by Mike Pannett
Looking back, I can see how lucky I was in those days. Jack and Billy were a couple of wise old birds. I used to wish that we had teachers like them at school. I learned such a lot from them. I must have been about eight years old when Jack took me aside that morning and told me to follow him. He never said what was on his mind, but of course I didn’t ask. All would be revealed.
‘Now then,’ he said, as we headed across the dusty yard, scattering the hens and arousing the interest of the cockerel – a beast of a thing that would attack your legs on the slightest provocation, ‘first job we need to do is sharpen our knives. We can’t go fishing with blunt instruments, can we now?’
‘No,’ I said. I was all ears. It was the first I’d heard that we were going fishing. I hurried along beside him and followed him in through the doorway that led to the workshop he and Billy used, right beside the big barn. There, under the dim light of a single electric bulb, he took out a dark grey rectangular stone, a whetstone he called it, and placed it on a blackened work-bench, next to a big iron vice.
‘Now,’ he said, sweeping a pile of wood shavings onto the floor, ‘fetch us down a can of oil, will you?’
I gazed around at the clutter of hammers and drills, the coils of rope and wire, the mysterious tools with worn wooden handles and strangely shaped metal parts, the old Oxo tin full of nuts and bolts, the tobacco tins and jam-jars full of miscellaneous hardware, the many and varied saws hanging from butcher’s hooks. I was looking for a gallon container of Castrol, such as Dad had in his garage for the Traveller.
‘Up yonder,’ he said, pointing to a shelf right above my head. ‘The bicycle oil, d’you see her?’
I passed him the can of Three-in-One and watched, fascinated, as he poured an S-shaped squiggle of it onto the stone, then took from his pocket a knife, its blade perhaps four inches long, and curved. I don’t mean curved like mine was, a gentle convex sort of curve; no, his was curved inwards as if it had been eaten away, which I suppose it had. It had been rendered concave by a thousand sharpenings over goodness knows how many years. It was thin and pointed, like a boning knife. A bit frightening, really.
‘Had this little beauty since I wasn’t much taller than what you are,’ he said, and started to work the blade to and fro in the puddle of oil, pausing every so often to check its edge with his thumb. ‘Touch and go whether it wears out before I do. And see that handle? My old Dad made that out of a piece of juniper. Lovely and smooth, and do you know, it kept its scent for years. All gone now, of course,’ he said, and he held the handle out for me to sniff. It smelled of oil, and tobacco.
‘Now you have a go,’ he said.
I took out my Swiss Army knife and opened up the big blade. Placing it on the carborundum stone, I did my best to imitate Jack’s movements. He didn’t comment, just corrected me once or twice with a touch of his hand to get the angle right, and smiled approvingly when it seemed I’d got the hang of it, with the blade pressed almost level with the stone and the blackened oil forming a sort of ripple around it. He waited until I’d done both sides, took it off me and tested it with his thumb, nodded, and turned the whetstone over.
‘This here,’ he said, ‘this is your smooth side – rubs off any jagged bits and gets a proper edge on it. Stops it catching too. I always say a blunt knife’s more dangerous than a properly sharpened one. Get a proper edge and it’ll cut nice and smooth, with no snagging. You don’t want it snagging, lad. That’s how you’re liable to nick your fingers.’
I agreed that I didn’t want that, and started to work the blade once more.
By the time we’d finished Jack reckoned I’d be able to shave my chin with my knife – if I had any whiskers to shave, that was.
‘Now,’ he said, replacing the oil-can and the whetstone on their shelf, ‘that’s all you need to go tickling trout – that and a plastic bag. Mind,’ he added, ‘in my day we never had no plastic bags. You shoved your catch down your shirt front or into your trouser pocket. Then you ran like the wind.’
‘Why was that?’ I asked. ‘Why did you have to run?’
Jack laughed and ruffled my hair. He looked around him as if he thought somebody might be listening. ‘Because, lad, they weren’t our fish to catch.’
I suppose I was still looking puzzled.
He lowered his voice almost to a whisper and leaned forward. ‘The thing is, we were … we were poaching. D’you see? But you’re not to tell anyone, you hear?’ And he pressed his finger to his lips as he ushered me out into the yard and closed the door behind us. Before we set off he looked at my sandaled feet. He was wearing a pair of green wellies. ‘Aye, you could’ve done wi’ a pair of rubber boots too.’
Ever since Jack first mentioned it, the idea of catching my own
supper had taken a grip on me. And now we were off to the woods to make it a reality. Me and him. I followed in silence as he led the way into the wood, down the narrow, leaf-filled path that snaked between the trees. After a few hundred yards he signalled me to stop and listen. There was no wind in there, and the only sound, apart from a pigeon cooing in the tree-tops, was of running water. ‘Aye, nearly there,’ he said.
Down beside the little beck he told me to take a deep breath. I did as he said. ‘From here on we’ve to be quiet as mice,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to be disturbing them little fishes, do we now? So, nice and quiet, eh?’ He looked at me with his stubby forefinger pressed to his lips, then said, ‘All right, lad, you can breathe out now.’
I watched Jack as he stood there, peering into the brown-tinted water which tumbled over the rocks and dispersed into quiet pools shaded by the alders and long grass that grew on either side of the main stream. ‘Do you see owt?’ he asked. I scanned the surface of the stream. The only movement that caught my eye was the dark, rotting leaves that were being turned over by the current. I shook my head. ‘Why, I reckon there’s one there,’ he said, ‘just where you’re standing.’
Bending down I now glimpsed the shadowy outline of a fish. For a few seconds it was quite still. Then it darted away, briefly illuminated by the dappled sunlight before it slid into the darkness under the bank. I expected Jack to show me how to grab it, but instead he said, ‘We’ll tek note of where he is and see if we can spot another one, eh?’ With that he took off his hat, placed it on the mossy cushion above the trout’s hiding-place and gestured to me to move on.
We made our way slowly upstream, moving carefully to avoid treading on any sticks. Every so often there would be a ‘plop’ and Jack’s hand would go up and we’d both stand quite still. He’d lean forward, crouching, gazing into the water. Then he’d shake his head and move forward again. I was getting anxious now. Surely we wouldn’t be going home empty handed? The others would all laugh at me. Phil had caught his codling the other day and he’d not let me forget it.
‘Sshh!’ Jack was down on all fours. He slipped his right hand into the water, closed his eyes and felt under the overhanging bank. Then he caught his breath, turned and winked at me. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you come and put your hand in, right here.’ I edged towards him. ‘Nice and slow, mind. No splashing. We don’t want to startle him, do we?’ It was colder than I’d expected, but the shiver that ran up my spine was nothing to do with the temperature. It was pure anticipation.
‘Just have a feel around under there.’ Jack said. ‘No sudden movements. Nice and slow.’ He stayed where he was and I extended my arm, reaching deep under the bank. Nothing. Then the river-bank itself, a slick wall of clay. ‘Are you finding owt, lad?’
I shook my head once more. I could feel the current – slower here than in mid-stream and carrying little bits of debris through my fingers; I could feel one or two slippery roots, and now my fingers had reached the silky soft mud at the very bottom. But trout? No. I moved slowly forward, my hand still in the water as I crawled over the damp grass, wincing as my knee pressed onto a buried stone. All the time I watched Jack for a sign. He was standing there perfectly still, his head cocked to one side. I
was starting to wonder whether there was anything there at all. He’d warned me from the outset that you needed patience. Infinite patience, he said, and that was something which, according to Mum, I didn’t know the meaning of.
A loud splash interrupted my musings, and there was Jack, on his feet. In his hands was a dripping, wriggling trout. He held it out for me to see. It was a lovely thing: small, slender, shapely, its sides covered with the distinctive dark spots.
‘Wow! You got it.’
‘Aye, but he’s only little, isn’t he? Nowhere near fully grown. Let’s put him back in, shall we? Go and see if that big ’un’s still hiding. Maybe you can pull him out for me, eh?’
‘I’ll try,’ I said, and watched as Jack dropped his catch into the water. I felt disappointed as it swam quickly across to the far bank. It might be the only one we caught.
We made our way back to where Jack had left his hat. I got down on all fours. He nodded approvingly as I dipped my hand in the water once more. Below me there was a pool. It was deep, deeper than I could reach without immersing my arm to the shoulder and under-cutting the bank by a foot or so. I trembled as the water soaked my rolled-up shirt-sleeve. Was the big trout still there, or had it slipped away? No, it was there all right and my finger-tips were touching its under-belly. My heart was pounding. I held my breath and looked at Jack. It wouldn’t bite me, would it?
‘Found it?’ he whispered.
‘Aye.’
‘Right then, just tickle him, real gently. Under his tummy, like I told you – and work your way forward, mind. Along the body towards his head.’
The fact was, I couldn’t tell which end of the fish I was touching, but Jack had said how they always like to swim upstream so maybe … I worked my way forward, inch by inch along the cool, slippery body. Leaning forward as far as I dared without losing my balance, I peered into the water. ‘I can see him!’ I gasped. He was lying dead still, just his tail fin twitching ever so slightly.
‘Right, lad. Now just tickle him under t’gills. You’ve to be ever so gentle, mind.’ I did as Jack said. ‘Then close your fingers round him – nice and firm.’ That was the hard part. I was sure the fish would struggle, but I followed Jack’s instructions to the letter. ‘And have him out. Come on, lad. Before he wakes up.’
I was torn between conflicting impulses. On the one hand I was determined to hang on tight and not let my supper escape. On the other I felt a pity for the poor thing. I could now feel the tension as it began to arch its body, twisting one way and then the other. I gripped tight and stood up, my eyes fixed on its gaping mouth.
‘Now, you can either whack its head on that rock,’ Jack said, ‘or get your finger in its mouth and pull its head back – but make your mind up, because the longer you leave it the more it’ll suffer.’
Since those days I’ve learned to despatch a fish swiftly and efficiently. There’s no need to prolong the agony. But on this occasion Jack had to help me out. ‘Here,’ he said, and took it from my hand before stepping into the water and killing it with a sharp blow on the nearest rock.
‘Now,’ he continued, holding out his hand, ‘where’s that knife of yours. I’ll show you how we clean ’em – because this, my lad, is going in the pan for your supper tonight. Fresh caught trout and a big slice of bread and butter.’ He smacked his lips and grinned. ‘A meal fit for a king.’
I had my knife in my hand and was opening it with stiff, chilled fingers. ‘How do I do it?’ I asked. ‘How do I clean it?’ The truth was, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing the fish’s insides. I was thinking of the offal we sometimes put in a dish for the cat at home. Luckily, though, Jack didn’t give me time to think about just how yukky its guts might be. He laid the now still fish on the rock and placed a gnarled forefinger on its side, just behind the gills. ‘Right, lad, you put the point of your blade right there.’ I did as he said. ‘Then push in – go on, nice and firm.’ I was surprised at how easily my newly sharpened blade penetrated the flesh. ‘Aye, then you draw it down to the belly – that’s right, and follow the belly down to the vent.’
‘What’s the vent?’ I asked.
‘Why, it’s his bottom, lad. Where he does his business from. Come on now, don’t be all day about it.’
I made the cut just as he said. ‘Right, now you can slide your finger in and pull his guts out.’ He could see me hesitate. ‘Or use your blade. Go on, lad, it ain’t as bad as you think.’
He was right. I was surprised at how little there was to the fish’s insides. Just a couple of livery bits and a thin, pink tube. I scraped them out onto the rock and held the fish up for him to see. It was eight or nine inches long, and plump.
‘Right, now it’s my turn. You wander off downstream a little way and wash it, eh? While I catch one for meself.’
It didn’t take Jack long, and the way he killed and cleaned it – well, it was like poetry. One stroke of the knife, a deft movement with his hand and there it was, one fat little trout, ready for the pan. He picked up his hat, plonked it on his head, shoved his catch in his trouser pocket and turned towards home. ‘We’ll maybe give these to Doris to fry for us, eh? Or would you rather do it in my shed there? I keep a little burner and a pan for when I fancy a fry-up on me own.’
I didn’t answer him at first. In fact, we walked almost all the way back in silence. I was worried.
‘Jack,’ I said, just before we emerged into the field that adjoined the house.
‘What is it, lad?’
‘You know what you said about when you went catching trout? When you were little, I mean, and how you had to run like the wind.’
He didn’t answer for a moment, just plodded on until he came to the stile. There he stopped so suddenly that I almost bumped into him.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s bothering you, lad?’
I was frightened to ask him the question, but I wanted to know. ‘Well, are we – I mean, is what we did poaching?’
Jack didn’t answer at first. He sat on the wooden step, took out his pipe and lit it, puffed a couple of times and said, ‘D’you know, I believe if anybody had seen us they might have said it was. But I don’t think they did, do you?’
I could tell what he meant by the twinkle in his eye. ‘No,’ I said. ‘And does that mean …?’
‘Aye, I think it means we’d best fry these in t’workshop, don’t you? Just in case anybody asks any awkward questions.’
Half an hour later, after he’d sent me to the house to scrounge some bread and butter and I’d told Doris that it was for Jack, that he was too busy to come in for his tea, I sat on a big fat log and watched as his little pot-belly stove started to roar and the butter spluttered in the frying pan.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it weren’t rightly poaching as such.’
‘Oh, wasn’t it?’
To tell the absolute truth I was a bit disappointed to hear that. I’d got used to the idea that we were poachers, and I was beginning to think that it was quite a glamorous thing to be. Seeing as I had plans to be a pirate one day, this seemed a necessary step along the road.
Jack lay the fish in the pan. Using the slender blade of his knife he started spreading butter on the fat crusts of home-baked bread.
‘The way I see it,’ he said, ‘we were just having a little rest by the beck. I don’t know about you, lad, but I stopped to wash, and blow me if that fish didn’t jump right into me hands. What about you?’
‘Aye,’ I said, ‘mine too.’ I had a think for a moment, then added, ‘He jumped out of the beck and – and bashed his head on a stone.’
‘You’ve got the idea,’ Jack said, and lifted the fish carefully, peering underneath. ‘Aye, just crisping up nicely. How’s your appetite, lad?’
Can I Drive a Bulldozer
When I Grow Up?
‘Dad?’
He didn’t answer immediately. He was concentrating on his driving. We’d left Staintondale later than planned and as a result Dad had decided to take the main ro
ad. Now, as we crept along in the heavy weekend traffic, he was regretting it.
‘Yes, what is it, Michael?’
‘Why can’t we go and live in the country?’
Dad sighed. ‘We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we? And I’ve explained why we can’t.’
‘Yeah but – ’
I was stopped before I could utter a word of complaint. Dad braked sharply and muttered something about female drivers. Then he said, ‘You can’t just go and live wherever you want to. You’ve got to think about your livelihood.’
‘Your father’s talking about work,’ Mum said.
‘Well, couldn’t you get a job on a farm, like Billy and Jack?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Phil said. ‘That’d be a waste of brain power. You can’t work on a farm with Dad’s qualifications. It’d be ridiculous.’
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘They have to know all sorts of things about … cows and pigs and tractors and stuff.’
‘You’re wasting your time talking to him,’ Christine said, and of course Gillian had to join in. ‘Waste of time,’ she repeated, ‘waste of time.’ Then she started bleating.
‘I only nudged her,’ I said.
‘Yes, with your elbow.’
‘Oh, do stop bickering,’ Mum said. ‘Your father’s a highly skilled specialist.’
‘So’s Jack,’ I said. ‘He can catch fish with his bare hands.’
‘Oh yeah? Says who?’
I was bursting to tell Phil about the trout I’d caught, but what if Dad found out I was a poacher? I was determined to keep that a secret, even though it caused me actual physical pain to do so. But just as Phil was about to start jeering at me, Mum let me off the hook.
‘Your brother’s right,’ she said. ‘And so are you, Michael. It would be a waste of your father’s education to be working with his hands; and in any case he’d never be able to learn everything those fellows know, not at his age. They’ve had a lifetime at it. Takes years to learn that sort of skill.’