Up the lane, past the wheat fields that swayed like golden seas, beyond the schoolyard where laughter had long since been scrubbed from the walls, and past the witch’s hut – an ominous place we barely dared to whisper about – lay the golf course drive. A sharp turn to the right, a plunge down the embankment, and there it was: the ‘pump’. A forgotten crease in the land, a place where adventure simmered in the air like an impending storm.
Fishing was not a tradition in my family. There were no old sea dogs or patient grandfathers to guide my hands, no sun-dappled afternoons spent casting lines into the still embrace of a river while swapping tales of the one that got away. In truth, I had little to bond over with my older siblings – except for the occasional and rather bruising lesson in the art of taking a punch, courtesy of my next-up-big-bro. Those lessons, though, would serve me well in my more wayward teenage years. But fishing? No, that was foreign. That didn’t matter, though. I wanted to fish. And so did my mates.
We were not ones for doing things ‘properly’. Who needed expensive rods, neatly knotted flies, and delicate, whisper-thin lines? We had old cat-gut wire, thick as a butcher’s twine, and hooks large enough to pierce a man’s lip should he be foolish enough to get too close. And yes, they occasionally had the blood out of our fingers, but that was part of the fun, wasn’t it? We had long outgrown the childish amusement of trapping sticklebacks in jam jars, watching them flicker like silver ghosts in the murky water. We had bigger fish to fry – or at least, to attempt catching.
The ‘pump’ was a sort of sunken realm, a secret kingdom carved into the land with steep, treacherous banks that required either the honed skill of a bottom-slider or the reckless daring of one willing to tumble. The trees, gnarled and wise, offered lifelines if you were quick enough to grab one on your descent. To the left, a monstrous drain gate loomed, a black-mouthed tunnel that swallowed light and exhaled whispers of mysteries long forgotten.
In winter, or after a good lashing of rain, the ‘pump’ would swell and rage, a roaring beast that showed no mercy. Parents warned us away with stories of strangers lurking in the shadows and water levels that could rise in the blink of an eye. It was said that over a hundred years ago, twin children had drowned there, their screams carried away by the torrent. And if you listened, truly listened, on a dark night at just the right time of year, you could still hear their cries echoing through the valley, entwined with the rushing of the water. Of course, it was later suggested that these wails were nothing more than feral cats spoiling for a fight, and the ghostly torrent merely the wind’s howl. Still, the story had been hammered into us like a coffin nail, and even we – brave as we fancied ourselves – felt a shudder at the thought.
Convinced that the waters held treasure in the form of fish, we baited our crude hooks with worms, though by the time we had skewered them onto the metal, they bore little resemblance to the wriggling creatures they once were – now just mashed-up relics of their former selves. An experienced fisherman would have laughed himself hoarse at our clumsy attempts, but we were undeterred. We were going to catch fish. We discussed the size of our impending haul, where we might house them, how best to admire our trophies. Releasing them back into the water? Perish the thought. These fish, our fish, would become pets, living relics of our triumph.
I lay awake at night, visions of great, glistening creatures dancing in my mind. My father scoffed, muttering something about being a monkey’s uncle if we managed to catch so much as a minnow. My mother laughed outright. Both scolded me for even daring to set foot at the ‘pump’.
The village playground, such as it was, hardly offered a better alternative. The roundabout refused to go ‘round’, the banana slide had given up and lay in the long grass like a fallen soldier, and the swings – if they could still be called that – were nothing more than skeletal frames, stripped of seats and chains. The monkey bars, at least, remained intact, though hardly grand enough to hold our interest for long. Small wonder, then, that we sought adventure elsewhere, beyond the grip of rusted metal and rotting wood. Even now, when I see modern playgrounds – gleaming, vibrant, full of possibility – I feel a pang of injustice, a whisper of what we were denied. And, just sometimes, the smallest temptation to take one last ride down a slide or feel the wind rush past as I swing high into the air.
Days passed, and our fishing lines, checked religiously at first, began to feel more like an afterthought. The thrill had dulled. Our restless minds required fresh distractions. Until, on one fateful day, when enthusiasm had all but withered, we found it – hanging from the end of the forgotten line like an offering from the depths. A fish. A real, honest-to-God fish.
It wasn’t much – a dull, brown, slimy thing, perhaps a trout, measuring a disappointing six or seven inches. Not exactly the leviathan we had envisioned. And, worst of all, it was dead.
We had our fish. And we did not want it.
One might assume, given the circumstances, that the logical course of action would be to return it to the water, to let nature reclaim it. But logic was in short supply among a gang of restless children with a penchant for mischief. Are you imagining we tossed it at one another in jest? Used it as an instrument of torture, stuffing it down the back of an unsuspecting comrade’s shirt? Perhaps even invented a grotesque game of tag with it as the prize? Reasonable assumptions, but no. We had something better in mind.
In the village lived an old man, a creature of habit and malevolence, wrapped in layers of tattered coats regardless of the season. His cap, more sentient than accessory, seemed ever on the verge of scuttling away in search of a new host. His beard, a nest of yellowed nicotine stains and forgotten meals, bristled with perpetual disdain. He loathed us. He took delight in crossing roads, altering his course just to berate us, shaking his stick as if he were some vengeful druid casting curses upon our heads. His sister, he claimed, was a witch, her singular eye kept in his pocket to spy upon us. Together, they dwelled in a house that had surrendered to nature, its walls cloaked in ivy, its windows masked with filthy lace.
A menace. A plague upon our existence.
And so, with a gleeful lack of remorse, we slid the fish through his letterbox.
Wording 