Without reference to my diary, a few half-decent pike came our way and a big zander to my rod of 10lb 12oz, but who’s  interested in fishing at a time like this!

Brenda was out when we got back. Predictably, Reg took advantage of her absence with subtle digs about her stinginess, her stubbornness, her refusal to have The House built and, as before, we occupied the Posh Room to drink our tea and to pore over the sacred blue-print of ‘Regs’Retreat’. Mick and I were actually rather keen to get back home but, gentlemen-ever, we patiently – but not disinterestedly – studied the house plans and listened to Regs’ vision of the finished article. On hearing the sound of tyres on gravel, Reg swiftly folded the papers, tucked them back in the sideboard and took up a different subject for Brenda to hear upon her entry.

Mick and I were packed and ready to go. We said our goodbyes to Brenda and Reg, saying – quite truthfully – that we’d probably be back the same time next year …It was more than rough-and-ready at Brenda’s, but it was dirt-cheap and central to some excellent fishing and drinking – a very acceptable compromise!

The matter of Reg and his new ‘ouse regularly cropped-up over the following eleven months; would we return to find the old hovel demolished, a fine, new, centrally-heated, double-glazed palace in its stead ? Might we be received next time by a shell-suited, trainer-shod Reg and a fashion-jewel bedecked Brenda – all mink and no knickers? The banter, at times, clearly went overboard but then, that is the stuff of Friday nights in the local.

As it turned out, nothing in the architectural sense had altered at all, nothing other than a bit more mould and a few more roof-tiles missing. Plainly though Brenda, too, was lacking somewhat in the upstairs department ….less than a year had passed since our previous stay yet she had little more than the very vaguest recollection, and even that could well have been feigned. Impromptu meetings in the yard, the dining-room, the kitchen or wherever invariably brought an enquiry from Brenda as to who we were. Any number of explanations failed to sink in and it became increasingly obvious that something was seriously amiss with her mental condition; she was simply a different person to the keen, bright woman who had made us so welcome a year before. Reg was doing more now – without comment – cooking dinners, knocking-up the packed-lunches and generally behaving in a noticeably domesticated manner. Whilst so engaged, Brenda could often be found in an easy chair, fast asleep, at any time of day; she’d wake suddenly with an instant smile and enquire “Hello ! Do I know you?”

As one might expect, the pattern of our second stay was much the same as the first, each day starting with an early and very substantial breakfast, but now, only Reg arose to do the morning-honours. Very tetchy he could be at times. It would have been about Thursday, as I remember, that Reg’s alarm-clock failed to do its job, leaving me and Mick to fend for ourselves downstairs. Deliberately clattering crockery and jangling cutlery in an effort to wake him was having no effect so, with the prospect of missing-out on the dawn action at the Middle-Level, I set about making-up the two vacuum flasks in order to save a bit of time.

On the window sill were two jars, side by side – one containing a brown, granulated substance that one might take for coffee; the other, a white granulated substance – presumably sugar. Naturally enough, I used both, added a splash of milk to each container and set them down on the kitchen table. Soon after, Reg appeared dishevelled, bleary-eyed and, we fancied, a touch peeved at rising so much later than us City-Slickers. Nonetheless, he wished us good morning and wasted no time in busying himself in the kitchen, Mick and I sat quietly smoking at the table, eagerly anticipating both the fry-up and the day ahead. Suddenly the calm of early morning was shattered by an irate Reg who burst into the breakfast room holding aloft the two flasks of coffee….

“Oo made these!!??” He was absolutely furious.”What you put in ‘em!! Coffee !?…”

He continued to rant as me and Mick sat mortified.

 “Ya put sugar in ‘em!?….’ere – show us!” He darted back into the kitchen and reappeared within a second, this time brandishing the ‘sugar-jar’.

“Ya put some o’ this in?” I nodded that I had. “Well bloody-well leave things alone! You don’t know what’s in this jar, do you!! It could be rat-poison for all you know !!”

Back into the kitchen he shot and emptied the flasks into the sink. To the sound of rushing tap-water, he repeated loudly and angrily “Don’t touch anything in ‘ere again! “

The intensity of his anger and the tone with which it was delivered was, at such an early hour, incongruous to say the least; human-beings normally need at least thirty minutes and a cup of something before the strains of life get to them. We were amazed, shocked and embarrassed all at the same time and duly ate our breakfast in near silence. With Reg’s brew now in the flasks, we got off a mite sharpish and headed for Neeps Bridge.

I do, in fact, remember that day. For the first time ever I was unable to produce an appropriate licence to a Water Authority official. Having failed to purchase one at the start of the season nearly six months before, I felt that the remaining months could be soldiered-through with no problem. I had nonetheless harboured a cunning plan to cater for the possibility of being challenged. On being asked for my licence I took from my pocket an old pigskin wallet containing every licence I’d ever bought since 1963! But could I find this year’s? Could I hell! But I’d made my point and got off with a warning.

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It was dark and very cold by the time we pulled-up outside the house that evening and we could see Brenda in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. Leaving the tackle in the car, we entered clutching our empty flasks, sandwich-boxes and a plastic bag containing a 4lb zander that hadn’t pulled-through.

    “Here we are, Brenda….this is what you wanted!” .

I proffered the bag expecting her to investigate its contents, but she eyed me, then Mick, with only a glimmer of recognition. “Now let me see….you’re Roger the scaffolder and you’re…….no, it won’t come to me” We put her in the picture for the twentieth time that week and urged her to look in the bag. “Ooh! Lovely!” she cried “We’ll have that tomorrow”

She carefully placed the bag on the draining-board then ushered us into the living-room to warm up.

Quite soon, the call came for us to take our places at the dining table and another mammoth feast soon commenced. Talk was of the zander, the bailiffs, and Mick’s responsibilities as a bricklayer from Lowestoft…Brenda really had lost it.

An hour later, bloated and in need of a wash and brush-up, I helped Brenda out with the dirty crocks and set the taps running in the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen.  Doubling back to collect my toiletries, Brenda was there at the sink and up to her wrists in Fairy bubbles; we exchanged pleasantries of one type or another as I passed to collect my things from upstairs.

Something delayed me for a few minutes, so by the time I came back through the door at the foot of the stairs with my toiletries Brenda was drying her hands and heading for the State Room to put her feet up. Re-entering the kitchen, I casually noted the pile of dripping plates on the drainer and decided to do a spot of drying-up after checking my bath-water. With still a few inches to go, I nipped back the few paces to the kitchen-sink and busied myself with a tea-towel. With no more crocks to come and the soap-suds now devoid of any vitality, I pulled the plug up by its chain and let the water gurgle away.

Glancing down a second or two later, I noticed that the sink still contained something, something rather bulky. Scooping away the remaining soap-froth I was horrified to reveal the zander – there – in the washing-up water!! Bloody-Hell, I cried, they’re even in here!!

copyright Cliff Hatton