Steve Roodge gazed out of his tackle shop window. Four ‘o clock and almost dark. Just about the shortest day of year though, two days to Christmas bleedin’ Eve. Robbie Catchett emerged from the back of the shop.
“All the casters done, boss.”
“Robbie, I bin meaning to say, er, till April I’ll have to make it a four day week, cut yer down to 30 hours, sorry mate but till it picks up at Easter, I can’t afford the full whack, y’know, yer can knock off now.”
“S’pose it’ll be alright, mind the missus is expecting anuvver in March, she packs in next month, money’s tight, kid’s is getting nuffin’ fer Christmas.”
Steve smiled inwardly but tried not to show it. He could afford it but if the stupid dipstick accepted it, so what? He didn’t even get the national wage with the hours he racked up in the summer. Why did he want more kids? He’d got two already, an one of em’s a cripple or summit, and they could hardly afford them anyway. “See yer tomorra, I’m locking up, getting home t’ sort out me ‘ooks fer Saturday.”
“You ain’t fishin’ Saturday, not a match on Christmas day? One day you’ll wake up an’ find out what Christmas’s all about, ain’t yer got no family?”
“Who need’s bleedin’ family? Yeah, a match, why not? There’s a dozen of us.”
As he left the now dark and locked up shop, Steve glanced up at the shop front, ‘S. C. Roodge’, right little nest egg it was. Being in partnership with the little commercial fishery down the road had paid off. Little, huh, pretty bloody big now!
Steve drove quietly back to his large detached house a couple of miles away. After microwaving a frozen pizza and washing it down with a strong cup of tea, he settled down at a table in his study to sort out his pole rigs. He shivered; it seemed chilly tonight. The radiator was on; maybe he was going down with something. He closed the door to stop the draught.
He’d tied maybe thirty hooks when the whole house seemed to start shaking violently. There was a huge cloud of dust from the ceiling, and from it, a white-haired old man appeared. He looked about sixty. Steve was terrified. “Who, who, the hell are yo’o’oou?” he stammered, his knees knocking together violently. It looked like old Albert, but he’d been dead for five years.
“Don’t you remember me, young Steve, I’m Albert, the angler that did nothing else but fish whilst life passed him by. Don’t be like me, Steve. I’ve come to warn you. You must change before it’s too late. You’ll be visited by three ghosts; the ghosts of angling past, angling present and angling future. The first one at noon on Christmas Eve.”
And then Albert was gone. Steve spent a restless night trying to figure out what had happened. Maybe he’d been working too hard and started hallucinating?
Two days later, the morning of Christmas Eve, was busy with all sorts dropping in after last minute gifts for themselves, for boyfriends and husbands. The anglers always knew what they wanted, but their female partners were usually clue-less.
“What sort of fishin’ does ‘e do darlin’?”
“I’m not sure but he never catches much”.
After a morning of this caper, Steve realised the time. It was nearly noon. “Robbie, I’ve just got to pop home for half an hour, mate, won’t be long.”
As he turned into his road, he glanced at the clock on the dashboard and realised it was twelve o’clock. Suddenly, he was driving in thick fog and could hardly see out of the windscreen. As he emerged from the fog, the car stalled. He was no longer in his road but near the river on a summer’s day. A tall man of about seventy, with thick-rimmed glasses, sat in the passenger seat. “Who are you?” said Steve, though he had an awful premonition of what might come next.
“I am Dick Walker, the ghost of angling past. I am going to take you on a journey.” said the apparition.
“I…I’ve heard of you, didn’t you write years ago for Angling wotsit? You’re, you’re dead.”
“Enough! Come with me”. The ghost took Steve by the arm and they walked down to the banks of the local River Haven. There were anglers everywhere, catching roach, smiles on their faces. It all seemed dated. The anglers had long hair and there wasn’t a pole in sight. The ghost said nothing but it was clear this was years ago, then Steve recognised his much younger self, aged about eighteen. Who was this young girl aged about 17 walking up the towpath. Tracey, now the barmaid at his local, The Carpenter’s Arms, was his old flame when he was younger, much younger. Christ, she was gorgeous then, but he hardly gave her a second glance as he concentrated on his float yet he could see that she was dying for him to break the spell and talk to her. He tried to shout but they couldn’t hear him.
Then they were at Tracey’s bungalow about five years later. “I don’t know why I bother, you’re always bloody fishin'” she’d screamed at him. As the scene was replayed, Steve wondered where it had all gone wrong for they’d split up not long after.
Then they were at a committee meeting. That took him back. Old Stan, blimey he’s dead now, was arguing, “We must look after our river fishing, you mark my words”. But they’d shouted him down and pressed on with their plans for a complex of canal-like ponds being dug by a farmer, as they’d relinquished their river leases, must have been later than the first scene but still fifteen years ago…
Steve jumped. He was back at his house. The room was intact. It must have been a daydream but he felt uneasy, maybe he was going down with flu? He went back to work in a daze. As the customers petered out in the late afternoon, he turned to Robbie and said, “You can knock off now, I’m locking up, having a swift pint, and makin’ sure me gear’s ready for the mornin'”.
The Carpenter’s was heaving when he tried to burrow his way to the bar. Full of giggly young office girls and bum-fluff chinned lads trying to get into their knickers. Give him the single life any day of the week. Tracey the barmaid, dressed in a Santa coat, seemed pleased to see him as she handed him his pint, even bending forward to plant a kiss on his lips as she did so. Regular Mickey, on his fifth pint and rosy-cheeked, shouted across “Better change yer aftershave from eau de maggots, Stevie-boy, she still fancies you summat rotten, she does!”
Steve stared into his pint while all around the merriment erupted. Still, in the morning he’d be out there fishing while the rest of ’em nursed sore heads, and stuffed ’emselves silly with turkey. He drank up and drove home.
After two hours of fiddling about, his gear was ready and stacked in a pile for the morning. He slumped into an armchair by the fire. Mesmerised by the flames he realised that a little creature, like a goblin and known as Rontroversial Clay had emerged. “Come with me” it chirped.
“This was turning into one hell of a day”, mused Steve. “Who are you?” he asked. The goblin replied “The ghost of angling present”. How these apparitions caused him to get around was impossible to say but at once, they were outside the kitchen window of Robbie Catchett. His wife, obviously pregnant, was crying. “Economy bleedin’ sausages for Christmas. What sort of bleedin’ Christmas is this? And now you tell me that bleedin’ Roodge has cut your piss-poor wages as well! He’s taking the wotsit. I bet he’s not going short with his big house! If only we could scrape together fifteen grand to get Jimmy to America for that op and ee’d be cured, no bleedin’ chance!”
A moment later they were outside the sitting room of a bungalow. It must be late for there was Tracey sat with her aged mother. “I don’t know why you don’t find someone who is interested! Spent all these years pining over that that stupid fisherman, Steve, and what interest has he ever bothered to show after a couple of miserable years, nothing! Waste of time if you ask me.”
Then the scene changed again. It was a gentleman’s club somewhere in London. Steve recognised one of the two men. It was Sir Richard Stuffard, landlord of the farmer where the club lakes were situated; didn’t recognise the other man though. “Tell you what, Michael,” Sir Richard had drawled, “once that lease with the tenant farmer runs out in 2010, we’ll turn the whole lot into a bird reserve. How does that grab you?”
Steve woke with a start. He felt uncomfortable, lonely even. One more episode like that and he’d call a doctor. He poured himself a large brandy, pulled his chair closer to the fire, and dozed off.
At ten ‘o clock, he sat mortified as the carpet in front of the fire moved to one side, and a trapdoor fell open to reveal a stairway. A huge creature dressed all in black appeared at the top of the stairs. “I am The Monk, ghost of angling future.” It boomed. “Come with me.”
The trip with the goblin had been scary enough but this time Steve was petrified, but followed the ghost down the staircase. Instantly, they were at a prize giving of a match. Steve recognised some of the anglers though their clothes were unfamiliar and they seemed older. One of them spoke, “Here to present the prizes at this special match held under licence today, the Steve Roodge Memorial Trophy 2011, the ever lovely Tracey Willmhurst”.
“But, but I’m dead” stammered Steve.
“You didn’t listen”, replied the ghost. “You fished a match with flu and caught pneumonia”.
Then the scene changed again. It was the club’s lake complex. The lakes were still there but heavily overgrown. The old tackle shack was a bird hide.
The scene changed again. There was Robbie pushing a wheelchair with poor Jimmy, now in his twenties, but in a bad way.
Steve screamed “No!”, then realised that he must have fallen asleep in front of the fire.
It was, he realised, finally time to mend his ways. First, he phoned the landlord of the Carpenters to see about Christmas dinner. “Have you got a table for six, no make that seven, no, eight!”
“You all right Steve, you sound like you seen a ghost! Yeah, I got one big table left”
“No, I’m fine, never felt better. Can you get hold of Tracey and ask her to turn up for dinner, tell her it’s important, mind, bring her mother, while I get hold of Robbie. I’m paying. See you at one tomorrow.” After quickly cancelling his match ticket with Fred, Steve phoned Robbie and invited him to a slap-up Christmas dinner at the Carpenters.
On Christmas Day, Steve was excited as Robbie and family turned up, Tracey was there in her Santa coat; even her mother had put her teeth in specially.
Steve spoke, “I realise that for too long I’ve bin obsessed by fishin’ and taken advantage of many of you and treated the rest badly, so I’ve changed, for the better I ‘ope. To try to put things right, I’m going to ask Robbie to accept this cheque for eighteen grand to pay for Jimmy’s operation and flights to America. I can afford it. After Christmas, I’m going to sort out the club’s leases on the lakes, and see if we can’t get the river back to a fishery before it’s too late. Once that’s done, I’m quitting match fishing so that I’ve at last got the time to try and woo Tracey who I’ve ignored for far too long. Robbie’s going to be me new shop manager with pay that’s far better than the pittance he’s had for years. And that is just the start!”
Robbie sat there dazed. How did Steve know about the op? Oh well, whatever.
Tracey’s heart skipped a beat. Could the waiting for this stubborn old skinflint to turn over a new leaf finally be over?
Later, as they went their separate ways, Tracey dropped off her mother before returning to Steve’s house. As Steve opened the door, the Santa coat fell open……
