The Tomb and Other Stories

by Stanley Salmons

  Bill pondered this for a moment. ‘You’re right, but it’s not for the ghillie to point out the futility of what you’re doing. His job is to try and put you over taking fish. And it does help if he makes you think you have half a chance of getting one. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t agree with Morton, and I don’t have anything against Padraic. But he does have this unfortunate way of treating a fisherman as you might treat someone with a terminal illness.’

  I nodded ruefully, smiling at the accuracy of his observation. ‘Still,’ I answered, ‘look at it from his point of view. From what you said last night he spends most of his year scraping a living with the most back-breakingly hard work it’s possible to imagine. He has to inhabit the real world. I don’t think he actually dislikes us for what we’re doing. He just can’t get his head round it.’

  ‘But he’s paid to do it.’

  ‘Well that’s true, but I’ve got no complaints on that score. He’s bloody good with a boat. We did some beautiful drifts today. He just waved the oar from time to time to keep us floating about fifty yards out and I could cast into good water for half an hour or more at a time. No, I got my money’s worth. The thing is, though, that I end the day thinking that he’s perfectly sane, which means that I must be more than a bit crackers.’

  ‘Not crackers, just optimistic. Look, it’s not so different from a lottery, is it? People are betting on lotteries every day, knowing the odds are against them ever winning. So why do they do it? For the thrill of knowing that today could be the big day, today the lucky one could be them.’

  ‘That’s true. We’re better off than the lottery punters, though. Each time they lose they’ve got nothing to show for it. If we come back without a fish, we’ve still had a nice day out in lovely scenery, and our lungs are full of clean air. It could be worse.’

  ‘And don’t forget the exercise. You cast a few thousand times today.’

  ‘Yes. But you know, I’d feel better about that if I hadn’t had so much lunch.’

  We chuckled, but what I said was true. Despite all the exercise and fresh air I really wasn’t all that hungry even now, and I knew I couldn’t do justice to the full menu tonight. When we went to our tables I decided to have just the soup and starter and call it a day. The others waved when I left the dining-room. It looked like they were staying the course. I decided to take a walk in the town.

  After the warmth of the hotel it was surprisingly cold outside. As I walked I mulled over the events of the day, and inevitably my thoughts turned back to Padraic. I couldn’t help it, I just found him very interesting. How could someone who was so good at being a ghillie be so temperamentally unsuited to it? I’d tried to draw him out a bit during one of the many flat calms.

  ‘Do you have family, Padraic?’ I’d asked him.

  ‘Ay. Seven children, Lord love every one o’ them.’ And that was it. He didn’t seem to mind my asking; he just didn’t volunteer any more than that. And then of course I started wondering what his wife was like. Did she match him for size and dour manner? Did she disassemble Army tanks for a hobby? Or was she some slender red-haired, green-eyed, scarlet-lipped little wisp of a lass, and could I see him hoist her laughing into the air, his big hands meeting around her waist? Then I’d been overcome with guilt for indulging in these imaginings.

  None of your bloody business. He’s doing his best to put you over fish, and that’s good enough. Does he ask you who you’ve divorced and what was she like and are you living with anyone now? You’re curious about him because he has the dignity to be himself, and maybe because you’ve never met a man who is so totally and unselfconsciously indifferent to what anyone else might think of him.

  I’d been walking for about twenty minutes and I was feeling quite chilled, so when I passed a nice-looking pub I paused on the pavement. The noise of conversation and some lively Irish fiddle-and-accordian music was floating out of the half-open door. It was just too inviting to resist, so I went in. I was immediately hit by the warmth, the smell of beer, the smoke and the noise of conversation over the music.

  I didn’t think it was the place to be ordering single malts, so I ordered a pint of Guinness, and while I was waiting for it I suddenly heard someone say quite close to my right ear:

  ‘Well, now, if it isn’t himselluf!’

  I turned round, and there was Michael, the ghillie, grinning broadly at me in his friendly way.

  ‘How’re ye doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, hallo, Michael. I’m fine. Er, can I get you something?’

  ‘That’s all right, now, thanks anyway. I brang the wife’s fairther.’ He jerked his head in the direction of some round tables, just visible through a thin haze of cigarette smoke. The barman came round and he ordered two pints and a packet of crisps before turning back to me. ‘And how’d ye get on today? No fish I heerd.’

  ‘That’s right, no fish. But it was a grand day all the same.’

  ‘Now, that’s the main thing, isn’t it? You cairn’t be catching fish every day. It would be too easy, now, wouldn’t it?’

  The barman returned with his two pints.

  ‘Are ye on yer own?’ Michael asked as he paid up. ‘Why don’t ye come and join us?’ Seeing my hesitation, he repeated the invitation. ‘Come on, now, it’s only the wife’s fairther and me.’

  I thanked him, picked up my pint and followed him.

  You couldn’t help liking Michael. He was an engaging little chap, always smiling, which was unfortunate in a way because his top middle teeth were missing. He reminded me of a split in ten-pin bowling. The skittles that were still standing were nothing to write home about either.

  As we neared the table his father-in-law spotted the two full glasses that Michael was carrying and hastily drained the one in front of him. He was wearing a little wool hat and his cheeks were covered with a fine white stubble. He regarded me with rheumy blue eyes, nodding delightedly as Michael made the introduction (although I had to help him with my name) and immediately breaking out into a grin. I saw that in bowling terms this one was a clean strike. He then came out with a stream of something or other, delivered in a thin, high voice. I thought he might be speaking Gaelic, but Michael said, ‘That’s raight, fairther’ and winked at me, so I don’t think he could understand a word of it either. And since conversation in that direction was obviously fairly short I could see why Michael might welcome some additional company. The old man now returned to the serious business of eating the crisps, which he managed by dunking each one in his beer first to soften it. Glancing his way from time to time, I could see him working slowly through them with self-absorbed contentment. In the meantime Michael was talking about the weather forecast and the prospects for the next day. He was a bit flushed and even more garrulous than usual, and I supposed there had been several rounds before this one. I thought it could be interesting. With a slight qualm, because I still felt guilty about prying, I introduced the topic.

  ‘Have you known Padraic a long time, Michael?’

  ‘Oh ay, we were at school together. He’s older than I am, mind. His younger brother Robert was my age, now; we were in the same class. We were good friends, him and me. He lives in England now.’

  ‘Mmm. This afternoon when you told me Padraic didn’t touch alcohol, I thought you were going to say something more, but you stopped. What were you going to say?’

  ‘Ah, I could tell you some things…’ He looked at me for a moment, and then sighed and shrugged. ‘It was his fairther. His fairther was a drinker, and wasn’t he a terrible, terrible man when the demon drink got inside him. His poor mother, she bore the brunt of it. He used to come home from the pub and knock her about something awful. Everyone knew, and no-one would say a thing. She’d come into town shopping with her face full of bruises, poor creature, and the neighbours and shopkeepers would try to pretend they hadn’t noticed anything. He would have beat the children too if she hadn’t hid them away from him till he was sober.’

  ‘And she put up with it?’
>
  ‘Ay, she was a saintly woman, God rest her soul. And ye have to remember things were different in them days. Anyway, one day Robert tol’ me something I’ll never forget. We must have been about ten years old; Padraic would have been, what, thirteen or fourteen? His fairther had come home from the pub early. I think they t’rew him out and he was in an awful rage. His mother hadn’t the time to get the kids out the way and he comes storming in, shoutin’ and pulling his big belt out of his trousers. The children all run screaming to the other end of the room. Well, wouldn’t you do the same, now?’

  I agreed it was the most natural reaction in the world.

  ‘Not Padraic, though. He stands his ground in front of the other children. His fairther comes stumblin’ at him and Padraic punches him in the gut, nice and short and there is plenty on it, for he’s a strong lad now. His fairther can’t get his breath, and he’s staggerin’ around and then he’s vomiting, and his wife gets him out of there and cleans him up and puts him to bed. After that, he often shouts blue murder at Padraic, especially when he’s got a skinful, but he never, ever tries to hit him again. And so long as Padraic is around, the other children are safe enough. Poor Padraic. He wanted to protect his mother too, but she wouldn’t let him. How he did despise his fairther!’

  ‘God, what a childhood to have.’

  ‘Y’see? As it happens his fairther didn’t live much longer. They say he drank too much one winter night and went to sleep on a bench and froze to death. Well, I hope Hell is big enough to hold him, the devil himself could be no worse. The family were well rid of him and that’s no lie.’

  ‘Well after all that I’m not surprised that Padraic’s a teetotaller.’

  ‘Oh, I’m telling you. When Padraic proposed to little Ellen he made her a solemn promise that he would look after her and be a good husband to her and never a drop of drink would pass his lips.’ Michael looked a little uncomfortable, and added quickly: ‘I know that because she tol’ her mother and her mother tol’ my mother. Her mother was none too keen on the match, but little Ellen loved her big feller to bits, and would have no other, and a promise is a promise. And he never broke it. Ay, and he never will. Least, not ‘til Hell freezes over.’

  ‘Do you know his wife, then?’ Again I felt a twinge of guilt for having asked.

  ‘Oh, Ellen, yes. Well I say yes, but we don’t see much of them these days. They keep themselves to themselves. But she’s a little darling of a girl. Bore him six, or is it seven, children? And isn’t he fierce protective of them, too.’

  I offered to buy the two of them another round, but he thanked me and said it was time to be getting home. Perhaps his conscience was tweaked by the memory of Padraic’s father. At all events, he collected up his father-in-law, who at this stage was up-ending the crisp packet into his mouth, and they left. I followed them out, and went my separate way back to the hotel, reflecting on what an easy life I’d had.

  *

  The next morning followed the same routine, with one interesting difference. As I was tackling up by the boat house Padraic ambled over with his usual glum expression and opened one of those huge hands to me. Sitting in his palm was an interesting salmon fly.

  ‘F’r yer top dropper,’ he said gruffly.

  I was quite unprepared for such a generous gesture. At the same time I felt that it would embarrass him if I were to be too fulsome in my thanks.

  ‘Flaherty’s Fancy?’ I asked.

  ‘As near as I could get to it. Bett’r than what ye’re using anyway.’

  ‘What, you tied this one, Padraic?’ I could barely believe that those big hands and sausage fingers could fashion something so delicate.

  ‘I don’t pay good money for somp’n I can make m’self,’ he snorted, handing the fly to me, and marched back to his preparations at the boat. This time I could see his abrupt manner for what it was: a cover-up because he wanted to give me the fly and felt ill-at-ease doing it.

  I can’t say it made any difference to my success, but the fly did dibble nicely as it came up to the surface of the water, and I was still basking in the fact that he actually made it for me to use.

  As it got towards lunchtime I said to him: ‘Padraic, there must be other coves where we can have lunch.’

  He regarded me suspiciously. ‘Thought you wanted to join the others.’

  ‘Well actually I’d just as soon we didn’t. It would be quieter on our own.’ I’d seen the way he moved around the periphery of the group the day before, and I thought he’d be more comfortable if he wasn’t forced into their company. Also I felt a bit self-conscious about meeting Michael there after all he’d told me last night, and I didn’t want to allow a nudge or wink or other familiarity to suggest that we might have had such a conversation.

  ‘If you like,’ he murmured, ‘there’s no shortage of places.’ Was he pleased with the suggestion? It was hard to tell.

  Remembering the excesses of the previous day, I had a much more moderate lunch. Towards the end, a lone seagull landed on the shore in front of us and regarded us watchfully. Padraic started to throw it a few pieces of bread and from nowhere half a dozen more gulls flew in. The racket was enormous as they challenged each other for every piece. Padraic caught me looking curiously at him and shrugged.

  ‘They have t’live too,’ he said. I couldn’t imagine him feeding the birds in front of the others, and was glad he felt relaxed about doing it with me.

  The weather was more overcast in the afternoon. We were about halfway through one drift when a few hundred yards in front of me I saw a salmon come almost out of the water and shoulder down into the wave. I looked at Padraic, and he’d seen it too.

  ‘Fish away,’ he said, ‘we’ll be going right through his water.’

  Feeling the excitement I fished with huge concentration, retrieving each cast right back to the boat to leave the flies in the water as long as possible. At any moment I was expecting the water to boil with a large fish and I was terrified that I would whip the flies out of its mouth on the backcast. Gradually it dawned on me that I had fished right through the place where I’d seen the salmon, and nothing had happened. Again I looked at Padraic. He gave me a grimace; I think he felt my disappointment.

  ‘We can drift it again,’ he said, ‘but I think he’s not interested.’

  We did drift it again, with equally negative results. It was getting on for five o’clock now, and starting to rain hard. I noticed that Padraic was looking intently at the distant mountains.

  ‘What are you looking at, Padraic?’ I asked.

  ‘Ye’re on the river tomorrer, aren’t ye?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. With you, I hope.’

  ‘Ay. Well what I’m looking at are those streams.’

  It took a lot of concentration to see what he was talking about. Then I realised that he was looking at some thin silver ribbons on the mountain sides, catching the evening light.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Come late morning that water’ll be in the river. Dirty water.’ He rolled the r’s: ‘dorrty worrter’.

  I didn’t need to ask; the answer was obvious. Salmon don’t like dorrty worrter. At least that made sense. They didn’t enjoy silt in their gills any more than I enjoyed driving behind a badly maintained diesel lorry. Even if they could see my fly they would ignore it and use their uncanny chemical senses to steer them on to sweeter water. He must have read the concern on my face, because he smiled grimly and said:

  ‘Don’t worry yerself. I’ll have a word with Colom about the beats ye’re fishin’ tomorrow. We’ll do the best we can for ye, now.’

  That evening I worked one further down the row of single malts. None of the others had had a fish either, and I seemed to be the only one who’d seen one move. Morton was quick with an explanation, delivered loudly for the benefit of Colom, who was serving drinks behind the bar.

  ‘Ah, what you’ve seen there, Davey my boy,’ he boomed seriously, ‘is Colom’s clockwork salmon. He puts it in once
in a while to keep us motivated. You’ll know if you catch it: it’s got a little propeller behind its arse.’ And with a sound like a dropped accordian he dissolved into helpless silent laughter. All of us were laughing too, although whether it was at his witticism or just the sight of Morton with his shoulders heaving and the tears streaming down his face, I’d be hard put to say.

  After Morton had drawn some breath, emitted some long sighs, wiped his eyes and generally recovered his composure, the conversation split in other directions. Morton and Bill were engaged in a debate further down the table. As I was on the river the next day I took the opportunity of asking Kevin quietly if he had any tips.

  ‘Bear in mind I usually fish for trout,’ I added.

  ‘Well it’s a bit different. On all the beats you’ll be fishing from the left bank, so the river will be running from right to left,’ he said. ‘Cast towards the left, that’s downstream and across at a forty-five degree angle. Let the current swim your fly right round to your bank and then retrieve it up parallel with the bank. They often follow that last draw, so don’t snatch it too soon. Then take a couple of steps downstream and cast again. And if you get lucky you know not to strike, don’t you? Just hold firm and let the fish tighten into it.’

  It sounded like good advice. I hoped I could remember it all.

  *

  ‘What do you say, Kevin?’

  Kevin and I were still sitting at the bar. Morton was talking with the others at the table and he’d turned to get Kevin’s opinion.

  ‘What do I say about what?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘Why are there so few salmon now? Mark says it’s the netting at sea. Gordon thinks it’s the netting in the estuary. Val reckons it’s the sea lice from the salmon farms. What do you say?’

  ‘Oh, crumbs, I don’t know. Wasn’t there something about conditions at sea being different as well?’

  ‘Come on, Kevin, you’ve got to admit it was the sea lice that did for the sea trout,’ said Val.