River Peace
by Graham Elliot
The single rose dropped from the bridge and settled on the water, it caught in an eddy momentarily, then resurfaced, continuing its journey along the river. Through favoured shallow runs and then mysterious, deeper slacks on its continued path towards the Thames..........
His shoulders felt stiff and his chest ached as he slumped back into the chair.
The walk from the car to the river seemed to take forever now. Over the railway track, minding the overhanging blackberry thorns that could pierce even the toughest leather gloves. Into the shade of the wood, still and cool with branches that clawed at your tackle box and tripped up the unwary.
On the bank now, and looking along the river, glistening in the morning sun. The forecast was that the day would be good after a night of gentle snow. How he hated the rain and the wind. True, it often was the time for the biggest fish, with the rising river and rippling surface but, comfort was more important, that, and a chance to re-connect with HIS river.
He was 14 years old when he found this overgrown offshoot from the Thames, that must be..60?...70 years ago he mused. Over the years he had discovered its moods and it’s swims. He had caught great roach with bronzed flanks and dace like bars of silver.
The chub had often plagued him when after these fish, great big mouths and white lips to suck in the bait before his favoured roach could.
Searching out the "Crabtree" slacks he had wrested from them stunning perch, wonderfully striped, with blood red fins bristling as he led them to his net. The thought of their expression, almost of surprise, at being outwitted, caused him to chuckle out loud.
He looked around, to see his grandson staring quizzically at him. " I was just remembering when as a la ....." he started to say when the youngster interrupted,
" I know Gramps, I know, YOUR river" and made his way back to his swim upstream.
" Not a bad lad" he thought, as he started to tackle up. He remembered himself long ago almost running along the bank just to gain a few minutes extra fishing. At least the lad was keen.
He started to tackle up, simple basic stuff. A size 4 hook and 2 swan shot pinched on the line. He had forsaken his cane for a new carbon rod, it’s lightness and strength amazed him. Bait was a lump of sausage meat the size of a walnut. He still ached,his chest felt tight and he decided to rest some more before casting.
He was after barbel, his most favourite fish since the surprise catch many, many years ago. He had never seen one before that very special day, when he fell in love with the Prince of the River...................
He ran along the bank, school forgotten, family forgotten, blackberries forgotten as he stumbled and felt the thorns enter his leg. "Shit!" he shouted, then smiled, remembering that he was in his secret world again, free from control. He burst into the clearing and then by contrast tiptoed to his chosen swim.
Despite his impatience he stopped and looked for any sign of fish on the surface or under the water. He took in the long tailed tits, flitting back and forth amongst the trees above, endless chatter to his ears. The rabbits that had scurried away from his footfalls now appeared nervously, heads peering above their burrows. A fish splashed downriver and again he was focused on the water and its occupants.
The metal tin was popped with the aid of a farthing, and the moss was lifted to reveal a writhing mass of lobworms, dug from the garden that morning.
The tank aerial, given to him by his father for Christmas after being lovingly converted was his pride and joy, it’s weight not quite counterbalanced by the wooden
reel more suited to salmon fishing.
The river was heavy and coloured today with a sprinkling of more rain on the wind so he opted for a fold of lead on the line a few inches from the hook. He was confident of a fine perch or two that would grace the table for Saturday, and convince his parents of the value of their fishing mad offspring.
He liked this swim, its level bank allowed him to sit conformably on his rush mat for hours, lost to the outside world, but connected to his river. The rod tip pulled down and he quickly lifted the rod to the throb of a head shaking stripy. A nice plump perch, quickly dispatched, wrapped in newspaper and placed in the creel. A good start.
One minute he was sitting comfortably and the next, tumbling toward the water, metal rod bent in a semi-circle but its precious value firmly grasped in his hand. He regained his balance but not his awe, fear even, as the rodtip pulsed one way and then the other, the reel burning the skin from his knuckles as it spun.
Down. down. down it jagged, as he tried to gain control. At the same time as the most awful thought struck him, " Pike" he saw the golden flank of the fish turn under the now unyielding pressure and dispel his fears. It was a monster chub.
Tiring now, after a hectic, nerve jangling fight for freedom he brought the fish to his bank. Not a chub?
He lifted it out and studied it. A barbel, it must be a barbel. "My first barbel!" he exclaimed to no one. The siren was louder now, it interfered with his memories.
He didn’t want to hear them getting louder. He shut them out and they faded first slowly, and then completely. River Peace.
Another rose followed the first, " Bye Gramps" said the boy. Drops of water fell from the bridge to the rivers surface and mingled with the ashes. An owl hooted as they made their way back to the cars.
Graham Elliott
