Swimming pool revisited

Barry had been to exactly one swimming lesson, and already considered himself something between an Olympic athlete and a shark.

Not a dangerous shark, obviously. More the sort of shark that would accidentally swallow a flip-flop and cry about it.

Still, confidence was confidence.

“I’m basically a professional swimmer now,” Barry announced at breakfast, spooning cereal directly onto the table instead of into his mouth.

His mum was typing furiously on her laptop while simultaneously drinking coffee that had gone cold three hours ago.

“Mmm,” she said.

His dad was on a work call in the kitchen.

“Yes, absolutely, we’ll circle back on that,” he said to someone important.

Alfie sat opposite him in full school uniform despite it being Saturday.

Nobody knew why Alfie wore his uniform on weekends sometimes. Alfie claimed it helped him “stay mentally organised.” Barry suspected he was born forty-three years old.

“You didn’t actually swim last time,” Alfie pointed out calmly.

Barry scoffed.

“I absolutely did.”

“You wore arm bands, held onto a float, swallowed half the pool and screamed at a lifeguard.”

“That’s called technique.”

“It’s called drowning politely.”

Barry ignored him because older brothers only existed to ruin joy.

Today was Swimming Lessons Round Two.

And this time, Barry intended to dominate.

Marmaduke, sadly, was not invited.

Again.

This had caused a dramatic scene outside their building earlier that morning.

“I could come quietly,” Marmaduke had suggested hopefully.

“No,” said Marmaduke’s mum.

“I could hide in the boot.”

“No.”

“I could pretend to be sports equipment.”

“No.”

Marmaduke sighed deeply, like a Victorian widow whose husband had been lost at sea.

“Tell the swimming pool I miss it,” he whispered to Barry.

“I will,” Barry promised solemnly.

Then he ran directly into a lamppost because he was waving goodbye backwards.

Which honestly set the tone for the day.

“You listening, Barry?” Mr Brand asked as they walked into the leisure centre.

“Yes.”

“What are the pool rules?”

“No biting.”

“…Good. What else?”

“No bombing.”

“Correct.”

“No peeing.”

Mr Brand glanced sideways.

“Excellent that you know that one.”

The swimming pool was chaos.

Children shrieked.

Whistles blew.

Parents hovered with the haunted expressions of people who had paid forty-two pounds for goggles their child would immediately lose.

A toddler was eating a plaster.

Nobody stopped him.

At the centre of it all stood the swimming teacher.

She looked about twenty-five, though the expression on her face suggested she had seen things no human should ever witness.

Her name badge read: CLAIRE.

Her soul appeared to have left her body around Thursday.

“Right!” she called brightly. “Everyone into the pool!”

Barry cannonballed in before she finished the sentence.

A tidal wave slapped three nearby parents.

“Barry not—”

Too late.

“Okay! Good enthusiasm!” Claire said in the voice adults use when trying not to cry.

Barry surfaced triumphantly.

“I’m aquatic now!”

“Wonderful,” said Claire weakly.

The class was enormous.

There were children clinging to floats.

Children crying.

Children drinking pool water as if it were squash.

One little boy was just slowly rotating in place like a forgotten rotisserie chicken.

Claire somehow managed all of them at once.

“Kick your legs!”

“Lovely paddling!”

“No thank you, Barry!”

Mr Brand sat poolside clutching Barry’s tiny towel like a man awaiting medical news.

Barry puffed his chest out importantly.

He knew what he was doing now.

Last week he had accidentally moved forward in the water for nearly three whole seconds.

That was basically expertise.

Claire handed out woggles.

Long foam noodles bent into U-shapes.

The children placed them under their arms.

“Today,” Claire announced, “we’re practicing swimming widths using our kicks.”

Barry nodded seriously.

He understood every word.

Probably.

“Ready?” Claire said.

“GO!”

The children pushed off.

Tiny legs kicked furiously.

Water splashed everywhere.

And Barry shot forward like a missile.

Past Oliver.

Past Daisy.

Past the rotating chicken child.

Within seconds he reached the other side.

Claire blinked.

“Oh! Well done, Barry!”

Barry grinned smugly.

Naturally.

He was gifted.

A prodigy.

A dolphin prince.

He pushed off again and zoomed back across.

Then again.

And again.

He began overtaking other children.

Some parents started watching.

Mr Brand looked confused.

Claire looked suspicious.

Barry absolutely flew down the pool.

Fastest by miles.

A small audience gathered.

One dad muttered, “Blimey.”

Another parent whispered, “He’s incredible.”

Barry basked in glory.

This was what greatness felt like.

Then Claire narrowed her eyes.

“…Barry?”

Barry zoomed past again.

“Barry.”ok

Another lap.

“Barry not…”

She stepped closer to the edge.

Then she saw it.

Barry wasn’t swimming.

He was walking.

The shallow end of the learner pool only came up to his chest.

While every other child desperately practiced their kicking, Barry was simply striding powerfully across the bottom like a furious little businessman late for a meeting.

The woggle tucked under his arms merely added confidence.

Claire closed her eyes briefly.

Mr Brand covered his mouth to stop laughing.

“Barry,” Claire said carefully, “you need to float.”

“I AM floating.”

“You are standing.”

“I’m standing while floating.”

“That isn’t a thing.”

Barry considered this.

“I’ve invented it.”

Meanwhile the other children had noticed.

“HE’S CHEATING!” yelled Oliver immediately.

“Barry’s using legs!” shouted Daisy, outraged.

“Yes!” Barry called proudly. “That’s how walking works!”

Claire rubbed her temples.

“No thank you, Barry.”

Barry sighed dramatically, as though surrounded by fools incapable of innovation.

“But I’m winning.”

“We’re practicing kicks.”

“I have excellent kicks.”

“To swim.”

“Oh.”

This was disappointing news.

Claire crouched beside him.

“You need to lift your feet up.”

Barry looked doubtful.

“But then how will I touch the floor?”

“You won’t.”

“That sounds unsafe.”

Mr Brand snorted so loudly he had to pretend to cough.

Claire demonstrated patiently.

“Hold the woggle, stretch out, and kick.”

Barry attempted this for approximately half a second before swallowing water and standing up again.

“There’s too much wet,” he complained.

“It’s a swimming pool.”

“Yes but I thought there’d be less.”

Claire stared into the middle distance for one long moment.

Clearly this happened often.

“All right,” she said bravely. “Let’s try again.”

Barry pushed off once more.

This time he actually floated.

For nearly two whole seconds.

Then he panicked.

“MY FEET AREN’T WORKING.”

“They are,” said Claire.

“I’VE FORGOTTEN THEM.”

“You haven’t.”

“I MAY NEVER WALK AGAIN.”

Then he accidentally kicked properly.

And suddenly—

He moved.

Not walking.

Swimming.

Tiny, splashy, chaotic swimming.

But swimming.

Barry froze in shock.

Claire pointed excitedly.

“There! You did it!”

Barry blinked.

“I did?”

“You kicked yourself forward.”

Barry looked deeply suspicious.

“Without floor?”

“Yes.”

“That feels illegal.”

But he tried again.

Kick kick splash.

Forward.

Another little glide.

Mr Brand actually clapped.

A few parents joined in.

Not because Barry was especially good.

Mostly because everyone enjoys seeing a child discover physics in real time.

Barry beamed.

“I’m doing it!”

“You are!”

Then confidence immediately became a problem.

Because Barry’s natural response to minor success was absolute delusion.

“I’m ready for the deep end,” he announced.

“No,” said Claire instantly.

“I could save people.”

“No.”

“I’m basically a lifeguard.”

“You are four.”

“I have instincts.

Barry ignored negativity and continued practicing.

And to everyone’s surprise, he improved.

A little.

Admittedly his technique resembled an octopus being electrocuted.

But there was movement.

Real movement.

At one point he accidentally splashed Claire directly in the face.

“No thank you, Barry.”

“Sorry.”

Then three seconds later he splashed her again.

“This one was less sorry,” she muttered.

By the end of class, the children gathered at the side.

Claire handed out stickers.

“Good listening, Daisy.”

“Fantastic kicking, Oliver.”

“Better focus today, Isla.”

Then she reached Barry.

There was a brief pause.

Finally she peeled a sticker off slowly.

“This,” she said carefully, “is for eventually attempting actual swimming.”

Barry accepted it like an Olympic medal.

“Thank you. I’m very advanced.”

“Yes,” Claire said faintly. “That’s the word.”

After class, Barry marched into the changing rooms dripping water everywhere.

Mr Brand followed behind him carrying six separate items Barry had abandoned around the pool.

“Did you see me win?” Barry asked.

“You weren’t supposed to win.”

“But I did.”

“You walked.”

“A strategy.”

Mr Brand laughed.

“You know, most people don’t try loopholes in swimming lessons.”

Barry shrugged while putting his trousers on backwards.

“People should think bigger.”

Back home, Alfie was reading on the sofa.

Of course he was.

Probably tax law.

“How was swimming?” Alfie asked.

Barry puffed out his chest.

“I’m the fastest.”

“You still can’t swim.”

“I can a bit.”

“That’s not a sentence that inspires confidence.”

Barry demonstrated his kicking on the living room floor.

Unfortunately he was still damp.

Unfortunately the floor was wooden.

Unfortunately physics had plans.

His feet shot out from underneath him and he slid directly into the coffee table.

THUNK.

There was silence.

Barry looked stunned.

Then offended.

“That table attacked me.”

Alfie didn’t even glance up from his book.

“You can’t swim on land either?”

“It was a surprise surface.

Their mum finally looked up from her laptop.

“…Honestly that’s quite smart.”

“THANK YOU,” said Barry triumphantly.

Alfie closed his book slowly.

“No,” he said. “That’s exactly the sort of thing that creates supervillains.”

Barry grinned.

“Or geniuses.”

That evening Marmaduke came round.

The second Barry opened the door, Marmaduke gasped dramatically.

“You survived.”

“Obviously.”

“What happened?”

Barry took a deep breath.

And because Barry was Barry, the story became slightly inaccurate.

“I saved the class.”

Marmaduke’s eyes widened.

“There was a whirlpool.”

“There wasn’t,” Alfie called from upstairs.

“A shark.”

“There absolutely wasn’t.”

“Claire said I was advanced.”

There was a pause.

Then Mr Brand, still visiting for tea, muttered into his biscuit:

“She said something.”

Marmaduke stared at Barry with awe.

“Can you teach me swimming?”

Barry folded his arms importantly.

“Yes.”

Alfie leaned over the banister.

“This I have to see.”

Five minutes later Barry and Marmaduke were lying on the living room rug pretending to swim.

Barry wore goggles.

Marmaduke wore a bicycle helmet for safety.

“First,” Barry instructed, “you walk very fast.”

“That’s swimming?”

“Yes.”

Alfie sighed the sigh of a tired headmaster who had lost control of the school.

“You two are unbelievable.”

Barry grinned.

“Fastest in the class though.”

That part was technically true.