'Fishing'

‘FISHING’

A SHORT STORY

BY TIM ROBERTS

Paul sat at the edge of the Nature Reserve pond on his khaki camp chair, surrounded by his fishing tackle. The gingham blanket was littered with reels and flies and hooks and floats and sinkers - all overflowing from his customised tool box which also housed the all-important tubs of maggots.

Wednesday. His Wednesday. The day he got to himself, that was the deal. Far from errands and rows and stress. Far from the Madding Crowd, he thought to himself as he chomped on an egg and tomato sandwich and took a swig out of his tartan thermos as he steadied his rod and threw a crust for an inquisitive duck.

Kian came out of the undergrowth behind Paul furtively. His black hood shadowed his acne-ridden face, hiding its sheepish look from someone. As well as the customary tracksuit bottoms tucked into socks sprouting from counterfeit trainers, he also wore a small leather drugs pouch like a sash. As proud of his possession as some pageant Princess.

Kian sidled up to a bench nearer Paul and started thumbing agitatedly at his phone. He looked up at Paul who by now was eyeing him suspiciously.

They acknowledged each other with the universal language of the nod before Kian carried on fiddling with his phone while Paul looked him up and down.

“...You’re not gonna play no music on that thing, I hope?” he asked, knowing what kids and phones are.

“Nah. ‘Just checking me 4G.” Kian replied, knowing this would be a foreign language to the old man.

“Good. ‘Cause I don’t want you scaring the fish with your punk rock.”

Kian smiled at Paul’s comment. “‘Seeing where me mates’ve got to.”

“Oh good. There’s more of you, are there?” Paul said sardonically, turning again to his fishing.

“‘More of me’ what?” asked Kian, coming closer.

“What?”

“You said “More of me”. What is me? What am I like?” Kian asked confrontationally.

“You know ... you’re ... wotsit ...” Paul floundered, put on the spot. “Well, you’re ‘young’ aren’t you?”

“So’s Greta Thurnberg young. Would you call her “More of me”?”

“Aye, ‘reckon I would, now you mention it.”

Okay, bad example, thought Kian. “I just mean you took one look at me and you made up your mind, din’t you?”

“Come on, lad. You brought that on thyssen. I mean look at you - did you look at yoursen in the mirror this aft when you slobbed out of bed and said “Aye, that’ll do nicely”?”

Kian stretched his arms out, looking down at himself incredulously. “What’s wrong with it?”

Paul pointed out Kian’s black hoodie hiding his glue-scabbed face. His trackie bottoms tucked inside his knock-off trainers. Then he pointed to the thong with the drugs pouch.

“And are you tellin’ me that thing slung round you’s a pencil case?” He turned again to the pond. “What d’you expect folk to think if you go round dressed like that?”

“It’s fashion.”

“‘Fashion victim’, more like.”

Kian then managed to turn it round on Paul. What about him and what he was wearing? How Paul had his old man uniform on as much as Kian had got his ‘Roadman’ uniform on. What with his Woolworth jeans and his check shirt tucked up tight and his body warmer and silly little hat.

‘Roadman’!? Is that what they call themselves these days, is it? Paul pondered. What? ‘Cause they wander round and round the roads looking for trouble? ‘Street-rat’ they called that in Paul’s day. And he told Kian as much.

“I never invented it.” Kian protested. “It’s just a name given us by the media, innit?”

‘Social media’, Paul supposed to himself, recasting dismissively. Here we bloody go. The internet was one of Paul’s pet hates and when Kian’s phone bleeped and he looked at it fretfully, tapping out a text, Paul just thought how it proved his point. It never bloody stops.

When Kian finished his text message he looked worriedly around the Nature Reserve - towards the wooded area on the far side of the pond. He spotted a tree stump next to Paul’s shrine to angling. He asked Paul if he minded if he sat there for a bit? Paul eyed Kian critically before moving some of his kit and telling the lad to help himself - it was a free country.

They sat and the ducks quacked and Paul patiently awaited a bite, with the odd sideways look to Kian. Voices were calling each other far off - a football match, Kian hoped. A siren sounded, making the young man jump. Paul expertly adjusted his rod and tinkered with his equipment as he studied Kian’s behaviour.

“‘Kian.” Kian said, by way of an introduction.

“Fishing? Yeah, I love it.” Paul misinterpreted him.

“No. ‘Kian’. It’s my name.”

“Ah. ‘Paul. I’d shake yer hand but I’ve not had me second jab and an elbow bump would spoil the angle of me rod.”

The fishing continued as a heron stared at them from the reedy bank opposite.

“I used to go fishing. With my grandad.” Kian reminisced.

“Good for you. And him.” Paul smiled.

“He had all this stuff.” the boy added, looking around at the older man’s tackle and leaning over his toolkit. “Is it alright if...?” He gestured at Paul’s prized gear.

“‘Might as well. If you’ve got it I’ve got it too now.” Paul said as Kian started spinning his reels and fluffing the flies. He took a handful of maggots and enjoyed the feeling of them wriggling and squirming against his skin as if trying to burrow down through the cracks between his fingers. It was good to have a fist full of maggots again.

“When wa’ the last time you fished?” asked Paul, admiring the interest.

“‘Ages. I was still little. ‘Must have been when me Dad came back an’ started battering us all about again. We were all split up after that.”

“‘Care?”

“No, he didn’t really.” Kian gave his dry, pat answer, the memory making him reach for his pouch. He removed the faded ‘Golden Virginia’ baccy tin and expertly rolled some of the dried leaves into a Rizla with one hand. He then took out a chocolatey chunk of cannabis resin and heated it under the flame of his Zippo.

“You’ve got everything you need in there, ent yer?” Paul nodded across at Kian as he crumbled the resin into his oversized roll-up and licked the spliff closed. He lit the end and inhaled the sickly sweet contents before offering the bifta to Paul.

“No ta, lad.” said Paul graciously. “The ‘sixties were a long time ago now, I’m afraid. I’ll stick to me legal tipple.” whereupon he took another surreptitious swig from his tartan thermos. ‘Not just tea in there, then?’ thought Kian as Paul offered him the flask like it was part two of their impromptu cultural exchange. Peace pipe, if you like.

Kian took a gulp of Paul’s firewater and felt his mouth burn. He sprayed the pond side with whiskey in his shock.

“Fuck me, that’s strong.” spluttered Kian, wiping his mouth.

“‘Single malt, lad.” said Paul. “You’ve just spat out ten quid’s worth.”

“‘Makes my blow look like an afternoon sherry, that.” Kian joked. He then picked up on Paul’s enigmatic comment about the ‘sixties he made earlier. “So you have done it, then? The draw?”

“‘Course I have. I wa’ in Northern Island, kid. And Cyprus. We needed summat to dull t’senses after all the stuff we’d seen.”

“Shit, yeah. I bet.” Kian replied to the revelation.

Paul nodded at the pond. “That’s why I do this. Relaxes me. Every Wednesday I can escape and sit here and...”

“Chill?” Kian finished Paul’s sentence.

“Aye, ‘Chill’. So it means I ent grabbing for me gun every time me grand-daughter pops a bloody balloon.”

“I get that. Once a week you chill out.” Kian nodded sagely. “Drop out. Fall through the cracks a bit and just ... fish.”

Kian caught Paul looking at his reefer. He offered it again. Paul took it and inhaled slowly - breathing out a plume of smoke like it’s an old friend.

“That’s good.” he said, going to hand the carrot-shaped drugs back to Kian.

“Have a bit more.” Kian told him. And so Paul did.

“So why aren’t you at work? You’m obviously too old for school.” Paul observed as he felt his lungs welcome the old friend again.

“I did work.” Kian told him. “They had me on an apprenticeship - plastering - I were doing all right with it an’ all. But it all went tits up when this bastard Virus thing started.”

“Tell me about it.” Paul agreed. “‘Whole world’s gone Mental.”

Kian nodded in agreement and they sat and stared at Paul’s float, line and sinker. Paul decisively offered the rod to Kian.

“D’you want a go?”

Kian looked at Paul’s rod in awe and wonder.

“Shit, yeah. Could I?”

“Aye, here ya go. It’s all yours.”

Paul got up and moved to one side, allowing Kian to sit in his camp chair. He carefully put the rod and reel into Kian’s hands and pulled the line taut for him.

“Just keep that firm in yer left hand an’ if you get a bite reel him in with yer right.” Paul instructed the seventeen year old.

A silly yet somehow proud grin spread across Kian’s by now unhooded face as he held Paul’s rod like an expert. It was all coming back to him now. ‘Like riding a bike.

They sat and watched the bobbing float hooked with bait.

“Good lad.” Paul smiled broadly.

After a few contented minutes, the water sploshed and a fish mouthed at the line end.

“Fuck me, I’ve got a bite!” exclaimed Kian excitedly.

“Hold firm.” Paul Rose to assist, careful not to take charge. “Now get it rested on your thigh, like. And then reel him in as quickly as yer can. That’s it.”

Together, they managed to reel in the large bream, flopping and slipping onto Paul’s checkered picnic rug. They laughed and cheered triumphantly.

“I got it. I actually caught a fish!” Kian said proudly.

“Wahey! Nice one, my son!” Paul celebrated.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Kian grabbed Paul’s thermos and set about the bream with a series of angry, vicious blows - covering the green of the pond side with the dead fish’s red blood. Paul stared in disbelief as the violence subsided and Kian’s sharp breathing steadied once more.

“Well that’s one way to do it.” Paul looked down at the brutalised Bream. “I normally just chuck ‘em back.”

“Sorry, Paul.” Kian apologised through tears. “Like I said - it’s been a long time.”

Paul put a hand on Kian’s shoulder. “That’s all right, Kian lad. Maybe next time we’ll take a photo with that phone o’yours and let him swim off back into t’pond, eh?”

Kian nodded slowly at Paul’s suggestion.

Suddenly the bushes behind them shook and a gang of youths emerged, gesturing to Kian wildly and running off in the direction of the wooded copse.

“‘Friends of yours?” Paul asked as a burly police officer came out of the same undergrowth - his garish high-viz jacket spoiling the greens of nature.

“Have you seen a gang of lads come this way?” the police officer asked, more out of breath than a policeman had the right to be.

“Aye - they went that way.” Paul pointed off towards the woods.

The officer thanked him and began to move off in that direction, but then something stopped him in his tracks and made him take a second look at Kian. He came closer.

“‘Fishing, are we?” he asked.

“You must be ‘Chief Inspector wi’ detecting skills like that.” Paul loved using sarcasm with authority figures - he did it on the phone all the time. Other than Wednesday fishing, it was one of his little life pleasures.

“‘Funny.” the policeman tried to make it sound like a warning, but Paul just shrugged.

“‘Legal.” he pointed out.

“And what about that?” asked the copper, pointing at the tell-tale spliff still in Paul’s grip that he’d forgotten was there.

Paul thought quickly and took a toke.

“Aye. It’s for me arthritis.”

The cop turned straight to Kian. “And you?”

“My Grandson don’t touch the stuff, officer.” Paul answered for him. All three paused for eye contact like an ocular Mexican stand-off. “‘Asthmatic.” Paul added.

Kian coughed right on cue. The police officer looked from Kian back to Paul and then down at the mutilated bream lying between them.

“What the Hell happened to that fish?” he asked.

“It got battered, Officer.” Paul replied, looking towards Kian. “Sooner or later every fish is gonna face a bit o’ batterin’, eh?”

The pause was ended by a rustling from the wooded copse at the far side of the pond.

“Hadn’t you better pursue them youths?” suggested Paul.

The officer took one last suspicious look at Kian and Paul before leaving and running after the youths.

Paul watched the copper go, smiling and passing the spliff back to Kian and swigging his flask of whiskey.

“...We don’t want ‘em scaring the fish, do we?”

Kian shared Paul’s smile and took a smoke. The heron finished its staring competition and took flight off and above their heads.

THE END.