THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND

Chapter Twenty: The Submariner

Still on the subject of water and all its attendant perils there were two other incidents, among the many which took place, that deserve a mention in their own little chapter. They merit this distinction simply because both Mike and I were involved.

The first took place one weekend, as all incidents do, right outside our house, almost at the point where the whirlpool drama was enacted. At the place where the bridge which crossed the lock ended and the canal bank began there was a wooden fence. Between the bridge and the fence there was a gap about four feet wide, across which was strung a safety-chain to stop people from wandering into the canal. There were six more miles of canal where they could wander in if they wanted to, but it was strictly forbidden to drown oneself at this particular location, as ordered by the august body known as the British Railways and Canals Corporation, or whatever they were called.

It was on this highly legal piece of chain that I was swinging as Mike looked on in studied idleness. To, I would go, fro, I would come back. To, again; fro, again; what a wonderful thing is to-ing and fro-ing. Higher and higher I flew. Maybe I could reach the sky. Whoosh I went forwards, and whoosh I came back. Nothing could stop me now. And then I was upside-down in the water and heading at great speed for the muddy bottom. Now, being a quick-witted lad, I said to myself, "Self, what the bloody hell happened?"

About a half an hour later I was still travelling in a downwards direction and seemed quite incapable of reversing this trend. I passed Jules Verne on the way down, saw a giant octopus; if this didn't stop soon I'd end up in China. And then what would I do for tea, for goodness' sake?

I think it is fair to say that by now I was not a little perturbed by all this. The truth of the matter is, I was petrified. I'd forgotten how to swim upwards - hell! I wasn't supposed to be swimming in the first bloody place. There soon followed the somewhat urgent matter of breathing and where I was there seemed to be precious little air available.

I'm sure I heard a faint Chinese accent when the point about breathing came up and it was then, fortunately, that the downward progress ceased. Up I came like a secret bubble in a bath, except that we didn't have a bath at the time, as I clawed my way to the surface. Another half-hour later my head popped up out of the water and my lungs exploded.

Mike was there on hand, ready to save me. He whisked me out on to the bank and began to pummel my chest, as Dad had done many times to other victims, in order to expel the water that wasn't there.

"What the hell happened?" I asked him, when he'd finished caving in my chest. And Mike obliged me with an explanation.

Evidently, as I was swinging away to my heart's content, I slipped off the chain and promptly executed an Olympic one-and-a-half somersault, with one full twist, in the pike position dive which would have scored at least an eight-point-five with most of the judges.

It was a good thing that Mike was on hand, though, because I was so stunned by what had happened that it is doubtful that I would have had the strength, or presence of mind, to get myself out again.

The second incident happened, if you can believe it, on a Sunday. Why was it that so many things happened on weekends? It was as though all the rest of the days of the week had gone on strike!

Dad was in the house eating his weekly quarter-of-a-pound of steak (he was the only one who was allowed to have meat in our house) and probably wolfing it down with a bottle beer. Mike and I were on the middle finger wharf mucking about and generally being inquisitive. Mike ambled over to the edge of the water and looked down.

"Shh!" he said, motioning me to come alongside. "There's a whitie!"

"Where?" I whispered, loudly.

"Shh! Yer daft bugger! You'll scare it away," he said, pleasantly.

With that he got down on all-fours and peeked cautiously over the edge. I stood a little way from him and could plainly see the fish. It was a beauty. What a prize if he could catch it!

He got down on his stomach in order to free his hands and thereby get a better reach. Slowly, ever so slowly, he moved his hand down beneath the surface. Closer and closer he came as the fish seemed oblivious to his designs. Deeper still he went and now the whitie began to sink slowly away from him. Mike reached further; the fish sank deeper. It did not swim away, as you would expect, it just sank enough to keep out of Mike's reach.

Mike reached even deeper and then that gravity law I was telling you about in an earlier chapter now came into effect. In slow-motion, it seemed, he slid head-first into the water and disappeared beneath the surface. Oh! I thought. That wasn't supposed to happen!

I stood there waiting for him to come up again, but for some reason, he didn't. I waited a little longer and still no show. What am I going to do? I thought, as a little knot of worry settled in my tummy. This was becoming ridiculous. Come on Mike, stop muckin' about!

I began to run to get Dad, looking all the while at the spot where he had disappeared. Half way over the bridge I stopped, indecision suddenly gripping me. Such was the fear of Dad that I thought: if I disturb him from his Sunday dinner he'll kill me. I stood in the middle of the bridge in a terrible quandary. What should I do? Mike, for God's sake, stop messing about!

I made a move towards the house, but fear gripped me, and I came back to the middle of the bridge again. Again I moved, but the wrath of Dad was a terrible thing and I came back once more. Mike had been down an awfully long time and I was in a dreadful state by now. Tears began to fall down my cheeks as this horrible indecision kept a hold of me.

Suddenly, the top of Mike's head appeared on the surface of the water. I ran like mad to where he was and without thinking, I grabbed him by the hair, got a grip on his shirt with my other hand, and literally pulled him clean out of the water in one mighty heave. Now, Mike was a great deal bigger than I, about eight feet-four, and I was only one-and-a-half-feet tall, or thereabouts, but in my panicked state I had performed a feat of strength equivalent to that of an adult. Which is all very interesting since in normal circumstances, even to this day, I have as much strength as a matchstick with the wood burned off.

So, there you have it. We had saved each other's neck and on both occasions Dad was none the wiser. Which, as you know, was just as well because he would have killed us.

Above: Harry Arnold's view of the locks and cottages on Spike Island, with St. Mary's church tower, far right.

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