The Complete Angler

The fishing season was about to start again and the Belshaw family found it the main topic of conversation at breakfast.

“I suppose that means we’ll be fending for ourselves again at the weekend,” joked daughter Sarah.

“No more lifts on Saturdays to cricket,” teased Harry, the eldest of the two boys. “And we have an important game this weekend too.”

“Don’t worry, son,” harrumphed Peter, who was really old enough to know better. “I’ll be there to cheer you on.”

Only the youngest, Davey, seemed truly happy at the prospect. “Leave Mum alone!” he defended. “She does enough for all of us the rest of the week. She’s entitled to a day off—”

“But every week?” asked Peter, his dad. “It’s most weeks from now until next March.”

“That’s right!” agreed Sarah, enjoying the light-hearted family banter. “Honestly, Mum, you can be so selfish!”

“Selfish?” said Jenny. “I’m here every day of the week cooking, cleaning, mending, washing clothes. The beds don’t make themselves and, last time I looked, we didn’t have a Hoover fairy.”

She knew they were all only teasing, but it still narked her a little that they couldn’t be more… supportive.

“Not one of you chips in to help. You leave everything to good old muggins.”

“But you are here all the time,” reasoned Harry. “You don’t have anything else to do.” He winked at his dad. “And fishing’s meant to be a man’s game anyway.”

“Yes,” said Sarah. “It’s so embarrassing having a mother who goes fishing. I have to tell my friends you’re meeting Great Aunt Dora in Timbuktu for the day—”

“And they believe that?!” asked Jenny.

“I think it’s cool,” said Davey quietly. “And I can’t wait until I can go too.”

“You’ll never get your wheelchair down the bank,” laughed Harry.

“Harry!” admonished both of his parents at the exact same time.

“I was only kidding,” grinned Harry, ruffling his brother’s hair, who didn’t seem that bothered as he tucked into toast and Marmite.

“The kids might have a point, Jen,” said Peter Belshaw finally. “I mean, can we really afford it this year?”

“Number one,” replied Jenny, ticking the item off on her index finger. “It’s the only thing I do for myself. The ONLY thing. And number two,” she said, ticking her middle finger, “It costs twenty-five pounds. If that. I think you’ll find that most other wives are considerably more high maintenance than that.”

“But we’re saving up to take Davey to America for his operation—”

Hmm, maybe her husband had a point. But it was only one day a week. “Perhaps you’d prefer it if I went to the hairdresser every week instead of washing it myself. Perhaps you’d prefer it if I needed the latest fashions to wear at the school gate. Perhaps you’d prefer it if I liked a bottle of wine every night. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t dye my hair, I don’t require a Chelsea tractor in which to do the weekly shopping. I fish. And I look after you lot.”

Sarah opened her mouth to speak but was silenced by another glare from her mother.

“One more word and I’m off to live with Great Aunt Dora in Timbuktu,” said Jenny. And the family burst into a fit of giggles until she chucked a cushion at them.

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The opening of the new fishing season was greeted with a massive three-day festival and competition sponsored by one of the biggest local tackle manufacturers. First prize was a 16m pole worth more than £3,500.

Jenny sighed. She’d love a brand-new pole of her own for a change, instead of using second-hand or borrowed all of the time. But she knew she could never afford one, and she didn’t often win a match. Never mind, she’d enjoy the day sitting on the riverbank, watching the water, battling wits with fish. None of the family had ever come to encourage her, but they’d only be a distraction. Even little Davey. She preferred it that way, as did many of her angling chums.

The claxon went, marking the start of the contest, and silence descended along the banks of the river. The exhibition ground behind the anglers buzzed softly with visitors, but that was more like white noise for the men and women fishing, and quite calming, actually. Jenny caught a little roach very early on and popped him into her keep net. In a competition like this one on a river where weights weren’t generally great, every tiddler counted, and several more followed.

As the sky clouded over and fat drops of rain began to fall, news trickled along the bank that a pike was stealing fish while anglers were reeling them in. Jenny hoped that someone would catch the pike and force it into a sulk before it reached her. They weren’t allowed to keep the pike if they caught it, but pike usually lose interest anyway once they’ve been caught and go and skulk in the shallows in shock for a while.

A journalist bobbed along the bank too, homing in on the more famous anglers for a quick word and a short snap. He didn’t recognise Jenny’s name on her board but he did hesitate for a while. Jenny concentrated on the water, staring ahead, but as she reeled in another slightly bigger fish, she heard the shutter go on the journalist’s camera and smiled to herself. He’d just bagged himself a bit of a novelty. But Jenny knew he’d see other female anglers further down the bank, some of whom had even been on telly.

She was still chuckling quietly to herself when she realised she was actually doing quite well. Probably about ten pound or so, but not bad for a river, and not bad for a woman. The pike must have given her a wide berth, or kept to its own swim.

The river darkened and swelled under the purple cloudy sky and some of the fair-weather anglers started to pack up.

“How have you done?” Jenny asked one of her neighbours.

He shook his head. "Not very good,” he replied, packing away some of his gear. “I’ve not caught anywhere near as many as you have,” and Jenny bristled slightly with pride. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Jenny would have liked to come back the next day but she’d had her weekly fun. She was content.

As she reeled in her first big catch of the day another one of the early finishers paused pushing his trolley to watch her. When the small carp was safely netted he said: “You’ve caught more than me in just that one fish.”

“Really?” said Jenny. The fish only weighed about four pounds and was just one of her haul. Maybe, just maybe… but she didn’t allow herself to go there. Not yet.

- - - - - - - - - -

The finishing claxon sounded and three teams of lads with scales made their way along the riverbank. They weighed Jenny’s catch – fourteen pounds. That was a good weight, she realised, especially when it won her the section and then the women’s match of the day. But when it beat the men’s results too, she was delighted and whooped accordingly. AND she’d won that brand-new pole.

“Whoop!” she repeated.

At the award ceremony all of the runners-up in all categories accepted tackle and cheques for their prizes. But when it came to Jenny’s turn, she was asked if she wanted the pole or the cash equivalent. What a quandary. However, it didn’t take her long to make up her mind. There was no contest.

“I’ll take the cash, please,” she said, only a little disappointed at not getting the pole. Three thousand five hundred pounds would go a long way to paying for Davey’s trip to America, and she told the journalist so too.

- - - - - - - - - -

Back home Peter Belshaw was overjoyed. “See,” he said. “I told you all we should let your mum enjoy her little hobby,” he grinned, giving his wife a hug. She hadn’t told them how she’d opted for a cash prize instead of a pole.

Sarah chucked a cushion at him but Harry tackled him to the floor while Davey giggled his head off.

“And we’re going back to the festival with her tomorrow too,” announced their dad when he came up for air. “As a family.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The next morning the Belshaw family returned to the riverbank, sticking to the paths for the most part to accommodate Davey’s motorised wheelchair. They played hook-a-duck at one of the stalls, Harry won Sarah a giant teddy bear at the shooting range, and they ate hotdogs and pancakes.

“It’s Jenny, isn’t it?” said a voice behind them. “Jenny Belshaw?”

“Yes,” said Jenny, spinning around to see Tim Avery, owner of the tackle company who were sponsoring the three-day event.

“Congratulations on your win yesterday.”

“Thank you.”

“I would have liked to have chatted with you but you dashed off in such a hurry.”

“Yes, sorry. My family were expecting me home,” she explained, sweeping her arm to demonstrate them to him.

“That’s okay, we understand,” grinned Tim Avery. “And this must be your youngest?” he asked, indicating Davey.

“Er, yes. How did you know?”

“That journalist told me your story, after you’d dashed off.”

“Oh,” said Jenny, not really sure what else to say.

“And look,” said Tim, clearing his throat noisily. “If it’s all the same to you, we’d like to give you another prize. We’d like you to accept a fishing pole as well as the cash.”

“Oh, er, well… I couldn’t really—”

“Nonsense! Of course you can. It’s not the same one as yesterday’s. We raffled that one off in the end. But if you’d like to accept a different model? It’s not as valuable, but still worth almost two thousand pounds…”

He waited expectantly, but Jenny’s mouth opened and closed several times with nothing coming out – rather like the fish she caught. And so her husband replied on her behalf, as the penny dropped.

“She’d like to accept, thank you very much.”

“Splendid, splendid,” said Tim Avery. And they all shook hands and followed him to the tackle tent.

This short story is © Diane Wordsworth. It has been published in The People's Friend, Twee Tales Too, and as a standalone short story.

You can buy all of my books at www.books2read.com/DianeWordsworth

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