No More Learning

But I haven’t many memories connected with school. When I’ve mixed with chaps from
the upper classes, as I did during the war, I’ve been struck by the fact that they never
really get over that frightful drilling they go through at public schools. Either it flattens
them out into half-wits or they spend the rest of their lives kicking against it. It wasn’t so
with boys of our class, the sons of shopkeepers and farmers. You went to the Grammar
School and you stayed there till you were sixteen, just to show that you weren’t a prole,
but school was chiefly a place that you wanted to get away from. You’d no sentiment of
loyalty, no goofy feeling about the old grey stones (and they WERE old, right enough,
the school had been founded by Cardinal Wolsey), and there was no Old Boy’s tie and
not even a school song. You had your half-holidays to yourself, because games weren’t
compulsory and as often as not you cut them. We played football in braces, and though it
was considered proper to play cricket in a belt, you wore your ordinary shirt and trousers.
The only game I really cared about was the stump cricket we used to play in the gravel
yard during the break, with a bat made out of a bit of packing case and a compo ball.

But I remember the smell of the big schoolroom, a smell of ink and dust and boots, and
the stone in the yard that had been a mounting block and was used for sharpening knives
on, and the little baker’s shop opposite where they sold a kind of Chelsea bun, twice the
size of the Chelsea buns you get nowadays, which were called Lardy Busters and cost a
halfpenny. I did all the things you do at school. I carved my name on a desk and got the
cane for it — you were always caned for it if you were caught, but it was the etiquette that
you had to carve your name. And I got inky lingers and bit my nails and made darts out
of penholders and played conkers and passed round dirty stories and learned to
masturbate and cheeked old Blowers, the English master, and bullied the life out of little
Willy Simeon, the undertaker’s son, who was half- witted and believed everything you
told him. Our favourite trick was to send him to shops to buy things that didn’t exist. All
the old gags — the ha’porth of penny stamps, the rubber hammer, the left-handed
screwdriver, the pot of striped paint — poor Willy fell for all of them. We had grand sport
one afternoon, putting him in a tub and telling him to lift himself up by the handles. He
ended up in an asylum, poor Willy. But it was in the holidays that one really lived.



There were good things to do in those days. In winter we used to borrow a couple of
ferrets — Mother would never let Joe and me keep them at home, ‘nasty smelly things’
she called them — and go round the farms and ask leave to do a bit of ratting. Sometimes
they let us, sometimes they told us to hook it and said we were more trouble than the rats.
Later in winter we’d follow the threshing machine and help kill the rats when they
threshed the stacks. One winter, 1908 it must have been, the Thames flooded and then
froze and there was skating for weeks on end, and Harry Bames broke his collar- bone on
the ice. In early spring we went after squirrels with squailers, and later on we went
birdnesting. We had a theory that birds can’t count and it’s all right if you leave one egg,
but we were cruel little beasts and sometimes we’d just knock the nest down and trample
on the eggs or chicks. There was another game we had when the toads were spawning.
We used to catch toads, ram the nozzle of a bicycle pump up their backsides, and blow
them up till they burst. That’s what boys are like, I don’t know why. In summer we used
to bike over the Burford Weir and bathe. Wally Lovegrove, Sid’s young cousin, was
drowned in 1906. He got tangled in the weeds at the bottom, and when the drag-hooks
brought his body to the surface his face was jet black.

But fishing was the real thing. We went many a time to old Brewer’s pool, and took tiny
carp and tench out of it, and once a whopping eel, and there were other cow-ponds that
had fish in them and were within walking distance on Saturday afternoons. But after we
got bicycles we started fishing in the Thames below Burford Weir. It seemed more
grown-up than fishing in cow-ponds. There were no farmers chasing you away, and there
are thumping fish in the Thames — though, so far as I know, nobody’s ever been known to
catch one.

It’s queer, the feeling I had for fishing — and still have, really. I can’t call myself a
fisherman. I’ve never in my life caught a fish two feet long, and it’s thirty years now
since I’ve had a rod in my hands. And yet when I look back the whole of my boyhood
from eight to fifteen seems to have revolved round the days when we went fishing. Every
detail has stuck clear in my memory. I can remember individual days and individual fish,
there isn’t a cow- pond or a backwater that I can’t see a picture of if I shut my eyes and
think. I could write a book on the technique of fishing. When we were kids we didn’t
have much in the way of tackle, it cost too much and most of our threepence a week
(which was the usual pocket- money in those days) went on sweets and Lardy Busters.



Very small kids generally fish with a bent pin, which is too blunt to be much use, but you
can make a pretty good hook (though of course it’s got no barb) by bending a needle in a
candle flame with a pair of pliers. The farm lads knew how to plait horsehair so that it
was almost as good as gut, and you can take a small fish on a single horsehair. Later we
got to having two-shilling fishing-rods and even reels of sorts. God, what hours I’ve spent
gazing into Wallace’s window! Even the . 410 guns and saloon pistols didn’t thrill me so
much as the fishing tackle. And the copy of Gamage’s catalogue that I picked up
somewhere, on a rubbish dump I think, and studied as though it had been the Bible! Even
now I could give you all the details about gut-substitute and gimp and Limerick hooks
and priests and disgorgers and Nottingham reels and God knows how many other
technicalities.

Then there were the kinds of bait we used to use. In our shop there were always plenty of
mealworms, which were good but not very good. Gentles were better. You had to beg
them off old Gravitt, the butcher, and the gang used to draw lots or do enamena-mina-mo
to decide who should go and ask, because Gravitt wasn’t usually too pleasant about it. He
was a big, rough-faced old devil with a voice like a mastiff, and when he barked, as he
generally did when speaking to boys, all the knives and steels on his blue apron would
give a jingle. You’d go in with an empty treacle-tin in your hand, hang round till any
customers had disappeared and then say very humbly:

‘Please, Mr Gravitt, y’got any gentles today? ’

Generally he’d roar out: ‘What! Gentles! Gentles in my shop! Ain’t seen such a thing in
years. Think I got blow-flies in my shop? ’

He had, of course. They were everywhere. He used to deal with them with a strip of
leather on the end of a stick, with which he could reach out to enonnous distances and
smack a fly into paste. Sometimes you had to go away without any gentles, but as a rule
he’d shout after you just as you were going:

“Ere! Go round the backyard an’ ‘ave a look. P’raps you might find one or two if you
looked careful. ’



You used to find them in little clusters everywhere. Gravitt’s backyard smelt like a
battlefield. Butchers didn’t have refrigerators in those days. Gentles live longer if you
keep them in sawdust.

Wasp grubs are good, though it’s hard to make them stick on the hook, unless you bake
them first. When someone found a wasps’ nest we’d go out at night and pour turpentine
down it and plug up the hole with mud. Next day the wasps would all be dead and you
could dig out the nest and take the grubs. Once something went wrong, the turps missed
the hole or something, and when we took the plug out the wasps, which had been shut up
all night, came out all together with a zoom. We weren’t very badly stung, but it was a
pity there was no one standing by with a stopwatch. Grasshoppers are about the best bait
there is, especially for chub. You stick them on the hook without any shot and just flick
them to and fro on the surface — ‘dapping’, they call it. But you can never get more than
two or three grasshoppers at a time. Greenbottle flies, which are also damned difficult to
catch, are the best bait for dace, especially on clear days. You want to put them on the
hook alive, so that they wriggle. A chub will even take a wasp, but it’s a ticklish job to
put a live wasp on the hook.

God knows how many other baits there were. Bread paste you make by squeezing water
through white bread in a rag. Then there are cheese paste and honey paste and paste with
aniseed in it. Boiled wheat isn’t bad for roach. Redworms are good for gudgeon. You find
them in very old manure heaps. And you also find another kind of worm called a
brandling, which is striped and smells like an earwig, and which is very good bait for
perch. Ordinary earthworms are good for perch. You have to put them in moss to keep
them fresh and lively. If you try to keep them in earth they die. Those brown flies you
find on cowdung are pretty good for roach. You can take a chub on a cherry, so they say,
and I’ve seen a roach taken with a currant out of a bun.

In those days, from the sixteenth of June (when the coarse-fishing season starts) till
midwinter I wasn’t often without a tin of worms or gentles in my pocket. I had some
fights with Mother about it, but in the end she gave in, fishing came off the list of
forbidden things and Father even gave me a two-shilling fishing-rod for Christmas in
1903. Joe was barely fifteen when he started going after girls, and from then on he
seldom came out fishing, which he said was a kid’s game. But there were about half a



dozen others who were as mad on fishing as I was. Christ, those fishing days! The hot
sticky afternoons in the schoolroom when I’ve sprawled across my desk, with old
Blowers’s voice grating away about predicates and subjunctives and relative clauses, and
all that’s in my mind is the backwater near Burford Weir and the green pool under the
willows with the dace gliding to and fro. And then the terrific rush on bicycles after tea,
to Chamford Hill and down to the river to get in an hour’s fishing before dark. The still
summer evening, the faint splash of the weir, the rings on the water where the fish are
rising, the midges eating you alive, the shoals of dace swarming round your hook and
never biting. And the kind of passion with which you’d watch the black backs of the fish
swarming round, hoping and praying (yes, literally praying) that one of them would
change his mind and grab your bait before it got too dark. And then it was always ‘Let’s
have five minutes more’, and then ‘Just five minutes more’, until in the end you had to
walk your bike into the town because Towler, the copper, was prowling round and you
could be ‘had up’ for riding without a light. And the times in the summer holidays when
we went out to make a day of it with boiled eggs and bread and butter and a bottle of
lemonade, and fished and bathed and then fished again and did occasionally catch
something. At night you’d come home with filthy hands so hungry that you’d eaten what
was left of your bread paste, with three or four smelly dace wrapped up in your
handkerchief. Mother always refused to cook the fish I brought home. She would never
allow that river fish were edible, except trout and salmon. ‘Nasty muddy things’, she
called them. The fish I remember best of all are the ones I didn’t catch. Especially the
monstrous fish you always used to see when you went for a walk along the towpath on
Sunday afternoons and hadn’t a rod with you. There was no fishing on Sundays, even the
Thames Conservancy Board didn’t allow it. On Sundays you had to go for what was
called a ‘nice walk’ in your thick black suit and the Eton collar that sawed your head off.
It was on a Sunday that I saw a pike a yard long asleep in shallow water by the bank and
nearly got him with a stone. And sometimes in the green pools on the edge of the reeds
you’d see a huge Thames trout go sailing past. The trout grow to vast sizes in the
Thames, but they’re practically never caught. They say that one of the real Thames
fishennen, the old bottle-nosed blokes that you see muffled up in overcoats on camp-
stools with twenty-foot roach-poles at all seasons of the year, will willingly give up a
year of his life to catching a Thames trout. I don’t blame them, I see their point entirely,
and still better I saw it then.



Of course other things were happening. I grew three inches in a year, got my long
trousers, won some prizes at school, went to Confirmation classes, told dirty stories, took
to reading, and had crazes for white mice, fretwork, and postage stamps. But it’s always
fishing that I remember. Summer days, and the flat water- meadows and the blue hills in
the distance, and the willows up the backwater and the pools underneath like a kind of
deep green glass. Summer evenings, the fish breaking the water, the nightjars hawking
round your head, the smell of nightstocks and latakia. Don’t mistake what I’m talking
about. It’s not that I’m trying to put across any of that poetry of childhood stuff. I know
that’s all baloney. Old Porteous (a friend of mine, a retired schoolmaster. I’ll tell you
about him later) is great on the poetry of childhood. Sometimes he reads me stuff about it
out of books. Wordsworth. Lucy Gray. There was a time when meadow, grove, and all
that. Needless to say he’s got no kids of his own. The truth is that kids aren’t in any way
poetic, they’re merely savage little animals, except that no animal is a quarter as selfish.
A boy isn’t interested in meadows, groves, and so forth. He never looks at a landscape,
doesn’t give a damn for flowers, and unless they affect him in some way, such as being
good to eat, he doesn’t know one plant from another. Killing things — that’s about as near
to poetry as a boy gets. And yet all the while there’s that peculiar intensity, the power of
longing for things as you can’t long when you’re grown up, and the feeling that time
stretches out and out in front of you and that whatever you’re doing you could go on for
ever.

I was rather an ugly little boy, with butter-coloured hair which was always cropped short
except for a quiff in front. I don’t idealize my childhood, and unlike many people I’ve no
wish to be young again. Most of the things I used to care for would leave me something
more than cold. I don’t care if I never see a cricket ball again, and I wouldn’t give you
threepence for a hundredweight of sweets. But I’ve still got, I’ve always had, that
peculiar feeling for fishing. You’ll think it damned silly, no doubt, but I’ve actually half a
wish to go fishing even now, when I’m fat and forty-five and got two kids and a house in
the suburbs. Why? Because in a manner of speaking I AM sentimental about my
childhood — not my own particular childhood, but the civilization which I grew up in and
which is now, I suppose, just about at its last kick. And fishing is somehow typical of that
civilization. As soon as you think of fishing you think of things that don’t belong to the
modem world. The very idea of sitting all day under a willow tree beside a quiet pool —
and being able to find a quiet pool to sit beside — belongs to the time before the war,



before the radio, before aeroplanes, before Hitler. There’s a kind of peacefulness even in
the names of English coarse fish. Roach, rudd, dace, bleak, barbel, bream, gudgeon, pike,
chub, carp, tench. They’re solid kind of names. The people who made them up hadn’t
heard of machine-guns, they didn’t live in terror of the sack or spend their time eating
aspirins, going to the pictures, and wondering how to keep out of the concentration camp.

Does anyone go fishing nowadays, I wonder? Anywhere within a hundred miles of
London there are no fish left to catch. A few dismal fishing-clubs plant themselves in
rows along the banks of canals, and millionaires go trout-fishing in private waters round
Scotch hotels, a sort of snobbish game of catching hand-reared fish with artificial flies.
But who fishes in mill-streams or moats or cow-ponds any longer? Where are the English
coarse fish now? When I was a kid every pond and stream had fish in it. Now all the
ponds are drained, and when the streams aren’t poisoned with chemicals from factories
they’re full of rusty tins and motor-bike tyres.

My best fishing-memory is about some fish that I never caught. That’s usual enough, I
suppose.

When I was about fourteen Father did a good turn of some kind to old Hodges, the
caretaker at Binfield House. I forget what it was — gave him some medicine that cured
his fowls of the worms, or something. Hodges was a crabby old devil, but he didn’t forget
a good turn. One day a little while afterwards when he’d been down to the shop to buy
chicken-corn he met me outside the door and stopped me in his surly way. He had a face
like something carved out of a bit of root, and only two teeth, which were dark brown and
very long.

‘Hey, young ‘un! Fisherman, ain’t you? ’

‘Yes. ’

‘Thought you was. You listen, then. If so be you wanted to, you could bring your line and
have a try in that they pool up ahind the Hall. There’s plenty bream and jack in there. But
don’t you tell no one as I told you. And don’t you go for to bring any of them other
young whelps, or I’ll beat the skin off their backs. ’



Having said this he hobbled off with his sack of corn over his shoulder, as though feeling
that he’d said too much already. The next Saturday afternoon I hiked up to Binfield
House with my pockets full of worms and gentles, and looked for old Hodges at the
lodge. At that time Binfield House had already been empty for ten or twenty years. Mr
Farrel, the owner, couldn’t afford to live in it and either couldn’t or wouldn’t let it. He
lived in London on the rent of his farms and let the house and grounds go to the devil. All
the fences were green and rotting, the park was a mass of nettles, the plantations were
like a jungle, and even the gardens had gone back to meadow, with only a few old
gnarled rose- bushes to show you where the beds had been. But it was a very beautiful
house, especially from a distance. It was a great white place with colonnades and long-
shaped windows, which had been built, I suppose, about Queen Anne’s time by someone
who’d travelled in Italy. If I went there now I’d probably get a certain kick out of
wandering round the general desolation and thinking about the life that used to go on
there, and the people who built such places because they imagined that the good days
would last for ever. As a boy I didn’t give either the house or the grounds a second look. I
dug out old Hodges, who’d just finished his dinner and was a bit surly, and got him to
show me the way down to the pool. It was several hundred yards behind the house and
completely hidden in the beech woods, but it was a good-sized pool, almost a lake, about
a hundred and fifty yards across. It was astonishing, and even at that age it astonished me,
that there, a dozen miles from Reading and not fifty from London, you could have such
solitude. You felt as much alone as if you’d been on the ha nk s of the Amazon. The pool
was ringed completely round by the enormous beech trees, which in one place came
down to the edge and were reflected in the water. On the other side there was a patch of
grass where there was a hollow with beds of wild peppermint, and up at one end of the
pool an old wooden boathouse was rotting among the bulrushes.

The pool was swarming with bream, small ones, about four to six inches long. Every now
and again you’d see one of them turn half over and gleam reddy brown under the water.
There were pike there too, and they must have been big ones. You never saw them, but
sometimes one that was basking among the weeds would turn over and plunge with a
splash that was like a brick being bunged into the water. It was no use trying to catch
them, though of course I always tried every time I went there. I tried them with dace and
minnows I’d caught in the Thames and kept alive in a jam-jar, and even with a spinner
made out of a bit of tin.
But they were gorged with fish and wouldn’t bite, and in any



case they’d have broken any tackle I possessed. I never came back from the pool without
at least a dozen small bream. Sometimes in the summer holidays I went there for a whole
day, with my fishing-rod and a copy of Chums or the Union Jack or something, and a
hu nk of bread and cheese which Mother had wrapped up for me. And I’ve fished for
hours and then lain in the grass hollow and read the Union Jack, and then the smell of my
bread paste and the plop of a fish jumping somewhere would send me wild again, and I’d
go back to the water and have another go, and so on all through a summer’s day. And the
best of all was to be alone, utterly alone, though the road wasn’t a quarter of a mile away.
I was just old enough to know that it’s good to be alone occasionally. With the trees all
round you it was as though the pool belonged to you, and nothing ever stirred except the
fish ringing the water and the pigeons passing overhead. And yet, in the two years or so
that I went fishing there, how many times did I really go, I wonder? Not more than a
dozen. It was a three-mile bike ride from home and took up a whole afternoon at least.
And sometimes other things turned up, and sometimes when I’d meant to go it rained.
You know the way things happen.

One afternoon the fish weren’t biting and I began to explore at the end of the pool
farthest from Binfield House. There was a bit of an overflow of water and the ground was
boggy, and you had to fight your way through a sort of jungle of blackberry bushes and
rotten boughs that had fallen off the trees. I struggled through it for about fifty yards, and
then suddenly there was a clearing and I came to another pool which I had never known
existed. It was a small pool not more than twenty yards wide, and rather dark because of
the boughs that overhung it. But it was very clear water and immensely deep. I could see
ten or fifteen feet down into it. I hung about for a bit, enjoying the dampness and the
rotten boggy smell, the way a boy does. And then I saw something that almost made me
jump out of my skin.

It was an enonnous fish. I don’t exaggerate when I say it was enormous. It was almost
the length of my ann. It glided across the pool, deep under water, and then became a
shadow and disappeared into the darker water on the other side. I felt as if a sword had
gone through me. It was far the biggest fish I’d ever seen, dead or alive. I stood there
without breathing, and in a moment another huge thick shape glided through the water,
and then another and then two more close together. The pool was full of them. They were
carp, I suppose. Just possibly they were bream or tench, but more probably carp. Bream



or tench wouldn’t grow so huge. I knew what had happened. At some time this pool had
been connected with the other, and then the stream had dried up and the woods had
closed round the small pool and it had just been forgotten. It’s a thing that happens
occasionally. A pool gets forgotten somehow, nobody fishes in it for years and decades
and the fish grow to monstrous sizes. The brutes that I was watching might be a hundred
years old. And not a soul in the world knew about them except me. Very likely it was
twenty years since anyone had so much as looked at the pool, and probably even old
Hodges and Mr Farrel’s bailiff had forgotten its existence.

Well, you can imagine what I felt. After a bit I couldn’t even bear the tantalization of
watching. I hurried back to the other pool and got my fishing things together. It was no
use trying for those colossal brutes with the tackle I had. They’d snap it as if it had been a
hair. And I couldn’t go on fishing any longer for the tiny bream. The sight of the big carp
had given me a feeling in my stomach almost as if I was going to be sick. I got on to my
bike and whizzed down the hill and home. It was a wonderful secret for a boy to have.
There was the dark pool hidden away in the woods and the monstrous fish sailing round
it — fish that had never been fished for and would grab the first bait you offered them. It
was only a question of getting hold of a line strong enough to hold them. Already I’d
made all the arrangements. I’d buy the tackle that would hold them if I had to steal the
money out of the till. Somehow, God knew how, I’d get hold of half a crown and buy a
length of silk salmon line and some thick gut or gimp and Number 5 hooks, and come
back with cheese and gentles and paste and mealworms and brandlings and grasshoppers
and every mortal bait a carp might look at. The very next Saturday afternoon I’d come
back and try for them.

But as it happened I never went back. One never does go back. I never stole the money
out of the till or bought the bit of salmon line or had a try for those carp. Almost
immediately afterwards something turned up to prevent me, but if it hadn’t been that it
would have been something else. It’s the way things happen.

I know, of course, that you think I’m exaggerating about the size of those fish. You think,
probably, that they were just medium- sized fish (a foot long, say) and that they’ve
swollen gradually in my memory. But it isn’t so. People tell lies about the fish they’ve
caught and still more about the fish that are hooked and get away, but I never caught any



of these or even tried to catch them, and I’ve no motive for lying. I tell you they were


enonnous.


5


Fishing!

Here I’ll make a confession, or rather two. The first is that when I look back through my
life I can’t honestly say that anything I’ve ever done has given me quite such a kick as
fishing. Everything else has been a bit of a flop in comparison, even women. I don’t set
up to be one of those men that don’t care about women. I’ve spent plenty of time chasing
them, and I would even now if I had the chance. Still, if you gave me the choice of
having any woman you care to name, but I mean ANY woman, or catching a ten-pound
carp, the carp would win every time. And the other confession is that after I was sixteen I
never fished again.

Why? Because that’s how things happen. Because in this life we lead — I don’t mean
human life in general, I mean life in this particular age and this particular country — we
don’t do the things we want to do. It isn’t because we’re always working. Even a farm-
hand or a Jew tailor isn’t always working. It’s because there’s some devil in us that drives
us to and fro on everlasting idiocies. There’s time for everything except the things worth
doing. Think of something you really care about. Then add hour to hour and calculate the
fraction of your life that you’ve actually spent in doing it. And then calculate the time
you’ve spent on things like shaving, riding to and fro on buses, waiting in railway,
junctions, swapping dirty stories, and reading the newspapers.

After I was sixteen I didn’t go fishing again. There never seemed to be time. I was at
work, I was chasing girls, I was wearing my first button boots and my first high collars
(and for the collars of 1909 you needed a neck like a giraffe), I was doing correspondence
courses in salesmanship and accountancy and ‘improving my mind’. The great fish were
gliding round in the pool behind Binfield House. Nobody knew about them except me.



They were stored away in my mind; some day, some bank holiday perhaps, I’d go back
and catch them. But I never went back. There was time for everything except that.
Curiously enough, the only time between then and now when I did very nearly go fishing
was during the war.

It was in the autumn of 1916, just before I was wounded. We’d come out of trenches to a
village behind the line, and though it was only September we were covered with mud
from head to foot. As usual we didn’t kn ow for certain how long we were going to stay
there or where we were going afterwards. Luckily the C. O. was a bit off-colour, a touch
of bronchitis or something, and so didn’t bother about driving us through the usual
parades, kit-inspections, football matches, and so forth which were supposed to keep up
the spirits of the troops when they were out of the line. We spent the first day sprawling
about on piles of chaff in the barns where we were billeted and scraping the mud off our
putties, and in the evening some of the chaps started queueing up for a couple of
wretched wom-out whores who were established in a house at the end of the village. In
the morning, although it was against orders to leave the village, I managed to sneak off
and wander round the ghastly desolation that had once been fields. It was a damp, wintry
kind of morning. All round, of course, were the awful muck and litter of war, the sort of
filthy sordid mess that’s actually worse than a battlefield of corpses. Trees with boughs
torn off them, old shell-holes that had partly filled up again, tin cans, turds, mud, weeds,
clumps of rusty barbed wire with weeds growing through them. You know the feeling
you had when you came out of the line. A stiffened feeling in all your joints, and inside
you a kind of emptiness, a feeling that you’d never again have any interest in anything. It
was partly fear and exhaustion but mainly boredom. At that time no one saw any reason
why the war shouldn’t go on for ever. Today or tomorrow or the day after you were going
back to the line, and maybe next week a shell would blow you to potted meat, but that
wasn’t so bad as the ghastly boredom of the war stretching out for ever.

I was wandering up the side of a hedge when I ran into a chap in our company whose
surname I don’t remember but who was nicknamed Nobby. He was a dark, slouching,
gypsy-looking chap, a chap who even in unifonn always gave the impression that he was
carrying a couple of stolen rabbits. By trade he was a coster and he was a real Cockney,
but one of those Cockneys that make part of their living by hop-picking, bird-catching,
poaching, and fruit-stealing in Kent and Essex. He was a great expert on dogs, ferrets,



cage- birds, fighting-cocks, and that kind of thing. As soon as he saw me he beckoned to
me with his head. He had a sly, vicious way of talking:


“Ere, George! ’ (The chaps still called me George — I hadn’t got fat in those days. )
‘George! Ja see that clump of poplars acrost the field? ’

‘Yes. ’

‘Well, there’s a pool on t’other side of it, and it’s full of bleeding great fish. ’


‘Fish? Gam! ’


‘I tell you it’s bleeding full of ‘em. Perch, they are. As good fish as ever I got my thumbs
on. Com’n see f yerself, then. ’

We trudged over the mud together. Sure enough, Nobby was right. On the other side of
the poplars there was a dirty-looking pool with sandy banks. Obviously it had been a
quarry and had got filled up with water. And it was swanning with perch. You could see
their dark blue stripy backs gliding everywhere just under water, and some of them must
have weighed a pound. I suppose in two years of war they hadn’t been disturbed and had
had time to multiply. Probably you can’t imagine what the sight of those perch had done
to me. It was as though they’d suddenly brought me to life. Of course there was only one
thought in both our minds — how to get hold of a rod and line.

‘Christ! ’ I said. ‘We’ll have some of those. ’

‘You bet we f — well will. C’mon back to the village and let’s get ‘old of some tackle. ’

‘O. K. You want to watch out, though. If the sergeant gets to know we’ll cop it. ’

‘Oh, f — the sergeant. They can ‘ang, drore, and quarter me if they want to. I’m going to
‘ave some of them bleeding fish. ’

You can’t know how wild we were to catch those fish. Or perhaps you can, if you’ve ever
been at war. You know the frantic boredom of war and the way you’ll clutch at almost
any kind of amusement. I’ve seen two chaps in a dugout fight like devils over half a



threepenny magazine. But there was more to it than that. It was the thought of escaping,
for perhaps a whole day, right out of the atmosphere of war. To be sitting under the
poplar trees, fishing for perch, away from the Company, away from the noise and the
stink and the uniforms and the officers and the saluting and the sergeant’s voice! Fishing
is the opposite of war. But it wasn’t at all certain that we could bring it off. That was the
thought that sent us into a kind of fever. If the sergeant found out he’d stop us as sure as
fate, and so would any of the officers, and the worst of all was that there was no knowing
how long we were going to stay at the village. We might stay there a week, we might
march off in two hours. Meanwhile we’d no fishing tackle of any kind, not even a pin or
a bit of string. We had to start from scratch. And the pool was swarming with fish! The
first thing was a rod. A willow wand is best, but of course there wasn’t a willow tree
anywhere this side of the horizon. Nobby shinned up one of the poplars and cut off a
small bough which wasn’t actually good but was better than nothing. He trimmed it down
with his jack-knife till it looked something like a fishing-rod, and then we hid it in the
weeds near the bank and managed to sneak back into the village without being seen.

The next thing was a needle to make a hook. Nobody had a needle. One chap had some
darning needles, but they were too thick and had blunt ends. We daren’t let anyone know
what we wanted it for, for fear the sergeant should hear about it. At last we thought of the
whores at the end of the village. They were pretty sure to have a needle. When we got
there — you had to go round to the back door through a mucky courtyard — the house was
shut up and the whores were having a sleep which they’d no doubt earned. We stamped
and yelled and banged on the door until after about ten minutes a fat ugly woman in a
wrapper came down and screamed at us in French. Nobby shouted at her:

‘Needle! Needle! You got a needle! ’

Of course she didn’t know what he was talking about. Then Nobby tried pidgin English,
which he expected her as a foreigner to understand:

‘Wantee needle! Sewee clothee! Likee thisee! ’

He made gestures which were supposed to represent sewing. The whore misunderstood
him and opened the door a bit wider to let us in. Finally we made her understand and got
a needle from her. By this time it was dinner time.



After dinner the sergeant came round the barn where we were billeted looking for men
for a fatigue. We managed to dodge him just in time by getting under a pile of chaff.
When he was gone we got a candle alight, made the needle red-hot, and managed to bend
it into a kind of hook. We didn’t have any tools except jack- knives, and we burned our
fingers badly. The next thing was a line. Nobody had any string except thick stuff, but at
last we came across a fellow who had a reel of sewing thread. He didn’t want to part with
it and we had to give him a whole packet of fags for it. The thread was much too thin, but
Nobby cut it into three lengths, tied them to a nail in the wall, and carefully plaited them.
Meanwhile after searching all over the village I’d managed to find a cork, and I cut it in
half and stuck a match through it to make afloat. By this time it was evening and getting
on towards dark.

We’d got the essentials now, but we could do with some gut. There didn’t seem much
hope of getting any until we thought of the hospital orderly. Surgical gut wasn’t part of
his equipment, but it was just possible that he might have some. Sure enough, when we
asked him, we found he’d a whole hank of medical gut in his haversack. It had taken his
fancy in some hospital or other and he’d pinched it. We swapped another packet of fags
for ten lengths of gut. It was rotten brittle stuff, in pieces about six inches long. After dark
Nobby soaked them till they were pliable and tied them end to end.