There are some days that are destined to change your life, but as Andy watched the unmoving tip of his float he would never have guessed that this would turn out to be one of them. In fact it seemed the day had been a complete failure. It was definitely a stark change from the long warm days of the summer holidays when along with his mate Tom they’d caught what now, looking back, seemed to be an unending procession of roach, rudd, slimy skimmer bream that left little pearl globs of goo on the line, and of course the ever present greedy perch always intent on by-passing the mouth with the bait and going straight to the digestive organs. None of these fish had been very big, but when you’re thirteen that doesn’t matter. Heady Days Then the days had been heady, the air full of the sounds and smells of summer; every now and then a swallow would skim the water to sip a fly from the surface film leaving just the finest of silvery wakes. Now things were different, it was half term, late October and although it was only mid afternoon there was a damp chill in the air that was starting to seep through Andy’s thin coat, the coat that he had assured his mother was more than adequate before he’d set off. There were no swallows now, they’d long gone to warmer retreats, and it seemed they must have taken every other living thing with them, because everything was still, nothing moved. It was if the world was holding its breath in anticipation of winter’s arrival. Worse still, Andy was down to his last cheese sandwich. He didn’t even like cheese that much, but his dad had assured him that if he took something he didn’t like he wouldn’t be tempted to eat them all in the first half hour. There was probably logic in that, somewhere. Looking down at the sad limp bread in his hand Andy considered packing up, his float hadn’t moved in ages. He’d started the day with such high hopes when his first cast had brought him a little perch. Perhaps nothing had changed, but it had been an hour before another came along. The next time his float ducked was due to a 2oz roach, but this had fallen off the hook before he could get a hand on it, so that didn’t really count. Since then there’d been nothing, and now the disappointment was tangible. Andy had desperately wanted it to be like the summer, when he’d persuaded his dad to let himself and Tom use the fishing tackle that lay in the back of the garage. His dad had often talked about his fishing days, there had been great nets of bream from the River Huntspill, and the time he’d won a match on the Old River Axe, which is where Andy was now. When he’d asked his dad why he didn’t fish anymore he always got the same answer, “Oh, I just don’t seem to get the time.” Strange things adults. Still, it hadn’t taken much persuading to get the rods, reels and odds and ends that were doing nothing but gathering dust and housing spiders back into action, even if his mother had to do an emergency darning job on holes mice had nibbled in the nets; it seems fishing nets come high on the desired menu of rodents. So with rods tied to bikes, and redundant school books hurriedly dumped out of haversacks, and replaced by reels, floats, bait, and of course drinks and sandwiches, Andy and Tom set off on the short ride to the Old River Axe, stopping at the petrol station to buy their tickets. The Old River Axe isn’t a river at all, well not anymore, just a detached loop, the sort of thing geography teachers would call an ox-bowl lake, except in this case it was man made rather than an effect of river erosion. Andy chastised himself for committing the sin of thinking about school during the holidays. The fishing idea had been a masterstroke, and that summer had been the best ever. The lads visited the riverbank at least twice a week, sometimes more, depending on how the pocket money to maggot ratio worked out. But now looking down the deserted banks it was almost unbelievable that the summer had not been anything more than a half remembered dream. Then the water’s edge had been alive with other anglers. This was a blessing, because even though Andy’s dad had given them a crash course in casting and other basics a helping hand was always welcome to sort out the inevitable tangles, unhook those glutinous spiky perch, offer much needed advice, and of course spin a yarn or two. Of all the yarn spinners none could top old Faggy Cap, his real name was Jim, but with an old cloth cap permanently nailed to his head, and a cigarette forever hanging from his mouth, Faggy Cap summed him up much better. It had been Faggy Cap who’d told the lads about the pike, not just any old pike, but a duck-eating monster that lurked in the dark waters. As he told his story the boys became hypnotised, not just by the lurid tale but the ever-growing droop of grey ash that hung from the cigarette, which never once left his mouth during the telling. “Then there was old Mrs Chapman’s Jack Russell.” The ash was now almost bending through ninety degrees. “Every day she’d bring it down here for a walk, throwing sticks in the water for it to fetch. Till one day it never came out.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper: “why do you think that was?” Snap! He clapped his hands in front of his face like the closing jaws of the monster, and sending a cloud of ash in all directions. Andy and Tom jumped back into the real world, from the daydream they’d been lulled into. Faggy Cap chuckled, and turned back to his own rod. “Don’t say I never warned you, just don’t go paddling.” Andy was fairly convinced the story was nothing more than a fisherman’s tale, but in the back of his mind there was still that doubt, a little primeval fear that the monster did exist. He knew about pike, and their ferocity, even though he’d never seen one. The pike was one fish you didn’t have to be a fisherman to know. So now every swirl in the lilies became more menacing, and although he would’ve never admitted it to anyone, he’d taken a step back in alarm at the sight of a long green shape submerged beneath the bank side weed. Which, when he regained his wits, turned out to be nothing more threatening than an old length of moss covered land drain. Tom on the other hand took a different view of the monster, and vowed to catch it. On their next visit to the tackle shop he bought a shiny spinner with a silver blade, bright yellow body with black spots, and a tuft of yellow feathers over the treble hook. In Andy’s opinion (kept to himself), it was totally inadequate to catch a monster, but he had to admit it was very pretty. The Next Day The spinners first cast brought back a yard of weed at the river the next day. On its second cast it became stuck solid, and didn’t come back at all. Tom had suggested that perhaps the pike had grabbed it, and was so big the line had just snapped, they both knew this was more than wishful thinking, but it did help Tom with the loss of his prize possession. The loss of the polka dot spinner brought about the end of the pike fishing after just two casts, something Andy wasn’t sad to see, but that day was also the last day of the holidays, school beckoned, and it was the end of the fishing. Today had been the first time Andy had wet a line since then. Even though he had to pass over the river twice a day on the bus to and from school he had never managed the time to get back with rod and line, something always seemed to crop up. There’d been weekends when the weather had been foul with gusting winds and sheets of rain. This happened with such regularity that Andy started to think the TV weather man had a personal vendetta against him, as his on screen face would light up as he told of another “very unsettled weekend, with a low pressure system, tight isobars, bringing high winds and heavy rain.” Then there was the weekend the family had to go to Taunton for the wedding of some uncle he didn’t even know. Another weekend was ruined by a dose of tonsillitis; the infuriating thing was on the weekends of the wedding, and of his incapacitation the weather had been just perfect. Each time he passed the river on the school run Andy felt it was calling to him, however of late the call seemed to be getting weaker, so this visit was essential before the call disappeared, perhaps forever. Tom hadn’t wanted to come, muttering something about it being too cold. In fact he hadn’t shown much interest since the football season had started, whereas Andy didn’t share the same interest in the fortunes of Bristol City. With a heavy inward sigh of resignation, Andy reeled in to pack away. Perhaps Tom had been right, and perhaps the spell had been broken. In the summer there’d always been the comfort of the next day, but now as he tied the rod to his bike crossbar and glanced down the empty banks the thought that ‘the next day’ might be months away, next summer probably, pulled on his heartstrings. The Sheriff It was just as he was about to set off home he remembered he wasn’t alone. A man with fishing tackle, and wearing a tatty old combat jacket, had passed him just before midday. He’ll have been in his mid fifties with grey almost white hair that hung down below his collar, making him look – or so Andy thought – like a sheriff from an old wild west movie. He had definitely not walked back again, so Andy assumed he was still there, and decided to put off his homeward journey until he’d seen if the ‘sheriff’ had been having any better luck than himself. It wasn’t until he’d almost reached the other end of the old river that Andy saw the figure of the man fishing opposite a bed of reeds that had now turned brown and folded with the onset of autumn. As he got closer Andy noticed a large orange bob float sitting a yard or so from the reeds; the man was pike fishing! So had Faggy Cap been right all along, does this short length of amputated river hold a monster? Andy put his bike down quietly some distance away, and stalked up to a hushed whispering distance. “Are you trying to catch the pike?” He asked. “I’d rather hoped there would be more than one,” replied the man with a wry smile. Andy had never considered there might be more than one pike in the water, so with his curiosity aroused he crept a little closer. It was then he got a whiff of something pungent emanating from a bucket standing next to the piker’s tackle box. The bucket contained several fish – dead ones – some were silver with a reddish eye and head; these Andy thought might be herrings. The others were longer, and rounder with a greeny blue striped back. These Andy knew these were mackerel, he also knew both herring and mackerel are sea fish, which struck him as a little odd. “Do pike eat sea fish, even dead ones?” As soon as the words had left his mouth Andy knew it was a stupid question, and the last thing he wanted to do was look silly or childish in font of this man, who somehow oozed experience, more so than any of the other anglers he’d come across, even the great Faggy Cap. “Well, normally,” came the reply, “but today they seem to have gone off them.” This answered Andy’s next planned question about how much luck the piker was having, so he left well alone, leading to something of a heavy pause. The silence was approaching the unbearable, as Andy searched his brain for an intelligent question, but his mind had momentarily become vacant of any thoughts at all. Fortunately, it was the piking sheriff who broke the silence. “You look ruddy frozen, I’d pour you some of this, but it’s got a drop of medicine in it.” He gave a knowing wink, and opened his box lid taking out a tartan coloured thermos flask, which by the look of it had seen some action, being slightly rusted around the bottom, and sporting more than one dent. The man took off the cup lid, and pulled out the stopper like a cork, it must have been a real antique. As the black coffee was poured, although Andy was stood some feet away he got the definite impression that ‘medicine’ had been something of a euphemism for brandy, or whisky, or some strong sprit, and ‘a drop’ had been a touch short of the mark too. “Well, if that doesn’t get a bite nothing will.” Andy may have only been an angler for a matter of weeks but he knew exactly what the piker meant, even in his short career he was familiar with the way fish seem to know when you’re having a drink. As it happened the master plan failed, the big orange float didn’t move. “How many pike have you caught, ever” asked Andy determined to start up some conversation, and continued “I’ve got a book at home with all types of fish in it, and every time I catch one I put a tick in pencil on the page with that fish on it. I’ll have to add another two ticks on the perch page because that’s all I’ve caught today. Still it’ll make thirty-three now, and roach I’ve had twenty nine.” He stopped himself in his tracks; he was coming over all childish again. The piker closed one eye, as if in deep thought, “Well I’ve had one or two pike in my time, I’m not sure how many exactly, I’m not as organised as you.” Andy wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic, or polite, but his internal debate was cut short when getting to his feet the piker announced, “mind you, I might be about to add one to the list.” Andy’s gaze shot to the bob float, which had until then been sitting motionless on a leaden mirror, but now it was emitting a series of Morse code-like circular ripples. Then it started to move slowly off, sinking as it went, why didn’t he strike? Instead the sheriff was paying out line from spool, and it wasn’t until the float had completely vanished did he bring the bail arm crashing shut, pick up the slack line, and firmly pull the rod back. Andy wasn’t sure if the strike had hit home, but then he made out the orange bob zig-zagging violently below the water. He didn’t know what to do, he hoped he wasn’t in the way, but the anticipation of what might break the surface had him transfixed. A Fury of Teeth and Crimson Gills What did break the surface was a fury of teeth and crimson gills. Andy would have taken a few steps back, but the confident calm of the piker was infectious. After a few more runs, which seemed to send their tidal waves the length of the old river, a pearl underside was brought over the biggest landing net Andy had ever seen. He inched forward to look into the folds of the outsized net, and came face to face with a creature the like of which he’d never seen before. The pike in all its glory, green, but at the same time gold, striped, but at the same time spotted, and even in the gathering gloom of an autumn afternoon these markings glowed like living sunlight.
Perhaps the most striking of all, the bottomless black yellow ringed eyes, whose gaze Andy was reluctant to meet. He had to ask the obvious question, “how big is it?” The piker had slipped his hand under one of the fish’s gills to open its cavernous mouth. “Oh I don’t know, maybe about ten.” Ten pounds! Andy didn’t even know fish grew that big, even if he added up all the fish he’d caught, and thrown in half of Tom’s, he still didn’t think it would make ten pounds. A Real Pike Fanatic is Born Andy smiled at the memory; that had been fifteen years ago, to the day. Fifteen years since that first glimpse of Esox Lucius, a sight that changed the mythical monster of his mind into a real thing of beauty. From that moment he was hooked, a real pike fanatic. In those years Andy had landed many pike, but none the size of the big old girl he was coaxing out of his weighing sling as he hung over the side of the boat on Chew Valley Reservoir. She’d gone thirty-nine ponds six ounces; not a forty, but who cares, it was his personal best by far. Not too many minutes ago she’d slammed into his yellow Ugly Joe, and now she was swimming, slowly, almost defiantly, back into the depths, where once again she’d be queen of all she surveyed. Her last glance back with her bottomless black, yellow ringed eye at the human who’d so bruised her pride sent the message that every pike Andy had ever come across knew, “you didn’t catch me, I let you”. Andy watched long after she’d gone, then sat back up in the boat, and took in a huge triumphant breath through a grin as wide as the Cedar Gorge, and punched the air. His boat partner shook his raised hand, and slapped him on the back so hard that if it were not for the pure adrenaline running through his veins Andy would have been creased in two. Through his elation there was one other person Andy wished he could have shaken by the hand; a grey haired piker whose name he never knew, and he never saw again, but met by chance on a dull yet wonderful October afternoon. |
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