THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND

Chapter Eighteen: Now You See It...

The canal saw many changes as the seasons went by. In the Wintertime you would see the first shiver of ice begin to form upon the surface and very soon, if it was going to be a good children's winter, it would thicken to a handsome skating depth.

Then, as the Spring came and the skating-rink put away until next year, new life would burst forth in celebration of the coming of the warmer climate. The fish swam happily in their respective schools; some were Catholic, others Protestant, and still others non-denominational.

There were two kinds of fish in the canal: one, the stickle-backs or "tiddlers" as we used to call them, and two, the "whities", whatever they were. The baby fish would look up and see the sky where none had existed before and you could hear them shouting excitedly: "Look, Mam, someone took the roof off!"

The birds would come too and take up residence on the island. The graceful swans would arrive in squadrons and demand instantly that they be given their bread. Sometimes there would be as many as forty or fifty of them sailing by serenely, occasionally dipping their heads under the water and sticking their bums up in the air. Other times they would quarrel and hiss their disapproval of one another and stretch their long necks as they attempted to nip each other.

It was great to see them landing on the water like flying boats with their webbed feet stuck out in front of them. But the best time of all was when they took off. You could see them as they gathered speed, their great wings spread and their feet running madly over the water like giant Lancaster bombers taking off for a sortie over Germany.

In the Summer, if the weather was fine, and some years it was, we would see scores of people come from the town to bare their lily-white bodies to the burning sun. Millions of kids with their parents looking on would invade our swimming space, yelling and screaming for no reason at all, as kids all over the world are wont to do. The mothers would bring blankets and set up picnics all along the canal bank and the fathers would congregate separately with their bottles of beer in hand. Some of the men, in true English fashion, would roll up their trousers and dangle their feet in the water as they sat by the edge in grubby singlets and their heads covered in makeshift paper hats to ward off the tropical rays.

Dad would strut up and down like a sergeant-major ensuring that everyone behaved himself and in particular keeping the children from playing in the locks or climbing over the paddles. It was the one time of the year when Dad declared an armistice and allowed outsiders to come upon this hallowed ground. Mike and I would usually join the other kids as they frolicked in the water, but making sure that each one of them knew that it was our island and that they were privileged that we should allow them to play there.

Then the Autumn would come and all the birds would start packing their belongings in readiness for their journey south. The fish would charge their torch-batteries so that they would be able to see in the dark when the canal froze over again. And the children would wander home to dry off for another year.

It was in the Summer, though, that the incident for which this chapter was named, took place. Every now and then the canal would take it into its head to grow inordinate amounts of moss, or water-grass, as we used to call it. On reflection, it might not have been moss; but it was some kind of growth which turned a bright green and covered the surface from one end of the canal to the other. It became so thick that the barges had difficulty in moving and when that happened gangs of men would be employed to get rid of the stuff.

It might have been some sort of fast-growing weed, or flowering reed, but whatever it was it proved to be a darned nuisance to the adults. I thought it was fantastic. You could see for mile upon mile the canal transformed into a great long stretch of green, like an endless cricket pitch. And such a bright green! To be sure, it was as green as the rolling hills of Emerald Ireland, begorrah!

It was during such an invasion on a hot summer's day that Mike and I espied a fussy little poodle taking its posh owner for a walk. In our district, anyone who owned a poodle was automatically classified as being posh. The posh lady in question came towards us as we were sitting on the edge of the canal bank on the opposite side from our house. She stooped to free the dog from its leash and then carried on walking in a haughty manner closer to us. The poodle, now free of its bonds, began skipping and prancing along the canal bank. It even began to yap in an upper-class accent. On it came, hippety-hop, skippety-skip.

I heard it thinking to itself: "Oh, what a frightfully beautiful day. I wonder what the poor people do on a day like this?"

It came up to us and sniffed and immediately removed itself from our vicinity: "Good Lord, how terribly lower-class you are!" it said, and passed on by. The lady saw it approach us and when it carried on without picking up some dreadful disease from us a look of sweet relief passed over her aristocratic face.

Hippety-hop, skippety-skip. Suddenly, it saw the green vista stretched out before it. "Oh, what a beautiful lawn! It's just like the one back at the palace!"

It took a running leap and landed on the grass, except that it wasn't grass, and the silly thing disappeared under the surface. On seeing this, Mike and I fell about laughing; a lower-class sort of laugh which resembles a pack of hyenas in the mating season.

The lady screamed in horror. "Oh, my dear Penelope, wherever can you be?" she said, and wrung her royal hands in anguish.

Dear Penelope surfaced about ten feet from the canal bank all bedraggled and covered in the green mossy growth. "Oh, how frightful!" she exclaimed, and turned to us. "I say, you boys there, will you help me get dear Penelope out?"

"Wot' us?" we said, in unison.

"Oh, do! Please do!"

In the meantime dear Penelope had vanished underneath the green blanket again. It surfaced again, this time a little further out. The grand lady was beside herself, and beside us too, as she continued to implore us to assist.

Mike got up lazily and said to her: "Yer know, it's pretty risky in there, Missis. Wot' if I can't get to it?"

"Oh, do please try! Do! Do!"

"All right then, here goes," he said, and eased himself into the water. He swam towards the poodle and the "grass" clung to him as he got further out. The dog kept disappearing and re-surfacing as Mike tried to get closer to it. At last, he made a grab for it by its diamond-studded collar and hauled it back to safety.

The lady took it from him when he had reached the side and proceeded to pick the green stuff ever so daintily from her beloved pooch. Mike came out looking like the great, green swamp monster and stood looking at the lady.

She placed the leash on the dog's collar, stood up, and said with disdain: "Thenk yew," and walked off hurriedly.

Now, wasn't that a fine how-do-you-do?

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