The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

RETURN OF THE CONQUERING HERO

The ‘return of the conquering hero’ scenes that accompanied their arrival back home from the spinning trip were more than Damien could handle. He didn’t stay downstairs after dinner, but chose to go up to his room to sulk.

He couldn’t take any more tales of what Donald would do with the money he had won, nor could he take Donald wandering around the house trying to decide where best to display ‘his’ silver specimen cup when he got it. Damien particularly didn’t like being asked, “Just how big is this cup, laddie? Oh, sorry, you wouldn’t know, what with you not ever having won one!” (Although he knew exactly where he would like to put the cup if Donald did get it!). And he could do without, “Could the young lad just remind me of the weight of that big pike again?”

What had really got up Damien’s nose was how his parents seemed to find it all so very funny.

Or rather they did until Damien asked why the old sod was looking for somewhere to put the cup in his house. And wasn’t he going back home soon? He was told quite firmly that Donald was family and he could stay as long as he liked. Just the news Damien didn’t want to hear.

A few days later, Donald found Damien in the garage, surrounded by gleaming new tackle.”What’s all this laddie, another trip on the cards, so soon after the last one?” Donald said through a cloud of foul smelling Dark Shag smoke.

“Yes there is, but it is next weekend, and I am just making sure I have got everything I need for the Avon.”

“The Hampshire Avon laddie? Can’t wait for that. I’ll just have to dust down the old Wallis for that one.” Donald was beaming and went into a coughing spasm with excitement. Die, you old twat, Damien thought, watching the old git bent over, coughing phlegm and tobacco juice over the concrete floor of the garage. Now I’ll piss on his chips, he gloated.

“Don’t bother, because you’re not coming. This barbel trip has been planned for ages for me and two of my mates. We’ve paid out good money to go away for a couple of days and there are definitely no plans to take you along. Besides, you wouldn’t know where to start on a river like that.”

“I say! I say! That’s just not bally fair. Last time I fished the Avon with Peter Wheat and Walker on the Royalty I caught……..”

“You can’t go and that’s final. Not even if you could bring bloody Walker with you!”

“But laddie, I mean, it’s the Avon. I’m not getting any younger and it would be a treat if……”

“Absolutely not!” Damien was getting annoyed. There was no way the old git was going to spoil this one. “There is no space at the pub we’re staying at, and there is no room in my car. So forget it.”

“But I could make my own way down, if there really isn’t any room. And like I said, it is the Avon and…..”

“No!” snapped Damien

Donald looked hurt. He just turned round and left the garage without saying a word, shrugging his sagging shoulders and releasing a tiny, gassy fart as he went.

For a split-second Damien felt bad, but he couldn’t let Donald loose on his mates……. could he? Naah! Babysitting an old fart like that would not look good, and besides which, he bloody well deserved some time away from him – didn’t he? Anyway, he would be able to relax and get some proper fishing done without worrying about that old tw*t catching more than him, or worse, costing him more money.

As they days passed by, neither Damien nor Donald mentioned the forthcoming trip. They were civil to each other, but that was as far as it went.

Damien and his mates drove down to Hampshire on the Friday straight after work. They checked in at the pub and made arrangements for packed lunches, then retired to the bar to get hammered.

Next day, despite the previous night’s excess, all three of them caught fish. Nothing spectacular, a few roach, a couple of chub to four pounds and one barbel that just made seven, but they were fishing the Avon, and they hadn’t blanked. They packed up just after dusk and headed off to the pub for celebratory drink or two (or three, or four!).

Perfect, perfect day, thought Damien. They could see the warm lights of the pub beckoning as they approached, and as soon as the car pulled up Damien raced the other two to the bar. “Last one in buys drinks all night!” He shouted as he burst through the door.

There was a muffled thud as Damien’s two pals ran into the back of him. He had stopped dead just as he got through the door. “No, no, couldn’t be, could it?” Damien had been pulled up in his tracks as the unmistakable acrid tang of Dark Shag assailed his nostrils.

His eyes frantically searched the bar, and there by the roaring fire was the culprit. As the wreaths of pipe smoke drifted away from the old man’s face he could see that it…… wasn’t Donald!

“Paranoia,” he though as he walked up to the bar. “I need a drink, and bloody quick!” That first mouthful of beer always tastes special, especially after a hard day’s fishing, although the hearty slap on the back caused him to spit most of it back into the glass.

“There you are laddie, I thought you and the boys might come in here. Come and sit by the fire and have a warm.” Donald wandered over to join the pipe smoker. Damien’s jaw dropped so far and so fast it would probably need corrective surgery. “Oh bollocks, oh shit, oh no!” were some of things racing through his mind. The three of them went over to where Donald and the other pipe smoking fogey were sitting.

“This is Arthur, one of my old pals from India. He controls the stretch just above the one you boys are fishing. I have an open invitation to come down and fish it and stay in the old keeper’s cottage. All free, of course. I used to come down here with Walker and the Taylor Boys, you know, there was this one time wh…..”

“We don’t want any more of your bloody fishing stories, thank you.” hissed Damien.

“Where was I? Oh yes, when you said the Avon I could have saved you and your pals a few bob by letting you fish there and share the cottage with me.” He said with a huge grin on his wrinkly old face. “Bert says I can stay as long as I like, so I’ll be here for the week. Perhaps you boys want to stay on for a couple of extra days? There’s more than enough food in the larder back at the cottage, and Arthur has put a couple of gallons of maggots in the fridge. That should get the barbel going. Wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t see a double or two before the week is out.” He knocked his pipe out on the edge of the table and Damien scrambled to stamp on the hot ashes before they set the carpet on fire, muttering “dozey old b******!”

“No we don’t want to stay on, some of us have got to go back to work.” Damien was fuming as he turned and went back to the bar. His two friends following behind and then enquired, ever so politely, of course, as to why the f*** they had spent all that money when apparently Damien’s nice old uncle could have got them free fishing and accommodation on a private stretch of the Avon? Surely Damien must have known something about all this – didn’t he?

He managed to convince them that the old sod hadn’t said a word to him about free fishing, or he would have snatched his arm off – wouldn’t he? And anyway, if the old boy was able to come down here and fish the Avon whenever he wanted, why hadn’t he done it before? No way. He was sure that Arthur bloke felt sorry for Donald and was having to do him a one-off favour for old times’ sake.

The two friends seemed to accept that their pal Damien wouldn’t stitch them up and miss out on a freebie like that – would he? The old boy was obviously going senile, so there was nothing to worry about.

But Damien’s mind was racing. What about in the garage, when the old boy said it would be a treat. He took it that the selfish old git had meant for himself, but perhaps Donald had meant he would treat Damien.

Had he really got Donald all wrong? Was the old duffer just trying to be kind in his own way, or was he really a cunning old b*****d intent on winding him up at every turn.

Watch out for the next instalment! Who’s going to come out on top this time? Damien or Donald?