Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Page 34

  Chapter Thirty Four

  An Unforeseen Picture

  The hour which followed the catch and release of a seventeen-pound specimen was always unlikely to scale the previous heights, and so it proved. Unannounced, a large bank of cloud had gathered and Wheatsheaf wisely decided they should take cover in the Dormobile until the heavens had had their say. Rain was steadily falling as they approached the camper van and within minutes of them putting their gear inside and clambering aboard, the cloudburst was upon them and beating on the roof and windscreen of their cosy shelter.

  The two men removed the waterproofed top layers of their clothing and got comfortable. It was still only late morning and the reverend was confident of resumption within the hour. In the meantime there was much to reflect upon and Arnold Matson was still visibly glowing from the earlier excitement.

  ‘I still can’t believe how powerful it was,’ said Arnold, unwrapping the foil on a couple of sandwiches and offering one to Wheatsheaf.

  ‘It was a female,’ said the vicar, taking up Arnold’s offer, ‘they’re always much bigger than male fish. It’s the eggs, you see. Not many people catch anything of that size on their first trip, Arnold, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘What’s the biggest you’ve ever caught, Colin?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much bigger than that one and I’ve been fishing for a long time,’ said Wheatsheaf, ‘just over twenty-two pounds is the best I ever managed. You’re a lucky man, Arnold…’

  There it is again, thought Arnold. The characteristic, melancholic twist to the end of the holy man’s sentence. It’s almost as though Wheatsheaf grudgingly accepts that happiness will always remain fleeting, so why linger on the pleasure any longer than is necessary? It isn’t as though the man is miserable by nature; far from it.

  Arnold pictures Wheatsheaf as a child, perhaps playing with one of those simple soap bubble kits. There were always two kinds of players; one who enjoyed blowing the bubbles through the loop and seeing the wonderment of the transient globules as they floated away with the breeze; and the other kids who were never happy unless they clapped their hands around each and every minor-miracle as it appeared and so ruining the simple pleasure for everyone else. There’s no two ways about it; The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf is a complex, loveable hybrid. ‘Oh, thanks, Arnold.’ Wheatsheaf gratefully acknowledges the tea Matson pours for him and his persona lifts once again. He takes a sizeable bite from his corned beef sandwich and carefully cogitates. Arnold inwardly smiles, tucks into his own sandwich and awaits the delayed arrival of the vicar’s inevitable question, the subject of which is anyone’s guess. Wheatsheaf prolongs the excitement for a few more seconds as he meticulously dislodges an awkward morsel of meat from his front teeth with a probing tongue. ‘What would you say,’ he began, closely inspecting the captured, annoying particle between thumb and index finger, before flicking it nonchalantly into an empty crisp packet, ‘what would you say,’ he repeated, ‘would be the one creature, animal, call it what you will; the one creature,’ he emphasized again, ‘that we, as human beings, could all learn the most from?’

  Blimey, thought Arnold, as his fond memories of the pike waved bye-bye for the moment. ‘Well,’ he began. ‘The reason I ask,’ continued Wheatsheaf, halting Matson’s reply before it had a chance to breathe, ‘is because I know how fond you are of insects and birds and things; but I just wondered if you, you know…’ He petered out and returned to his sandwich. Arnold thought for a few moments before offering, ‘Well, it’s such a big subject, Colin. We could sit here for six-months and I wouldn’t have even scratched the surface.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to sort the world out, Arnold,’ said Wheatsheaf, rummaging for a pot of coleslaw, ‘I just wondered that’s all.’ He realised his question must have sounded heavy-handed and reassured his friend. ‘It’s alright, Arnold,’ he said quietly, ‘we’ll be fishing again soon.’

  Heavy rain continued to fall as Matson considered the myriad of options at his disposal. He still wasn’t entirely sure where the reverend was intending to go with all this and knowing Wheatsheaf’s butterfly mind, it was more than likely he had merely asked the question to pass the time. He poured himself a drop more tea and launched a mini-hand grenade to get things underway. ‘The thing is, Colin,’ Arnold began, ‘there is no charity in nature. Self-interest is what matters. Evolution has no commonwealth.’

  Wheatsheaf helped himself to a forkful of coleslaw and nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘But going back to your original question,’ Arnold continued, ‘not that this answers it anyway,’ he said, losing himself along the way, ‘the one creature that human beings have a lot in common with is the ant.’ Matson let Wheatsheaf stew for a moment as he licked the back of his fork. ‘Any idea why, Colin?’ prompted Arnold.

  ‘Well…’ said the reverend eventually,’ they work hard.’

  ‘That’s a very good answer, Colin,’ said Matson, in a manner which almost had the vicar back in short trousers in infant school. ‘But the main reason,’ Arnold concluded, ‘is because ants, like humans, are absolutely dependent on slaves.’

  Wheatsheaf emitted a slow, agreeable groan which collided with a burp provoked by the coleslaw. ‘We’re all working for somebody, is that what you’re saying?’ Wheatsheaf asked reasonably. Matson nodded.

  ‘No matter how small, how miniscule,’ said Arnold, ‘we are all of us, every single one of us…feeding off somebody or something.’

  The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf struggled in vain to unscrew the stubborn lid from a jar of pickled onions and asked Matson if he would be so kind.

  ‘Touché,’ said the vicar, ever so meekly.

  The rain persisted for over an hour before the pair decided it was time to head back to the river. As usual, the combination of two very different minds entrenched in a confined space had made for interesting, not to say diversionary entertainment, as Matson and Wheatsheaf sheltered from the elements. The vicar had certainly tuned-in to Matson’s philosophy about the similarities of ants and humans, and as Arnold expanded his theory with anecdotes regarding how some ants enslave their own kind and how, in particular, honeypot ants often attack their neighbours and carry off their workers, it inspired the vicar to draw allusions to modern-day call centres, where clearly slaves and their owners have obvious conflicts of interest but both parties simply keep mum and take the money and run. Arnold suggested to Wheatsheaf that it was possibly a bit more complicated than that but the vicar offered him a slice of Madeira cake and they settled for a truce.

  With regard to the angling and after due consideration, Wheatsheaf thought it best if they spread their wings a little for the next port of call. He knew of a lovely stretch not fifteen minutes’ drive away which would not only be a bit easier to fish after the latest downpour, it would also be convenient for their travel plans when it came to hitting the road for home later in the day. Matson had no complaints on either score and was pleasantly surprised when Wheatsheaf asked him if he would like to drive the old Dormobile to the next spot. The reverend had gone on to say that the short journey they were about to embark on held some special memories from way back when, but Arnold had politely interrupted him and said there was absolutely no need to explain.

  As the winter sunshine once more got the better of the clouds above their heads, the tyres of the camper van scrunched slowly over the gravel track, before the wheels finally welcomed the smoothness of the road before them…

  Once again their vehicle finds itself tootling along on an almost deserted country road, which inspires Matson to drive even slower than is necessary, thus enabling the reverend to delve further into his box of fond memories as he takes in the splendour of the scenery unfolding before him. As he smiles and recalls times that will never be erased from his heart and soul, he holds his arms across his midriff, so that the palms of his hands each clasp the opposite bicep, which gives the impression that he is caressing a dancing partner who has somehow slipped through his arms forever. Occasionall
y he glances at his wedding photograph on the dashboard shelf and clutches himself just that little bit tighter as he sees the face of his bride on the happiest day of his life.

  The rare sight of an overtaking truck momentarily startles Wheatsheaf back to reality, but no sooner has the vehicle interrupted his daydream and disappeared into the distance, the reverend’s expression and demeanour have returned to the cocoon within which he feels safest, and one that the outside world can never penetrate or possibly understand.

  Less than three-hours of daylight remain as Arnold Matson pulls on the hand brake of the vicar’s trusty old Dormobile, and as the two men survey the river from the warmth of the vehicle, they also observe that the sun has finally deserted them once and for all; replaced, as it is, by a thin valley mist and a general air of murkiness. Apocalyptic is, perhaps, stretching a point to exaggeration when it comes to describing weather conditions, but it was the sort of early afternoon we have all experienced and one which makes us feel as though we are the only person on earth.

  The visibility remained good, but there was a feeling in Arnold Matson’s unconscious mind which had altered; in the way, one would suspect, a mountaineer cogitates with a seed of doubt as to whether he should try for the summit by nightfall or simply make base camp and await the relative safety of a new morning. Matson had even suggested as much to the reverend, who appreciated Arnold’s concerns, before he finally quashed the notion with boyish enthusiasm and bullish remarks about how he hated being dictated to by the elements. Now, there is a subject which Matson could have taken issue with the vicar on, for there can only ever be one winner if a man is foolish enough to pick a fight with the mighty power of nature.

  For the sake of amicability Arnold had kept his unquestionable thoughts and theories to himself, and the two men now find themselves squelching down the gentle gradient of a saturated footpath towards a river that has no more regard for sentiment than does the mist which is currently descending from the low cloud and threatening to envelop them.

  The first hour of their reacquaintance with the river proved fruitless and Wheatsheaf experimented with numerous tactical changes as his quest grew more and more frustrating. The strategy of dead-baiting, which had succeeded earlier in the day, has now been abandoned altogether by the scheming, meticulous Wheatsheaf, and he has equipped both Matson and himself with lures which are known as pike plugs. Plugs are artificial bait that resemble a relatively large, injured fish, and they are designed in such a way that they give off vibrations and make side-to-side movements as the angler winds them back towards the bank, and it is the combination of those two actions which should, in theory, awaken the hungry inquisitiveness of the predator. They are fairly luminous, which will count for very little in the soup-coloured river Wheatsheaf and Matson currently find themselves tackling, and there are fearsome looking hooks attached to their underside, which would take some escaping from should the pike find itself unable to resist. In summary, a formidable bait…should there be any interested fish within the vicinity.

  I have touched upon the fact that this style of angling involves the inevitability of walking, albeit very slowly and methodically, a considerable distance. One casts the lure and winds in gently, but all the while, almost without thinking, the participant is taking a few strides along the bank and, as is the case of the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf, those strides become a little more frequent as his frustrations become more apparent. What starts out as a couple of friends chatting amicably a few yards apart from each other can, and invariably does, end with one of the party, no matter how large or small, wandering off as he is led by the collar, so to speak, by grim determination to catch what he came all this way for before the fading light ends his hopes and makes the decision for him.

  Daylight was not going to be an issue for Wheatsheaf and Matson for another two hours, but the cold stillness and the mist were now very much a prominent feature, so much so that, in his own concentrated efforts, Arnold Matson had lost sight of the reverend as he had ventured further and further along the riverbank.

  Matson finished winding in his lure following another futile dunking and was about to cast in once again. Instead, he maintained his stance in the chill and listened intently. Apart from his own occasional sniffle and the slight brushing effect of the fabric on his waterproof jacket, the river, not two-yards away from his feet, was the only other sound he could hear.

  He cocked an ear and listened closer.

  Nothing.

  ‘Colin?’

  His call seemed to travel nowhere.

  ‘Colin…?’ he tried again with more emphasis, ‘Are you alright?’

  Once more, the river at his feet was all he heard. Matson clambered up the bank and began to walk hurriedly along the main track, which was treacherous enough to affect his progress. He checked his stride and called out once more, but barely had the cry left his lips when another voice collided with his own.

  ‘Bring the landing net, Arnold!’ it exclaimed, ‘Get yourself down here!’

  The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf has finally hooked what he came for.

  Despite his best efforts, Matson was finding it difficult to make headway along the saturated track, and the ankle-high bramble combined with overgrown wild grass, repeatedly clawing at the lower part of his leggings and boots, both hampered his progress and increased his frustration. He could hear Wheatsheaf’s calls and frequently answered that he was on his way, but the combination of boots splashing through puddles, the sound of his own deep breathing and the noise of the undergrowth, rendered the two men’s communications futile. In the confusion of the past couple of minutes, Matson wasn’t entirely sure if the path he was awkwardly navigating was actually taking him further away from Wheatsheaf’s location, and his relief was palpable when he finally came to a clearing which brought the reverend into his line of vision.

  However, Matson’s doubts regarding his own wayward navigations became fully justified as he suddenly found himself towering some twenty feet above the holy man and confronting a treacherous gradient of river bank. Still, at least they could see one another and Wheatsheaf witnessed and acknowledged Matson’s predicament.

  ‘This is some fish, Arnold,’ Wheatsheaf called over his shoulder, ‘for heaven’s sake don’t try and drop down that bank. There’s another gap to your right. It’s about twenty yards further along. I’ll edge him that way and you can get down and land him for me.’

  The pike set off on another powerful run which prompted Wheatsheaf to add, ‘No rush, Arnold…I think he’s just found his second wind.’ The comment lightened the mood slightly and Matson returned a wholehearted, ‘Hang on in there, Colin,’ before turning away to reconnoitre the alternative pathway which hopefully, would give him access to the waterside.

  As Wheatsheaf continued to skilfully play the fish and manoeuvre it towards a friendlier shelf in the river for landing, a major obstacle he had not previously considered suddenly became apparent. So far during the struggle, the reverend had the freedom of the river bank in his favour, thus allowing him room to dictate proceedings at his own pace. He now realises that the luxury of sure-footing is about to be removed from the equation in approximately twelve-yards as the riverbank he is currently relying on comes to an end; only to be replaced by a steeper promontory which, so far as Wheatsheaf can ascertain, will act as an insurmountable obstacle between himself and Arnold Matson. The impossibility of the situation plants an awful, inescapable seed into the mind of the holy man. He has literally run out of road, so to speak, and arrived at a dead end.

  Time, unfolding as it does under this kind of dilemma and surging adrenalin, takes on the magnitude of an eternity, but the fact of the matter is it is only ten-minutes since Wheatsheaf hooked the monster he is determined to land and he now has to take stock of his options if he is to succeed with the challenge. He knows the simplest solution would be for him to return via the way he came and in so doing he would simply eliminate the obstacle that lies before him, fo
r he knows he cannot overcome the gradient of the promontory.

  However, it is here we arrive at the real crux of the matter…

  Whatever is hooked and is currently doing all it can to escape from the determination of the reverend, and by all accounts we are considering a battle with a fish which conservatively weighs-in at around twenty pounds is presently being ‘played’ downstream. That is to say, Wheatsheaf is working the pike as it goes with the flow way over to his right-hand side. Should the reverend now decide to go back whence the way he came, he would not only find himself playing the fish upstream, he would also be pitting himself against the strength of nature as the river’s current would literally be turned against him and thus stop doing him any favours whatsoever. In simple terms, he would be seriously up against it and the odds of him landing his dream fish would all but disappear. The man is no fool and he knows only too well that a twenty-pound weight is an altogether different proposition when you are, in every respect, pulling against the tide, and that is exactly what he would be doing if he retraced his steps now.

  Unbeknown to Wheatsheaf, the arrival of the one-man cavalry, in the shape of Arnold Matson, had discovered that the same problem of access also applies on the top footpath and he had been forced to double-back on himself. It was something of a relief to both men when the ruddy face and mud-splattered shape of Arnold appeared once more at the top of the grassy ravine. His vantage point was good enough to allow the pair to communicate but any assistance so far as the landing net was concerned was out of the question. Matson’s plight was helpless when it came to negotiating the bank which lay beneath him. The tension of the rod’s line emitted an eerie, high-pitched whining sound in the cold stillness, and while the thin, ghostly resonance is familiar to any angler who has hooked into a decent fish, it was not a sound which sits easily with Arnold Matson; it seemed to exaggerate an air of surreal uneasiness to what was already an uncomfortable situation. Indeed, the sound seemed to represent an invisible thread between himself and the lonely fisherman below. Matson had never felt more helpless in his life.

  He was so physically disconnected from the scene he was witnessing that it was as though the whole scenario was unfolding on a giant cinema screen, and no matter what he thought or imagined as he stood powerlessly in the freezing cold, could affect the outcome of this absurd situation. He was watching a stubborn vicar trying to land a stupid fish in the middle of winter in the middle of nowhere. And slowly it began to dawn on Arnold Matson that this was a crazy, pointless exercise which he no longer wanted any part of. Look around you, he told himself…down below is a sixty-three-year-old clergyman who is risking his life against the elements, and his sheer pig-headedness is taking him further into the mire.

  The calmness of Matson’s announcement and suggestion came as a surprise as it left his lips. ‘Look, Colin,’ he said, and he knew immediately there wasn’t nearly enough projection in his voice for it to have any impact. He tried again.

  ‘Colin!’ He made sure this time and the vicar responded as he half turned his head over his left shoulder. ‘What is it?’ he called, still concentrating on the job in hand. Matson considered for a moment before delivering…‘Look…why don’t you just leave it, eh?’

  ‘What?’ resonated back up the ravine.

  ‘Why don’t you just leave it…just cut the line for God sake…let it go.’ Arnold Matson may as well have been talking to himself and the silence from the riverbank below him told him as much. He could see Wheatsheaf producing the stainless steel gauze glove from the small bag of equipment which hung by his waist and he immediately knew that the vicar had decided to land the fish himself by edging it to the bank before grabbing it by its gill cover.

  Wheatsheaf had talked Matson through the procedure back at the camper van and he had no reason to doubt that the old man knew what he was doing.

  ‘She’s tiring, Arnold, she’s tiring,’ came the respectful victory cry from the reverend, as the magnificent specimen came to the surface and was expertly guided towards the shore, like some exhausted, finned torpedo.

  For the pike, the struggle was finally over and Wheatsheaf crouched on his haunches before expertly sliding his left-hand into the edge of the water and lifting the fish onto the bank with his protected hand.

  He removed the lure which contained the hooks from the side of the pike’s gaping mouth and slowly rose from the ground with the trophy of a lifetime cradled lovingly in his arms. The glowing pride of the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf’s face and the defeated giant across his chest presented the perfect photo opportunity and Arnold Matson delved desperately amongst his layers of clothing to find the camera he was searching for before Wheatsheaf returned the pike to its natural home.

  As the camera emerged from Matson’s fleece jacket pocket, elation and excitement were instantly replaced by disbelief and horror. The powerful fish suddenly jerked once in Wheatsheaf’s arms and as the clergyman tried desperately to cling to his pride and joy, he lost his footing in the struggle.

  From the top of the ridge, Arnold Matson was now finally prepared to photograph a special memento. His heart almost stopped as he looked below him once more only to see the struggling, screaming shape of his friend as he was being swept away by a relentless and fearsome current.