| Brackley | ||
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There
was so many chemicals in the pool at Brackley, no doubt because
we all peed in it so recklessly, that the skin under my brothers'
eyes used to turn aquamarine after an hour or so splashing around.
They looked like pasty white Indian braves in war paint, or as though
they were wearing eyeshadow.
Sometimes I would go and undress with the men, I was young enough to pass unnoticed in the gendered world. I think dad still has the same swimming trunks today as he had then. They were and are a kind of burgundy colour, made of thick nylon, with a pair of mesh underpants sewn inside them. Why change? I remember the water was always too warm, it made you sweat as you swam. Not that I did much swimming, I didn't know how to then, which is odd because I can barely imagine not having the knack. It was the one brief window in my life when I was small, and my arms fit the orange armbands that mum or dad inflated for me. Bobbing was the thing to do, or pulling yourself along the edge, whilst someone spotted you in case you came a cropper. The boys did handstands, swam through each others' legs. I never wanted to leave. In the foyer, holding damp towels, combing my knotty hair, dad would buy us hot chocolate from the vending machine. It came out powdery with a big undisolved blob at the bottom (my favourite bit) and so bleedin' hot that it scalded your mouth and burnt your hands as they cradled the squat paper cup. Smell of cocoa and dry chlorine on skin, a smell that cannot be forgotten. |
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