R
Robert Harrison
Guest
A SALMON FOR THE TAKING
The float disappeared for a second then reappeared, Tommy held on to his rod ready to make the strike. “Not yet, not yet, wait till the blighter runs with it then it will be time to strike”. Tommy loved fishing; there was nothing better than to sit on the grassy bank of the slow running River Bricknell. He had fished along its length from the village of Tay to the sea. This spot was the best for catching Salmon, just so long as the gamekeeper did not catch him. Old Rough, as the kids called him was not one to let you off lightly if he caught you poaching his master Salmon. There was no taking you to the estates owner Major Richardson, but it was a clout around the ear or a good kick up the backside, and you fishing tackle confiscated.
Tommy felt the tug on his line but still he did not strike, he had lost many a fish by being to eager by pulling the bait out of the fish’s mouth before the hook was set. He settled down behind the tall Cow-Parsnep which hid him somewhat from prying eyes. Dock was his cushion and the juice from the vinegar plant was his sweet for the next hour or so. Goldfinch fed on Thistle seed, and Tommy shivered as a cold breeze swept up the river rippling the water, and he wrapped himself tighter in his own arms as he tried to keep out the chill wind. He looked up for a moment as the note of a Thrush feeding on Rowan berries drew his attention away from the float. The next instant the tug on his rod brought him back to his purpose of being at the riverbank. This time he struck setting the hook his fish was his. He played it like his father had taught him, letting it run when it wanted to and reeling in when the fish headed towards the bank. For three or more minutes he played the fish, it was not a Salmon as he had wished but a fair sized Trout.
The next hour he had two more Trout and a Perch lying on the grass next to him. He was well satisfied with his catch, his mother would be pleased, and maybe she will cook one of the fish for their dinner when he got home. Tommy loved to eat the fish he caught and it gave him great delight when he was able to help feed the family. His father had TB and found difficulty in finding work in the town of Hillmere. He was a good furniture maker and carpenter; many of the larger houses of the town had a piece of furniture that had been made by Tom Gardner. Tommy walked towards home, his catch wrapped in Dock leaves and well hidden inside his jacket. It would not do to have Old Rough asking questions as to where he had been.
The days were getting shorter and as Tommy walked the narrow lane towards his home, he noticed Goldfinch feeding on Thistle-seed, which grew in abundance in some unkept field. Soon a good strong wind would have the thistledown on the wing, floating like gossamer snowflakes to infest some other field or garden. Tommy was not that worried; he would rather see a bird well fed ready to face winter’s harder times. Juniper berries were spread along the branches of their parent tree, which had, since memories of the townsfolk began, grew beside the old Saint Martins church wall. The clock in the town center was just sounding five o’clock when Tommy noticed Old Rough coming up the lane towards him. He just had time to go through the church Lychgate before the gamekeeper saw him, and he made his way up the gravel path that led to the back of the church and past all of the grave stones. When he was out of sight, he slowed down his fast pace so that he could read some of the words on the time worn headstones. One in particular always made him smile for it read.
“Here Lays Me with the wife underneath. You dint like I and I dint like thee”.
Jessie Fairweather bn of this town 1725 died 1800.
And
Frank James also of this town 1720 died 1804.
Tommy’s mother was at the old stone sink in the kitchen, she was peeling potatoes and adding then to the old iron pot, blackened with smoke from the hearths many fires. She was pleased to see her son and gave him a smile of welcome. Tommy loved his mother, she was the gentlest and kindest of mothers, always ready to thank him for the fish he rarely failed to bring home.
“Hello son” she said.
“Hello mom” he replied with a beaming smile on his face that increased her own. He liked it when she called him son; it made him feel even closer to her. Tommy was all right, but son made him feel even more special.
“Caught four fish this afternoon” he said, and nearly bumped into Old Rough.”
“You must be careful son, Old Rough can be nasty with anyone he finds poaching the Majors fish”.
He went over to his mother and showed her the fish.
“Oo lovely” she said “Just what the doctor ordered, your dad will be pleased, he loves his bit of fish.
She kissed him on his curly brown head of hair. “Pop them into the larder will you son, and mind you cover them with that piece of netting to keep the fly’s off”.
Tommy did as he was told and was well pleased that his mother was also pleased. Rarely did she ever scold him, but always had a word of praise for him and a smile to go with it.
“Now go and say hello to your dad, he has been a bit poorly today. Tell him about your fish that will cheer him up”.
Tommy took off his coat, hung it behind the kitchen door, and hung his cap on the same peg. He found his dad sitting in his old armchair in front of the fire. His slippered feet were resting on the polished brass fender.
“Dad I caught four fish today” he said with enthusiasm.
Tom Gardner looked up from his newspaper. “Well done our Tommy, perhaps your mother will let us have them tomorrow for tea. I do like a bit of fish with bread and butter, and I think some of your uncle Bert’s home made Ginger wine will wash it all down just nicely, what do you think about that lad?”
“Smashin’ dad” said Tommy. What’s mom doing for tea today?’
“A nice vegetable stew lad, just the job, and am I hungry”.
“Me to” said Tommy sitting by the fire near his dad’s legs. “I’ve only had two pieces of bread and dripping all day”.
Tommy leaned his head against his dad’s legs and felt the warmth of the fire warming his body. He looked at the old pictures on the opposite wall hanging from the picture rail. One was of his father standing next to a sideboard he had made for the vicar. Another was of his dad and his mothers wedding. All of the other pictures were of people he did not know. One he really liked and that was of a photograph of a Bluebell wood. The Bluebells were a different color to the real ones as the picture had been hand painted and the colors had faded a bit, but he still liked it. Tommy liked everything about his home. It was warm in the winter, and he loved sitting in front of the open fires watching the flames leap and dance their way up the chimney. He liked it best when the gas mantle was not lit, and he and his dad and mom would sit in the firelight and watch the shadows play games on the walls. He leaned his head on his dad’s legs and wrapped his arms around them. The last thing he remembered was a hand stroking his hair before he fell asleep and dreamed of the Salmon in the river.
Tommy was laying on his stomach his head overlooking the bank of the river. Just below him in the shade of the bank was the largest Salmon he had ever seen.
“What is he doing?’ asked his father.
“He is just sort of hovering there,” said Tommy.
“Alright lad, let me roll up your sleeve while you keep an eye on our next meal’ His dad rolled up Tommy’s right sleeve. “ Now lad, gently lower your hand into the water so that it comes alongside the fish, but do not touch it, not yet”.
Tommy did as he was told and the chill of the water ran up his arm.
“Now very gently touch his belly with your finger tips”, encouraged his dad.
Tommy did so and the fish moved slightly away from his fingers.
“Just follow him keeping your fingers on his belly, he will get used to them. Now lad stroke him ever so gently along his belly, let him think that your fingers are weed”.
Tommy was surprised that the fish stayed where it was, and a thrill went through his whole body.
“Now lad lift up your thumb as far as you can so that it comes across his back.
“But dad my hand is to small” whispered Tommy ‘It wont go that far”.
“All right lad, now bring your finger together gently so as not to spook him and bring your hand just below his gills”.
Tommy did as he was told.
“Now this is the tricky part, when I say now, bring up your hand and toss him onto the bank”.
Tommy’s heart was pounding, suppose he made a mess of it, what would his dad think?
“Now” said his dad.
Tommy lifted the fish with all his might, up and over towards the bank. Dad said not a word, and poor Tommy who had his eyes closed could only guess that he had failed to land the fish. He felt his dad’s large hand come down upon his shoulder. Tommy opened his eyes, and there in front of them was the Salmon. He had done it; he had tickled his first Salmon and landed it.
“I did it. I did it,” he shouted.
“Did what” asked his mother as she ladled out the bowls of stew. “Come on up to the table you two before your stew gets cold, then my lad you can tell us all what you did.
Tommy was about to say something when his dad said, “Come on lad, up to the table with you, or we will both be in trouble”.
They all sat at the table with its well-starched tablecloth. It was crisscrossed with lines where his mother had ironed it with the old iron heated over the gas stove. Mother was at the head of the table; she always was at teatime, Tommy’s dad sat at the head at dinnertime. Grace was said and mother broke of the small top of the Cottage loaf and began to cut thick slices of the white soft bread. This done they all took a piece and started to eat their stew. Mother never skimped on the vegetables in her stews and it was always thickened with pearl barley, Tommy just loved it.
“Now lad” said his dad “What’s all this about you did it business”.
“It must have been a dream” blushed Tommy, “But it was so real dad. We were down by the river and you were teaching me how to tickle a salmon, and I landed the biggest I had ever seen, it was bigger than my arm”.
“Well that was some dream lad” his dad chuckled.
“But it was so real, I could feel the soft of its belly, and the cold of the river, and you were talking to me and I swished it out of the river onto the bank and it flopped about”. Tommy was talking as fast as his words would come.
“Slow down son”, laughed his mother. “Perhaps it is an omen”.
“What’s an omen?” asked Tommy.
“Well, it’s like your dream, you dreamed of something that might well happen in real life”.
“You mean I really could tickle a Salmon.” asked Tommy eagerly.
“I don’t see why not my lad, your as good a fisherman as I am, and I can teach you how to tickle a salmon right enough”.
The tea progressed with all of the bread being eaten and a second bowl of stew already started on. Tommy looked up at the picture of his mother’s mother, which was hanging in an old frame on the wall behind her. It occurred to him that all of the old photos of people never had a smile on their faces, and his gran was as miserable looking as some of the others he had looked at. She had the sort of disapproving look that seemed to say, “When I was your age I had bread and lard for my tea young man”. He looked away, when Tommy’s dad drew in a deep breath, clenched his spoon as if his life depended upon his holding onto it, he knew that something awful was about to happen. His lungs seemed to be bursting yet he tried to draw in more breath. He suddenly stopped breathing altogether and fell across the table.
A week after his dad’s funeral, Tommy was sitting on the bank of the river, legs crossed, and the float at the end of his line floating gently past him. He had lost count how many times he had cast upstream to watch the float go past with not even a quiver, not even a hint that there were any fish in the river. He reeled in the line, made the hook safe with the point stuck firmly in the cork handle of his rod. He put the rod to one side, rolled over onto his stomach resting his chin on his hands, and gazed into the river. The water was clear enough for him to see the bottom. Smooth pebbles covered the riverbed. “They make good skimmers,” he said to himself. “Dad could skim a stone so that it skipped off the water ten times, he was a good skimmer was dad”. He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper so that he could reach into the water and get himself a good skimming stone. As he was about to reach down, he saw under the bank a Salmon. “My dream” he thought, “The omen that mother told me about”. He lay looking at the salmon trying to remember all that his dad had told him to do in his dream. He thought a long time before slowly, without making so much as a ripple on the water, he reached down towards the hovering fish.
“Gently does it” just like dad said. The memory of his dream was now clear in his mind. His hand was now level with the Salmons side. Slowly he curled his fingers until they were under the fish’s belly. Gentle, ever so gently he tickled the fish. It made no movement. Tommy’s heart was thumping as he thrilled at the touch of the soft belly. He raised his thumb and this time he could see that it would reach over the fish’s back. Gently he closed his whole hand around the fish and gently lifted it out of the water.
He sat back holding the Salmon on both hands and as it lay there he was amazed at the beauty of it. Speckled brown and gold, it was the most beautiful fish he had ever seen. He had seen Salmon before, but this one was special, no fish had ever thrilled him the way that this one did. Its gills opened and closed in regular rhythm, it did not seemed stressed but Tommy knew that he would soon have to release it. He thought of his dad and how pleased he would have been. Tommy lowered the fish with its head facing upstream so that the water would flow though its gills. He opened his hands an the fish moved off slowly, then it turned and swan past him, stayed for a moment and was gone towards the far bank. Tommy watched it disappear from view and he thought he heard the voice of his dad say, “Well done my lad”.
Thistle down floated on the air across the river, and Tommy lay on his back and looked at the sky. The song of a Skylark reached his ears from somewhere above him, and try as he did he could not see the bird only the vee formation of geese as they flew towards a place he may never see. “It will be blackberry time soon” he thought, dad liked blackberries.
The town clock sounded five o’clock. Time for Old Rough to be doing his rounds he though. He got up and was about to head for home when he turned round and took one last look at the river and said to himself “Goodby dad”.
The float disappeared for a second then reappeared, Tommy held on to his rod ready to make the strike. “Not yet, not yet, wait till the blighter runs with it then it will be time to strike”. Tommy loved fishing; there was nothing better than to sit on the grassy bank of the slow running River Bricknell. He had fished along its length from the village of Tay to the sea. This spot was the best for catching Salmon, just so long as the gamekeeper did not catch him. Old Rough, as the kids called him was not one to let you off lightly if he caught you poaching his master Salmon. There was no taking you to the estates owner Major Richardson, but it was a clout around the ear or a good kick up the backside, and you fishing tackle confiscated.
Tommy felt the tug on his line but still he did not strike, he had lost many a fish by being to eager by pulling the bait out of the fish’s mouth before the hook was set. He settled down behind the tall Cow-Parsnep which hid him somewhat from prying eyes. Dock was his cushion and the juice from the vinegar plant was his sweet for the next hour or so. Goldfinch fed on Thistle seed, and Tommy shivered as a cold breeze swept up the river rippling the water, and he wrapped himself tighter in his own arms as he tried to keep out the chill wind. He looked up for a moment as the note of a Thrush feeding on Rowan berries drew his attention away from the float. The next instant the tug on his rod brought him back to his purpose of being at the riverbank. This time he struck setting the hook his fish was his. He played it like his father had taught him, letting it run when it wanted to and reeling in when the fish headed towards the bank. For three or more minutes he played the fish, it was not a Salmon as he had wished but a fair sized Trout.
The next hour he had two more Trout and a Perch lying on the grass next to him. He was well satisfied with his catch, his mother would be pleased, and maybe she will cook one of the fish for their dinner when he got home. Tommy loved to eat the fish he caught and it gave him great delight when he was able to help feed the family. His father had TB and found difficulty in finding work in the town of Hillmere. He was a good furniture maker and carpenter; many of the larger houses of the town had a piece of furniture that had been made by Tom Gardner. Tommy walked towards home, his catch wrapped in Dock leaves and well hidden inside his jacket. It would not do to have Old Rough asking questions as to where he had been.
The days were getting shorter and as Tommy walked the narrow lane towards his home, he noticed Goldfinch feeding on Thistle-seed, which grew in abundance in some unkept field. Soon a good strong wind would have the thistledown on the wing, floating like gossamer snowflakes to infest some other field or garden. Tommy was not that worried; he would rather see a bird well fed ready to face winter’s harder times. Juniper berries were spread along the branches of their parent tree, which had, since memories of the townsfolk began, grew beside the old Saint Martins church wall. The clock in the town center was just sounding five o’clock when Tommy noticed Old Rough coming up the lane towards him. He just had time to go through the church Lychgate before the gamekeeper saw him, and he made his way up the gravel path that led to the back of the church and past all of the grave stones. When he was out of sight, he slowed down his fast pace so that he could read some of the words on the time worn headstones. One in particular always made him smile for it read.
“Here Lays Me with the wife underneath. You dint like I and I dint like thee”.
Jessie Fairweather bn of this town 1725 died 1800.
And
Frank James also of this town 1720 died 1804.
Tommy’s mother was at the old stone sink in the kitchen, she was peeling potatoes and adding then to the old iron pot, blackened with smoke from the hearths many fires. She was pleased to see her son and gave him a smile of welcome. Tommy loved his mother, she was the gentlest and kindest of mothers, always ready to thank him for the fish he rarely failed to bring home.
“Hello son” she said.
“Hello mom” he replied with a beaming smile on his face that increased her own. He liked it when she called him son; it made him feel even closer to her. Tommy was all right, but son made him feel even more special.
“Caught four fish this afternoon” he said, and nearly bumped into Old Rough.”
“You must be careful son, Old Rough can be nasty with anyone he finds poaching the Majors fish”.
He went over to his mother and showed her the fish.
“Oo lovely” she said “Just what the doctor ordered, your dad will be pleased, he loves his bit of fish.
She kissed him on his curly brown head of hair. “Pop them into the larder will you son, and mind you cover them with that piece of netting to keep the fly’s off”.
Tommy did as he was told and was well pleased that his mother was also pleased. Rarely did she ever scold him, but always had a word of praise for him and a smile to go with it.
“Now go and say hello to your dad, he has been a bit poorly today. Tell him about your fish that will cheer him up”.
Tommy took off his coat, hung it behind the kitchen door, and hung his cap on the same peg. He found his dad sitting in his old armchair in front of the fire. His slippered feet were resting on the polished brass fender.
“Dad I caught four fish today” he said with enthusiasm.
Tom Gardner looked up from his newspaper. “Well done our Tommy, perhaps your mother will let us have them tomorrow for tea. I do like a bit of fish with bread and butter, and I think some of your uncle Bert’s home made Ginger wine will wash it all down just nicely, what do you think about that lad?”
“Smashin’ dad” said Tommy. What’s mom doing for tea today?’
“A nice vegetable stew lad, just the job, and am I hungry”.
“Me to” said Tommy sitting by the fire near his dad’s legs. “I’ve only had two pieces of bread and dripping all day”.
Tommy leaned his head against his dad’s legs and felt the warmth of the fire warming his body. He looked at the old pictures on the opposite wall hanging from the picture rail. One was of his father standing next to a sideboard he had made for the vicar. Another was of his dad and his mothers wedding. All of the other pictures were of people he did not know. One he really liked and that was of a photograph of a Bluebell wood. The Bluebells were a different color to the real ones as the picture had been hand painted and the colors had faded a bit, but he still liked it. Tommy liked everything about his home. It was warm in the winter, and he loved sitting in front of the open fires watching the flames leap and dance their way up the chimney. He liked it best when the gas mantle was not lit, and he and his dad and mom would sit in the firelight and watch the shadows play games on the walls. He leaned his head on his dad’s legs and wrapped his arms around them. The last thing he remembered was a hand stroking his hair before he fell asleep and dreamed of the Salmon in the river.
Tommy was laying on his stomach his head overlooking the bank of the river. Just below him in the shade of the bank was the largest Salmon he had ever seen.
“What is he doing?’ asked his father.
“He is just sort of hovering there,” said Tommy.
“Alright lad, let me roll up your sleeve while you keep an eye on our next meal’ His dad rolled up Tommy’s right sleeve. “ Now lad, gently lower your hand into the water so that it comes alongside the fish, but do not touch it, not yet”.
Tommy did as he was told and the chill of the water ran up his arm.
“Now very gently touch his belly with your finger tips”, encouraged his dad.
Tommy did so and the fish moved slightly away from his fingers.
“Just follow him keeping your fingers on his belly, he will get used to them. Now lad stroke him ever so gently along his belly, let him think that your fingers are weed”.
Tommy was surprised that the fish stayed where it was, and a thrill went through his whole body.
“Now lad lift up your thumb as far as you can so that it comes across his back.
“But dad my hand is to small” whispered Tommy ‘It wont go that far”.
“All right lad, now bring your finger together gently so as not to spook him and bring your hand just below his gills”.
Tommy did as he was told.
“Now this is the tricky part, when I say now, bring up your hand and toss him onto the bank”.
Tommy’s heart was pounding, suppose he made a mess of it, what would his dad think?
“Now” said his dad.
Tommy lifted the fish with all his might, up and over towards the bank. Dad said not a word, and poor Tommy who had his eyes closed could only guess that he had failed to land the fish. He felt his dad’s large hand come down upon his shoulder. Tommy opened his eyes, and there in front of them was the Salmon. He had done it; he had tickled his first Salmon and landed it.
“I did it. I did it,” he shouted.
“Did what” asked his mother as she ladled out the bowls of stew. “Come on up to the table you two before your stew gets cold, then my lad you can tell us all what you did.
Tommy was about to say something when his dad said, “Come on lad, up to the table with you, or we will both be in trouble”.
They all sat at the table with its well-starched tablecloth. It was crisscrossed with lines where his mother had ironed it with the old iron heated over the gas stove. Mother was at the head of the table; she always was at teatime, Tommy’s dad sat at the head at dinnertime. Grace was said and mother broke of the small top of the Cottage loaf and began to cut thick slices of the white soft bread. This done they all took a piece and started to eat their stew. Mother never skimped on the vegetables in her stews and it was always thickened with pearl barley, Tommy just loved it.
“Now lad” said his dad “What’s all this about you did it business”.
“It must have been a dream” blushed Tommy, “But it was so real dad. We were down by the river and you were teaching me how to tickle a salmon, and I landed the biggest I had ever seen, it was bigger than my arm”.
“Well that was some dream lad” his dad chuckled.
“But it was so real, I could feel the soft of its belly, and the cold of the river, and you were talking to me and I swished it out of the river onto the bank and it flopped about”. Tommy was talking as fast as his words would come.
“Slow down son”, laughed his mother. “Perhaps it is an omen”.
“What’s an omen?” asked Tommy.
“Well, it’s like your dream, you dreamed of something that might well happen in real life”.
“You mean I really could tickle a Salmon.” asked Tommy eagerly.
“I don’t see why not my lad, your as good a fisherman as I am, and I can teach you how to tickle a salmon right enough”.
The tea progressed with all of the bread being eaten and a second bowl of stew already started on. Tommy looked up at the picture of his mother’s mother, which was hanging in an old frame on the wall behind her. It occurred to him that all of the old photos of people never had a smile on their faces, and his gran was as miserable looking as some of the others he had looked at. She had the sort of disapproving look that seemed to say, “When I was your age I had bread and lard for my tea young man”. He looked away, when Tommy’s dad drew in a deep breath, clenched his spoon as if his life depended upon his holding onto it, he knew that something awful was about to happen. His lungs seemed to be bursting yet he tried to draw in more breath. He suddenly stopped breathing altogether and fell across the table.
A week after his dad’s funeral, Tommy was sitting on the bank of the river, legs crossed, and the float at the end of his line floating gently past him. He had lost count how many times he had cast upstream to watch the float go past with not even a quiver, not even a hint that there were any fish in the river. He reeled in the line, made the hook safe with the point stuck firmly in the cork handle of his rod. He put the rod to one side, rolled over onto his stomach resting his chin on his hands, and gazed into the river. The water was clear enough for him to see the bottom. Smooth pebbles covered the riverbed. “They make good skimmers,” he said to himself. “Dad could skim a stone so that it skipped off the water ten times, he was a good skimmer was dad”. He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper so that he could reach into the water and get himself a good skimming stone. As he was about to reach down, he saw under the bank a Salmon. “My dream” he thought, “The omen that mother told me about”. He lay looking at the salmon trying to remember all that his dad had told him to do in his dream. He thought a long time before slowly, without making so much as a ripple on the water, he reached down towards the hovering fish.
“Gently does it” just like dad said. The memory of his dream was now clear in his mind. His hand was now level with the Salmons side. Slowly he curled his fingers until they were under the fish’s belly. Gentle, ever so gently he tickled the fish. It made no movement. Tommy’s heart was thumping as he thrilled at the touch of the soft belly. He raised his thumb and this time he could see that it would reach over the fish’s back. Gently he closed his whole hand around the fish and gently lifted it out of the water.
He sat back holding the Salmon on both hands and as it lay there he was amazed at the beauty of it. Speckled brown and gold, it was the most beautiful fish he had ever seen. He had seen Salmon before, but this one was special, no fish had ever thrilled him the way that this one did. Its gills opened and closed in regular rhythm, it did not seemed stressed but Tommy knew that he would soon have to release it. He thought of his dad and how pleased he would have been. Tommy lowered the fish with its head facing upstream so that the water would flow though its gills. He opened his hands an the fish moved off slowly, then it turned and swan past him, stayed for a moment and was gone towards the far bank. Tommy watched it disappear from view and he thought he heard the voice of his dad say, “Well done my lad”.
Thistle down floated on the air across the river, and Tommy lay on his back and looked at the sky. The song of a Skylark reached his ears from somewhere above him, and try as he did he could not see the bird only the vee formation of geese as they flew towards a place he may never see. “It will be blackberry time soon” he thought, dad liked blackberries.
The town clock sounded five o’clock. Time for Old Rough to be doing his rounds he though. He got up and was about to head for home when he turned round and took one last look at the river and said to himself “Goodby dad”.
