Writing for Fun
February 2015
The Curious Incident Of The Trout And The Turnip - Pete Norman
It was truly a thing of exquisite beauty, although Philip did wonder whether only a farmer might be capable of perceiving beauty in such a thing. He leaned through the open window of the Land Rover and drank in the view. The two long sides of the field were bounded by a dense swathe of trees, some short and bushy, some tall and spindly, a multicoloured wonderland, it was almost as if each tree had selected its own individual shade of green from the artist's palette. Across the far end a row of mighty poplars formed a natural wind break when the keen north wind blew. But this morning the breeze was calm and benign and the poplars stood like silent sentinels against the pale sky. Framed by this delight of nature was two and a half acres of turnips. Set in arrow straight rows, as precisely manicured as the raked gravel of a Japanese Zen Buddhist garden, the early morning sunlight shimmering over the forest of green leaves which rippled gently like the waves on a tropical sea, while their rounded, almost fluorescent, purple flesh swelled above the light brown soil.
Between the turnips and the trees was a narrow border of wildflowers, food for the butterflies and the bees and a wilderness habitat for the wealth of tiny life which went 'squeak' upon which the tenuous food-chains of nature so depended.
Philip loved turnips, not just because they were delicious – he had been brought up on the farm and turnips had formed a substantial part of his formative years – but also because they were so hardy, so forgiving and, well, he had to admit, such a pretty vegetable.
He climbed out and opened the back door; two Golden Labradors exploded from the car and raced into the field, barking in pure unadulterated doggy joy at their freedom. Philip left them to their own devices while he wandered up and down the rows, checking on the fruits of his labour. He crouched down to inspect the leaves, checking for parasitic attack; the nearest plants seemed in good, healthy condition and as he passed further down the row he dared to hope that once again he might have been spared the scourge this year.
Suddenly the sound of frantic barking drew him out of his reverie. He straightened up, eased his back and then took a look down towards the middle of the field. Both dogs were standing astride the leaves, focussed on something in-between, which was invisible to him. He groaned, they were always doing this; it was usually a mouse or a vole or a dead pigeon or a fresh pile of fox scats, but he had no option, he had to inspect their find, both to congratulate the dogs on their fine hunting prowess and to satisfy himself that all was well with his precious crop.
It took him a few minutes to reach the dogs and, despite his whistles and shouted entreaties, they were still barking furiously when he arrived. At first he could not see what they were looking at, but then a sudden movement in the dense foliage caught his eye . . . the fish had flipped its tail.
Incredulous, he crouched down and stared into a cold, unblinking golden eye . . . at the gills still fluttering uselessly in the air . . . at its firm plump body! He had no idea what sort of fish it was – the only fish he normally came into contact with were wrapped in newspaper and surrounded by chips. This one was dark brown on the top edge, morphing into a bright gold on its belly. It was covered in large spots which ranged in colour from dark brown to bright red.
At first the thought came into his mind, how long can a fish live out of water? But then the more pressing question surfaced: how the hell did it get here in the first place? The river East Lyn was over a mile away beyond the woods and he was certain the damned fish had not walked here all by itself.
He had already covered half of the field to get here, but still he stood, turned around and searched the area for any evidence to solve the mystery, but all was exactly as it had been when he had first arrived. He squatted down beside the fish again; it was still showing weak signs of life.
His friend Andy was a fisherman, perhaps he might be able to help . . .
Now, wait a minute . . . Andy-was-a-fisherman!
The crafty little bugger! He was being set up! He would walk into the Rockford Arms this afternoon and the lads would be full of themselves; they would tease him mercilessly. It could only have been one of them, crept in here this morning, dropped the fish where they knew he would find it . . .
He stood up again and looked around at the soil, but apart from a few smudged Labrador prints and those from his own boots trailing away behind him the ground was pristine. If someone had carried the fish into his field they would surely have left footprints . . . but there were none.
Now he really was puzzled. He pulled out his phone and took a picture of the fish before it magically disappeared, because no one would ever believe him if it did – he could scarcely believe it himself. The picture did the fish justice, although it had the tip of his right boot in one corner and the black nose of a golden brown Labrador in the other.
He rummaged about in his pocket and found two pooper scooper bags which he carefully slid the fish inside and then made his way back to the Land Rover holding out his wriggling bundle carefully in front him, followed by two excited and inquisitive dogs.
At lunchtime he walked into the Rockford Arms; the lads were there, in their usual corner, deep in conversation. As they looked up and greeted him he studied their faces carefully for any sign of amusement, but they appeared to be just the way they always were: a little casual, a lot dopey, but nothing different from the norm. He bought his pint and sat down opposite Andy, opened up his phone and slid it across the table. 'What d'ya reckon that is Andy?'
Andy squinted at the picture for a moment, 'Looks like a nice plump little Brown Trout to me; Lot of good eatin' on one o' them there is.'
They all leaned in for a look at the picture, intrigued but nothing more; there was no hint of playful teasing.
'Didn't know you'd taken up fishing,' Andy said, 'but that ain't a bad start. About four pounds I'd reckon.'
Philip gave in and blurted out the whole story from the beginning and it was blatantly obvious to him now that none of them was any part of it, but neither could any of them come up with a sensible suggestion as to how the trout had got into the middle of his turnip field.
Dave laughed and said, 'What if someone pulled too hard on the rod and it went flying over his head? You know, like a sling or one of those javelin extension things that lets you throw 'em further?'
Philip shook his head. 'No way, José. I've measured it on Google Maps and it's just over a mile from the river to my field. That just don't compute.'
The group soon lost interest in the puzzle, all, that is, except Andy who was fascinated by the picture. He told Phillip to e-mail it to him and he would ask around.
It was later that afternoon when Philip's mobile rang; it was Andy. 'Hello, mate. You free tomorrow morning about 7.00?'
'Apart from running a farm, yes.'
'Well, indulge me and spare half an hour to meet the man who thinks he might have the answer to your enigma.'
'You mean he knows who the joker is?'
'Something like that. Look, I'll pick you up at 7.00 sharp.'
Philip was intrigued, but Andy was not offering anything more concrete to put him out of his misery.
The following morning Andy drove him down to the river but as they passed the car park the fishermen used without stopping, Philip said, 'Didn't we need to go in there?'
Andy shook his head, 'Not today. We need to go a bit further up, where it's a bit more private . . . away from prying eyes.'
He finally turned off onto a rough track which led to a five-bar gate. On the other side was a small wooden hut standing beside a quiet stretch of the river.
'Is this where the joker lives?' Philip asked.
Andy just grinned and opened the shed door. Inside a man in green waterproofs, who was peering out through a long slit window at the river beyond, turned to greet them.
'Phil, this is Tony. He's with the Wildlife Trust.'
Philip shook his hand. 'Hi, Tony, this so called mate of mine won't tell me anything. What's going on? Who is this joker?'
Tony laughed. 'His name is Clyde and he likes this bit of river, where there are no fishermen to disturb him.'
None the wiser, Philip sat down beside the man and leaned forward to take in the view. It was a lovely spot, thickly wooded on the far bank with a wedge of reeds beneath their window from which every so often a soft rustle suggested that, even though the river looked quiet, they were by no means alone.
However, it was tranquil and serene and Philip was content to relax and watch for any sign of Clyde making an appearance. Suddenly Tony grabbed his arm and in a whisper said, 'There he is!'
Philip's eyes swept the far bank. 'I can't see him.'
'No. Over there.' Tony pointed across and upwards. Philip leaned forwards and peered out. A few yards away to their left a large brown bird was hovering above the water, its wings beating with a quick, steady rhythm, but its head remained absolutely motionless. Even from this distance he could see beady yellow eyes staring purposefully downwards. After a few moments the wings stopped, folded back like the fletching on an arrow and the bird dropped down, talons spread, hitting the river like a missile. The great wings beat furiously, throwing up spray all around, until, slowly, inevitably the bird rose up from the water, a small fish gripped firmly in its talons.
'Oh my God!' Philip cried. 'Is that Clyde?'
'Yep, I reckon.' Tony grinned and pulled out an iPad from his pocket. He opened up Google Maps to show an aerial view of the river. Philip could see the hide they were sitting in and, when Tony expanded the screen, he could clearly see his own turnip field and there, way beyond it, was Middle Hall Wood. Tony ran his finger across the map from the river across the turnips to Middle Hall. 'That's where Clyde and Matilda live, at the top of a tall oak tree on the very edge of the wood, and your field lies directly along their flight path.'
Philip shook his head in disbelief, 'But why would he drop it? It looked as if there was no way the fish was ever going to get away from that iron grip.'
'Well, sometimes raptors get mobbed and drop their prey to escape, or else he might have had trouble carrying it – that fish of yours was probably quite close to its maximum payload – who knows? But don't complain . . . you ended up with the fish and he didn't.'
Philip was certainly not complaining, but he made an instant decision – he had to finish what had been started. He asked if Tony could show him the nest, but maybe on the way they might make a slight detour.
When they finally arrived, Philip stood beneath the great oak and stared up at the tangled mess of nest high up in the branches. It looked so precarious, but doubtless it was tough enough to withstand anything that nature could hurl at it. Then he took a small bag from the car and carefully laid a 4lb Brown Trout, still somewhat chilled from the fridge, onto a flat rock on the open ground before the tree.
Then he joined Tony and Andy in the Wildlife Trust hide to watch and wait . . .
