The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

GOD SAVE ARTHUR – LONG LIVE THE NEW BAILIFF – AND A NEW CHALLENGE!

Donald’s tackle was still in the hallway. The frayed rod bag, holding his beloved ‘Wallis’ and tied up with half a brown bootlace, was now a colour that can only be described as old. The rickety creel was all out of shape, with bits of broken wicker sticking out of the sides. It now resembled some mutant hedgehog, and was long beyond any kind of restoration. Laid beside them, the new rod pod, in its smart suedette bag, seemed completely out of place. His stout boots were beside this pile, and his battered jacket hung on a peg above them.

It had lain there well over two weeks now, as no one had the heart to move it. He was all packed up for another trip down to the Hampshire Avon, and had been as excited as a kid about to go on his first trip to the seaside, but of course, Donald wouldn’t be going to the Avon any more.

Damien stood in the church, fingering the stiff collar on his ‘bought for the occasion’ crisp new white shirt, staring down the aisle towards the coffin that he and his father had just helped the other pallbearers to carry in to the church. He noticed that someone had placed an old wooden centrepin reel amongst the flowers. That was a nice touch, he thought, and looking round, there was certainly a good turn out for the old boy’s send off.

His mind started drifting to the last time they went to the Avon. How he and his mates had gone off without Donald, but the crafty old sod had still managed to get down there, and catch more fish, when a bony finger jabbing his ribs bought him sharply back to reality.

“Well, laddie, that’s buggered it for me.” Said Donald, his breath heavy with the smell of dark shag. “No more free fishing trips now old Arthur has passed on. Nice to see a few familiar faces come to pay their respects though.”

Damien’s heart sunk even lower as he realised that he was going to have to sit through the mother of all reunions and reminiscences when they all got back to the pub after the service was over.

Donald was still babbling away “Wonder if the new bailiff will keep up the tradition of letting out the cottage for free to old boys like me, given the historical significance of the place?”

“What are you on about, you old coot, we haven’t even buried the poor sod yet, and you’re already trying to tap up the new bailiff for a freebie.”

“Of course I’m not, laddie, don’t know who it is yet, do I? Perhaps Arthur’s widow might though, I’ll ask her later.”

“You don’t think it might be slightly more respectful to leave it a little while?” Damien was trying to curb Donald’s enthusiasm. The daft old trout might do more harm than good if he was too quick off the mark.

“Right oh, laddie, I’ll give her a ring next week then.” He said, rubbing the side of his nose with his finger.”Be the soul of tact and discretion, don’t you worry.”

“And just what are you rambling on about, historical significance, it’s just a piddling fishing cottage, not Canterbury Cathedral. I expect you want them to put one of those blue oval plaques on the wall saying ‘Dick Walker fished here’.”

“And the Taylor boys, and me, and….” Donald was about to go through his entire back catalogue of fishing acquaintances, but Damien saw it coming and cut him short.

“Need to be more like a billboard then, very picturesque, and so in keeping with the surroundings.”

Donald missed the sarcasm and started to go all misty eyed.

“It could be like a place of pilgrimage, where anglers come from all over to pay their respects.”

The soft old sod was serious! Damien said, between clenched teeth, “If you don’t soon shut up, you’ll be in immediate need of a pilgrimage to Lourdes to put right what I will do to you!”

“Steady on young chap, mind your manners, we are at a funeral, don’t you know.”

Damien’s already tight collar was getting slightly more uncomfortable, as he glared at Donald. We are at a funeral all right, he thought, just maybe not the right one.

Service over, they all solemnly made their way to the to the pub. Damien had to act quickly at the church and escort Donald away from the coffin. Everyone thought it quite a touching scene as the old boy leaned over the casket and, apparently overcome with grief, had to be helped away by his young nephew. But Damien had seen what he was doing and pulled him away.

“I can’t believe what I’ve just seen, you were actually eyeing up that reel!” Damien exclaimed.

“Well laddie, it’s in better nick than mine, they don’t make ’em like that any more, and Arthur won’t need it where he’s going. It would be such a shame for it to……”

“Forget it!” Came the sharp reply as Damien led him away, glancing furtively round to see if anybody had noticed what was going on.

The scene at the pub was as bad as Damien had thought it would be, probably worse. He had been introduced to every one of Donald’s acquaintances with the same line “Here’s the young whippersnapper I was telling you about, teachin’ him everything I know ’bout fishing. Another fifty years and he’ll be as good as me.” Hearty guffaws of laughter followed all round while Damien squirmed.

Damien had probably heard the eighth or ninth telling of the same tale of how much harder it was in the old days, none of this modern new fangled tackle would last five minutes, and there was much sage head nodding and pipe stem prodding going on. Damien suddenly felt an uncontrollable red mist wash over him. He strode into the middle of Donald’s grey army.

“All right you lot,” he said through clenched teeth. “Prove it!”

“Eh laddie, prove what?” Donald was puzzled. “Are you upset about something? Touch of wind? Told you to take a good tablespoon of syrup of figs every night, but you won’t listen.” Then, as if to prove a point, a rasping fart slipped through his shrivelled buttocks.

Damien spluttered, trying to speak while holding his breath against the putrid stench of Donald’s emission. “Let’s sort this out once and for all. Let’s prove that the world has moved on, and modern tackle is far better than the museum pieces you lot use.”

There was a stunned silence. Wide-eyed looks appeared on the weather-beaten faces surrounding him.

Donald took a pace forward. “Don’t mind us laddie, the good old days will always be that for us old un’s. We might go on a bit, but modern tackle don’t matter to us. We all have experience and watercraft on our side and that counts for more than all that new-fangled stuff.” More sage nodding of heads, and mutterings of approval ran around the room.

“Let’s put that to the test then, shall we? Damien asked, looking at each of the old fogies. You and any one of your mates who can walk without sticks and don’t need his bag changing every thirty minutes, against me and Pete. A proper ‘Martini’ match, any place any where, any time!” challenged Damien.

Donald and his merry band gathered in a huddle, as Damien stood back, arms folded. After a few moments of heated debate, the old boy stepped forward, chest puffed out.

“Right Oh laddie. Game on! Bert and me will gladly take up your challenge. And the prize will be……” Damien stopped Donald in his tracks.

“What bloody prize? I didn’t mention any prize!”

Donald was rubbing his whiskered chin. “Thought we might give it a bit of an edge, but of course, if you’re not so sure then…..”

Damien jumped in again. “Whatever, doesn’t matter to us one bit.”

Another quick grey-haired huddle, and Donald stepped forward and named his terms.

“Okay, if you lose, both of you will have to act as waiters at our next over 60’s fish and chip supper.”

Damien was slightly taken aback, as he was expecting the forfeit to be a lot worse than handing out plates to a load of old biddies. “Where was the harm in that?

“Deal, as long as we don’t have to chew their food for them first. And if you lose, every single piece of your mingin’ old tackle is going on the bonfire.”

“That settles it then,” chuckled a confident Donald, as he shook Damien’s hand. “We’ll let you know where and when as soon as possible, as the next fish supper is only three weeks away.”

“Dream on, you’d be better off getting the ‘Saga’ club to come and roast some chestnuts on the old tackle bonfire.” chortled Damien.

But felt rather unsettled seeing Donald and his mates grinning from ear to ear…..