First Day At The Pells

I grew up in a town with an unheated open-air pool. It was an integral part of my childhood. Entering through the ker-clunk of the metal turnstile. Edging around, rather than through, the footbath. Shrieking breathlessly in the cold blue of the paddling pool, mums sat chatting on the giant steps. Straining on tip-toes to reach the counter of the sweet shop for a packet of salt and vinegar chipsticks. Tormented by seeing, but not being able to reach, loose change on the bottom of the big pool. Arriving for school swimming lessons, costume on under clothes for speed changing. Jumping in the water before realising I hadn’t taken my knickers off. Shoving them down the front of my costume before doing a width of lumpy backstroke. Cheeks reddening under the astonished gaze of Mr Leek watching white pants bobbing about. Sweet jars full of sugar-water to trap wasps. Picnics on the grass with gran after school. A plastic bottle of warm orange squash, cheese and onion sandwiches. The shock of leaping into the cold on hot sticky days. Shrill whistles from the lifeguard at the running, bombing, and occasional heavy petting. Pounding up and down practising lengths, trying to be good enough to join Newbury Swimming Club because that’s where the boys were. The ones we fancied. The ones hanging around the springboard, showing off with a splashy crawl, or double-daring each other to dive off the top platform. Pells Pool season begins Saturday. I’ll be buying a family season ticket and jumping in, even if it’s snowing. EC