races. Now and again we would splash
furiously off in a burst of crawl like aboy-racer gunning the engine,
but mostly we jumped, plunged and bombed. There was a long springboard to the
left with an adjustable roller. Not too far back, or the whole plank became
vibrantly alive and unpredictable, but just right, and it got you up and sailing
through the air to crash into the water. You submerged in a rush of bubbles and
then kicked out towards the edge. The trick was to swim underwater as close to
the steps as possible so you could bound out and skip straight to the queue to
do it again.
‘No
running!!’
It was
at the next height that all the consequences became more serious. The second
springboard was some twelve feet above the ground. We usually moved the roller
as far forward as possible, to avoid any unnecessary wobble. Nobody wanted to
hit the water in anything other than a planned way from up there. But the surge
was better. The sudden sick feeling in the stomach as you went up was excellent
and it was followed by a much more satisfying horrible drop and a thunderous
immersion. The first time you did it, you wondered why you bothered with the
lower board at all.
It was
a big event to mount the final set of stairs and take on the highest platform.
This was a wide, blank, oblong area. There was no spring at all. The whole
surface was flat, the lip was wide and the back and sides were ringed with high
railings. It was quite possible for five or six boys to gather up there. On a
big day it was aclub. Some just resting, enjoying the view, leaning
against the railings, getting their breath, waiting until the trunks began to
get cold. Some were there hanging on for life, plucking up enough courage to
venture forward and approach the brink. ‘You’ll love it when you’ve done it.’ ‘Don’t
look down.’ ‘Just jump.’ But it was a long drop. The soaring, sinking,
sick-making descent needed extra courage because we all knew what happened if
you didn’t get your feet in. You could kill yourself if you landed flat. In
fact, somebody had. He had been very fat, hadn’t he? He had fallen forward from
the high board, missed his footing and landed flat, front-first on the water. His
stomach had split apart from neck to groin and all his guts had spilled out and
he had died. They had to drain the pool, apparently.
This
sort of stuff excited the troops. Would it hurt the soles of the feet? What if
I went down too far? Even when you had finally summoned the will, some stupid,
slow-moving breast-stroker would drift across the pool. ‘Go on! Go now. You’ll
miss her. Go to one side.’
‘Don’t
push.’
I must
have stood up there
ceiling-height windows. We came through the footbath, always the first cold
shock, dodging the showers and their fine spray, and took our time to pierce
the surface and surrender to the glassy buoyancy.
More
usually, we arrived when it was already full. We queued to get in. The changing
rooms reeked of chlorine and thundered with noise. The pool was choked with
bodies. The water was a continuous maelstrom, stinging the eyes with chemicals.
Everybody swam in all directions at once.
You had
to twist to avoid collisions. And the great barn roof threw back a constant,
never-lessening, hollow shriek of adolescent clamour.
It is a
measure of its size that, whereas everything — forest trees, town centres,
school halls, houses, streets and people —seemed smaller than I remembered,
Harlow Pool still struck me as massive. I had taken a safety nappy pin with a
key attached from the locker downstairs where I changed and felt rather foolish
trying to poke the blunt needle through my shorts. Did they really mean me to
make a hole? It seemed oddly dangerous. We had had rubber arm bands, in
different colours. They were uncomfortable and rode up the arm when you dived.
And it
was diving we came for; or jumping, mainly. We swam the odd width entirely
underwater to show off. Sometimes we had races. Now and again we would splash
furiously off in a burst of crawl like aboy-racer gunning the engine,
but mostly we jumped, plunged and bombed. There was a long springboard to the
left with an adjustable roller. Not too far back, or the whole plank became
vibrantly alive and unpredictable, but just right, and it got you up and sailing
through the air to crash into the water. You submerged in a rush of bubbles and
then kicked out towards the edge. The trick was to swim underwater as close to
the steps as possible so you could bound out and skip straight to the queue to
do it again.
‘No
running!!’
It was
at the next height that all the consequences became more serious. The second
springboard was some twelve feet above the ground. We usually moved the roller
as far forward as possible, to avoid any unnecessary wobble. Nobody wanted to
hit the water in anything other than a planned way from up there. But the surge
was better. The sudden sick feeling in the stomach as you went up was excellent
and it was followed by a much more satisfying horrible drop and a thunderous
immersion. The first time you did it, you wondered why you bothered with the
lower board at all.
It was
a big event to mount the final set of stairs and take on the highest platform.
This was a wide, blank, oblong area. There was no spring at all. The whole
surface was flat, the lip was wide and the back and sides were ringed with high
railings. It was quite possible for five or six boys to gather up there. On a
big day it was aclub. Some just resting, enjoying the view, leaning
against the railings, getting their breath, waiting until the trunks began to
get cold. Some were there hanging on for life, plucking up enough courage to
venture forward and approach the brink. ‘You’ll love it when you’ve done it.’ ‘Don’t
look down.’ ‘Just jump.’ But it was a long drop. The soaring, sinking,
sick-making descent needed extra courage because we all knew what happened if
you didn’t get your feet in. You could kill yourself if you landed flat. In
fact, somebody had. He had been very fat, hadn’t he? He had fallen forward from
the high board, missed his footing and landed flat, front-first on the water. His
stomach had split apart from neck to groin and all his guts had spilled out and
he had died. They had to drain the pool, apparently.
This
sort of stuff excited the troops. Would it hurt the soles of the feet? What if
I went down too far? Even when you had finally summoned the will, some stupid,
slow-moving breast-stroker would drift across the pool. ‘Go on! Go now. You’ll
miss her. Go to one side.’
‘Don’t
push.’
I must
have stood up there
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