Another Fine Mess

I am often surprised, bewitching and voluminous reader, at the way complete strangers approach me in public to ask me the secret of my grasp of the French language.

 

At other times, similarly complete strangers (possibly even the same ones, I don’t know, you see these are persons not known to me) are agog to know how I became such a competent swimmer.  “How is it, Bigolly, that you are able to carve through the water with such ease and not be all puffed out or red in the face or anything?” they might ask.  “Are you related to Des Renford or someone?” 

 

Well, the polish with which I order a croissant or churn out a quick 110 yards of elementary backstroke is, I suppose, due to hours spent memorising irregular verbs and trawling up and down the big pool at the Geo Bolton Memorial Swimming Centre- often both at the same time. 

 

But that isn’t the whole answer.  Anyone can memorise conjugations or apply him or her self to the soul destroying hours of training it takes to make the under 14 boys’ relay team in the Burnside Southside Swimming Club.

 

The question is not so much how did I it but why?  Was there an influence in my past that guided me in these rather disparate endeavours?

 

Naturally I like to think that it was my own aptitude and dedication to hard work that brought about this slightly unusual “skillset” as the young people would call it.  But if it were a matter of hard work and talent, why was I unable to master other things that I tried, like hammer throwing or the Rubik’s cube? Why did I never perfect the torpedo punt and why, despite Gary Case’s best endeavours, did the progressive jive so wholly elude me?

 

In fact, if I turn my mind back to the early days of my schooling, there stands across my consciousness a colossus of both French and swimming whose influence remains with me to this day.

 

No, it is not as you may imagine, the Geo. Bolton who was associated with the local municipal swimming centre (comprising the big pool, the middle pool – with the viewing windows and the paddling pool).  I assume he was interested in swimming but am not aware of any association with French.  As far as I can remember he sold motorbikes.  At Kawasaki Corner.

 

Of course, motorbikes did become an interest of mine but I would not claim any great expertise.  I went in one race in my early teens at the Burnside Mini Bike Trials Club and came in a distant last.  I should add that the competition was not strong.

 

So no, Geo. Bolton though probably an admirable fellow was not a moulding influence on the young Bigolly.

 

No, the guiding hand and mysterious benefactor was a woman whose name will strike a chord with anyone who encountered her.

 

I speak of Madame Stanley, the swimming/French teacher at my primary school.  A legend.

 

The combination of swimming and French is not an obvious one but there are complementary aspects.

 

The development of the lungs as a result of swimming lent enormous force to Madame’s diction.  When she bellowed “Cold in the nose” at you to correct your pronunciation, you stayed bellowed at.  And all bits of plaster fell down from the ceiling.  I never quite understood whether I was supposed to emulate the cold in the nose sound or avoid it but often due to swimming in inclement weather, the choice was taken out of my hands.

 

I must say, I can’t really remember that French much influenced the swimming lessons, although there was an undeniable continental style in Madame’s presentation.  She usually sported a brightly coloured maillot with lots of bracing around the frontal area resulting in that very pointy look that women so seemed to admire in those days.  She also had very curly hair which may have been natural but might have been a European fashion statement.

 

The hair colour, as I recall, was fair to blond, but that could well have been due to the chlorine in the water as much as to the coiffeur’s art.

 

How fondly I remember being trooped across the road to the school’s small pool in the enclosure next to the cricket nets.  We would be taught mushroom float then the ominous sounding “drownproofing” before moving onto the Australian Crawl and other useful skills like retrieving coloured objects from the bottom of the deep end.  It was only about five feet deep (that’s 1674 nanometres for you metric types) but I do recall once that I had to feel around for the key or whatever it was.  I eventually found it and on resurfacing was met with the delighted shriek “You’ll never drown!” delivered right into my face.

 

It was so loud it made my cheeks puff out like that pilot or parachutist bloke in the series of pictures where the wind is blowing more and more strongly on his face until you can see all his teeth, even the back ones.  You know the one.

 

French was also a bit eccentric.  I may have mentioned this before but Madame Stanley used to go from classroom to classroom with a little red portable record player and a small suitcase with some lessons on vinyl disks.

 

There were pamphlets to go with the records, “Bon Voyage” they were called, and we could follow the writing while listening to the disk.  Plus Madame would help out with “cold in the nose” suggestions from time to time. 

 

I’m not sure from where she got her skills in the French language but I think she lived there for a while.  Quite possibly she called snails across the Loire Valley or something.

 

Anyway, the little record player was not too robust and eventually the belt that made the turntable go ‘round broke.  Madame was canny enough to realise that everything else worked and so the best behaved child was chosen to put his or her index finger on the cardboard label in the middle of the record and turn it by hand, doing their best to maintain 33 1/3 RPM.

 

As I say, I think I have mentioned this before but the memory is a fond one.

 

Of course, I was not the only student of Madame’s.  Pretty much the whole school had lessons in both French and swimming from Madame and I am not aware that many of them went on to great heights in both.  Obviously I was a  sensitive child and absorbed the influences more thoroughly.  The sensitive child was the father of the sensitive man that I have become. 

 

So, lady and gentlemen I beg you charge your glasses and join me in a toast, from Big Olly to Stanley.

 

Though I must say, now that I think of it, I should check up on Geo Bolton.  I might be selling him a bit short. 

 

Of course, it might have been those viewing windows in the middle pool that put me off him a bit.  They don’t seem quite right in this modern day and age, do they?