Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Days of Cholesterol and Roses

  There cannot be a single man or woman amongst us who can sleep through the smell of frying bacon, and Arnold Matson was no exception as he awoke, sniffed and creaked into life before eventually realising where he was. As usual, his dreams had provided a terrific night’s entertainment, and as he lay there reassessing and dissecting the vivid, colourful activities provided earlier by his imagination and psyche, he isn’t entirely surprised to recall that the vicar he is currently observing preparing mushrooms and turning sizzling rashers, featured quite heavily in a couple of his mind-boggling, sleepy episodes.

  Incidentally, I have always been of the opinion that an individual’s dreams should remain the intimate property of the person that dreamt them up in the first place, for I can think of nothing more wearisome than finding oneself in the company of someone who insists on telling me what went on during the night as they flew to Venus on a coffee table or whatever else they may have got up to. With this in mind, I shall spare you the unnecessary details as Arnold finally shakes a leg…

  ‘Blimey, Colin,’ Matson managed blearily, ‘you’re on the case bright and early.’

  ‘Oh, good morning, Arnold,’ Wheatsheaf replied chirpily, keeping an eye on the Cumberland sausages, ‘sleep alright? Fresh coffee’s in the pot when you’re ready.’ He broke into a melodious bass vocal whose considerable oscillations appeared to be causing a small pan of baked beans to vibrate on the gas stove.

  Arnold, accepting he was superfluous for the nonce, scratched his belly and yawned, then went in search of some reviving water and toothpaste.

  It had been a bitterly cold night and unlike the vivacious reverend, the sun wouldn’t be making an appearance for another hour or so, but the morning was shaping up nicely to deliver the ideal conditions for a day on the riverbank.

  The gargantuan breakfast painstakingly prepared by the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf, now lay in all its magnificent splendour between the two trenchermen. All washed and shaved, a much sprightlier Arnold Matson thanked the holy man for his marvellous culinary efforts while simultaneously realising why the vicar only partakes of short breaks. If he went away for any longer, pondered Matson, he’d have to buy a bigger camper van to accommodate all the grub.

  Two perfectly formed poached eggs were the only inhabitants on the men’s huge white plates pro tem, primarily because Wheatsheaf had presented the rest of the feast on a kind of griddle cum platter, from which they could help themselves. Believe me, Arnold Matson can eat, but he would be hard pushed to remember being faced with this amount of food within his first half-hour of rising. The roll of honour before him included enough sustenance for the village cricket team, and possibly one or two members of the second eleven, but Arnold’s juices were undoubtedly coming to life as he ran his disbelieving eyes over a small mountain of bacon, a battalion of sausages, fried tomatoes, a sliced truncheon of black pudding, chestnut mushrooms, devilled kidneys, fried bread and a steaming bowl of baked beans which had mercifully survived Wheatsheaf’s singing. A generous rack of toast snuggled next to a jar of home-made marmalade and a pot of tea and coffee completed the banquet. ‘Blast,’ declared the vicar, ‘I forgot the orange juice. Left it in the fridge at home. Sorry, Arnold…’ Matson wasn’t entirely convinced that there would be any time for fishing by the time the pair had worked their way through this lot, but it should be remembered what a cold night does to the system’s storage tanks and in that respect, the reverend had over faced them with the best of intentions. Over light conversation, the two men made substantial inroads into the fare without sheer greed ever entering the equation. Wheatsheaf had pointed out that ‘spinning’ for fish is unlike conventional angling, where one remains all but stationary for the day. Spinning, he explained, consists of the angler walking along sections of the bank as he casts his lure before winding in slowly, trying, in the scheme of things, to imitate with rod and line, a dead or dying fish which hopefully, will attract a hungry, loitering pike’s attention. ‘You can get through quite a bit of walking, Arnold,’ he said, ‘and that’s why we need something in the engine to keep us going all day. You’ll be glad of this lot by mid-afternoon,’ Wheatsheaf concluded, as he picked up a cooling sausage for luck, ‘come on; let’s get you kitted out with some clobber.’

  Arnold felt as though he had come reasonably well prepared but Wheatsheaf was taking no chances when it came to warmth and comfort. He supplied Matson with two extra thermal vests and another pair of thick thermal leggings to accompany the ones Arnold was already wearing under his trousers, as well as fingerless gloves and a furry hat complete with ear muffs. Once again, the old boy’s organisational skills drew nothing but inner-admiration from Matson. Ernest Shackleton couldn’t have kitted him out any better. ‘You might think you’re warm now, Arnold, but once we hit that riverbank…’ He was right, of course, and Arnold understood more than enough about nature to know that you ignored it at your peril.

  Not a great deal is said by either man as Wheatsheaf drives them towards his favourite spot on the river some twenty minutes later. The sun is beginning to bless the day in a pale blue, cloudless sky and having arrived in early evening darkness the night before, Arnold Matson now sees for the first time, the stunning natural beauty which draws the reverend to this haven year after year. The vista is incredible and the look of glowing pride on Wheatsheaf’s face as he takes his time at the wheel renders conversation surplus to requirements for the moment. As he drives, the reverend peers and bobs his head to various degrees of angle, alternating from the windscreen to Matson’s and his own side-windows, as though he is double-checking that everything is still in its place since his previous visit. Occasionally he nods and smiles as he gives his approval to a line of trees, as though he’s satisfied after inspecting soldiers on parade.

  He notices Arnold’s attention has been arrested by two large hawks circling over pines at the top of the valley and points out to his passenger that there is a pair of binoculars on the dashboard shelf. As Matson lifts up the case containing the field glasses, he is somewhat surprised to reveal a framed photograph of a much younger Wheatsheaf, together with his wife, being showered with confetti on their wedding day. The reverend notices an expression of slight embarrassment on Matson’s face and reassures him with a whispered, ‘My Martha…she always comes with me.’ Arnold smiles compassionately and returns his attention to the hawks in the distance. He slowly adjusts the focus on the binoculars, bringing the birds, which he recognises to be a pair of peregrine falcons, into perfect vision. As he watches their effortless, soaring majesty on thermal winds, his mind flits back to the photograph he had seen moments earlier.

  The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf and his new bride Martha accounted for most of the space on the black and white print, but there was another face amongst the small crowd of well-wishers that also looked familiar. As the camper van turns off the main road and its tyres begin to crunch on a gravel track that leads to the river, Arnold Matson loses sight of the hawks in the binoculars; but as he places the instrument back in its carrying case, he has no doubt at all who the person in the picture is. It is Edith Moseley, anonymously attending her own son’s wedding.

  One occasionally wonders how many of us take rivers for granted. I suspect our mutual lifeblood will never be a topic of conversation on the daily commute to the office or factory; not until, of course, the day arrives when we are left without water. There was absolutely no possibility of such a crisis today, as Arnold Matson and the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf unloaded the fishing tackle and made their way by foot along a riverbank which looked down upon a murky, brimming torrent. In the faster current, weed and bits of floating, wooden debris wrestled and struggled as they spun through tormented eddies. Occasionally they would come to rest as overhanging trees snagged them en-route, only to be dislodged by the next relentless swell. Recent rain and snowfall had undoubtedly taken its toll, and although Wheatsheaf had pointed o
ut to Matson that the water was probably two to three feet higher than he would have liked, he carried on undeterred with Arnold in his wake as they made their way to the holy man’s favourite stretch of river.

  If, as a reader, you have always yearned for a dead herring to entice you at the start of a subsection, then you have come to the right place, because the man concentrating in the bitter cold as he threads treble-hooks into the dorsal fin magnificence of said herring is a vicar on a mission. Why cats are partial to tuna fish in their diet is a strange enough conundrum when you consider that most felines tend to run a mile if they come face to face with water, but almost the same could be said of the pike when they are offered a sea dwelling creature in freshwater surroundings. What could possibly appeal? Still, ours is not to reason why and the reverend casts his dead bait towards the far bank with optimism before settling the fluorescent red bobbin he will use as a bite indicator, contentedly in a calm, deep pool, well away from the nuisance of passing flotsam. Once he has placed the rod on its rest he sets to work on tackling-up two other rods for himself and Matson, which they will use for spinning. In layman’s terms the spinner itself resembles a twisted silver tea spoon with a large treble-hook attached to the end. One simply casts this object into the river, then slowly rewind and hope that a loitering pike raises an eyebrow and pounces. While the process itself may well strike you as a piece of cake, I should point out that, on certain days, the fisherman trying his luck in freezing conditions stands a better chance of developing pneumonia than he does of acquiring a passing nibble; and yet, in a strange sort of way, that’s half the fun of it. Expectation is the name of the game.

  Already, a good ninety minutes have elapsed since Wheatsheaf and Matson first began casting their lures into the waters but apart from an inquisitive stare from a cow in the field opposite, there has been no sign of life, fishy or otherwise. To be fair, much time has been lost to, shall we say basic tutoring, as Wheatsheaf was constantly on call to untangle Arnold’s line as it wrapped around his reel time after time, but this is par for the course for the baffled newcomer, and the reverend showed terrific restraint and patience as he repeatedly sorted out the knotted-nightmares and got Matson up and running again. No sooner had he paved the way and issued a fresh set of instructions to Arnold before returning to his own patch, the cry of distress would go up and back he would traipse. Not so easy this fishing lark…

  By ten-thirty, hot coffee and a tactical chin-wag is the order of the day as the two men lay down their rods and reconvene. A fallen tree log provides a suitable seat of office as well as affording them with a fine vantage point from which they can keep an eye on the red bobbin still on duty with the dead herring. Arnold pours the beverages while the reverend tries a fresh cast with the untouched herring rod. The bait splashes into the river a little further downstream from where it has been ignored for well over an hour and Wheatsheaf settles the rig in his chosen spot before clambering up the bank for his warming refreshment. He settles himself on the log and much to Matson’s surprise, produces a hipflask from his fleece jacket pocket and sloshes a generous slug of whiskey into both men’s drinking vessels. ‘Why not, eh, Arnold?’ the reverend says mischievously. It was indeed, a glorious morning, and the sensuous palette of trees, river and flecked blue sky, together with the aroma of coffee with whiskey on its vapour trail, paved the way for a tranquil mind-set. ‘Don’t worry, Arnold,’ Wheatsheaf said reassuringly, ‘early days. Bags of time.’ ‘No, I’m enjoying it,’ replied Matson, raising his coffee cup to the reverend, ‘it’s just so peaceful. And besides,’ he added, ‘you would have probably caught one or two by now if you hadn’t been wet nursing me all the time.’ It hardly appeared as a brainstorm but nonetheless it occurred to Arnold that the pair of them had seen not a single soul since they arrived here and judging by the remoteness of the reverend’s chosen location, they were unlikely to do so. Indeed, the only other face to trouble Matson’s memory bank for a while now, was that of the vicar’s mother, Edith Moseley, which he had recognised from the wedding photograph back in Wheatsheaf’s Dormobile.

  The amount of contemplative silences on this trip were presenting so many opportunities for Matson to share his secret and break the news to the holy man, but each time they reared their irrational head in his imagination, he immediately crushed them beneath a hypothetical size ten boot. He only had to glance at the man beside him on the log to recognise that the world Wheatsheaf has formed for himself; the security blanket he clings to is at the very least, adequate; and who was Arnold Matson to invade the castle of another man’s kingdom?

  ‘Hello, hello…’ The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf took a long, slow draft of his coffee laced with whiskey, placed the cup on the log and slowly got to his feet.

  ‘Come on, Arnold,’ he said gently, but with enough authority to signal it was time for action stations, ‘come on my beauty…that’s the way.’ Arnold realised that the final part of Wheatsheaf’s sentence was directed towards the river and as the penny finally dropped inside Matson’s mind, he looked towards the red bobbin which contained the dead herring. It was moving.

  There is many a controversial theory pertaining what to do when a pike takes a dead bait and whether it is right or wrong, the reverend is a man who puts his supportive tick firmly in the box of the old school of opinion. Viz. When the fish begins to take and examine the proffered bait in its mouth, do not lift the rod and strike for a good thirty-seconds. With this logic in mind, Wheatsheaf stealthily made his way towards the rod as he kept an eye on the red bobbin which was showing more, encouraging signs of movement as the predator took hold. He waved Matson towards him and beckoned him to get a move on.

  Both men arrived by the rod in its rest on the edge of the river and Wheatsheaf issued his final instructions. ‘Now, this is your moment, Arnold,’ he whispered firmly, ’when I give the word I want you to take the rod handle in both hands, lift it slowly out of its rest and yank it upwards towards the sky…nice and firm, one movement.’

  ‘Me?’ said Matson incredulously.

  ‘No time for arguments, Arnold,’ said the reverend, ‘ready?’

  Matson’s eyes were on stalks and he was shaking with concentration in-case he let the side down.

  ‘Now!’ cried the reverend. Matson grabbed the rod and jerked it upwards. To his absolute amazement his action stopped with a jolt and the rod almost bent double.

  ‘Got him!’ exclaimed Wheatsheaf, sounding as though he belonged to a tribe that had been tracking buffalo in the Serengeti for days on end. Matson couldn’t believe the power that was being generated from the end of his line.

  The ratchets on the gears of his reel began to click and whirr as the pike pulled away from him with relentless determination. Calls of ‘what do I do, what do I do?’ emanated from Arnold as he hung on for dear life. ‘Let him have his way but keep the line tight. Don’t give him too much slack. You’ll not stop him so we’ve got to tire him out.’ Wheatsheaf’s instructions were all very well but right now it felt as though Matson was trying to halt a motor cycle. The fish suddenly changed direction and Wheatsheaf could see from the line above the water that the pike was heading towards familiar ground. ‘He’s trying to take you into the weeds; he’s trying to snag you up,’ Wheatsheaf assessed, ‘keep calm, Arnold, and keep that line tight.’ A vicar masquerading as Captain Ahab, thought Matson, although he was enjoying every second of the battle. The struggle settled to a stillness which Wheatsheaf didn’t trust. ‘Here, let me have him,’ he said, taking the rod from Matson, ‘I’ll put you back in charge once we have him back into the open.’ Once Wheatsheaf had taken in all the slack line the tip of the rod bent again considerably and there was no question the pike was still on the other end.

  The whole experience had taken Arnold Matson completely by surprise and he found it almost impossible to believe that four minutes ago he was daydreaming on a log, sipping coffee in the peace and quiet of the countryside. He was shaking from top to toe with adrenalin
. ‘Now then, where are you going…come on…come on,’ Wheatsheaf muttered to himself as he assessed the problem. The pike had taken temporary sanctuary in the shallower water, rocks and weed towards the far bank and while Matson had no idea of the weight of the beast, the swirls it produced when it occasionally disturbed the surface, told him it was a considerable fish. Wheatsheaf was keeping the rod almost vertical as he tried to steer the fish away from the awkward snags. He knew he just had to maintain his patience until the pike panicked and set off once more into the open stream. From there the advantage would lay squarely with the reverend as the exertions took their toll on the creature.

  Without warning, the fish set off once again and Wheatsheaf quickly regained control. Things could still go wrong but the tide, so to speak, had turned and Wheatsheaf handed the rod back to Arnold.

  ‘Now, just keep it tight, keep it steady,’ he said, rolling out an unhooking mat on the bank and reaching for the landing net. Matson continued to wind in slowly and the red bobbin edged towards him, shuddering and vibrating as it did so. Since his original encounter, the fish now felt more like a dead weight to Arnold, but the occasional shudder from under the water told him that it had not yet given up the fight completely.

  Almost two- minutes later, Arnold got his first glimpse of the pike’s head as it broke the surface of the river. He was too much in awe to say anything other than ‘wow,’ and Wheatsheaf continued to reassure him before quietly confirming, ‘It’s a nice fish, Arnold, a nice fish…’

  The reverend realised the pike had given its all and slid the landing net under its body in a slick movement that finally broke the tension. ‘Wow’ emanated once again from a truly stunned Matson and Wheatsheaf laid the net containing the magnificent creature on the unhooking mat for the removal of the treble-hooks and the remnants of the demolished herring. He took the small forceps from his waistband and donned the stainless steel gauze glove as a safety precaution; although he could see that the hooks were at the front of the fish’s mouth. Wheatsheaf removed the hooks and apart from one lively flap of the tail fin, the pike gave no resistance. The creature would be fine on dry land for a few minutes and no doubt, be grateful of the rest in a strange way. Wheatsheaf weighed the fish while it still lay in the landing net and it was a tad less than seventeen pounds. Three-feet of streamlined power.

  For a few moments Arnold Matson just stood admiring in wonderment at the beautiful beast that had given him the thrill of a lifetime.

  Wheatsheaf said little and smiled to his friend. The reverend edged his way towards the water and gently lowered the landing net into the river, enabling the pike to slowly acclimatise in the place it belongs. It remained almost static for a few moments and then began to take in the gentle flow through its mouth and gills.

  Suddenly its whole body sparked back into life and it shot from the net like a majestic bullet.