After the story of our day on the Swale Graham asked me why I hadn’t killed Deanos. Well I nearly did and just to set the record straight here’s the real story of what happened.
It’s just before 10 o’clock on a bright sunny morning. I’m sat outside the Golden Bite in Boroughbridge wondering what I’ve let myself in for – surely it won’t be that bad, will it?
My reverie is disturbed by what sounds like a large tin of nails being shaken violently and a scruffy pickup graunches to a halt by my car. I can just make out the lettering on the side:
“Deanos & Daughter, Coal Merchants, Best Nutty Slack”.
A great, pale, moon face beams at me out of the passenger window. Oh bugger, he’s here! I get out to greet the great man himself, but before we can shake hands we’re interrupted as one of the locals has the temerity to point out to the driver that she’s double parked. He steps back, blushing at the torrent of abuse, then breaks into a brisk trot and disappears round the corner as she gets out of the car.
“Err, ey oop mam this is Sean.”
My jaw dropped. To call this woman statuesque was like calling Russian female shot putters big girls. She was nearly as tall as me, but twice as broad, with a figure honed by years of slinging hundredweight bags of coal about. At first I thought she’d overdone the eye make-up but as she drew nearer I could see that it was actually coal dust ingrained in the creases in her face.
“Hello Mrs Deanos.”
“Now then lad don’t be formal. Call me Mildred. Ee our Derrick was reet – tha’s a good looking lad!”
I felt a rib crack as a muscular arm drew me into her ample bosom.
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| “Come to me my Miyagi” |
“Thanks for inviting our Derrick – he doesn’t get out much tha knows. Spends all ‘is time on that computer.”
Luckily she released me before I passed out and I staggered back against my car. I got my first good look at Deanos who was rather fetchingly attired in a Castleford away shirt and pale blue shell suit trousers.
WHACK!!!!!
My ears popped and several car alarms were set off as with a casual sweep of her right arm she propelled 22 stone of pie fed lard half way across Boroughbridge high street.
“Ah’v just noticed! Ah told thi not to cum aht in thi best pants!”
“Aw mam!”
He staggered back to the pick-up and started to get his tackle ready. I opened the back of my car and helped him get his stuff in. The large rucksack nearly gave me a hernia.
“Bloody hell Deanos you brought enough tackle with you!”
“Nah that’s me grub. Me tackle’s in this.”
He held up a small cloth bag.
I shook my head and told him to get in the car.
“What time do you want him back Mrs D?”
“Well I’m off into York to get some nice frilly bloomers. Ah should be done be abaht six so I’ll sithee then.”
“Cum ‘ere our Derrick!”
She grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, lifting his feet off the ground, spat on a hanky and proceeded to wipe an imaginary gravy stain off his face.
“Now get off and behave thisself!”
He wedged his ample form in the passenger seat next to me and we set off for the Swale.
It took a while to get him sorted out as I tried to graft a reasonable end rig on to the broom handle pier rod and bright orange 30lb line. As I suspected, the stuff he had in the cloth bag (his mum’s peg bag apparently) wasn’t really up to barbel fishing so I had to lend him some of my gear. I left him in one of the hot swims and set up about 50 yards upstream from him.
SPLOOOSH!
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Good int it? It’s a 12oz feeder that ah scrounged off Swordsy”
I counted to 10 and moved another 100 yards upstream.
An hour later and I’m starting to see some activity in my new swim. Suddenly I start to hear a curious swishing sound downstream of me – what’s he up to now? My rod tip twitches and as I turn to concentrate on it I feel a sharp pain in my kidneys and I’m propelled sharply forward into the river. Luckily it’s only just above knee deep and I manage to keep more or less on my feet.
“WHA’THEBLUDDY’ELLAREYOUDOIN!!!!”
“Oh that’s where y’ are. Don’t thi know tha’ll scare the fish by paddling? Ah couldn’t see thi so I was poking me landing net ‘andle through the weeds t’ see if ah could feel thi.”
Luckily for Deanos my feet were firmly stuck in the silty margins. He shrugged and started rooting in my bag.
“Ooh, tea cakes! I’ll ‘ave one of those ta. Lend us a few feeders will yer.”
He stuffed his pockets with tea cakes and assorted bits of tackle and disappeared back over the top of the bank.
I managed to extricate myself, counted to ten, twice, and gathered my gear together for another move.
My new swim produces a nice barbel first cast and another hour of blessed peace is followed by:
“Sean, Sean! Where are thi?”
I decide it’s safer to tell him where I am.
“I’m……….. aargh!”
It was like being hit by Castleford’s front row at full tilt. This time I managed to avoid another early bath, but only by means of a desperate waltz come wrestle as we both struggled for balance and the safety of the bank.
“Sorry mate I slipped. Ah’v just ‘ad one!”
“Oh, good.”
“Yis it’s a good ‘un. Come and ‘ave a look – it’s in me net.”
As I clambered up the bank he grabbed a few more goodies from my bag. Back in his swim he lifted his landing net from the water. Empty……
“It’s gone.”
“No wonder you daft bugger have you seen the size of the mesh on that thing. Don’t you know that knotted mesh is illegal?”
“Oh…. Me aunty Ethel made it f’ me. She learned how to do it when she worked as a fish gutter in Whitby.”
She obviously hadn’t realised that a landing net needed a slightly finer mesh size than a North Sea trawler. Still, the net was a work of art with the giant mesh wrapped round an old bike wheel (looked like it might have been off a Norton Commando) which was then grafted on to what looked suspiciously like a clothes prop.
“How big was it?”
“Abaht this big. It were a good ‘un weren’t it?””
He held his hands about six inches apart.
“What colour was it?”
“It were sort of a grey colour, but it ‘ad whiskers. It were deffo a barbel!”
Well it was probably a decent gudgeon, but I was past arguing. I contemplate pushing him in, but it’s about time to head for home so I tell him to pack up and we head back to the car.
I have to confess that he did tell the truth about the next episode. I’d got back in the car and when I glanced in the rear view mirror he was still buggering about at the back trying to unwrap a pie. I finally lost it, put the car in reverse and floored the accelerator. Luckily for Deanos the front wheels lost traction and the car slewed sideways, catching him a glancing blow and propelling him into the ditch.
The journey back to Boroughbridge passed in a strained silence. His mam wasn’t there when we got there, but I wasn’t about to wait so I shoved him out of the car, accelerated away, stopped fifty yards up the road, threw his gear on to the pavement and set off for home and a bottle of the hard stuff.
I’ve just about recovered now. I’ve spent the last hour looking for my CIU card so I can go to the Allerton Bywater Miners’ Institute.
Mildred says she often pops in for a quick drink….
She’s a successful business woman tha knows – she’s got a coal round….
She’s got a nice house as well. It’s a bit small, but we can always get rid of the lad…..
