Book One - Spike Island

Chapter Four: A Church Sunday It was a bright, sunny Sunday morning. Mike and I were on our way to church. Dad was still in righteous slumber; the good Lord did not require his presence today. Such a glorious morning it was. The water in the canal glistened happily in the early sunlight; the air was still cool, but showed promise of what was to come; sparrows and starlings and the occasional seagull competed for the right to be heard. It was indeed a church Sunday.
As we approached the first bridge an old man, probably in his seventies, came towards us. He was using the safety-rail of the bridge as a support and he was bent forward almost at right-angles as he walked. He was dressed for winter for he had on a jumper, a coat, an overcoat and a woollen scarf, and on his head a misshapen trilby.
We offered "Good morning" to him, but he angled straight past us and continued on up the canal bank. Since it was a holy day and we were in a saintly state, our giggles and guffaws were kept to a seemly minimum.
We reached the second bridge and as if on signal a grace of swans, twenty or more, came gliding by. They were our friends and they knew it was Sunday. As usual, we were loaded up with old bread crusts and any kind of scrap we could lay our hands on. The swans, at least the older ones, waited in regal silence for breakfast to be served; some of the younger ones had not yet learned the niceties of dining propriety and were beginning to display shameful impatience - on a Sunday too!
As we were serving our royal guests, and being careful to ensure that each one was treated equally, out of the corner of my eye I spotted the old man who by now had come to a halt by one of the wooden bollards near the water's edge. He was looking around him as though he had lost something. I nudged Mike and indicated with a nod of my head in the old man's direction. As we continued to watch, the stranger took off his overcoat, folded it neatly, and placed it on top of the bollard. Next came the scarf and then the jacket. The trilby followed and lastly his jumper, leaving him in shirt, pants and braces. Perhaps he's going to sun himself, I thought.
Now that all his clothes had been folded neatly the old man suddenly straightened up to full height, which prior to this we would have thought impossible. Without hesitation he ran, with surprising agility, to the water's edge and jumped straight in!
Jesus! Oops, sorry God.
We dashed across the bridges and ran towards the spot from where he had leaped. He was face-down in the water with just the back of his head and his shoulders visible.
"Mister! Mister!" we cried. "Mister! Mister!"
We hopped up and down on the footpath not knowing what to do. I thought that if we jumped in after him he might struggle and drag us under with him. I was terrified - so was Mike. What should we do? "Go and get me Dad!" Mike shouted at me.
I ran off as fast as I could. As I entered the house and began to climb the stairs, a ridiculous fear, completely out of place considering the circumstances, came over me: "I hope he doesn't get mad at me for waking him up." I dashed into the bedroom and shouted, "Dad! Dad! A man's jumped in the water!"
He threw back the sheets displaying his grotty, floppy underpants and jumped out of bed. Dressed thus, he ran down the stairs with me following close behind and dashed out of the door and on to the cinder track. "Ouch! Eeah! Ouch!" he cried, as the sharp cinders dug into his bare feet - it seemed to wake him up. He ran back into the house, found his pants and a pair of slippers and came charging out again.
We ran to Mike who was still shouting frantically at the old man. Now that Dad was there to save us we were all for jumping in the water and dragging him to the side, but Dad wouldn't let us. "Go and get a boat-hook," he shouted to Mike, and Mike sped off.
Soon he returned, carrying the long, heavy wooden boat-hook and handed it to Dad. It was three or four inches thick, with a cast-iron spike and a curved pointed hook on the end. Dad took the boat-hook in his mighty hands and made ready to pull the old man in, who by now was some seven or eight feet from the side and showing no sign of life.
On his very first attempt, Dad miraculously hooked the curved point underneath the man's braces without even a tear of his shirt or so much as a scratch of his skin. He drew him to the side and all three of us dragged him out and laid him on his back on the footpath. The man was unconscious; I wasn't sure whether he was alive or dead.
In a hurried, but controlled, calm manner, Dad straddled the old man, placing his hands on each side of his chest and began to pump down in strong, jerky movements. This method of life-saving is now out of date, but at the time it was the only way to do it.
In situations like this time has no reality or measure, but later I estimated that from the moment the old man jumped to when we pulled him out, only six or seven minutes passed. As Dad continued to pump, I wondered whether the old man would respond. It seemed to me that he was already dead, but what would I know? I'd never seen a dead person before.
"This is called artificial respiration," Dad informed us. "Do you think you boys can do it? I'll phone the police; you just keep pumping - like this, okay?"
With that he dashed off back to the house. Mike and I knelt on each side of the old man and began to pump, just like Dad had shown us. He was cold; his shirt was horribly wet and clinging; his eyes were closed; his face ashen; his tongue a strange bluish colour. Each time we pressed down on his chest water bubbled up from his throat and trickled out of the side of his mouth; each push accompanied by a hideous, hollow croak. I was both horrified and fascinated with the sight, and sounds, and sensations as we continued our repulsive assault on Death's grim dominion.
In a short while Dad returned and took over from us, an action for which I was not entirely ungrateful. And amazingly soon after Dad returned, a posse of policeman arrived, some on bicycles, some running. A burly sergeant now took charge. His first action was to undo the old man's collar-stud - something which we had overlooked. He proceeded to pump his chest much the same as we had previously done, but now, with all the power and authority of the law in his hands, Death slinked away to wait for another day.
The old man's eyes opened. He began to cough and splutter and to throw his head from side to side. He was alive! Whether he wanted to be or not - he was alive!
Now that the crisis had passed, Dad had no wish to have us kids cluttering up the place. He sent us off to church, where surely, the mass must already have started. At one stage during the service I found myself on my knees with my hands pressed together in prayer. They were shaking uncontrollably. Shock had finally set in.
After church, as was previously ordered by the police sergeant before leaving the scene of the drama, Mike and I went to the police-station to give our statements. We were treated with the utmost respect by each of the officers and they told us how brave we were. The chief gave each of us half-a-crown and sent us happily on our way.
We were ecstatic. Such a huge amount! Goodness really does have its own reward. What a day! What an experience! But we were happy. We had done well. We had saved a life. It was, after all, a church Sunday.