The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

Nineteen year old Damien is a mad-keen, cool-dude, ‘up for it’ angler, who won’t miss any opportunity to go fishing. He has an aged uncle, an angler of some renown and a staunch traditionalist, Donald Effingham-Mudde, who spent his earlier years in service to the Viceroy of India. His family jokingly refer to him as WIMDOC, which is an acronym for the phase he uses to start just about every conversation (“Well, in my day, of course….”).

The old boy has come to stay with Damien’s parents for an extended visit, giving the pair the opportunity to go fishing together. Donald’s fishing references are impeccable as, according to him, he taught the Taylor Brothers all they know. However, both participants view the opportunity from slightly differing perspectives. Damien really doesn’t want to be landed with babysitting some doddering old fart, whilst Donald sees this as a perfect opportunity to show this young pup how to do things properly. They are bound to get on famously – aren’t they?

Goodbyeeee

Damien was slowly shaking his head in disbelief. What he was having trouble in believing was that here he was, sitting with Donald’s old Wallis Wizard in his hands. Never thought he would see that day happen.

His thoughts were interrupted as a door opposite him opened and the funeral director entered the room then walked slowly and purposely towards Damien. Stopping in front of him, the funeral director held out his hand as he enquired, “Is that it then, young sir? I understand from your family that the deceased’s final request was that his trusty fishing rod was placed in the coffin beside him.”

Damien nodded slowly then stood up and started to hand over the rod. Just before the funeral director could take hold Damien pulled it back sharply. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t give it to you,” he said. The funeral director bowed his head, “Of course sir, you want to place the item in the coffin yourself, as you pay your last respects, quite understandable. Please come through this way, the casket is open.” He motioned towards the door he had just come through.

Damien was horrified “No, no, not that, I meant not at all, no way. It’s not going with, or in, or anything else.”

With that he made a dash for the door out of the waiting room. He put the rod in the boot of his car and sped off home. When he got there, his mum was full of consolation, very proud of what he had done, and said he was very brave to go there all by himself. His uncle would be very pleased to know that Damien had been the one to carry out his final wish.

Damien just nodded, and tried to look suitably solemn, as his mum turned away, dabbing her eyes with a tissue as she did so. More tears, he thought, it’s been nothing but tears since the old bugger had finally pegged out a couple of days ago. Passed away peacefully in his sleep, better that than doing it while we were out fishing. Damien was relieved about that.

The funeral was a relatively quiet affair, as there were not many of Donald’s old acquaintances left now, although it didn’t stop those that were from buttonholing Damien afterwards, in between mouthfuls of ham sandwiches and glasses of sherry. Most of them were insistent on telling him that Donald had promised them this or that bit of tackle when he finally went to the Pearly Gates Syndicate. In fact, just about everyone had a claim on the old Wallis, apparently.

Damien took a great delight in telling them one by one that, sadly, the old boy had taken it with him to that great swim in the sky. There was some sage nodding of heads, and teeth sucking, but they all agreed that it was the proper thing to do, if that was the old boy’s last wish. Damien’s mind was now ticking over nicely, those cunning old gits weren’t daft, if they all wanted that rod it must be worth a bob or two, and if it was, he was having it, by way of compensation for having to put up with the old bugger.

A few days later Damien was going through Donald’s tackle with a view to passing on mementos to his old mates where he could, and disposing of the rest. He had sorted it into three little piles, one to keep, one to sling, and one pile of bits he didn’t even recognise as tackle. His mum came into the garage and asked if he wasn’t going to hold something back as a keepsake. Damien shook his head, he didn’t need anything out of this lot, he said, he had all those memories of his dear uncle, and that was enough. His mum turned and ran out of the garage, he could hear her starting to sob as she went.

Damien stood looking at pathetic little jumbles of gear that was all that Donald had amassed in his lifetime of fishing. It didn’t amount to much, probably less than a tenth of what Damien currently owned. Battered and bent rods, chipped and rusty reels with line springing off the spools, the old boots, and in his hand was Donald’s old pipe that he had just found whilst going through the pockets of his crumpled fishing jacket. Damien looked down to the floor just in front of it all as there were little grey stars peppering the dust on the concrete; they were caused by the tears that were rolling down his cheeks.

He rubbed his eyes furiously and shook his head, what the f**k was all that about, he thought, surely he didn’t really miss the old tw*t, did he? No, absolutely no way, probably allergic to something nasty lurking in that old tackle, he assured himself. Just to make sure he held his breath as he bundled it all up into black sacks and loaded it up in his car for a trip to the local dump. He made sure he wasn’t being watched as he took the old Wallis out of his boot and hid it in his rod bag, didn’t want his mum or dad finding out it hadn’t gone with the old bugger to his final resting place. He’d leave it a little while before he stuck it on eBay, might get enough to pay for one of his season tickets, the old boy should be happy with that.

***************************

A few weeks later

Damien was out fishing on his own, and sport was slow, to say the least. He was pondering a tactical change as he rummaged through the forest of tubes in his rod bag when he came across Donald’s old Wallis. More out of amusement than anything, he pulled the rod out of its bag and put the pieces together, then gave it a ‘swish’, “You’d be better off growing peas up this,” he muttered to himself. He looked all round to make sure no one was looking as he put a reel on the handle and threaded the line through the ancient rings.

Given its certain fragility Damien thought he would do no more than chuck out a small feeder, but as his delved through his tackle boxes he seemed drawn to a bubble float. Whatever, he thought, and fixed it on the line. Then again, although he wanted to put a pellet on the hook, he found himself tearing a piece of crust off one of his sandwiches instead. Bemused, he flicked the bait out fifteen yards and put the rod on the rest, as it seemed far too heavy to hold.

Damien sat back and looked at the old cane rod, chipped varnish, rusty eyes, battered cork handle, straight as a dog’s hind leg as it sat drooping on the rod pod, matched to a modern baitrunner reel with it’s spool whizzing round, looking completely out of place. How could that old piece of tat ever be worth any money to……hang on…..SPOOL WHIZZING ROUND!!!!!

He leapt up and grabbed the rod and swept it over his shoulder, to be met with a satisfying thump on the end of the line. It soon became clear this was a big fish, and Damien started to worry about the Wallis, which he expected to snap like a carrot at any minute. But despite creaking and groaning a bit, the old rod seemed to be up to the fight, and after a fifteen-minute tussle Damien was staring in disbelief at the biggest carp he had ever caught, lying safely in the bottom of his landing net.

A couple of local anglers had seen what was going on and came over. The fish was weighed, photographed and witnessed, and a couple of phone calls confirmed a new club record. That stunned Damien, but even more amazing to him was the fact that his fellow anglers seemed suitably impressed that he was using an old cane rod, in fact far more interested in that than all the latest high tech gear that he had strewn everywhere.

Damien was puzzled by this, and not a little curious. He went fishing again the next week, again caught nothing until he brought out the Wallis, and first cast using the lift method, which again wasn’t his plan, out came a club record tench. It soon became clear that these catches weren’t flukes, and as the season progressed, he didn’t even bother taking his own gear with him any more. Damien didn’t like to admit it to himself, but it seemed that Donald’s spirit was guiding him and was showing him what to do every time he went out.

And all these catches weren’t going unnoticed. Damien was beginning to win the odd weekly prize, then ‘Fish of the Month’ and finally he was told he was in the running for a top national award, and was invited down to a posh prize giving do in London, and told to bring the ‘lucky’ rod as well, as the press would be there doing photos and stories for all the angling mags. Damien could hardly sleep that night for the excitement; it was just like Christmas Eve. He had a strange dream, almost a nightmare in which he thought he saw a ghostly apparition of Donald in a dressing gown bent over him while he slept.

And then there was the awful smell, Damien was almost gagging as the apparition got closer and closer then poked something strange right under his nose, as it spoke to him, “Yer mum says yer breakfast is ready, got me self a black pudding sandwich, don’t suppose you want one of them, do yer, young ‘un?”

With that the ghostly figure turned and walked away, cackling as it went. Damien sat bolt upright in bed, staring in disbelief as the old boy shuffled out of his bedroom. He slowly came to his senses, it had all been a dream, the old git dying, the ‘magic’ rod, everything. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He took a while getting dressed, still not really believing he had dreamt everything, it all seemed so real. As he left his bedroom he bumped into Donald at the top of the stairs, the old boy had just come out of the bathroom. “If you want to go in there I’d leave it a few minutes,” he said. The smell wafting under the bathroom door made Damien heave as he walked past and started to follow Donald down for breakfast.

Hmm… he thought, as he stared at Donald’s nearly bald head bobbing down just in front of him, if I just tapped the old git’s ankle while he’s near the top of the stairs I might yet get my hands on that rod…..