Читать книгу 21 Miles - Jessica Hepburn - Страница 12

‘Hi, is that John?’ I say into the receiver.

‘Yes.’

‘I found your details on the internet. I was wondering whether you might be able to help me?’

‘I’ll try,’ he says gamely. His voice is positively plummy.

I take a moment before speaking.

‘I think I want to swim the English Channel …’

‘Do you?’ he says. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘It’s a childhood dream,’ I say and then add: ‘Turned mid-life crisis.’

He breaks into a chuckle. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?’ he says.

‘Forty-three.’

‘And are you a swimmer?’

‘Well, I can swim. I wouldn’t call myself a swimmer.’

‘Did you swim competitively as a child? For your county or a club?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever done any open-water swimming before?’

‘No.’

‘Well, how many times a week do you swim?’

I pause, wondering whether this is the sort of moment that justifies a fib. I don’t want him to write me off already, but since I started trying to get pregnant I’ve all but given up exercise. There’s a theory that doing too much isn’t helpful when trying to conceive and, whilst I don’t think this means you’re supposed to abandon it altogether, up against all the other things you’re told to give up – alcohol, coffee, etc. – this wasn’t a hard one for me. In fact, it was really rather easy. I’ve never been very good at sport, and the only thing I really like about exercising is feeling virtuous when it’s over. At school, I was the sort of person who had to suffer the ignominy of being last to be picked for the rounders team. But I did enjoy swimming when I was a child, and not just because we always went to McDonald’s on the way home. For years I attended a swimming class on a Wednesday night at the Prince of Wales Road baths in Kentish Town. The instructor, Max, in his black trunks and red terry-towelling T-shirt, would line us all up along the pool in speed order. I was always towards the back. Everyone used to joke that my best stroke was breaststroke legs.

Then one day, when I didn’t get into the school swimming team (again), I found myself consoling my dad. It was always harder managing his disappointment than my own, so I told him that it didn’t matter that I hadn’t got in, because one day I was going to swim the Channel instead. I think I must have read about someone doing it in a newspaper, and I figured you didn’t need to be fast to swim all the way to France – you just needed to be able to keep going. I’ve always been good at keeping going. That’s probably why I’ve done eleven rounds of IVF. (Yes, that’s right, eleven. I didn’t want to mention the number before because I thought it might appal you.)

I refocus my thoughts on the question at the other end of the phone line. ‘Maybe once a week,’ I say and then add, ‘on average.’

This is a semi-fib. I can up my average if I include holidays, but it’s probably more like once a month (if that). Sometimes I don’t even swim between holidays.

‘Can you crawl?’

For a moment I’m confused by the baby reference before I realise what he’s asking.

‘I can do the crawl. Well, a few lengths. I’m much better at breaststroke.’

‘The problem with breaststroke is you’ll have to be in the water longer. One of the main challenges of the Channel is the cold. The aim is to get over to the other side and out as quickly as possible.’

‘Doesn’t a wetsuit help with the cold?’

‘I’m afraid you can’t wear one of those. Not if you want to be an official Channel swimmer.’

This is news to me, and it isn’t good. I hate the cold, possibly even more than I hate exercise. In fact, one of my main mottos in life is: ‘You can never be too cosy.’

John goes on to explain that wetsuits hadn’t been invented in 1875 when the Englishman Captain Matthew Webb became the first person to swim the Channel. The rules state that you have to remain true to that tradition today, and can only don a costume, hat and goggles.

‘Right,’ I respond slowly, taking in all the information he’s given me. ‘So how far is it and how long does it take?’

‘Twenty-one miles. It takes around fifteen hours on average. But you’ll be adding another five to ten hours if you want to do it breaststroke.’

There’s a beat of silence.

‘Fifteen hours?’ I say, trying not to sound too incredulous.

‘That’s right. It’s a long way to France.’

I pause as I take in the enormity of what he’s just said.

‘Well, I guess at least I can stay in a nice hotel when I get there and have croissants in bed for breakfast.’

He chuckles again. Actually, it’s more like a guffaw.

‘You can’t stay in France,’ he says.

‘Why?’

‘You don’t go through passport control when you’re swimming the Channel. As soon as you touch land, you pick up a pebble and then you’re back on the boat to England.’

‘You mean I won’t even get a croissant?’

‘No,’ he laughs. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about that. If you do swim the Channel, you won’t want to move or eat anything for at least a week.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘That bad.’

I don’t quite know what to say next. I’m starting to think this wasn’t the right big idea after all. I half-heartedly enquire about the training camps John organises for aspiring Channel swimmers, which were the reason for my call. He tells me that he’s running one in Formentera, a little island off Ibiza, in a couple of months for people who are doing their six-hour qualifier. I tentatively ask what this means, dreading the answer, and he tells me you need to be certified as having swum six hours in water below sixteen degrees Celsius before you can attempt the Channel.

‘You mean you can’t just go down to the south coast on a nice day and start splashing?’

He laughs. ‘Why don’t you come along and see how you get on?’

‘OK, I’ll have a think about it,’ I say. ‘It sounds good.’

I’m just saying that. It doesn’t sound good. It sounds hard. I put down the phone feeling slightly sick but then do what I can to rally myself. I’ve been on a six-hour walk. Surely swimming for six hours is just the same thing, but horizontal. How hard can it be?