As they walked along the bank, looking for the most suitable vantage point, the collapsed skulls of long-dead pike stared up at them at regular intervals, arranged amidst decaying piles of yellow skin and scattered bones and scales. Sadly, Crabtree remembered the pact he’d rashly made in order to fulfil his promise to his son. As they reached a corner bay, the still fresh corpse of a double figure pike bobbed gently where the ripples lapped the reeds. Protruding from its throat were several feet of thick and wiry nylon.
“There you are Peter, I told you there were some good pike in here”, said Crabtree, without even the slightest hint of irony.Trying to overcome the mortuary atmosphere, Peter began at once to tackle up pop-up sprat deadbait rod for his father, and for himself, a vained drifter, with which he would attempt to drift a sprat along the reedy perimeter of the bay. Hearing the nearby patter of urine on the hard bank, Peter cast the pop-up out into the pit, ensuring that there was little danger of it interfering with his more serious activities. Crabtree turned around, eerily surrounded by an acrid cloud of steam, then passively sat down after struggling with his trouser buttons. He watched with envy as Peter’s sprat was launched to within a foot of the gap where the bay opened out into the lake. The line fed through the sliding float’s ring as the sprat fluttered down into the water, eventually halted by the stop knot, a foot from the bed of the lake. The light breeze caught the orange vain, and the float was soon bobbing on its semi-circular trajectory. It had only travelled three or four yards, when the reeds were heard to rustle, then visibly parted as an unseen fish launched itself from its hiding place. The float disappeared in an oily swirl and the line began to tighten. Peter waited as it tightened to the rod tip, then lifting the rod in a smooth, controlled action he bent the rod into the fish, and the pike was on. Crabtree watched in amazement; he hadn’t taught him to do it like that.
It soon became apparent that Peter was in contact with a very good fish. The powerful carbon retained its acute hoop as the pike, deep down, began a slow tour of the bay. Through his throbbing headache, Crabtree started to wonder if the stories were actually true, and was beginning to have hallucinations of the pike’s great maw coughing up ducks’ feet, dog collars, cloth caps and Wellingtons. The clutch ticked slowly as Peter applied a steady pressure. There was a brief glimpse of a long flank as the fish turned near the surface, creating a huge boil, and sending gentle waves rolling back to the water’s edge. Several times, the clutch screamed more urgently as the fish made an effort to reach the open water, but each time it was turned back well short of its target.
Closer and closer it came to the waiting net, and after one final surge it rolled on the top and was drawn into the mesh. Crabtree gawped in amazement, but couldn’t help but feel a fatherly pride at the way in which his son had handled the fight. As Peter struggled back from the water under the weight of the fish, he ran up to him and grabbed the mesh, and together, they lifted the pike to the safety of the bank. As they lowered the wet net onto the mat, Crabtree held down the mesh to prevent the fish from kicking, while Peter pulled the great mouth open to extract the two trebles. With the fish held aloft in the mat, the scales registered a combined weight of twenty-five and a half pounds, but then suddenly, they were aware of a figure walking towards them from the car park.
“ Oh God, it’s the bloody bailiff”, said Crabtree, “Get it back into the water quickly”. The great fish slid off the mat and righted itself in the margins. With a couple of flicks of its fins it gradually orientated itself, then slowly and gradually moved back towards the depths. With a final kick of the tail it vanished from view, leaving a vortex in the water that was fading away as the bailiff approached.
“Good work lads, that’s another one of the evil bastards out of the way then. Didn’t think anybody would bother to turn up today, I just came for a walk to clear my head”.
Slightly puzzled at first, it gradually dawned on them that his gaze was directed towards the dead fish in the rushes. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, they put aside their principles and concurred.
As the bailiff went on his way, they turned towards each other and started to laugh, bonded by their partnership in subterfuge.
“Dad, you’ve got a run”, said Peter, and a suddenly revived and enthusiastic Crabtree dashed towards his rod, desperately trying to remember the procedure his son had taught him with his previous fish.
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