The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

DAMIEN LOSES CONTROL

The incident with the pacemaker laid Donald low for some time. This allowed Damien to get some ‘proper’ fishing done with his mates, without the encumbrance of the old git.

Sat in his bivvy, Damien thought how it would be if Donald was with him, and didn’t he feel just a tiny bit guilty and responsible that his uncle couldn’t be there? “Naaah, silly old sod, served him right!”

During one of these idyllic sessions with his pals, he was visited by a deja-vu moment; you know, the kind where a snatch of song, or a scent, summons up a vivid picture in your mind. Damien could swear that he got a whiff of Dark Shag pipe tobacco and, two seconds later, Donald’s head appeared round the flap.

“There you are laddie. I knew it would be you from all that new gear lying around.”

“What do you want; you’re not staying, are you. Doesn’t the Mark Four need another coat of varnish?” Damien extended his warmest welcome.

“Just taking meself out for a constitutional, as recommended by the doctor, after that funny turn. And I’ve got something for you; missed you when you left so early this morning.”

Damien looked sideways at the bits of paper that had been shoved in his hand”What are these?”

“Tickets for the angling club’s AGM. I got them off Bill the bailiff, specially. There’s a couple of spares there for your mates to come along as well.”

“How thrilling, but I fear I must check with my appointments secretary, as I’m sure I am busy that evening, and may have to decline your kind offer, good sir,” said Damien, in his very best upper-class accent, and had his mates giggling away in the background.

“No laddie, you’re free, I looked in your diary. And your mate Peter there, isn’t his sister Susan James?”

“Yes, why? And what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, looking in my diary?” Damien replied uneasily.

“Your mother told me to. That Susan’s name is in there a lot isn’t it, usually with a star beside it and marks out of 10. Perhaps she would like to come along too, as she seems to be a special friend,” said Donald, as he passed another ticket to Peter, who eyes were beginning to narrow as he looked at Damien.

“Should be a good night out, a few snifters, the prize giving, and a surprise guest speaker,” said Donald, trying to change the subject.

“Of course!” said Damien, who had just seen the light, “you’re picking up that bloody specimen cup, that’s what this is all about”. And then, almost whispered, “you cunning old tw*t!”

“Well, do you know, I’d almost forgotten about that,” said Donald, as he prepared to leave.

“There’s something else to look forward to.” He smiled, then, pausing to knock the ashes out of his pipe on the wooden plank that shored up the margin, loudly enough to spook any carp within half a mile, ambled off home.

“Hmmm, look forward to my arse,” thought Damien. “But I’ll make it a night to remember, bloody old doddering has-been git!” He muttered to nobody in particular. He made a mental note to take the baitboat remote control with him, but his train of thought was interrupted by Peter asking him if he wouldn’t mind going for a little walk along the bank to discuss a certain person of their mutual acquaintance….

When Damien got back home he found Donald in the dining room, sucking hard on his empty pipe, the table strewn with handwritten bits of paper.

“You don’t need to write an acceptance speech just to pick up a cup; it’s not the bloody Oscars. You just say ‘Thank you’ and get off the stage,” he chortled.

“No, young man, you don’t understand. They’ve asked me to be the surprise guest speaker tomorrow night. They want a short story about one of my trips with Dick Walker.”

“Surely there’s no such thing as a short story with you,” replied Damien. “Given half a chance you’ll ramble on for bloody hours. In fact, this Dick Walker bloke seems to have spent so many hours fishing with other anglers it’s a soddin’ wonder he ever got any fishing time to himself!”

Damien wandered off to the garage to sort out his tackle. He made sure there were new batteries in the remote and left it on top of his gear as a reminder.

The next evening, as they set off for the AGM, Damien went into the garage and came out with a backpack over his shoulder.

“Whatever do you want that bag for, laddie?” Asked Donald.

“You’ll need something to carry your trophy home in uncle, won’t you?” Replied Damien, seemingly being very helpful.

The club secretary rattled through the agenda at a pretty brisk pace. Donald was fretting with his notes, while Damien and his mates Pete and Mark were propping up the bar. Susan, probably on her brother’s advice, didn’t make an appearance.

Prize-giving time arrived and when Donald’s turn came he scampered up to get his cup. He said his thanks to the club and then pointed out Damien at the bar and said he couldn’t have done it without him and that he hoped one day the young lad would be up here collecting a cup just like this. Having suitably embarrassed Damien he walked off the stage to rousing cheers, holding his trophy above his head like an FA Cup winning captain.

There was a short comfort break after prize-giving to allow everyone to top up, and then the secretary invited Donald up onto the stage to recount just one of his many memories of fishing with the late, great Dick Walker.

Damien could only watch in disbelief as the assembled anglers sat and listened to a tale about Donald not only going fishing with the legend, but also how he taught him and those young scamps, the Taylor brothers. And how he was continuing that work with his nephew. The crowd was silent, hanging on his every word.

“Time to liven things up,” thought Damien as he reached into the backpack and started to pull the joystick into the reverse position, remembering how the remote had affected Donald’s pace-maker last time he’d used it, sending him doo-lally.

Donald started to fan his face, as if he were getting hot.

“Bloody brilliant!” Quietly chuckled Damien. He left it a little while as Donald burbled on, and then yanked the joystick back again. Disaster, it came off in his hand with the control jammed in the reverse position.

“Oh sh*t, oh b*ll*cks!” He thought, as his hand scrabbled at the machine, whilst keeping one eye on Donald as the inevitable happened.

Almost in slow motion, the old boy clutched his hand to his chest and crumpled forward. He was writhing face down on the ground by the time Damien had pushed his way through the crowd to help. He turned Donald over and there were tears in his eyes as he could see the old boy was in agony.

“Uncle, I didn’t mean to do it, I’m so sorry. Don’t die, please don’t die!”

He looked up and shouted for someone to call an ambulance.He was cradling Donald’s head on his knee and the old boy reached up und pulled him closer.

“Ambulance won’t be any good for me this time laddie.” he spluttered.

“No, no, there must be something they can do!” Damien was in floods of tears.

“Not for this.” Donald said, as he pulled his hand away from his chest. “Put me pipe in me shirt pocket before it was out. It’s burnt right through me vest.”

Damien found himself being restrained. He had leapt off the stage and returned to start pouring pints of beer over Donald. One was probably more than sufficient to put out the glowing embers, two was taking it to the extreme, and it was when he went back for the third and fourth that he was held back. He stormed off home, where an hour later he had to explain to his parents why his uncle was soaking wet, why had he walked off and just left him there, and did he really have to throw so much beer over him?

The next morning, Damien was sulking in the garage. Somehow last night’s events seemed to have been his fault, and life wasn’t fair. He was looking at his broken remote control when Donald shuffled in.

“There you are laddie, I’ve come to say thanks, and sorry.”

“Sorry? What for?” Sulked Damien.

”Firstly, thanks for putting out the fire in my shirt. Could have been very nasty. Got a blister as big as a half-crown as it is. Do you want to see? Donald was starting to undo his dressing gown when Damien told him that is really wasn’t necessary, thank you.

“And sorry for taking these.” He pulled four batteries out of his pocket and handed them to Damien.

“I took them out of that boat thingermebob yesterday morning. Needed ’em for me radio, to get the latest test match scores.” And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving the pervasive residue of a silent fart drifting in his wake.

Holding his breath, for more than one reason, Damien opened up the battery compartment of the remote control and peered inside. It was empty.