Despite there being a well-used public thoroughfare behind him, George French, retired baker, was tolerant of the comings and goings, knowing that his choice of fishing venue was – first and foremost – a municipal park; furthermore, he really shouldn’t have been breaking a bye-law by fishing in the first place. He could not then complain, or remonstrate with any one of the hundreds of non-angling individuals who walked, ran, skipped, cycled or skate-boarded their way to and from the town-centre a few hundred yards downstream.
Do not assume that George French, 66, retired baker with – as it happened – a gammy leg, fished this less than perfect venue on account of its proximity to home or its easy access…no, George fished here because intuition told him of its potential. For a start, there was the fishing prohibition (always a good sign) and then there was the river itself: slow, deep, unpolluted…yes, the odd coke can drifted by, but George figured that the waterway itself – tree-lined and generally green – wouldn’t look out of place in the countryside of Hampshire or Dorset. Why, he reasoned, shouldn’t the river be harbouring some real stonkers?
It was around 7pm with a good couple of hours daylight to go, but George wasn’t entirely happy: he’d had a pleasant afternoon with the sun on his back and regular encounters with quality roach, but he knew from recent experience that his evening might well be shattered by a particular gang of hooded half-wits who had the previous Friday pelted his swim with rocks and half house-bricks. He really wasn’t relishing the prospect; it had happened three times before, the attacks becoming a tad too malicious and a little more sustained each time. These weren’t naughty school-kids; these were in their upper-teens and downright nasty – albeit pretty normal for the area, so George fished warily and unsettled.
‘Any good, Mate?’
The startled ex-baker almost died of shock but the fear of spilling his last cup of tea had a steadying effect. He turned.
‘Any good, Mate?’
‘Sorry, ol’ boy’ said George on seeing a fellow pensioner ‘I’ve had a bit o’ trouble with the local ‘oodies so I’m a bit nervous, you see? The buggers stone me swim whenever they see me, but I’m damned if I’m going to let them numb-skulls drive me away’
Keen to engage the angler, the old boy agreed. ‘Right ‘n’ all, Mate. I certainly wouldn’t be intimidated. I haven’t worked and paid taxes all my life just to have a bunch of scumbags dictate what I can do…you stick to your guns, Mate’
George learned that his counterpart was Fred Jennings, and that he, too, was a life-long angler disillusioned with the state of the world. They spoke politely and at length, each listening carefully and with genuine concern for the other’s plight. As they did so, George continued fishing, swinging-in the odd 8oz roach between pouch-loads of casters fired from a cheap and flimsy catapult.
‘Piece o’ crap, this’ laughed George ‘I lost me last one and this ‘ere pink jobby was all they had in the shop!’
Fred prolonged the merriment ‘Let’s have a look…’ He took it by the handle and stretched-back the elastic ‘You’re right! It is a piece of crap! Where’d you say you got it? Toys R Us?’ The quip cemented their friendship and it was only natural that George asked Fred if he’d care to join him – just above the bridge – the following evening. Fred readily agreed and shook hands with the kindred spirit. As he turned to leave, four grey faces appeared over the tangle of blackberry bushes on the high bank opposite, then a torrent of rocks and bottles came hurtling and spinning into George’s swim, terrifying the angler and every moorhen for fifty yards either side. Neither said a word and the hooded low-lives fell from view, laughing and swearing and spitting. Fred waited for George to pack his gear away then escorted him back to the bus-stop.
‘Right! See you tomorrow evening about…what…Five?’ George gave him the thumbs-up and wished his friend a safe walk home ‘See you then…cheerio, Fred!’
The following evening, bang on five, the pair approached the swim above the bridge from opposite directions – like walking toward a full-length mirror. They had much in common: age, build, flat-cap, Efgeeco holdalls …even a ripped left pocket hanging from their waxed cotton jackets. They saw the similarities and nodded a smile in recognition, then set their low-chairs side-by-side knowing that conversation would be half the session’s enjoyment. By 5.45, George and Fred were relaxed and keeping an eye on their red-topped quills, mindful of the previous evening’s event but reluctant to discuss the problem for fear of breaking the very pleasant spell. Every so often – and always with a shared chuckle – George produced his kiddies catapult to feed casters into the swim, and the tactic was paying off: both anglers were regularly whipping their match-rods skyward to bend into roach approaching two pounds. This, they agreed, was a rare session, possibly the best roach-fishing they’d ever experienced. Gradually, the chat and banter died away as the anglers came to realise that this was very serious stuff….Fred had taken a specimen large enough to warrant the scales, a fish that pulled the needle to nearly two pounds and six ounces.
‘Jeez…..What we going to come up with next?’ Said a goggle-eyed George, quickly re-baiting and swinging out the end-gear. Fred said nothing, the prospect of a three-pounder too exciting to afford the luxury of small-talk.
In went another pouch-load of casters, but neither giggled or commented on the method of delivery; the ‘toy’ was raising enormous red-fins to the surface, fish that left a single bubble to meander in the swirl, and a breathlessness in two astonished anglers. Fred’s float dithered, then rose like a mini- Excalibur before lying flat and darting away…he struck, fully expecting the kick of a good fish, but the terminal-tackle flew back over his head and wound itself around a low bough. Fred issued the B-word, the satisfying one that ‘bugger’ simply can not compete with. He said it again, this time with real feeling, for huge scarlet sails were breaking the water’s surface, every one a monster.
‘This’ll take a few minutes’ said Fred to George ‘Get in there and catch us a four pounder!’
George lifted his rod to re-bait – then froze as a single, gaunt and scabby face rose from behind the undergrowth on the other side of the river; it leered a mouthful of rotten, crooked teeth and out came the insults…
‘Get a load of this you pair of old bastards!’
The lone scumbag – sure of his safety – stooped and produced a chunk of concrete the size of a football then pushed it into the air above George and Freds’ floats…Ga-ba-looosh!! He laughed and casually strolled away toward the railway bridge, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched as though the evening were chilly. George couldn’t resist it…. ‘If I were ten years younger…!’ His words were halted.
‘Yeah? What would you do….eh? Give me a good hiding? Go play with yourself you old bastard!’
The scumbag taunted the anglers from his refuge beyond the water and decided there was time to casually roll himself a fag. George, red with anger and frustration, reached for his silly little catapult, but Fred coolly told him to ‘Leave it to me, George’. With little haste, Fred delved into his ruc-sac and produced the Mother of all Catapults – a chromed American competition sling-shot with a chunky hand grip and a fore-arm extension for enhanced leverage… George was speechless as Fred pulled from his one good pocket a one inch-diameter ball-bearing and slipped it into the big, black pouch bearing the printed legend ‘Destroyer’. The scumbag was still rolling. Fred extended his right arm and took aim, the missile now a full twelve inches behind his left ear at the end of the straining silicone… and he let fly. George snapped his eyes shut lest he witness a sack of sh1t dropping like a fatally-wounded hoodie, opening them only on the sound of Fred’s voice: ‘C’mon, let’s go. I’ll buy you a pint’
Cliff Hatton.
| Read Cliff Hatton’s books from Medlar Press |
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Not only is Cliff Hatton a great writer for FishingMagic and other journals, he is also a highly tallented cartoonist and has a number of books published by Medlar Press. They include: All Beer and Boilies, All Wind and Water, and soon to be published – All Fluff and Waders. Visit the Medlar Press site by clicking here and order your copies now! |
