martinsmithstories

Image Credit: julien Tromeur on Unsplash

‘G’day, Bertie,’ I say as I enter through the front door.

‘Ra-Ra,’ my grandson says as he rushes down the hallway and into my arms. He blinds me with his golden curls and floors me with his indubitable love.

My daughter greets us and hands my wife, Rose, an envelope and says, ‘His enrolment form and fees are in there.’ She then passes me a small, black bag. ‘And his gear is in here.’

Bertie receives a hug and a parting kiss from his mother. He returns a smile and a wave.

It is Friday. Bertie’s first lesson. And I am his designated buddy.

‘Come on, Bertie,’ I say as we head towards the car, ‘let’s go swimming.’

***

When we arrive at the indoor pool, chlorine assails my nose, humidity clings to my skin and kiddie squeals ring my ears. Bertie sees the kids and attempts to wriggle free, but I firm my hold and head towards the change tables.

I strip him, and he stands shivering as I fumble about in his bag for his waterproof nappy, togs and swim vest. I find a nappy and a blue vest, but there’s only a pair of pink shorts in the bag.

‘Where’re his togs?’ I say to Rose.

‘There,’ she says, pointing inside the bag.

‘Where?’

‘There. The watermelon-coloured ones.’

I look at my grandson: naked, arms raised and legs astride. A picture of pudgy, pink perfection.

Bertie Miller. Vitruvian Man.

***

We wait by the pool for the earlier class to complete their lesson. I size up Bertie’s opposition lingering pool-side. A scrawny girl with a large knot of dreadlocks that’d give Bob Marley a run for his money stands in tie-dye togs of Rastafarian hues. With her right hand, she scratches at her head as if there’s a plague of lice breeding in there. Her other hand is not idle either, for she picks her nose with such intensity that I suspect she’ll either lose a hand or her head will cave in. Her nearby mother scrolls on her phone.

A blonde boy stands near the girl. He’s wearing black Speedos, and black goggles cover his eyes so he looks like a bewildered bug. He hovers within drowning distance of the pool’s edge, so Bertie and I move closer to him in case he topples in.

A deep voice from behind me says, ‘Luke, listen to your father.’ The boy in black cowers, and his bug eyes look above and beyond me. I turn around, expecting to see Darth Vader or at the very least James Earl Jones. I see neither, only a mountain of a man—in black boardies and a black, short-sleeved vest bursting at the seams—towering above me. He looks down at his son and smiles, exposing a white grin that could retire a dozen dentists to the Bahamas. He glances down at Bertie and raises an eyebrow as Bertie’s togs come into view. I step in front of Bertie and consider giving young Skywalker a subtle shove. I see his father’s bulging forearms and reconsider.

The earlier class finishes, and Rose signals us to enter the water. She gives me the old double-fingers-crossed sign. I am puzzled. Do I need luck? Is there something I haven’t been told about aiding the infant swimmer? Are Bertie and I to perish in the deathly shallows?

I take Bertie’s hand and place a trepid foot in the tepid water. Bertie follows with a toe dip. He screams as if it’s an acid bath and scrambles up my leg, then my torso and ends up with his legs wrapped around my throat and his arms around my head. I can neither see nor hear nor breathe. I attempt to unwrap his arms, but like a python, Bertie’s grip tightens, and I fear death by asphyxiation is imminent. I loosen his left leg, and Bertie thanks me with a stream of hot pee upon my flushed cheek. As my lips smack with the saltiness of his fear, I curse my inability to master those side tabs on nappies.

Bertie relaxes his grip, so I detach him from my head and ease him into the waters. His eyes widen and whiten, and his bottom lip quivers. ‘Just a big bath, Bertie,’ I say, but he gives me the old you-reckon look.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ a female voice says behind us.

My head swells with vanity as I turn and come face to face with the swim teacher.

‘What’s your name?’ she says as she places a wrinkled hand on Bertie’s togs.

Vanity turns to disappointment when I realise that the compliment is for Bertie and not for his urine-soaked swimming buddy.

‘Bertie,’ I say. ‘No, it’s actually Oliver, but to me he’ll always be Bertie.’

‘Well, Oliver, welcome to the class. I love your togs.’

I’m beginning to dislike her. First, she’s fallen for the younger man, and now she’s lying through her teeth as she lays the flattery on thick.

‘We’re just waiting for the last swimmer to arrive,’ she says, ‘and then we can get started. Oliver, you can take your dad over and join the other participants.’

‘Actually, I’m his grandfather.’

‘Really? You look way too young,’ she says as she gives me the once-up-and-downer.

‘I bet you say that to all the grandfathers.’ I’m starting to love this woman.

‘No. Just those whose grandsons wear pink bathers.’ She smiles and moves off towards the Skywalkers.

‘They’re watermelon,’ I mutter as fleeting love returns to enduring dislike.

The late parent arrives. She’s pregnant and huge. She’s in shorts and a bikini top and looks like she’s about to explode. Her belly’s like a pink planet, and her stretch marks resemble the Nile Delta when viewed from space. She’d have to be carrying septuplets, at the very least, I reckon. She waddles into the water with her daughter, and the water level rises as if Greenland has melted. Greeting Darth Vader like a soulmate, she turns to Bertie and me.

‘You’re new,’ she says. ‘Hi, I’m Anna, and this is Elsa.’

Elsa gives me a look that could freeze water in Hell.

‘Hi, this is Oliver, and I’m—’

‘Aren’t you a cutie?’ she cuts in. ‘Those pink shorts look great on you.’

‘They’re—’ I begin, but she wanders off to greet Sally.

Sally gathers us in a circle and directs us to hold our child out in front. ‘We’re going to start with a song,’ she says. ‘Three Little Ducks.’

Three Little Ducks? I don’t know the song, let alone the tune. I look to Bertie for help, but he gives me the old stuffed-if-I-know look. Sally and the others begin, and Darth Vader belts away like he’s the lead baritone for the Welsh Choir. I improvise and hum the opening bars of “O mio babbino caro”. Darth Vader gives me a side glance and a bemused look that suggests he’s doing a little number-crunching, putting two and two together—what with the pink shorts and the opera buff—and coming up with for the love of sweet Jesus!

Sally forms a tunnel with a swim mat. With Bertie on his belly, we enter the tunnel. I look up and see Sally at the other end, grinning at us like a shark awaiting an easy feed. Bertie squeals as we move down the dark and dripping tunnel. When we reach the end, Sally flashes a mirror in our faces. All I see is Bertie beaming and, above him, Hemingway’s old man grimacing in a chlorine sea.

‘Smile, Grandpa,’ Sally says.

My dislike of this woman is rapidly approaching hate. I try to come back with a witty reply, something along the lines of ‘you’re not the one doing the hard lifting here, sweetheart’, but Darth Vader and Luke close in fast behind us, so we push on for another lap.

Sally instructs us to move to the side of the pool and have our child climb out of the water and sit on the edge. I place my hand on Bertie’s bum as he scrambles up. He thanks me with a fart, and his tummy rumbles. Oh God, Bertie, I pray, don’t do it to your poor grandfather. Not on my watch. Keep your shit together. I don’t think I’d cope with the embarrassment of doing the Walk of Shame while holding at arms’ length the child who pooped in the pool.

‘We’re now going to do Humpty Dumpty,’ Sally says.

I know this one. I give a little fist pump and clear my throat in anticipation of giving the Dark Lord to my right a run for his money.

‘Ready,’ Sally says, ‘and, Humpty—’

Darth Vader jumps Sally’s cue, and the waters ripple with his booming rendition. I respond in kind, but instead of the dulcet tones of a seasoned tenor, I emit my ‘Humpty’ with a falsetto squawk. Maybe it’s the cold water, maybe it’s stage fright—I do not know—but my voice betrays me as I channel Michael Jackson. I try hard not to look right because I just know Darth Vader will have a smug look on his face, so I clear my throat but shrill on.

At ‘Had a great fall’, Bertie tumbles into the water and sinks like a scuttled frigate. Four kids go down; only three resurface. I lose my grip on Bertie and he disappears. I turn left, then right, then around, searching the length of the pool. Nothing. Not even a glimmer of watermelon. Oh God! I lament, I’ve drowned the little bugger. Me, the irresponsible guardian. In less than one lesson. Then Bertie resurfaces like the Red October, spluttering, blinking and thrashing. I grab him and check if he is OK, all under the disapproving glare of teacher and parents.

‘Are you all right, Bertie?’ I say.

‘More. More,’ he says with a grin.

We regroup in a circle.

Sally says, ‘Is everyone having fun?’

The parents chorus a resounding ‘Yes’, though I say mine through gritted teeth.

‘Now we’re going to sing Ring a Ring o’ Roses, and instead of all falling down, I want you to throw your child in the air.’

We commence and, thankfully, Michael Jackson has headed back to Neverland, for I belt out the song like the national anthem. At ‘All falls down’, I throw Bertie a little way in the air, fearful of losing touch with him again. It’s a dismal effort, as Elsa and Luke fly high above him. Our second attempt sees Bertie hold his own against Elsa, but young Skywalker outflies Bertie again, and Darth Vader postures and pouts and flexes his bronzed biceps and taut torso like he’s Mr Universe, all while giving me the old kicking-sand-in-Mr-Puniverse’s-face look.

I resolve, with my third attempt, to launch Bertie into a galaxy far, far away from that of Darth Vader’s protégé. Upon Sally’s cue, Bertie becomes Rocketman. He leaves my arms with a blast and shoots upwards. Sadly, his togs and nappy remain at the launch site. He re-enters the Earth’s atmosphere with a squeal and a bare bum.

I gather togs, nappy and Bertie and move to the side of the pool, praying Bertie’s had enough so we can beat the rush to the hot showers and the queue for a steaming cup of coffee. As Rose slips Bertie’s nappy and togs back on, he looks over her shoulder and says, ‘More. More.’ Rose turns him towards me and pats him on the bum. He waddles over and launches himself into my arms.

We return to the fray.

As we practise having our child float on their back, a siren blares over the PA. A voice says, ‘Patrons, please evacuate the pool in an orderly fashion. I repeat, please evacuate the pool in an orderly fashion.’

Bedlam breaks out. Kids scream and thrash and push, and parents shout and rush and shove. A child’s voice shouts, ‘It’s a turd!’ And Bedlam’s twin brother, Mayhem, joins the party. The Skywalkers, in their haste to exit the polluted waters, clean up half-a-dozen evacuees before bowling over Sally. An adult’s voice yells, ‘There it is!’ And those swimmers remaining in the pool scream and turn as one and thrash and surge down the pool towards and then past Bertie and me. I swear it’s Amity Beach again.

Amidst the carnage I pause and peek inside Bertie’s sodden nappy. Only the cheeky grin of his peach-pink, wrinkled bum crack greets me.

With the pool now empty of patrons, Bertie and I make our way towards the ramp, wary of the offending stool. We are in the shallows when the siren ceases and the PA squelches and screeches.

‘Patrons. False alarm. I repeat, false alarm. You may return to the pool. I repeat, you may return to the pool.’

I suspect only a few of the patrons are convinced the ruffled waters are contaminant-free, for only Darth Vader and son rejoin Sally, Bertie and me in the pool.

Sally distances herself from an apologetic Darth Vader and places two baskets on the tiled rim of the pool. She gathers a third, larger basket and says, ‘We’re going on a duck hunt.’ She releases a basketful of small, yellow rubber ducks into the water. Bertie and Luke go ballistic and shout, ‘Duck! Duck!’ I struggle to prevent Bertie from wriggling free, so I grip him by the waist and let him fetch. The boys gather the ducks by the armful, kicking their little legs hard to hasten their return to Sally so they can dump their gathered ducks into the basket and set off for another haul. They’re like bloodhounds as they sniff out their bobbing prey all over the pool. By my count, we’re head-to-head with the Skywalkers’ booty when the boys collect the last ducks. I squeeze Bertie and whisper a ‘Well done’ in his ear. I glance at the digital clock above the lap pool, and it is upon the hour. I rejoice and head poolside.

‘I think I can see one last duck over there,’ Sally says.

Darth Vader’s head and mine whip around, and we scan the pool. ‘This is it, Bertie,’ I whisper. ‘Our chance to slap the old L-is-for-Losers tag on the Skywalkers’ foreheads.’

But where is the bloody duck? All I can see is still, clear water. Then I spot it, lurking at the mouth of the filter vent, bobbing away with a shifty look as if it’s thinking about making a break for freedom. Darth Vader must see it at the same time, for, in unison, we—each with our child raised above the water—surge vent-ward.

‘Encourage your child to use his arms and legs,’ Sally says.

Bugger that, I think. This is war. I squeeze Bertie closer to my side and soldier on. We’re neck-and-neck with the Skywalkers when we all reach the duck. Its black eyes stare forward in beady fear.

Bertie and Luke reach out for the duck and grab it at the same time. Bertie has the head and Skywalker has the tail. A tug-of-war ensues. The duck’s eyes bulge as it contorts under the strain of being torn apart. Darth Vader shoots me a dirty look and grabs his son’s elbows and pulls. I respond in kind and grip Bertie’s forearms and pull. Darth Vader’s biceps bulge and his veins sprout. My thin, pale arms look like wispy reeds compared to Darth Vader’s oaken limbs. Bertie puts up a hell of a fight, but, alas, his grip on the duck’s head loosens. The Skywalkers flash cocky grins as they knock on Victory’s door. All is lost, I lament. The Force is not with us. But Bertie releases one hand, points over the Skywalkers’ heads and says, ‘Look. Fish.’ It’s a masterstroke straight out of the Bobby Fischer playbook, for Luke turns and looks and lets go of the duck. Victory. The prize is ours. Bertie and I make a triumphal wade back to the basket, and Bertie slam-dunks the last duck into the back of the net.

Sally raises her hand and says, ‘High five, Oliver.’ Bertie offers a wrinkled hand and flashes her a million-dollar smile. I raise my hand and proffer a pauper’s smirk, hoping Sally rewards me, too, with a high five, but she mumbles something about ‘over-competitive’ and moves towards Luke and plants her open palm on his duckless open hand. Darth Vader shoots her a white-capped smile and bellows a ‘thank you’ and turns and gives me a death stare.

‘See you all next week,’ Sally says as she wades off towards the next group.

‘You bet!’ Darth Vader and I say.