Colin O’Sullivan is an Irish writer living and working in Japan. His stories
have been or to be published in Staple New Writing (England), Crystal, Southword
(Ireland), Carve Magazine (USA), The Taj Mahal Review, Gator Springs Gazette and Red
Fez. He has written several radio pieces for RTE radio (Ireland), some of which have been published
in A Living Word, an anthology of prose featuring Irish writers. Colin lives in Hirosaki, with
his wife Yuki.
|
Ed and Craig grew up
in nearby Clarkstown; Craig the first to pick up a rod. His dad showed him how to cast
when he was about eight, how to tie flies too, and pointed out the best spot on the river.
Thirty years later he was still at it; same spot, same techniques. Ed, a couple of years
younger, hadn’t been all that interested in sitting by a river for hours on boring end
until Craig drew him into it in a school lunchtime conversation. It was about patience,
waiting, it would teach you all about life and how the best things would come if you waited,
gave them a chance. Precocious and learned from Dad the sentiments definitely were,
an ideal sell it wasn’t, hardly the stuff of white-water rafting, or paragliding, but he
talked with such conviction, well, Ed said then that he’d give it a go. He tagged along
one Saturday afternoon and was soon imitating the cast; flicking the line up into the air
and watching the fly spin and drop, sinking below the surface. He was hooked himself,
and frequently thanked Craig for the early tuition. The boys became close friends and
became men. They became husbands too, to Sandra and Jo, and became loving fathers. And
now that they had made it into their fifties they thought themselves to be expert fishermen,
though perhaps only at one spot on the riverbank; a spot where the trees bowed protectively
over them, giving them shelter in the rains of winter, and shade in summer. A spot where
the bank sloped gently down, having them gaze into the gush and flow. And that bank not
only made them fishermen, stalkers of the ripple, gurgle and foam, but sentinels too,
guarding their game, presiding over their territory. Like Ed often said,
you can’t play every position on the field, you can’t be goalkeeper and center-forward;
you find where you are best, and you stay there.
It was a summer Saturday and they drove in Ed’s van.
They both lived close to the river, but had recently started to drive there. As they
aged, both complained about creaking joints and how they got tired more quickly, and
having accumulated so much extra gear over the years, it seemed easier to take Ed’s
little van. Ed had his own painting and decorating service, and for all the aches and
pains of middle age he never minded clearing out the paints, brushes and stepladders to
load it up with the Saturday fishing gear. They had their usual flasks of tea that Jo
and Sandra had prepared, their lunchboxes and snacks, their bait and equipment. There
was nothing unusual about this day as they set out, and that was just the way they
liked it.
“You know Sandra’s been a bit weird lately,” said Ed.
The conversation had started like this on many occasions.
One of them always complained about how the spouse at home was acting “weird”.
“Yeah? But like you said before, about women’s stuff.
Jo is going through the same thing you know,” said Craig.
“I suppose with the age they are at and everything.
It’s just that it’s hard for me to do anything, I never know how to comfort her or
nuthin’.”
“I’m not sure it’s comfort they need. Maybe it’s a bit
of understanding. And I’m not sure we’re the best ones for that. Or if any man is.”
Jo and Sandra were almost the same age as their husbands
and their bodies changing in a way the men could comprehend, yet not fully empathize.
The women would meet on Saturdays when the men fished. They’d go shopping or eating
out someplace nice and always come home late in the evening, exhausted but happy.
They’d have a few drinks too, in some bar that Ed and Craig didn’t know. But the
wives were happy, and both husbands were sure of this. Women needed to have their
fun, no matter how much they aged. The men knew this much. They did find some of
these “delicate” topics rather hard to chat about however; they were far more eloquent
on other things. They did try to discuss things, sitting by the river, attempting
to come to grips with life’s peculiarities, but it never quite worked out; the
conversations inevitably stumbled over invisible obstacles and usually fell:
“I think I should try to be more, you know with her.
Take her out and stuff. Go somewhere nice. Have you ever been to an opera?”
“Opera?” said Ed.
“You know, an opera. Theatre and stuff. Sometimes
they need artistic things maybe, make them feel special. Stimulation.”
“Who?”
“Well, I was thinking maybe I…ah it doesn’t matter.
Does she talk to you as much as she used to?”
“Talk. What’s there to talk about?”
These conversations were like autumn flowers on
a heavy bush, heading towards winter, growing weary, bending, and finally dropping
off the stalks altogether.
| "It wasn’t a bit like summer. November more
like! Yet they remained patient, as was their habit. This was what it was all about.
Ed often quoted a line from a prayer that he had learned at school: “Patience attains
all it strives for, he who has God finds he lacks nothing.” Ed wasn’t sure about God,
but he knew a thing or two about patience. " |
It was easier to watch the river flow and not ask awkward questions; especially
about the way both their women had been acting, the moodiness, the clandestine
meetings to see each other about whatever business. Years before the men had
joked and laughed about their sex lives, discussing bedroom secrets that Jo and
Sandra would surely have frowned upon had they known.
They began to unload their gear out of the van,
taking out the rods first, handling carefully. They took out the little cushioned
seats, their baskets of lines, hooks, bubbles and flies; they had all the Saturday
gear and were in Saturday frame of mind. Hours would pass as gently as they
usually did, silently, easily, and both would chat when they felt like it, whistle,
hum or just gaze at the flow. The weather was a little bleak for summer, hefty
dark clouds hung high, a little to the west, and the sky had swapped its expected
blue for a mushroom gray. It didn’t bother the fishermen though. They had fished
through all kinds of weather and their location was pretty well sheltered anyway.
The weather could do what it liked. As they made their way towards their spot
Ed was worried that the day would be different, somehow.
“How do you mean different?”
“I don’t know. Those clouds look a funny colour.
Don’t look at all right to me.”
His words soon proved to be prophetic, for as
they made their way to their spot they noticed the yellow police tape tied to
the trees blocking their entrance, and the message on it clearly inscribed,
isolation. They had only ever seen that kind of yellow tape on TV.
Not much ever happened in Clarkstown to warrant its use. A uniformed policeman
appeared before them, and both faces displayed an obvious mix of bewilderment
and intrigue.
“Excuse us officer, but is something the matter?
We fish here every, most, weekends, and ah, well we are about to do the same now.
Is something up?”
“I’m afraid no fishing right here today, gentlemen.
There was an incident here last night. Young girls body found at the edge of
the river.”
“Oh, dear. What happened?” asked Craig.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say at the moment.
You’ll just have to find somewhere else for your fun today. But I’m sure the
river is long enough. You’ll find another part. Sorry.”
The two fishermen were at a loss. They hadn’t
fished any other part of the river for as long as they could remember. They
were used to their own spot.
“You wanna go home?” said Craig.
“We could. Or, how about we take a walk upstream.
Just a bit. See if we like the look of any other spot. This sure is a damn
nuisance.”
They walked alongside the river. The dark cloud
above them was getting thicker and the air seemed to grow colder with it. Ed
pulled his collar up around his neck and shivered. Summer sure was full of surprises.
The wind was rising a bit already that afternoon and the men worried about casting
their lines. They talked as they walked, about work mostly, and the stuff they
saw on the TV recently. Ed had seen a murder program on the TV, a true crime
reconstruction where a young girl had been raped and murdered in a village and
the body left by a river. The killer had tried to put it in the water but the
police thought that the body must have got tangled in some bushes, or the killer
had been alarmed by something and ran. Didn’t finish the job. The body was
easily found, a man out walking his dog, apparently. That’s as Ed remembered it.
But that was a few weeks ago and he couldn’t be sure of the details, his wife
had been complaining about something during most of it and he wasn’t able to
concentrate fully.
Craig talked about changing his car. The
old one was giving him a bit of bother, it jumped a bit when he tried to
start it in the mornings, whatever was wrong with it. But he said he probably
wouldn’t change it just yet. He was used to it. Maybe it would sort itself
out.
“This place looks all right. It’s not that
different from our usual spot,” said Ed.
“It’ll have to do for today, if they are
protecting the other area, this place will just have to do,” said Craig.
They set up as usual, the same routines,
though this was a whole new location, so far upstream.
“Hope this is good as our spot.”
“I doubt it,” said Ed, “but you never know.
Bert in the angling shop says he often goes upstream. And he should know
a thing or two.”
“I’m not sure about him,” said Craig. “Not
sure if he’s the full whack if you know what I mean?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he always gets us mixed up for a start.
Anytime I drop in for something he calls me “Ed”. Does he ever call you
“Craig”?
“Dunno. Haven’t noticed.”
“It’s like he can’t tell us apart. As if we’re
twins or something. Or he thinks we’re the same person!”
“Weird,” said Ed.
The first hour or two passed without any incident.
The only thing to bite was the wind that picked up and snatched at their cheeks
with cold spatters of rain. It wasn’t a bit like summer. November more like!
Yet they remained patient, as was their habit. This was what it was all about.
Ed often quoted a line from a prayer that he had learned at school: “Patience
attains all it strives for, he who has God finds he lacks nothing.” Ed wasn’t
sure about God, but he knew a thing or two about patience. He put up with Sandra
for a start, and her coming home later and later on Saturday evenings smelling of
gin saying what a great day she had had. He had put up with the kids, bickering
all the way through their teens. And he put up with the fishing, waiting, waiting
for something to happen. Sometimes a whole afternoon would pass and nothing at all.
It didn’t seem worth it, he would think sometimes. But perseverance paid off.
Craig wasn’t too happy about being away from his
usual position, they certainly had more shelter where they usually were, but there
was nothing they could do about it. They were lucky to be allowed fish at all.
The police could have cordoned off the whole area. Things were out of their hands
today. Like the game of angling itself. You could only ever do so much. You tie
an attractive fly, you cast it where you think it should go, but after that, it’s
out of your hands. You can’t make them bite. Fish made their own decisions.
Craig laughed to himself. Fish making decisions! How absurd. How could something
as simple as a fish, hardly a brain at all, make decisions? All they knew was how
to eat and swim. Basic routine stuff. Surely thought didn’t enter into it.
It was after a lot of this, waiting and thinking
independently, with the rain spattering out of the grey sky that they began to
hear a rustle in the bushes.
“Did you hear that?”
“Yeah, what was it?”
“Dunno. Some guy out for a walk, I’d imagine. I
don’t think there’ll be too many of us out today.”
It was then that a young girl appeared from behind
a bush. Out of nowhere it seemed. And caught them completely off guard.
“Sorry, did I disturb you?”
No, no. It’s just that we’re not used to seeing people
around here. It’s usually just the two of us. Fishing.”
“Oh.”
“I’m Ed. And this is Craig.”
The girl seemed distracted. She didn’t offer her name
and her odd demeanour, twitching back and forth as if checking to see if someone was
behind her, made the men feel uneasy. She carried what seemed like the stem of a rose
in her hand, the head broken off, only thorns on a green stalk left, biting into her.
“Are you ok?” said Craig.
“Yes.”
“But you look wet, and cold. Did you get caught out
in the rain somewhere, or did you fall in the river?”
| "Ed laughed his little joke to himself. He didn’t
want to succumb to the confusion. Neither did Craig, who was thinking about the day and what
an odd one it had been. Cold for summer, a new place to fish that yielded only one prize for
the day, and that strange young girl who spoke so weird. Still, he had settled his debt."
|
Craig laughed at the end of his remark, intending a joke,
but no fun registered on the young girl’s face.
“Are you with someone?” said Ed.
“I was.”
“And where is that person now?”
“Ran away, I suppose.”
Ed went to one of his baskets and pulled out a short blanket,
one of the ones he’d sometimes drape across his lap when there was a chill in the air.
“I think you’d better put this around you for a while you’ll
catch your death of cold. He made her sit on his seat too, as Craig reached for a flask of tea.
“You two are real gentlemen. Thank you. Are you brothers?”
“No,” said Craig, giggling at the idea. “We’re not. Just best friends.”
“Just?”
The men laughed. Though the girl did not. They were not sure if
she was warming to the situation and their attempts at friendliness. She seemed so, out of it.
“Are you feeling a bit warmer?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
A few moments of silence passed. Both men looked at each other,
their frowns loaded with questions. Ed shrugged his shoulders to let his friend know that he
too was stumped.
“You are married,” she said. It seemed more a statement than a question.
“Yes, both of us are married. My wife’s name is Jo and his is Sandra.”
“Oh. Those are pretty names. Do you have pictures of them?”
Ed took out a picture of his wife from his wallet. A tall, blond, attractive
woman. Stern features. Woman of the world.
“And yours. She doesn’t look like her. Your wife looks different.”
“Yes, you’re right there. My wife has dark hair and isn’t as tall as
Sandra there,” said Craig embarrassed to not possess a photo to show off when the moment required.
“You seem like good gentlemen. I have a boyfriend who gets angry with me.
He is older.”
“Oh dear. Well, that’s young love, always a bit tetchy, when you are
older you’ll see things more clearly I suppose. You are only a teenager. If he’s not the one you can
just leave him.”
“I see things clearly now.”
“Right.”
The girl sipped at the hot tea though no colour seemed to return to her face.
“Your women see things clearly too.”
“Yes, I suppose they do,” said Ed, not really sure what she meant.
“Just because they are changing doesn’t mean they don’t love you.”
The fishermen looked at each other and back at the girl again.
“Even women of their age must go out and have fun. Forgive them. They mean
you no harm,” said the girl.
“Of course they don’t. They are only having a few drinks and a chat about,
well, I don’t know, clothes and things,” said Ed.
The girl turned her face from them and stared at the river.
“Only recently my blood began to flow. I am younger than I look. And was
made so old. It must be the same for the older ladies, the flow coming to an end. It will never happen here.
Never stop.”
“What will never stop?” said Craig.
“This river. And you, coming here to fish. The way things are. Do you see
beyond this river? Do you see what you miss? Not just what you catch?”
“You sure are a strange young girl. The way you talk,” said Ed.
“You can be so easily won over with a few flowers,” she continued. “Especially
when you are young and vulnerable. Is it the same when you are older? Won over by a few flowers.”
Just then Ed’s line began to pull.
“We have something here Craig. Get me the net. Get ready. We could have
something big here!”
The men jumped into action. Ed played his fish. He let the line run a bit,
encouraging the fish to run with his fly, to take it home to show his wife and his million baby sprats,
until he was reeled back in again and the horrible truth made known to him. He was caught. Hooked. Soon
to be gutted. Craig held the handle with a firm grip as Ed lifted the wriggling fish into the net. The
creature spun and gasped silently, but there was nothing he could do. It was all over. Their wait had
paid off. They had something to show for their endeavours. It hadn’t been a waste of time. There was
always a satisfaction of bringing something home. When the men looked around to show their prize the
girl was gone. The blanket sat on the little cushioned seat and the flask of tea placed neatly by its
side. Ed, puzzled, went to where she had sat and lifted up the flask. It was full. Steam came out
the top when he unscrewed the lid.
“This hasn’t been touched.”
Before going home Craig said he wanted to pop into the angling store and
pay off some of the money he owed. Old Bert took things on credit though Craig wasn’t sure if he remembered
who was paying him half the time. Ed waited in his van while Craig went to settle his accounts.
“Dreadful to hear about the murder last night,” said Bert.
“Yes, it was. Are they sure it was murder?”
“Well, they are investigating, but it definitely looks suspicious. Anyway
Ed what can I do for you?”
Craig sighed. Would he bother to explain that Ed was the one sitting out
in the van and that his name was Craig? Was it worth the effort?
“Here’s the money I owe you. And I’ll take an extra spool of line too.
You are going to write it down now, that I’ve paid?”
Bert went for his notebook and made the necessary notes of their transaction.
Craig watched him until he was satisfied. With everything that had gone on that day, he wanted to be sure
of something.
The men drove silently home. They were a little earlier than usual. They
had simply given up for the day. Ed was pleased that they had caught something, and in a completely
different place too! Sure it was the same river, and maybe if they were in their usual spot they would
even have caught the same fish. Maybe. You’d never know something like that. You’d just never know.
Strange things happen. That’s for sure. Like the girl who showed up all wet and then disappeared so
quickly again. She was a funny fish. Ed laughed his little joke to himself. He didn’t want to succumb
to the confusion. Neither did Craig, who was thinking about the day and what an odd one it had been.
Cold for summer, a new place to fish that yielded only one prize for the day, and that strange young
girl who spoke so weird. Still, he had settled his debt.
When they reached Ed’s place they pulled into the driveway, got out, and
began to unload the van. They always did it this way. It was best to take out all the stuff immediately
so the van wouldn’t stink of fish too much, and it was best to replace all the painting gear again, have
it all ready for Monday morning. From their position they could see in the window into Ed’s house. His
wife Sandra was there. She wasn’t out shopping or drinking. She was standing by the mantelpiece, and
the mirror above it reflected her, so that the men could see that she was smiling and talking, a cordless
phone cradled in her neck, and when she caught their image outside her face changed and became more serious,
but she continued to arrange the flowers in the vase.
* * *
|
|
