Fishers On The Green Roads

Illustration by Rebecca Freear

The spinner twinkled in the early morning light. And it hit the water with an audible plop in the quiet early morning. Baz strained to see it coming back to the rod, and when it was a few yards from the bank he could see it vibrating two or three inches below the surface. The line itself helped in this for it was a cotton line in black and white threads with, according to Mac, a breaking strain of about 8lb. He could see where it entered the unrevealing water and thereby detect the spinner when it was perhaps five yards from the bank.

Nothing happened. They moved slowly from swim to swim, each one separated by an oak tree, Mac flicking the lure perhaps twenty or more yards – a prodigious distance it seemed to Baz’s envious eyes. His one fixed-spool reel, the Triplex given him by Sharkbait, had on it only thin line, and the pick-up had to be put on manually, unlike this smooth machine that Mac yielded.

“‘Ow many will we catch?” said Baz, after an hour had passed with no sign at all of a fish. An hour was a long time, and long ago he had unshouldered the tackle bag and left it on the bank. Now they were on the other side of the lake and he carried only the gaff. He knew from Venables what he was supposed to do with it, in the event of a fish being hooked, but Mac was unconvinced by this theoretical knowledge and Baz was under no illusion at all that come a big fish, the gaff was to be passed to Mac when it was demanded.

Out went the spinner again. Half an hour later and they were now in a narrow gap in a low hawthorn hedge, steep bank behind them up to an unmetalled track, and rush beds parted just enough to fish through. That cast produced more silkweed on the treble hook and Mac patiently removed it. In places the weed came to the surface, and even above it as fermenting gases arched it from below. Mac knew where the deeper places were and fired the lure like a projectile with some skill and accuracy that Baz admired repeatedly. At no point, to Baz’s relief, did he offer to let him have a cast. There was a tendency for the cast and retrieve to become automatic, and they fished silently, with only occasional questions or comments from Baz. Mac never lost his concentration, and the most conspicuous sound, now that the chorus of birds had quieted, was the infrequent squeak of the reel, and the hiss of retrieved line.

Baz watched for the umpteenth time as the twinkling spinner approached the bank. It was the only point he could fix on in the dark water in front of them. No weed showed, and the spinner seemed poised in space until, just as it was about to be lifted from the water, its little wings caused a turbulence at the surface. And it was at that precise moment that a great head rose out of the murk and engulfed it completely. There was a flurry of spray and a deep-sounding boil and disturbance of the water. Baz leapt in the air in fright, gasping out loud, and fell backwards into the hedge. Mac was probably ready for the attack, but it hardly mattered anyway for the pike was hooked. It tore out into the lake, now spectacularly disturbed by bow waves and sprayed water. Coots scattered noisily, and the slipping clutch on the reel gave line in rapid and noisy protest.

“Bloody ‘ell, what is it?” shouted Baz, trying to rise and remove thorns from his rear simultaneously. He could see Mac’s wand of a rod bent quite double and the line pointing out over the lake.

“It’s a good pike! Took right under me bloody feet … must have followed the spinner in from the middle. . .” That was all Mac had time to say for the pike became airborne about twenty-five yards away, amidst a great shower of water now lit by the early morning sun. Concentration was needed as he tried to retrieve line back on to the reel. Each time the fish came within ten feet of the bank i seemed to realise its predicament and powered out into the open, water again. But after a dozen or so such runs the fish wallowed at the surface, still perhaps ten feet out from the edge. The rod was still arched like a watch spring almost, and Baz couldn’t help warning Mac that it might snap.

“Shurrup . . . and pass me t’ gaff… in me left ‘and yer fool … The pike wasn’t finished by a long way, but now it battled a close quarters. It did it so explosively they were covered in spray: and Baz backed away rapidly and involuntarily. But then the gaff, was pushed between the flag stems and the great jaws eased slowly towards it. Baz watched in fascination. As Mac eased the head of the pike over the gaff, he slid the hook of the instrument midway between the two sides of the jaw, from beneath, and then with a single movement slid the great fish up the bank.

“Did yer stick it in it?” shouted Baz in the full triumph of their capture.

“No. ‘Course not. Yet just slide it under jaws. Look yer can see’t point a’ gaff in its mouth.” He struggled up the bank to the grassy side of the road with his prize. When lifted from the ground it had stopped struggling, but once they laid the fish down it leapt with a violence that took Baz completely by surprise, hitting him in the chest. Mac struggled to hold it down and eventually succeeded. The gaff slid out as easily as it had slid in, and there wasn’t a mark on the fish.

“It must be a ‘undred pounds Mac,” said Baz, still beside himself with excitement and hopping about with a kind of animated caution. “Don’t be dafter than you ‘ave to be,” said the captor as he tried to prize open the clamped jaws. “Where’s the tackle bag?”

“Dunno. I think it’s at’ other side of the lake.” “Well go and get the gag from it.”

“What’s a gag?”

“It’s a springy thing that I use to ‘old jaws open. “‘Urry up,” he roared, more urgently. “I can’t sit on this fish all day.”

Baz sped off, following the track, sprinting round the corner of the lake, imagining himself on a running track. There was the bag. It took him seconds to understand the clasps on Mac’s bag. He tipped out the contents. What did a gag look like? Ah! there it is, a good spring. He grabbed it in one hand and set off round the lake as fast as before, but now out of breath, and gasping.

“Where the ‘ell is it?” shouted Mac when he was still twenty yards from the swim. Baz held up his prize as he covered the last few yards.

“Yer dozy bugger. That’s a spring balance for weighing it. We ‘aven’t got’ spinner out of its mouth yet! Get me a stick about four inches long instead.” Baz rummaged about in the bottom of the hawthorn hedge, eventually finding what Mac needed. Then followed a delicate business as he opened the mouth a fraction, with difficulty against the strength of those rat-trap jaws. On succeeding he forced in the stick and then twisted it upright to part the jaws further. Baz saw simultaneously the spinner, well inside the pike’s mouth, and the array of pointed teeth which protected it.

“Get me another longer, thinner stick, Baz,” said Mac, now a little calmer. This stick was poked into the half open mouth until it located on the point of one of the treble hooks. Mac then gripped the line against this stick and pushed. The mackerel spinner came free of the jaw as clean as a whistle and was drawn out carefully past the jammed in wedge. The second stick was then used to knock out the first and the pike still lay there quietly, jaws again clamped shut, gills working regularly, and baleful eye seeming to fix them both.

“Now we can weigh it, if yer pass me the spring balance,” said Mac, with heavy emphasis on the last two words. The hook of the balance was slid beneath the lower jaw in much the same way as he’d used the gaff, and the fish was then lifted slowly off the ground. Mac held both fists around the top of the balance, straining to hold it steady. And still the pike was quiet.

“Just over nine pounds,” he said. “A real good ‘un!” “‘Ow are we going ter kill it?” said Baz.

“We’re not going to kill it at all. We’ll put it back. ‘Ow could we get it ‘ome anyway?”

The great pike now lay on its side on the grass. Baz had never seen a fish like it. It’s as big as a dog, he thought, echoing Robbo’s remarks. The markings, spots and bars of pale colour on flanks of a greenish yellow, made a great impression on his mind, as much as the size of the jaws in fact. Even though they had seen the jaws only part open, it was clear that their hands and wrists would fit inside very easily. Baz shuddered at the thought. The whole of the action, once the fish had been banked, was less than five minutes, and yet an age seemed to have passed by. The pike seemed unperturbed, even when Mac put both hands under its belly and staggered slowly down to the water with it. He lowered the fish to the damp edge of the lake then pushed it head first into the shallows. It paused briefly, righted itself quickly, and then with one sweep of its tail it was gone in an oily boil. Baz stared after it, half disappointed that their trophy was gone, half happy to see it swim off so well. And, later, he had a good feeling about it: that they’d seen something mighty which other people hadn’t; and because they had let it live, only they knew the reality. He was glad that others wouldn’t see a carcase on the table, or cook it. He had no objection to that in principle, but it was their fish and they had decided on its fate.

“What’s yer biggest pike, Mac?” asked Baz, now a fully confirmed and converted pike fisher. How could he go back to anything else after this?

“Twelve pounds, from this lake a few weeks ago.” Baz heard the reply with some awe. He’d seen how shallow the lake was in many places, and he couldn’t understand how creatures so large could lurk there unseen, without disturbing the water. Later he learned that they could and did disturb the water as well as other denizens of the pool! And he saw bigger fish in smaller waters. And, later, there was Sharkbait’s pike, of course. For the present, however, he was determined to get himself some pike tackle.

Even after Mac had chugged out of sight that day the euphoria continued, so that he remembered little of the journey. He noticed his tiredness only as he propped up the bike against the house wall. That tiredness didn’t stop him getting all his tackle out, making plans. Nor did it help him to sleep that night.

Part Three of ‘MAC’ next week