Almost Eden Page 5
Easing upright in the dark interior, I noticed the thick wood beams across the ceiling, this being a single story cottage, three rooms. There was a bedroom at the far end, full of junk around the bed – my tenant was not one for throwing things away, a middle room that offered two comfortable chairs that had seen better days - a coffee table covered in old magazines, and a kitchen with a central wooden table. I didn’t ask where the bathroom was, or the toilet, I dreaded the answer.
Robby retrieved a fishing rod and a bag, the bag soon slung over his shoulder as he pointed me back out the door. At the edge of the ravine, we stopped and peered down at the brisk stream.
Robby pointed at a roughly fashioned, and very dated block of concrete. ‘Underground tank is in there. But it ain’t been opened in all the time I’s been yer.’
I pointed upstream. ‘That’s almost a natural dam, and that ravine would hold a hell of a lot of water.’
‘Have to be a strong dam,’ my guide cautioned. ‘In winter tis like Niagara Falls. All the water from the fields up the land here comes down, brown like mud.’
‘Still, it has potential,’ I insisted.
He keenly led me down to his mud box, the surface layer now exposed by the tide – which was coming in rapidly – and that surface layer had dried and cracked. With his bare hands, he dug down and lifted a large scoop, turning it over, three long worms selected and bagged. ‘Cut ‘em to an inch, at’s all.’
With the wading birds squawking at each other, or maybe at us for having intruding on their turf, we ambled along the coastal path in brilliant sunshine. On the sand, Robby placed down his bag and took charge of the rod, soon fixing a reel that had seen better days. He pulled line from the reel, the reel’s mechanism clicking rhythmically, and he expertly threaded the eyes of the rod. Was a time when I did that for my son, Ben, and it may have well been right here on this beach.
With a suitable amount of line dangling, Robby threaded a hook that was about an inch long, and he did it with practised ease. Using his teeth, he bit away the excess line left by his knot. Lifting a lead weight, he looped the line about two feet above the hook, placed the loop through the weight’s eye and around the body of the weight, pulling the line taut. And we were set.
My tenant handed me the rod, wished me luck, and returned to his carpentry at the front of the house. I cut up a worm to the prescribed lengths and threaded a section onto the hook, making sure to cover the whole of the hook’s metal.
Getting too warm, I eased off several layers of clothing, the day now hot, and I walked down as far as I dare go in shoes, to the edge of the mud. I found a convenient flat rock and claimed it, soon casting out as the mud rapidly disappeared beneath the incoming waves. The lead weight plopped into the blue-grey water, and I waited for it to sink, soon taking the tension and reeling in a little.
With the sun on my face, and with the gentle roar of waves breaking now setting the scene, I smiled contentedly. London was suddenly a long way off, thoughts of Wendy were not surfacing. And this … this I should have done long ago, a little ‘me’ time away from London, and away from the apartment.
Across the estuary, the green Land Rover I had glimpsed earlier was slowly driving across a field, sheep moving away from it, and the sound of distant farm equipment wafted by on a cooling sea breeze. In the estuary, one small boat was now moored alongside another, a man stepping across. With the tide coming in, I guessed that the owner was taking out his weekend hobby-boat for a spin, and maybe he too was in for some pleasant fishing.
To the sounds of Robby hammering or cutting wood, birds shrieking at each other, time slowly ticked by, but now I was happy with that slow chronometer. In the apartment, time moved too slowly, but here … here I would have been happy for this moment to last a week.
Thirty minutes passed, without a bite, and I was about to get wet. Retreat was called for, and I walked backwards up to the sand, soon at the usual tide mark. Deciding that my juicy worm might have been pinched by a hungry grab, I reeled in slowly. The lead weight broke the surface first, and I was startled to find a modest flatfish on the hook. I hadn’t felt it pull at all.
‘Robby!’ I called over my shoulder.
He ambled down, rubbing his brow with a sleeve as he approached.
‘I didn’t even feel it,’ I told him.
‘Won’t with a little flatfish like that.’
‘Is it worth keeping and cooking?’
‘Aye, don’t waste it. I’ll have it later.’ He eased it off the hook and walked off with it, the fish destined for the pot, maybe with wild potatoes from the woods and some local seasoning.
I threaded another worm, checked the reel, and made a bold cast, reaching out a good fifty yards. Taking the tension, I heard Robby approach.
He placed down a collapsible seat. ‘If you’s gunna be there a while, have a seat like.’
‘Thanks. Tell me, what’s the season – you know – for fish here?’
That grubby hand again rubbed his chin. ‘Late now for Cod and the like, that’s winter and early spring. Summer fish? Well, flatfish, eels -’
‘Eels?’
‘Yeah, some big old eels round ‘ere, good eating.’
‘Eels? Good eating?’
‘Aye, taste like chicken, and easy to catch. I used to grow ‘em.’
‘Grow … eels?’
‘Would catch ‘em and put ‘em in a pond, throw ‘em left overs. They’s eat anything, and they breed like rabbits.’
‘Well, if I snare an eel I shall have to try it.’
‘All sorts comes up the estuary, looking for worms in the mud. Trout and Salmon in spring, bass, lots oh mullet, all sorts; never know what you’ll pull in.’ He pointed. ‘Deep water’s just half a mile, and they all come up to the mud to feed.’
‘So, to impress the tree huggers, fishing should be something we emphasise,’ I let float.
‘Oh aye, plenty of fish to catch all year.’
I pointed at a natural outcrop of rock in front the house, jutting out into the mud. ‘Could that be extended into the mud, some concrete to make a fishing platform?’
He made a face as he considered it, squinting in the bright sunshine. ‘Easy enough.’
‘And then … then people wait the right tide, throw out – what – ten or more lines, and reel them in when the tide turns. Save wasting time.’
He nodded as he considered it. ‘Aye, save going down the mud. I fixes a line to a good bit of wood, hammers the pole into the mud, throws the line out a bit – and after tide I goes back down to see what’s on the line.’
‘Would we need planning permission for something like that?’ I thought out loud as I held the rod.
‘Tis not harming anyone, and tis your land.’
‘And I could always say that it was there before I came.’
‘That you could.’
Half an hour later, and after Robby had brought me a glass of cold water from the house, I reeled in slowly, but now I did feel something. Excited like a kid at Christmas, I quickened the pace, soon seeing something break the surface and splash.
‘Hooked a monster!’ echoed out from Robby at the house.
‘One for the table!’ I shouted back.
Landing the fish, a good ten or twelve pounds in weight, I managed to get it covered in sand till it looked as if it had already been battered in bread crumbs. I carried the heavy catch up to the house. ‘Cod, I think.’
‘Aye, late Cod. Most gone by now, too warm for ‘em.’ He pointed at it. ‘Good eating, and a pretty penny.’
‘Pretty penny?’ I puzzled. ‘You mean, expensive to buy locally?’
‘If I took th
at to the pub, they’d give me three … maybe four quid for it.’
‘They’d buy it?’
‘Oh aye, fish like that in the market is ten or fifteen quid fresh.’
‘So … if there was a commune here they could catch fish and sell them, make a little extra,’ I realised.
‘They’s eat most of the good fish, sell the rest. Protein, see.’
‘Protein?’
‘Good for you, and round the point they says that – you know – vegetables an all is OK, but you need protein sometime in the week.’
‘A balanced diet, yes,’ I agreed. ‘A life of just vegetables would be … probably horrible.’ I handed him the fish. ‘I gift for you, since it was caught with your tackle – and your worm.’
He accepted the fish as if I had handed him a hundred pounds bonus. ‘Right good of you.’
It was amazing to think that this man, living simply in a very basic cottage, was greatly pleased by the simple gift of a fish. This beach was about as far away from London as I could get, and about as far away from the rat race I could get, and it set me thinking. Being here, and fishing at the water’s edge, had given me more pleasure than anything else in the past three years. And it had cost … nothing.
As I returned to the water’s edge, a new worm threaded, I considered London – and the Over Forty’s Singles Night. I knew which I preferred, and I cast out, feeling as if I had caught the sun on my head. I might need a hat, or some sun cream.
I didn’t catch anything that next hour, but it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all – not one damn bit. I stared at the water’s sparkling surface, listened to the gentle roar of small waves churning sand and shingle, and I was cooled and caressed by the gentle sea breeze.
But again I missed the man on the ridge observing me.
With the fatigue of having driven five hours to get here now catching up with me, I reeled in, only to find the bait gone. Some crab had gotten itself a free lunch. I handed Robby the rod, he was still sawing wood lengths, and I thanked him, explaining that I was tired from the drive down. We agreed to meet at 10am the next morning, Saturday, I and drove off contented, certain I had mild sun burn.
At the bed and breakfast my kind landlady found me some sun cream after noticing my pink scalp, a distinct line having formed where my sunglasses had been. With cream applied, I lay down on a dated four-posted bed, wood pigeons cooing to me through an open window, and I fell asleep with a contented smirk on my face.
I woke at 7pm, in need of a drink, possibly dehydrated. The landlady fetched me an aspirin for the sun burn, and after a shower I headed out to see what delights Salcombe offered the visitors these days. In pleasant twilight, a magnificent purple herringbone sky presenting itself, I wandered around the few shops and bars that Salcombe offered to passing tourists.
From one end of the main drag to the other took little over six minutes, and I settled at a café that specialised in fish. Finding Cod on the menu, I ordered Cod and chips with a cup of tea, my table surrounded by visitors, not locals, kids with faces as pink as my bald head. Well, this was the first proper hot day of summer after a wet winter.
The Cod was tasty, but as I ate my meal I noticed the TV in the corner, rioting taking place somewhere. When the news turned to images of a bank in Spain I got the gist of it; the bank had closed down, and both its customers and investors were not happy bunnies. Bodies had been brought out of the bank covered in sheets, so I guessed that some of its customers were definitely not happy at having lost their money.
A chill went through me. What if my own bank collapsed? My divorce settlement was all in cash, and sat in Barclays Bank. Barclays, I considered, was relatively safe, since they had not needed a bailout from the UK government. But still, I was covered only for the first thirty-five thousand pounds of loss, as everyone was. Losing all that money would have been the end of me.
Trying to keep the images of doom and gloom out of my mind, I strolled around the sea front in the dark, but today’s drive – and my exposure to the sun – was still making me feel tired, and I returned to the bed and breakfast. I watched a little TV, trying to avoid the news, and got to bed early.
I had deliberately left the curtains open after turning the lights out, and the sun woke me at 6am. Breakfast at this establishment was listed as starting at 7am, so I showered, making myself a tea from the in-room kettle as I whiled away the time.
Catching some of the morning news about Spain, it seemed that twenty-two members of the bank’s staff had been killed, dozens wounded. Well, how do you tell someone they’ve lost their life savings? The news then reported that Morton’s, a British Building Society, was in deep trouble. Since they had already received a bailout, I guessed that they were in deep deep trouble.
My breakfast was very tasty, but the taste had been spoilt by the banking news. I was worried. I was confident that Barclays would not fold, but still – just the idea of a banking crisis terrified me. I decided to take action. There was a Barclays in Kingsbridge, and I popped in at 9am, asking how much cash I could draw. When asked why I was drawing the cash, I explained the building works – and local labourers.
They could let me have fifteen thousand right now, it was a small rural branch after all, but more could be ordered. After checking my ID carefully they handed me the fifteen thousand in neat banded blocks, and I headed around the corner to the solicitors, certain that they would be closed today. But I found the door open, and climbed the stairs.
Young Mark Pugh was surprised. ‘Mister Bannister?’
‘Glad I caught you, just came on the off chance, sorry to trouble you. I was wondering if you had a safe?’
‘Yes, of course. What did you wish to deposit?’
‘Money, towards building work – local labourers. Fifteen thousand.’
‘All I can offer is that we receive a sealed envelope and hand it back, we can’t count the money or guarantee it unless it’s paid into the client account on Monday.’
‘That’s fine, I want to keep the cash.’
He handed me a large brown envelope, and I placed the bank’s own envelope inside, taping up the large brown envelope after having signed it in several places. He placed it in the safe, and I offered him twenty pounds for his time. Oddly enough, he took the money and pocketed it, an unusual move for a solicitor.
Driving down to the estate, I now had fifteen thousand pounds tucked away locally, and I felt a little better about things. If the Western banking system collapsed I could come down here and live – with my fifteen grand. Cod and potatoes came to mind, and raw mint leaves! I’d have to make do with raw raspberry and blackberries for afters, but no ice cream.
I noticed Robby working away as I pulled up, and we soon had the kettle on, talk of rotten wooden beams, and of replacing them one at a time - lest the damn ceilings fall in. I offered to help, but he explained that he had someone from the commune around the headland coming over on Monday - one of those there communists. I tried not to smile. He had met them down the pub last night, and he had also boiled the cod - eating part of it for his supper.
He then explained, in great detail unfortunately, how on the walk back from the pub he had found a freshly road-killed rabbit, still warm. He had gutted it, prepared the meat and salted it, and it was to be keenly added to the menu today, for his supper.
Still thinking about eating fresh road-kill, I prepared the fishing tackle, and I managed an hour’s enjoyable fishing before the tide turned, another flatfish caught, and now destined to join the unlucky rabbit in Robby’s pot.
With the estuary displaying fresh damp mud, the wading birds keenly sifting for something to eat, I went room to room in the old house, having a good look. What struck me … was that with much of the junk removed these rooms were of a fair size. Each offered a large dresser or a free-standing wardrobe, or both, and the beds were all large in themselves. Using a bit of chalk, I marked each bit of furniture that I wanted removed, and finally informed Robby as he laboured away
outside.
After some rubbing of the chin, he would have those communists drive around with their van; he’d get a couple of quid for the old furniture, the people at the commune never wasting a thing. Even if they could not make use of the items - for the furniture’s original intended purpose, the furniture would be smashed up and utilised for fire wood.
‘Happen there might be summit worth buying over farm that closed,’ Robby then informed me.
‘Farm … that closed?’ I repeated.
‘Bank closed it.’
‘Ah, the farm went bankrupt. Garage sale on, is there?’
Robby nodded a confirmation. ‘Might be spades, pickaxe, some fencing, chicken coops -’
I held up a hand. ‘We’ll go, for definite. When is it?’
‘Today and ‘morrow. Ten mile is all.’
After another cup of tea we set out for the farm in question, finding a field full of equipment, signs on the equipment, a few farmer types in Wellington boots milling around and pulling faces at the items on display. Robby led me on, and we grabbed a wad of small white cards from a trestle table. At a chicken coop, I wrote my name and telephone number, fixing the card into the wire mesh. That process was repeated for several reels of fencing, a few spades, and some sawn timber lengths.
I approached the man organising the sale. ‘You the farmer here?’
He rudely looked me over. ‘You trying to be funny?’
Robby drew level, the rude man changing his attitude slightly.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not trying to be funny, just tagged a few things. When can they be delivered?’
‘You’re not local.’
‘No, London, but I have a place down here.’
‘Second homer. Pah,’ he spat out. ‘You can have it tomorrow.’
I felt like telling him to stick it up his backside, but resisted.
‘Thanks,’ I testily got out. ‘Would you … like the money now?’
He did, and he added up the items, pricing them as two hundred and fifty pounds. Robby insisted on two hundred, and the deal was struck. I handed the rude bastard the money, and gave the address of the estate.