DELIVER US FROM BOBBY!
Winner of the prestigious Manchester Evening News literary competition,
A Piece of Your Life
Winner of the prestigious Manchester Evening News literary competition,
A Piece of Your Life
A UK national newspaper 1971 – David lands ‘a dream of a job’. My first taste of fame: I was the lucky lad chosen to represent a leading company working as a presenter of dolphin shows. Little did I realise that this opportunity would set me on the path of training the Perfect Pair – Europe’s top performing dolphins. So, it seems strange that the first of my many adventures took place, not with a dolphin, but instead with a huge Californian sea lion, named Bobby.
Bobby and I met by chance after he was stealthily whisked away from his zoo home, following a horrific attack on a member of the public. To avoid destruction, he was transported to the training pool where I was based; and with nothing more than two penguins, aptly named Smelly and Worse, to keep us company, he and I soon became good friends. However, his fearsome reputation always commanded respect.
One morning, I had to pick up a crate of herring from the fishmonger’s, and as the pool was situated near the local colliery, I set out early to dodge the morning traffic.
Only one road led from the village to the pit: it ran up a steep hill, passing the pool about three quarters of the way up and, thirty minutes before a shift change, got very busy.
I didn’t fancy lugging heavy slabs of fish any great distance, so instead of parking in my usual place round the side of the pool, I found a more convenient spot on the main road, a short way from the front entrance.
After dumping the fish in the sink to defrost, I began to clean up the usual overnight mess left by Smelly and Worse. Filling a bucket with hot water and bleach, I strode into the poolroom, calling cheerfully to Bobby, “Hello, lad, how you doing, my son?”
It was important to greet the big fellah properly: God knows, it must have been a bleak life for him locked up in this place twenty-four hours a day with nothing but two stinky penguins for company.
Bobby, messing in the water, responded to my shout by lifting his massive head, snorting a plume of droplets into the air, and solemnly regarding me with those big, green eyes. A blink of acknowledgment, then he dived to continue his sub aqua meanderings.
I picked up the deck scrubber, walked to the far end of the poolroom, and started to scrub the floor. Smelly and Worse had been particularly productive overnight, leaving a fair number of stinky white pools for me to deal with.
Suddenly, the main doors to the poolroom banged open, revealing a miner: early thirties, becapped and dressed in the usual drab garb of the village men.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
The doors hadn’t even swung shut behind him before he started yelling abuse of the most remarkable colour. A potent Shire accent delivered four-letter words with the efficiency of a machine gun, and as I stood there gaping, I managed to grasp something about… my car… HIS space… and get it shifted NOW!
It seemed the man was aggrieved because I’d parked in his spot - no small offence in the village, where the ownership of a spot was of paramount importance. The village was so small and intimate that almost every square foot was deemed to belong to someone: be it a parking space, a lamppost to lean on, a wall to sit on, or a stool in the pub. I’d transgressed seriously, and the man was determined to let me know it.
Like all the miners, he was short in stature, but wide and muscular in build, with a chest that looked solid enough to stop a small nuclear warhead. He rather put me in mind of a vertically-challenged Minotaur. His small, steely eyes flashed beneath his cap, the corners of his mouth twisting grimly downwards, then he pounded towards me across the tiled floor, fists clenched.
“Are yer listenin’ to mi, or what? I said, are yer listenin’?”
He was very, very angry.
But he wasn’t the only one: the training pool was supposed to be a high security facility, strictly out of bounds to the public. It galled me no end that this guy had had the nerve to even breach the main entrance, never mind intrude as far as the poolroom.
“Ay, you – you *******! Get that ******* car out of my space!”
Before my eyes, the red mist started to form, and I struggled to steady myself and speak calmly. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Get that ******* car out of my space!”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” I demanded, throwing the deck scrubber aside and stepping forward.
“I said get that ****** car out of my space!”
“Or what?” So enraged was I by his foul-mouthed assault, I could hardly breathe, never mind speak. Everything around me seemed to fade away as all my attention focussed on this nasty, bullish man, and my overwhelming desire to pound him into the ground. I launched myself at him, determined, dangerous and blinded by anger. He had no intention of backing off, either, and if we’d ever reached each other, I dread to think what might have happened. But we didn’t reach each other, because a terrifying thought suddenly popped into my mind and all but paralysed me.
Bobby! Where’s Bobby?
Distracted, I turned to see him: his massive, black head in the centre of the pool, immobile and watching. Then, ever so slowly, it swivelled round so that his big green eyes locked onto mine. For the oddest moment, it seemed as though I were looking in a mirror; then I felt all my aggression seeping away, and saw it – saw it - filling up in those big green eyes.
Bobby’s head snapped back round to look at the man; then he dived.
There was nothing left in me now but panic, blind panic. “Run!” I screamed. “The sea lion! Run!”
The man froze in bewilderment, sensing my terror. “What? What do you mean?”
“Just get out! The sea lion!” My voice had deteriorated into a shriek.
He stood there, jaw drooping foolishly, then whimpered, “Why, does it bite?”
By this time, the torpedo which was Bobby had almost reached the deck, a plume of water in its wake. “Go, go!” I screamed; but the man was already gone, a pair of swinging doors the only evidence that he’d ever been there.
Bobby shot from the water like a ball launched in a pinball game, a loud, hoarse bark reverberating off the walls. He hit the tiles with a dull thwack, then slid headlong through the swing doors, sending them crashing off their hinges.
As he disappeared into the dark corridor, I grabbed the deck scrubber and chased after him. “No, Bobby, no… come back!”
Down the narrow, winding corridor, he pursued his quarry, galloping clumsily and ineffectively like… well, like a sea lion out of water.
By this time, the man had made it out of the building, down the steps and onto the road, and might have believed – mistakenly - that he’d reached safety; but the avenging Bobby motored on.
“Stop, Bobby! You can’t do this!”
Still bellowing his ear-shattering war cry, he burst through the main entrance, slid down the steps, and galloped along the pavement, oblivious to the crawling traffic and gaping drivers. But he managed only five or six yards before his rampaging pursuit slowed to a half-hearted slither. His prey had escaped, and Bobby just wasn’t built for manoeuvring along pavements. He flopped to a stop, then lifted his head to regard me apologetically. Sorry, Dave; he got away.
By this time, the traffic had come to a complete halt as the men intended for the early shift stopped to watch. How could this be happening in a tiny, unrecognised backwater like this? A sea lion? Most of them had never seen a sea lion, except in pictures. But this? A sea lion on a road in the middle of the village?
Bobby ignored them. He was dejected, exhausted.
I blinked at him kindly, as he had so often blinked at me, then gently manoeuvred him round with the deck scrubber. “Come on, Bobby. We showed him. Now let’s go home.”
Bobby sighed heavily, then began the laborious journey back to the pool, hauling himself up the steps and through the entrance, still maintaining an audience of open-mouthed motorists.
As for the aggressive miner, we never saw him again.
Bobby and I met by chance after he was stealthily whisked away from his zoo home, following a horrific attack on a member of the public. To avoid destruction, he was transported to the training pool where I was based; and with nothing more than two penguins, aptly named Smelly and Worse, to keep us company, he and I soon became good friends. However, his fearsome reputation always commanded respect.
One morning, I had to pick up a crate of herring from the fishmonger’s, and as the pool was situated near the local colliery, I set out early to dodge the morning traffic.
Only one road led from the village to the pit: it ran up a steep hill, passing the pool about three quarters of the way up and, thirty minutes before a shift change, got very busy.
I didn’t fancy lugging heavy slabs of fish any great distance, so instead of parking in my usual place round the side of the pool, I found a more convenient spot on the main road, a short way from the front entrance.
After dumping the fish in the sink to defrost, I began to clean up the usual overnight mess left by Smelly and Worse. Filling a bucket with hot water and bleach, I strode into the poolroom, calling cheerfully to Bobby, “Hello, lad, how you doing, my son?”
It was important to greet the big fellah properly: God knows, it must have been a bleak life for him locked up in this place twenty-four hours a day with nothing but two stinky penguins for company.
Bobby, messing in the water, responded to my shout by lifting his massive head, snorting a plume of droplets into the air, and solemnly regarding me with those big, green eyes. A blink of acknowledgment, then he dived to continue his sub aqua meanderings.
I picked up the deck scrubber, walked to the far end of the poolroom, and started to scrub the floor. Smelly and Worse had been particularly productive overnight, leaving a fair number of stinky white pools for me to deal with.
Suddenly, the main doors to the poolroom banged open, revealing a miner: early thirties, becapped and dressed in the usual drab garb of the village men.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
The doors hadn’t even swung shut behind him before he started yelling abuse of the most remarkable colour. A potent Shire accent delivered four-letter words with the efficiency of a machine gun, and as I stood there gaping, I managed to grasp something about… my car… HIS space… and get it shifted NOW!
It seemed the man was aggrieved because I’d parked in his spot - no small offence in the village, where the ownership of a spot was of paramount importance. The village was so small and intimate that almost every square foot was deemed to belong to someone: be it a parking space, a lamppost to lean on, a wall to sit on, or a stool in the pub. I’d transgressed seriously, and the man was determined to let me know it.
Like all the miners, he was short in stature, but wide and muscular in build, with a chest that looked solid enough to stop a small nuclear warhead. He rather put me in mind of a vertically-challenged Minotaur. His small, steely eyes flashed beneath his cap, the corners of his mouth twisting grimly downwards, then he pounded towards me across the tiled floor, fists clenched.
“Are yer listenin’ to mi, or what? I said, are yer listenin’?”
He was very, very angry.
But he wasn’t the only one: the training pool was supposed to be a high security facility, strictly out of bounds to the public. It galled me no end that this guy had had the nerve to even breach the main entrance, never mind intrude as far as the poolroom.
“Ay, you – you *******! Get that ******* car out of my space!”
Before my eyes, the red mist started to form, and I struggled to steady myself and speak calmly. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Get that ******* car out of my space!”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” I demanded, throwing the deck scrubber aside and stepping forward.
“I said get that ****** car out of my space!”
“Or what?” So enraged was I by his foul-mouthed assault, I could hardly breathe, never mind speak. Everything around me seemed to fade away as all my attention focussed on this nasty, bullish man, and my overwhelming desire to pound him into the ground. I launched myself at him, determined, dangerous and blinded by anger. He had no intention of backing off, either, and if we’d ever reached each other, I dread to think what might have happened. But we didn’t reach each other, because a terrifying thought suddenly popped into my mind and all but paralysed me.
Bobby! Where’s Bobby?
Distracted, I turned to see him: his massive, black head in the centre of the pool, immobile and watching. Then, ever so slowly, it swivelled round so that his big green eyes locked onto mine. For the oddest moment, it seemed as though I were looking in a mirror; then I felt all my aggression seeping away, and saw it – saw it - filling up in those big green eyes.
Bobby’s head snapped back round to look at the man; then he dived.
There was nothing left in me now but panic, blind panic. “Run!” I screamed. “The sea lion! Run!”
The man froze in bewilderment, sensing my terror. “What? What do you mean?”
“Just get out! The sea lion!” My voice had deteriorated into a shriek.
He stood there, jaw drooping foolishly, then whimpered, “Why, does it bite?”
By this time, the torpedo which was Bobby had almost reached the deck, a plume of water in its wake. “Go, go!” I screamed; but the man was already gone, a pair of swinging doors the only evidence that he’d ever been there.
Bobby shot from the water like a ball launched in a pinball game, a loud, hoarse bark reverberating off the walls. He hit the tiles with a dull thwack, then slid headlong through the swing doors, sending them crashing off their hinges.
As he disappeared into the dark corridor, I grabbed the deck scrubber and chased after him. “No, Bobby, no… come back!”
Down the narrow, winding corridor, he pursued his quarry, galloping clumsily and ineffectively like… well, like a sea lion out of water.
By this time, the man had made it out of the building, down the steps and onto the road, and might have believed – mistakenly - that he’d reached safety; but the avenging Bobby motored on.
“Stop, Bobby! You can’t do this!”
Still bellowing his ear-shattering war cry, he burst through the main entrance, slid down the steps, and galloped along the pavement, oblivious to the crawling traffic and gaping drivers. But he managed only five or six yards before his rampaging pursuit slowed to a half-hearted slither. His prey had escaped, and Bobby just wasn’t built for manoeuvring along pavements. He flopped to a stop, then lifted his head to regard me apologetically. Sorry, Dave; he got away.
By this time, the traffic had come to a complete halt as the men intended for the early shift stopped to watch. How could this be happening in a tiny, unrecognised backwater like this? A sea lion? Most of them had never seen a sea lion, except in pictures. But this? A sea lion on a road in the middle of the village?
Bobby ignored them. He was dejected, exhausted.
I blinked at him kindly, as he had so often blinked at me, then gently manoeuvred him round with the deck scrubber. “Come on, Bobby. We showed him. Now let’s go home.”
Bobby sighed heavily, then began the laborious journey back to the pool, hauling himself up the steps and through the entrance, still maintaining an audience of open-mouthed motorists.
As for the aggressive miner, we never saw him again.
THE PERFECT PAIR: THE ENCHANTED MIRROR
Two days have gone by and Duchess is still refusing to eat. Her weight loss is showing patently, the dip at the base of her neck pronounced. This can’t go on for much longer. To add to my concerns, Herb’e has joined her in refusing food. Additionally, the handlers of Baby and Stumpy are reporting the same problems: it’s only a matter of time before all the dolphins follow Bubbles’ lead.
I glance at Bubbles’ pen as she swims aimlessly round and round. She reminds me of a siren calling passing sailors onto the rocks. Her song spreads to the other dolphins like a cancer, calling… calling… She is the catalyst for disaster.
Gerry watches from the far side of the pool, strain etched across his face – what to do, what to do? Not only are the show deadlines well behind but, if this gets any worse, we’ll have no dolphins left to train.
“David, we start force-feeding Duchess this afternoon. If we don’t, we could lose her.”
I look into Duchess’ eyes as she swims, head cocked to one side. As grave as the situation is, I still don’t sense death - just an indifference to life.
The unthinkable is now going to happen: three force-feeds today - two for Bubbles and one for Duchess.
Although I am weary, my strength is growing daily. My arms are pumped up and every muscle and sinew in my body ripples. The constant force-feeds have honed me into the perfect catching machine: they have made me super fit and brought forth a controlled aggression that I never knew I had. As strong a catcher as Gerry was, I am in a different league. I have become the champion of this watery arena.
Likewise, Duchess has emerged as leader of this chaotic band of dolphins, as they struggle to find order within the tragic world of disorder in which they now find themselves.
Her eyes draw me in. As I mentally prepare for the catch, she senses my adrenaline rush.
“You won’t do to me what you do to Bubbles!”
She breaks eye contact and swims away. Her cocky dismissal draws a rare smile.
“We’ll try her again in a couple of hours; but if she doesn’t eat then, we’ll have her out,” Gerry tells me.
Easier said than done, I think. All I can do is hope that we are able to avoid this impending confrontation; but my gut instinct tells me that both Duchess and I are already preparing for the battle to come.
Handlers wander aimlessly, banging on fish buckets in an attempt to entice their charges to eat. But, as feared, all dolphins are now refusing food. Even blind Scouse is falling under Bubbles’ spell.
Time for the first force-feed of the day. “Okay, Vance, are you ready?”
We strip off to catch Bubbles. Again, I make for a head catch. A short struggle. I lock my arm, and it’s all over. Vance easily anchors her tail. She doesn’t even put up a fight, but just accepts being manhandled onto the poolside, gagged and loaded with fish. She knows that she’s not strong enough to stop me; but she still defies the force-feed by regurgitating every fish forced on her.
“It’s no good, Gerry: she’s just closing her throat and throwing up.”
Gerry checks Bubbles’ continuing weight loss, then we unceremoniously dump her back into the water.
The force-feed has failed. I don’t give Bubbles a second thought. I’m already preparing mentally for the second catch - the one I’ve been dreading - Duchess, my beautiful Duchess.
She’s the only bright light I’ve encountered since training started, and now all that hard-won trust is about to be seriously tested.
The other handlers are instructed to bring the foam mattress to Pen Number One.
As I move towards her, I feel her: she’s invoked a silent connection, an open wavelength with no sound. Her eyes never leave me. Totally oblivious to Gerry and the others, she weighs me up. I am now the impending threat and, as the leader of the pack, she cannot afford to lose.
I feel her adrenaline building.
I hear Gerry’s voice. “Do you want me to do the main catch, David? I know how you feel about her.”
“No - the quicker we catch her, the quicker we put her back.” I can’t bear the thought of anyone else touching her.
“It’s me and you, Duch – it’s only ever been me and you.”
As I sit on the poolside donning mask and fins, Duchess circles nervously. I note how she jinks to the left when picking up speed. This is an important observation - I can’t afford to get this wrong.
God, I’m not even in the water, and her head is jerking from side to side. She’s giving me a final warning.
“I told you before: get in, and I’ll have you!”
My adrenaline pump is working overtime. All my senses are at a high, yet I feel calm and focussed. Determined. I slide into the water, making hardly a ripple. I dive to the bottom of the pool, eyes fixed on her every movement.
Herb’e swims between us, shadowing her, guarding her. He knows what’s coming.
“I know what you’re doing, Herbe. Get out of the way.”
He’s not listening: he’s trying to draw me away; but I don’t take the bait. I point at my target and flash my ring. Duchess searches frantically for a way out: Herb’e’s zigzagging in front of me.
“Move, Herb’e - it’s her I want!”
Still, he shields her. If I’m going to succeed, I must get the timing right.
Herb’e’s only six feet away; six feet to my left. Now’s my chance…
A sudden thrust towards him leads me to her. In blind panic, he cuts left. I glance off the side of his body and take Duchess side-on, left hand to left flipper.
Got it!
A final surge as my right arm pulls over her neck. As my body hits her, I roll around, right hand frantically fumbling for right flipper.
Got you!
She’s fighting now. I am holding on like a bull rider in a rodeo. She’s going so fast that I can’t lock my arm… got to lock my arm! Where’s Vance? I don’t see him! I don’t see anything!
Suddenly, her speed drops. Vance has made the secondary catch and locked onto her tail, anchoring her. This gives me a chance to roll fully up her neck and apply the arm lock.
She’s thrashing her head from side to side, snapping, trying to bite her way free; but I’m fast behind her, and she can’t turn on her tail. A few seconds more and it’s all over.
Vance drags her towards the poolside, tail first. I’m locked on like a limpet mine, arms knotted, totally exhausted. The canvas sling is waiting, and the handlers haul her from the water and onto the foam mattress.
Normally, I’d try to catch my breath before leaving the water, but I hear her cries of panic.
The connection - it’s there again. It’s like turning on a radio, and I am the receiver.
“I’m sorry Duchess, I’m so sorry! I had to do it! There isn’t any other way!”
She doesn’t believe me. I’ve betrayed her trust. She’s afraid and confused and, as I look into her eyes, I realise that she’s crying - she’s actually physically crying as the handlers hold her down so she can’t move during the force-feed.
I flash my ring. “I’m here, Duchess! Everything’s okay - I’ll not leave you; I’ll never leave you!”
But she doesn’t understand what’s happening.
“David, hold the bottom gag and keep flashing your ring and talking to her.” Gerry is aware of the connection! How long has he known? My head spins with the intensity of it all; what’s happening to me?
The force-feed is quickly and efficiently dealt with; but Duchess’ eyes are dulled. I can’t feel her anymore. I feel totally empty.
We put her back in the water, and she slowly swims away, only a snort breaking the silence.
“I can’t leave it like this; I can’t lose her!” I turn to Gerry. “I’m going back in.”
Gerry smiles sympathetically. “I know. Keep alert - she’s not pleased, and there’s nothing any of us can do if she turns.”
I don’t speak. I just nod my head, grab my mask and fins and silently slide back into the water.
I glance at Bubbles’ pen as she swims aimlessly round and round. She reminds me of a siren calling passing sailors onto the rocks. Her song spreads to the other dolphins like a cancer, calling… calling… She is the catalyst for disaster.
Gerry watches from the far side of the pool, strain etched across his face – what to do, what to do? Not only are the show deadlines well behind but, if this gets any worse, we’ll have no dolphins left to train.
“David, we start force-feeding Duchess this afternoon. If we don’t, we could lose her.”
I look into Duchess’ eyes as she swims, head cocked to one side. As grave as the situation is, I still don’t sense death - just an indifference to life.
The unthinkable is now going to happen: three force-feeds today - two for Bubbles and one for Duchess.
Although I am weary, my strength is growing daily. My arms are pumped up and every muscle and sinew in my body ripples. The constant force-feeds have honed me into the perfect catching machine: they have made me super fit and brought forth a controlled aggression that I never knew I had. As strong a catcher as Gerry was, I am in a different league. I have become the champion of this watery arena.
Likewise, Duchess has emerged as leader of this chaotic band of dolphins, as they struggle to find order within the tragic world of disorder in which they now find themselves.
Her eyes draw me in. As I mentally prepare for the catch, she senses my adrenaline rush.
“You won’t do to me what you do to Bubbles!”
She breaks eye contact and swims away. Her cocky dismissal draws a rare smile.
“We’ll try her again in a couple of hours; but if she doesn’t eat then, we’ll have her out,” Gerry tells me.
Easier said than done, I think. All I can do is hope that we are able to avoid this impending confrontation; but my gut instinct tells me that both Duchess and I are already preparing for the battle to come.
Handlers wander aimlessly, banging on fish buckets in an attempt to entice their charges to eat. But, as feared, all dolphins are now refusing food. Even blind Scouse is falling under Bubbles’ spell.
Time for the first force-feed of the day. “Okay, Vance, are you ready?”
We strip off to catch Bubbles. Again, I make for a head catch. A short struggle. I lock my arm, and it’s all over. Vance easily anchors her tail. She doesn’t even put up a fight, but just accepts being manhandled onto the poolside, gagged and loaded with fish. She knows that she’s not strong enough to stop me; but she still defies the force-feed by regurgitating every fish forced on her.
“It’s no good, Gerry: she’s just closing her throat and throwing up.”
Gerry checks Bubbles’ continuing weight loss, then we unceremoniously dump her back into the water.
The force-feed has failed. I don’t give Bubbles a second thought. I’m already preparing mentally for the second catch - the one I’ve been dreading - Duchess, my beautiful Duchess.
She’s the only bright light I’ve encountered since training started, and now all that hard-won trust is about to be seriously tested.
The other handlers are instructed to bring the foam mattress to Pen Number One.
As I move towards her, I feel her: she’s invoked a silent connection, an open wavelength with no sound. Her eyes never leave me. Totally oblivious to Gerry and the others, she weighs me up. I am now the impending threat and, as the leader of the pack, she cannot afford to lose.
I feel her adrenaline building.
I hear Gerry’s voice. “Do you want me to do the main catch, David? I know how you feel about her.”
“No - the quicker we catch her, the quicker we put her back.” I can’t bear the thought of anyone else touching her.
“It’s me and you, Duch – it’s only ever been me and you.”
As I sit on the poolside donning mask and fins, Duchess circles nervously. I note how she jinks to the left when picking up speed. This is an important observation - I can’t afford to get this wrong.
God, I’m not even in the water, and her head is jerking from side to side. She’s giving me a final warning.
“I told you before: get in, and I’ll have you!”
My adrenaline pump is working overtime. All my senses are at a high, yet I feel calm and focussed. Determined. I slide into the water, making hardly a ripple. I dive to the bottom of the pool, eyes fixed on her every movement.
Herb’e swims between us, shadowing her, guarding her. He knows what’s coming.
“I know what you’re doing, Herbe. Get out of the way.”
He’s not listening: he’s trying to draw me away; but I don’t take the bait. I point at my target and flash my ring. Duchess searches frantically for a way out: Herb’e’s zigzagging in front of me.
“Move, Herb’e - it’s her I want!”
Still, he shields her. If I’m going to succeed, I must get the timing right.
Herb’e’s only six feet away; six feet to my left. Now’s my chance…
A sudden thrust towards him leads me to her. In blind panic, he cuts left. I glance off the side of his body and take Duchess side-on, left hand to left flipper.
Got it!
A final surge as my right arm pulls over her neck. As my body hits her, I roll around, right hand frantically fumbling for right flipper.
Got you!
She’s fighting now. I am holding on like a bull rider in a rodeo. She’s going so fast that I can’t lock my arm… got to lock my arm! Where’s Vance? I don’t see him! I don’t see anything!
Suddenly, her speed drops. Vance has made the secondary catch and locked onto her tail, anchoring her. This gives me a chance to roll fully up her neck and apply the arm lock.
She’s thrashing her head from side to side, snapping, trying to bite her way free; but I’m fast behind her, and she can’t turn on her tail. A few seconds more and it’s all over.
Vance drags her towards the poolside, tail first. I’m locked on like a limpet mine, arms knotted, totally exhausted. The canvas sling is waiting, and the handlers haul her from the water and onto the foam mattress.
Normally, I’d try to catch my breath before leaving the water, but I hear her cries of panic.
The connection - it’s there again. It’s like turning on a radio, and I am the receiver.
“I’m sorry Duchess, I’m so sorry! I had to do it! There isn’t any other way!”
She doesn’t believe me. I’ve betrayed her trust. She’s afraid and confused and, as I look into her eyes, I realise that she’s crying - she’s actually physically crying as the handlers hold her down so she can’t move during the force-feed.
I flash my ring. “I’m here, Duchess! Everything’s okay - I’ll not leave you; I’ll never leave you!”
But she doesn’t understand what’s happening.
“David, hold the bottom gag and keep flashing your ring and talking to her.” Gerry is aware of the connection! How long has he known? My head spins with the intensity of it all; what’s happening to me?
The force-feed is quickly and efficiently dealt with; but Duchess’ eyes are dulled. I can’t feel her anymore. I feel totally empty.
We put her back in the water, and she slowly swims away, only a snort breaking the silence.
“I can’t leave it like this; I can’t lose her!” I turn to Gerry. “I’m going back in.”
Gerry smiles sympathetically. “I know. Keep alert - she’s not pleased, and there’s nothing any of us can do if she turns.”
I don’t speak. I just nod my head, grab my mask and fins and silently slide back into the water.
the perfect pair: the Mirror cracks
I have to carry out the transport alone as there are only three presenters left to run the dolphinarium and the Company is still demanding two shows a day. As always, the men in suits want their pound of flesh…
… they make me sick… sick to my stomach.
Due to his record of fighting, Scouse is sedated for the move – always hazardous. But we dare not risk further injury; after all, the transport from America cost him dearly…
… it cost him his eyes.
The morning has a surreal feel as I catch and harness my two dolphins with cold efficiency. I have purposely imposed a psychic block on Baby and Scouse, as the last thing I need right now is to feel the warmth of their connection.
That would be far too painful.
There is virtual silence as we load them into the transport van. The air is dead. It’s like being at a funeral: numbing, except for that sickly empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I feel like screaming.
Trapped in a bubble of despair, I hear the engine growling into life. Within minutes, we’re on the dual carriageway heading for West Coast, a subdued Backhouse following behind in the comfort of Philip’s car. The journey I’ve been dreading has started and I’m powerless to stop it.
In less than two hours, we will reach our destination.
In less than two hours, they’ll be gone.
I’m battling to prevent feelings of utter hopelessness from morphing into raw, uncontrollable rage. My head swims with the distant echoes of my last conversation with Clive Rothwell, the West Coast manger. How I strived to explain the differences between a trainer and a presenter - a lesson I believe he’s chosen to ignore.
The mere thought of leaving Baby and Scouse alone at West Coast claws at my very insides.
I’m bleeding…
… I’m hurting…
… I want to lash out…
… but I need a target… who…?
… who?
People… I hate them… hate them all.
But regardless of my pain, the clock keeps ticking and I can do nothing to slow it.
Inevitably, the van begins to crawl.
There are no windows, but I hear the ring of money from a passing amusement arcade, along with the raucous laughter and rabid chattering of attention-seeking idiots. We’re near… only minutes away from our destination.
A few more swinging turns, then the van’s heartbeat shudders to a halt.
Both Baby and Scouse lie quietly in their harnesses. They haven’t moved a muscle throughout the entire journey.
Do they know?
Either way, I can’t feel them, which means at least my psychic block is holding.
I hear car doors slamming and the murmur of distant voices. I don’t move, but gaze down at my two charges in silence.
How can they do this to us?
How can they?
How dare they?
With each yank of the chain, the roller-shutter door of the dolphinarium assaults my ears with a torturous squeal.
Outside, I know that people are waiting, eager for me to open the van doors…
… well, let them wait…
… let them all wait.
Someone bangs on the side of the vehicle – a signal for me to open up…
… so I let them wait a little longer.
I’ll open the doors when I’m good and ready… and not before.
Time passes.
I become aware that the crowd outside has fallen silent. They’re anxious… they’re confused.
Good… let them wait a little longer…
… let them worry.
I need time to get myself together…
… time to armour my breaking heart.
How dare they do this to us…?
… HOW DARE THEY?
The fingers of the clock freeze…
… wait… wait…
Am I ready?
No… I’ll never be ready…
… NEVER!
Time…
… time to open up.
Sunlight streams into the back of the van, sunlight so bright it blinds me. I sense a crowd of sulphurous figures. My eyes adjust.
Ah, there they are! Faces: a dozen or so anxious, twisted faces, all smiling nervously up at me.
I don’t smile… I have no reason to smile.
People… I HATE THEM!
Clive Rothwell pushes to the front of the crowd. “Great to see you, David – hope there weren’t any problems?”
He awaits my reply.
I don’t answer.
He puts out his hand to greet me.
I don’t take it.
Instead, I purposely avoid his stare and bark orders over his head, tersely instructing his undeserving staff. “Carry them with care!”
Once inside the dolphinarium, Philip gives Baby and Scouse the mandatory check, then looks at me uncomfortably. He knows how I’m feeling.
“They’re okay, David… let’s get them in.”
Five minutes later, it’s all over. Baby and Scouse are swimming away…
… swimming into my past.
It’s official. I’ve lost them…
… lost them forever.
I glance at Backhouse, but he furtively avoids my gaze.
I feel like ripping his head off…
Even Philip doesn’t speak. He and Backhouse have obviously been talking as they followed the transport, both agreeing that today silence is the better part of valour.
I turn to a sheepish Clive. He knows what’s coming, but I don’t care. I’m about to throw all the bridge building from my last visit right back in his face.
I feel like a volcano about to erupt… pressure building.
Everything bottled up inside, I give… I give tenfold. It’s time someone told him a few home truths about his poxy dolphinarium.
Clive doesn’t like it - doesn’t like the way I’m snarling at him – after all, he’s the manger, a Company executive. Well, tough…
… he’s not supposed to like it, so I snarl at him some more.
Just one word… if he says just one wrong word, he’s had it…
… I swear, he’s had it!
He says nothing.
The red mist begins to dissipate and, somewhere in the background, I hear Backhouse smarmily apologising for my behaviour. He can apologise all he likes. I don’t care anymore…
… bastards… all of them… BASTARDS!
I turn to the West Coast staff shouting, “Get your dolphins into the van! I haven’t got all day… I need to get away from this shithole!”
Nobody questions me.
Nobody challenges me.
Just silent compliance.
As I leave, I don’t look back…
… daren’t look back.
Baby and Scouse are gone…
… gone forever.
I just want to go home… just want to get back to Hendle.
… they make me sick… sick to my stomach.
Due to his record of fighting, Scouse is sedated for the move – always hazardous. But we dare not risk further injury; after all, the transport from America cost him dearly…
… it cost him his eyes.
The morning has a surreal feel as I catch and harness my two dolphins with cold efficiency. I have purposely imposed a psychic block on Baby and Scouse, as the last thing I need right now is to feel the warmth of their connection.
That would be far too painful.
There is virtual silence as we load them into the transport van. The air is dead. It’s like being at a funeral: numbing, except for that sickly empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I feel like screaming.
Trapped in a bubble of despair, I hear the engine growling into life. Within minutes, we’re on the dual carriageway heading for West Coast, a subdued Backhouse following behind in the comfort of Philip’s car. The journey I’ve been dreading has started and I’m powerless to stop it.
In less than two hours, we will reach our destination.
In less than two hours, they’ll be gone.
I’m battling to prevent feelings of utter hopelessness from morphing into raw, uncontrollable rage. My head swims with the distant echoes of my last conversation with Clive Rothwell, the West Coast manger. How I strived to explain the differences between a trainer and a presenter - a lesson I believe he’s chosen to ignore.
The mere thought of leaving Baby and Scouse alone at West Coast claws at my very insides.
I’m bleeding…
… I’m hurting…
… I want to lash out…
… but I need a target… who…?
… who?
People… I hate them… hate them all.
But regardless of my pain, the clock keeps ticking and I can do nothing to slow it.
Inevitably, the van begins to crawl.
There are no windows, but I hear the ring of money from a passing amusement arcade, along with the raucous laughter and rabid chattering of attention-seeking idiots. We’re near… only minutes away from our destination.
A few more swinging turns, then the van’s heartbeat shudders to a halt.
Both Baby and Scouse lie quietly in their harnesses. They haven’t moved a muscle throughout the entire journey.
Do they know?
Either way, I can’t feel them, which means at least my psychic block is holding.
I hear car doors slamming and the murmur of distant voices. I don’t move, but gaze down at my two charges in silence.
How can they do this to us?
How can they?
How dare they?
With each yank of the chain, the roller-shutter door of the dolphinarium assaults my ears with a torturous squeal.
Outside, I know that people are waiting, eager for me to open the van doors…
… well, let them wait…
… let them all wait.
Someone bangs on the side of the vehicle – a signal for me to open up…
… so I let them wait a little longer.
I’ll open the doors when I’m good and ready… and not before.
Time passes.
I become aware that the crowd outside has fallen silent. They’re anxious… they’re confused.
Good… let them wait a little longer…
… let them worry.
I need time to get myself together…
… time to armour my breaking heart.
How dare they do this to us…?
… HOW DARE THEY?
The fingers of the clock freeze…
… wait… wait…
Am I ready?
No… I’ll never be ready…
… NEVER!
Time…
… time to open up.
Sunlight streams into the back of the van, sunlight so bright it blinds me. I sense a crowd of sulphurous figures. My eyes adjust.
Ah, there they are! Faces: a dozen or so anxious, twisted faces, all smiling nervously up at me.
I don’t smile… I have no reason to smile.
People… I HATE THEM!
Clive Rothwell pushes to the front of the crowd. “Great to see you, David – hope there weren’t any problems?”
He awaits my reply.
I don’t answer.
He puts out his hand to greet me.
I don’t take it.
Instead, I purposely avoid his stare and bark orders over his head, tersely instructing his undeserving staff. “Carry them with care!”
Once inside the dolphinarium, Philip gives Baby and Scouse the mandatory check, then looks at me uncomfortably. He knows how I’m feeling.
“They’re okay, David… let’s get them in.”
Five minutes later, it’s all over. Baby and Scouse are swimming away…
… swimming into my past.
It’s official. I’ve lost them…
… lost them forever.
I glance at Backhouse, but he furtively avoids my gaze.
I feel like ripping his head off…
Even Philip doesn’t speak. He and Backhouse have obviously been talking as they followed the transport, both agreeing that today silence is the better part of valour.
I turn to a sheepish Clive. He knows what’s coming, but I don’t care. I’m about to throw all the bridge building from my last visit right back in his face.
I feel like a volcano about to erupt… pressure building.
Everything bottled up inside, I give… I give tenfold. It’s time someone told him a few home truths about his poxy dolphinarium.
Clive doesn’t like it - doesn’t like the way I’m snarling at him – after all, he’s the manger, a Company executive. Well, tough…
… he’s not supposed to like it, so I snarl at him some more.
Just one word… if he says just one wrong word, he’s had it…
… I swear, he’s had it!
He says nothing.
The red mist begins to dissipate and, somewhere in the background, I hear Backhouse smarmily apologising for my behaviour. He can apologise all he likes. I don’t care anymore…
… bastards… all of them… BASTARDS!
I turn to the West Coast staff shouting, “Get your dolphins into the van! I haven’t got all day… I need to get away from this shithole!”
Nobody questions me.
Nobody challenges me.
Just silent compliance.
As I leave, I don’t look back…
… daren’t look back.
Baby and Scouse are gone…
… gone forever.
I just want to go home… just want to get back to Hendle.
THE PERFECT PAIR: SHARDS FROM THE MIRROR
A voice bellowed hoarsely from the filter room. “Right, lads, we’re almost ready to start ’em up. Just ten more minutes …”
This was it: D-day – the big switch on. Only ten minutes more before the new filters became operational.
As the seconds ticked by, Backhouse and I waited on opposite sides of the pool, both desperately trying to avoid eye contact and thankful for the expanse of water lying between us.
Water … the term barely applied following the torturous longer-than-expected fifteen-day shutdown. The Hendle pool now bore all the trappings of a tropical swamp rather than a dolphin arena. A foul stench permeated the air, and my enchanted mirror sported a green-hued overcoat, through which rigid grey dorsal fins sluggishly and intermittently sliced.
“Not long now, lads,” the voice boomed. “Right, that’s it! Here we go!”
No sooner had he given the word than I felt a deep rumble erupt from the belly of the pool. Seconds later, powerful air bubbles munched their way through the gloom, prising the green coat apart. I held my breath as the moss broth bubbled and spat, reminiscent of a witch’s cauldron. No one moved – not a muscle twitched - as all eyes remained glued to this titanic collision of air and water: the re-enactment of a primordial battle.
Then it happened …
The surface of the pool suddenly lurched upwards, vomiting a cloud of oily, black sand. We stared wide-eyed with shock as the tormented arena bellyached and groaned before belching out discs of what appeared to be congealed tar.
“Oh, my God, what the hell’s that?” Dan screamed. “It looks like paint …”
I looked on in horror as Dan’s terrible observation slammed home. “God, it is paint – it’s the filter coating!” Swinging around to face a noticeably shaken Backhouse, I yelled, “Quick, we’ve got to get that stuff out of the water! If it gets into the dolphins’ blowholes, it’ll kill ’em!”
Chaos erupted as everyone – Backhouse included – dashed frantically around the pool, snatching at literally anything capable of holding water: buckets, sump grills, scoops and even dive masks. It was bedlam!
“Where’s it come from?” Dan shouted. “How on earth has paint got into the water?”
I didn’t reply – couldn’t reply - time was a luxury we couldn’t afford. All that mattered now was removing the black, sticky gloop spotting the mirror’s face.
On hearing our cries, a crowd of ashen-faced engineers streamed from the bowels of the filter room, buckets in hand.
“Come on, we’ve got to keep that paint away from the dolphins!”
The mêlée continued for a full hour before the panic finally subsided – a near catastrophe that left a horde of gasping figures littered around the pool’s walkways.
Despite none of my charges being harmed, I was furious, absolutely furious. Teeth clenched, I glared at the head engineer.
“I’m sorry, so sorry … I just never thought about the dolphins,” he pleaded. “If anything had happened to them, I would never have forgiven myself. You see, we normally carry out this type of work on an empty pool, so any excess paint coming away from the filters isn’t a problem. I don’t know what to say …”
He was not only apologetic, but also clearly distressed, so there seemed little point in upsetting him further. Nevertheless, I was all too aware of just how this might have ended.
“Okay, okay … no harm done … we’ve been lucky,” I assured him soberly. “But we still have a problem …”
The white-faced engineer looked at me beseechingly. “Problem … what problem?”
My gaze led him to the dense sand clouds churning around the pool. “What do we do with that lot?”
“Well, under normal circumstances, it would eventually work its way through the system. But this water’s so filthy, I just assumed you’d be dumping?”
On hearing this, Backhouse visibly stiffened. The comment had obviously hit a raw nerve – one that immediately sent him scurrying back to his office …
… a stark indication of trouble to come.
Once the engineers had gone, I knew that I’d again find myself in the unenviable position of having to trudge to Backhouse’s inner sanctum to plead for permission to dump the pool …
… permission he was bound to refuse.
For me, this latest visit could only end one way: more frustration, more humiliation …
… courtesy of the Backhouse grind.
This was it: D-day – the big switch on. Only ten minutes more before the new filters became operational.
As the seconds ticked by, Backhouse and I waited on opposite sides of the pool, both desperately trying to avoid eye contact and thankful for the expanse of water lying between us.
Water … the term barely applied following the torturous longer-than-expected fifteen-day shutdown. The Hendle pool now bore all the trappings of a tropical swamp rather than a dolphin arena. A foul stench permeated the air, and my enchanted mirror sported a green-hued overcoat, through which rigid grey dorsal fins sluggishly and intermittently sliced.
“Not long now, lads,” the voice boomed. “Right, that’s it! Here we go!”
No sooner had he given the word than I felt a deep rumble erupt from the belly of the pool. Seconds later, powerful air bubbles munched their way through the gloom, prising the green coat apart. I held my breath as the moss broth bubbled and spat, reminiscent of a witch’s cauldron. No one moved – not a muscle twitched - as all eyes remained glued to this titanic collision of air and water: the re-enactment of a primordial battle.
Then it happened …
The surface of the pool suddenly lurched upwards, vomiting a cloud of oily, black sand. We stared wide-eyed with shock as the tormented arena bellyached and groaned before belching out discs of what appeared to be congealed tar.
“Oh, my God, what the hell’s that?” Dan screamed. “It looks like paint …”
I looked on in horror as Dan’s terrible observation slammed home. “God, it is paint – it’s the filter coating!” Swinging around to face a noticeably shaken Backhouse, I yelled, “Quick, we’ve got to get that stuff out of the water! If it gets into the dolphins’ blowholes, it’ll kill ’em!”
Chaos erupted as everyone – Backhouse included – dashed frantically around the pool, snatching at literally anything capable of holding water: buckets, sump grills, scoops and even dive masks. It was bedlam!
“Where’s it come from?” Dan shouted. “How on earth has paint got into the water?”
I didn’t reply – couldn’t reply - time was a luxury we couldn’t afford. All that mattered now was removing the black, sticky gloop spotting the mirror’s face.
On hearing our cries, a crowd of ashen-faced engineers streamed from the bowels of the filter room, buckets in hand.
“Come on, we’ve got to keep that paint away from the dolphins!”
The mêlée continued for a full hour before the panic finally subsided – a near catastrophe that left a horde of gasping figures littered around the pool’s walkways.
Despite none of my charges being harmed, I was furious, absolutely furious. Teeth clenched, I glared at the head engineer.
“I’m sorry, so sorry … I just never thought about the dolphins,” he pleaded. “If anything had happened to them, I would never have forgiven myself. You see, we normally carry out this type of work on an empty pool, so any excess paint coming away from the filters isn’t a problem. I don’t know what to say …”
He was not only apologetic, but also clearly distressed, so there seemed little point in upsetting him further. Nevertheless, I was all too aware of just how this might have ended.
“Okay, okay … no harm done … we’ve been lucky,” I assured him soberly. “But we still have a problem …”
The white-faced engineer looked at me beseechingly. “Problem … what problem?”
My gaze led him to the dense sand clouds churning around the pool. “What do we do with that lot?”
“Well, under normal circumstances, it would eventually work its way through the system. But this water’s so filthy, I just assumed you’d be dumping?”
On hearing this, Backhouse visibly stiffened. The comment had obviously hit a raw nerve – one that immediately sent him scurrying back to his office …
… a stark indication of trouble to come.
Once the engineers had gone, I knew that I’d again find myself in the unenviable position of having to trudge to Backhouse’s inner sanctum to plead for permission to dump the pool …
… permission he was bound to refuse.
For me, this latest visit could only end one way: more frustration, more humiliation …
… courtesy of the Backhouse grind.
