Open Writing

Early one morning as I dropped Marcia and James at school I saw the teacher on duty waving me over – Oh dear, I thought, had I done something awful, or had one of them?

But no Did I realise that next week was swimming week? And could I oblige with some teacher help? Lessons would be first thing after morning assembly, say 9.15 till 10.30. The small school bus would not carry all the children in either Marcia's or James's class, and so on. I found myself offering to transport four youngsters and supervise six girls one morning and six boys the next on Tuesday and Wednesday of the following week.

I assumed that I would be in the pool and therefore I would definitely need new bathers if the grandchildren were not to be ashamed of me. Shopping for said item in the middle of winter mercifully meant there was little to choose from as struggling into elasticated garments in chain store cubicles is no fun.

One pair stood out from all the rest because they were the only pair that fitted. And, because they were the only pair left, they were going out cheap – great solution. I decided to dress in the swimmers before school and to wear a windcheater plus a skirt with elasticated waist and sandals. That way I was ready for all eventualities while still maintaining my dignity re dressing room decorum. After swimming, dressing would be done in a toilet cubicle, I hoped.

Tuesday, I arrived at the pool with Marcia and friends, and assembled my group. I learned their names, tied up their hair, said how lovely they all looked, delivered them pool-side and then found that teachers and parents were not expected to get wet at all. There were pool staff for that.

Evidently it was noticed that I was ready for action and I was called on to wade around the shallow end with a bunch of wimpy girls and slowly coax them into letting go of the rail as peer pressure kicked in. Then it was more hairdos, more towels, shoes and drink bottles and back to school. And, “Yes, you all still look lovely.”

Wednesday was different. Boys don't care about hair or if they look nice or whose shoes and towels they go back to school with. They bomb-dive and throw balls and learn water confidence (and a little about swimming strokes) and have a great old time.

Apart from James, who is very blonde, and his redheaded mate Ginger, I hadn't a hope of keeping track of my group once their heads got wet. When a boy is wearing only Speedos (or budgie smugglers as they naughtily informed me) one wet boy looks much like another.

With the boys it was, “Don't run” and “OK just 2 more bombs and then OUT,” and a quick check of their bags for one towel, one pair of budgie smugglers, two shoes each bag (who cares who these actually belong to?) and back to school.

It was while I was discreetly waiting outside the change rooms that I idly picked up a leaflet on what was on offer for pool users, where I espied Water Aerobics , Pryme Movers, Mon, Wed, Fri, Pay As You Go and all welcome. This sounds just the shot I thought............

This pool belongs to the local council and therefore, as a rate payer, surely I owned a tiny share of it. The girl behind the desk was full of enthusiasm and said, “Lots of older people such as yourself come to Pryme Movers regularly. Join in any old time and it's on rain or shine at 10.15 three times a week 52 weeks a year.”

However, the first time I fronted up it was “Oops! Silly me, stuffed up big time! We have a school carnival this morning and the class will be after lunch today, still never mind, eh? Have a free swim now you're here and a free ticket for next week - when I have to tell you that there's another school carnival and Pryme Movers has been rescheduled for 9.00am. Good job you called in!” Yeah.

So it was attempt No.3 before I caught up with the actual class. I went early and swam a few laps to test the swimwear out at last. I wanted to make sure it moved when I moved. I was quite pleased with it and with the refreshing swim pre-class, and, if I looked like a drowned rat, surely they would shortly all look the same?

Trap No. 1. Others started to appear, in all 15 women – how would I tell one from another? They seemed to be a harmonious group of retired and semi-retired folk, who knew each other well, and they gave me a warm welcome. We were to use a certain roped off part of the pool where we could stand on flat feet with water up to our armpits. Being on the tall side I was in deeper water than some others.

This proved to be trap No.2. It is much more difficult to make graceful movements if you are on tippy-toes at best and floating in an ungainly way at worst. But being ungainly is nothing new to me – ungainly is my middle name.

Along came the trainer, Elise, trim, taut and probably Swiss, I thought, possibly a dancer too. She pushed along the dreaded squawkbox on wheels (for the music) and kitted herself out with a microphone (so that she could be heard above the music). I have to confess here to being somewhat deaf and of course, one cannot wear hearing aids in the water, I resolved to try hard to listen but to also stand at the back and follow those in front.

Elise welcomed the newcomer and firmly requested that I stay close to her, and so I would have but the music drove me away. Teacher, on dry land of course, demonstrated every move over and over as we did them, thereby getting a warm-up and a work out at the same time as we thrashed around doing her bidding. At least I did in my marginally too deep water. I found out why you don't do the exercises on tippy-toes next morning when I found my calf muscles had seized up!

For 45 minutes we pounded away doing Elise's bidding, and I perceived the steel beneath the velvet tracksuit. This woman meant what she said but she had lots of professional charm too, and I could see that the rest of the students had listened and learned, for they were competent, rhythmical and graceful.

The following week I was impressed by these women once more, for, having followed a similar pattern of me getting there early, having a good old swim and presenting as a drowned rat, I watched them arrive. Chat, chat, chat... how often did they catch the class? On average twice a week, any two classes out of the three available, depending on other commitments.

One was a nurse who worked strange shifts, several played golf or netball (but not in the rain, or heat or wind). Others had other classes, or kept their hands in as temps at their old jobs. One had “someone at home who needs constant supervision”. Chat, chat, chat.... “Christmas was coming up – you know how it is….”

Along came the girl from the counter, who I now knew was Jan. “Ooops! I've stuffed up big time, ladies! Forgot to book a trainer. Can you look after yourselves now you're all wet, and I'll give you a freebie next time? Time to start because we've got school holiday programme kids as soon as you're finished.”

OK by us? OK! Now I noticed there were two types of us, about 10 of one kind, and say six of the other (including me). We six were happy to go along with anything so long as we got some exercise.

I noticed now that we were of various ages from 60 to whatever, and we were the ones with unremarkable hair. We were probably all grandmothers and proud of it. The gang of 10 was a different proposition – sleek, elegant and oozing competence. Age? Difficult to say – and their hair – oh, their hair was coiffed, coloured and styled AND GETTING IT WET? No way!

They quickly organised the group into a circle. Then each of us called out an exercise in turn ,such as 20 star jumps and all did it in a continuum. I was last, and all the usual moves had been covered. I felt like saying, “All hold hands, feet to the centre and splash! splash! splash like crazy!” But I didn't think that would be kind to those expensive heads of hair. “Twenty star jumps,” I said.............feebly.

As we exited, our places were taken by an excited mob of kids on school holiday programmes. Say, isn't that my usual grandmotherly job? What am I doing on this side of the line? Doing something just for fun and just for me? Well I never, so I am.