I’m working my way backwards with these essays. A couple of weeks ago I had a ticket to see a show at the delightful Arlington Arts Centre near Newbury. It was to be a reduced-seating, masked and socially distanced audience. Normally I would drive there on the day, but I thought that I would take a couple of days and find some places to busk on the way.
I decided my first stop was going to be Bedford. Bedford was the town of my first appointment as a newly-qualified teacher in the late 1970s though the school itself has long-since gone. I thought more houses were built on the site, but a quick look at a satellite view of the area suggests the building is still there. The school where I worked only had a life-cycle of a couple of decades. I’ve rarely had cause to return to Bedford, so I thought I’d give it a try and see how what was described to me, at my induction into the employ of Bedfordshire County Council, as “the second most multi-cultural town after Greater London” might react to Marshlander’s songs of death, dissent and living on water. The description I was given as a new teacher was accurate. I worked at the school for two years and I remember going through the register and counting six children of white, British ethnicity in my class of thirty pupils. It was a tough, but instructive and enriching, period of learning. I had some great colleagues, but I often wonder what became of the children whose lives I hope I didn’t ruin too much. I have often told children and teachers of two boys, inseparable friends Mohammed and Jaswinder, who decided one day that I should learn to count in Punjabi (or Indian as they called it). For the next few days they approached my desk immediately after registration with, “Sir, it is time for your Indian lesson!” I wish I’d been able to learn more from them; it’s not as though we had the National Curriculum to worry about in those days, though the school did have a timetable. I enjoyed my time living in one of the villages near Bedford. When in town I would often go to one of the town’s green spaces and stare at the Great Ouse. I never imagined I would one day end up living near the other end of navigation where it flows into The Wash. So Bedford it would be. I nearly didn’t make it.
As I was closing up the boat, and transforming my van into my house on wheels for the coming days, two hire boats went by. There were three women on the stern of the bigger boat. One called to ask how long it would take to get to the lock. I told them, “Thirty to forty minutes,” and bade them bon voyage. I didn’t give them another thought and carried about my preparations. By the time I eventually got away I had no idea they wouldn’t have got through the lock, but as I drew closer I saw a lone woman wandering along the road with a windlass in her hand. Something didn’t look right so I slowed down and asked if she were okay. The lock was full and set against the two boats. They had breasted up to each other with the larger boat tied to the lock landing. I have often wondered how a few minutes tuition at the marina prepares newbie hirers for their time on the waterways. Now I realised the answer - it doesn’t. Between the two boats there were seven crew members. Not one of them had grasped the principles of how to operate the lock! The smaller boat was one of the fleet’s two day boats. The male crew were on a tight timetable - chip shop, pub, turn round and back to the marina by six. The other boat was crewed by the three women who had enquired about the distance from the lock. They didn’t recognise me at first. They were out for a few days and were aiming to get to Ely. I couldn’t possibly leave them in their confusion and asked if they wanted any assistance. I was expecting a refusal as they probably wanted to try and work it out for themselves, but they almost bit my hand off. “I can’t see how we get the boat up to that water to go out through the gate that keeps swinging open,” said the distraught windlass wielding woman. They clearly had no idea about the way a lock works at all. Staff at the boatyard had given them a video to watch, but these folk were clearly more of the kinaesthetic learning type. I explained how they had to empty the lock first to bring the water down to their level. Windlass woman had the wrong type of windlass. Locks on the Middle Level use a particular “pyramidal” style of key and she had the standard one for Environmental Agency waters. After she went back to the boat to get the other windlass I talked them through every step of the process, checking the upper penstocks were down, the gates were closed and how to empty the lock through raising the lower penstocks until the pressure was equal on both sides of the lock gates and the lower ones could be opened to allow access. They were all my seniors, but I made them do the donkey work. They needed to know what to do by experiencing it. So far so good. They emptied the lock and opened the bottom gates. The smaller day boat chugged in. To conserve water two boats often share the lock, so the bigger boat was going to come in too. This is where it all became more complicated. The “driver” at the tiller met my nemesis, the wind. She was struggling to line the boat up with the lock and she was in danger of crashing into the concrete wall having missed the lock completely. She realised she needed to reverse, but I could see she was at risk of grounding on the far side of the river where the water is unexpectedly shallow. I rushed down to the lock landing and, after being assured she wanted some guidance, I tried to call helpful instructions - reverse, push the tiller hard over to me, short hard burst of forward, reverse again and so on over the wind. It took ten or fifteen minutes, but we kept at it until she lined the boat up with the lock for another go. Eventually she managed to get the boat in and I hope I didn’t overdo the praise, but the way she managed to keep her cool in a really challenging situation was very much to her credit. I hope her travelling companions were impressed. They should have been. It wasn’t my place, but inside I was simmering with anger at how unprepared these innocents had been for their holiday. It wasn’t their fault either. How can we know what we don’t know?
So, some forty-five minutes later, I finally set off for Bedford. I’d be lucky to get there before the shops closed now.
The rest of my journey passed without incident. Bedford was mostly recognisable from my time there, but there were road closures and one-way systems that were were new to me. I missed a car park and ended up diverting through an area I recognised as “Black Tom” - I guess it’s still called that, although it was never signposted. After parking the van I thought a quick reconnoitre was called for. That turned out to be quite useful and I located a good spot to aim for in a now pedestrianised area near the library and the Harpur Centre. The sun was shining and the busking session passed without incident. I noticed many people changed their walking to step and move to the music as they came within earshot. There were lots of smiling faces too and donations into the hat paid for my parking with a little towards fuel for the journey so I was happy. As the footfall slowed down I came to a stop, packed up, returned to the van and set off west and south. I didn’t know how far I would get towards Newbury, which was going to be my busking target of choice the following day.
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