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et； with which you can sometimes catch a stickleback。 mother was always terrified of letting us go anywhere near water。 she ‘forbade’ fishing； in the way in which parents in those days ‘forbade’ almost everything； and i hadn’t yet grasped that grownups can’t see round corners。 but the thought of fishing sent me wild with excitement。 many a time i’d been past the pool at the mill farm and watched the small carp basking on the surface； and sometimes under the willow tree at the corner a great diamond… shaped carp that to my eyes looked enormous—six inches long； i suppose—would suddenly rise to the surface； gulp down a grub； and sink again。 i’d spent hours gluing my nose against the window of wallace’s in the high street； where fishing tackle and guns and bicycles were sold。 i used to lie awake on summer mornings thinking of the tales joe had told me about fishing； how you mixed bread paste； how your float gives a bob and plunges under and you feel the rod bending and the fish tugging at the line。 is it any use talking about it； i wonder—the sort of fairy light that fish and fishing tackle have in a kid’s eyes？ some kids feel the same about guns and shooting； some feel it about motor…bikes or aeroplanes or horses。 it’s not a thing that you can explain or rationalize； it’s merely magic。 one morning—it was in june and i must have been eight—i knew that joe was going to cut school and go out fishing； and i made up my mind to follow。 in some way joe guessed what i was thinking about； and he started on me while we were dressing。
‘now then； young george！ don’t you get thinking you’re ing with the gang today。 you stay back home。’
‘no； i didn’t。 i didn’t think nothing about it。’
‘yes； you did！ you thought you were ing with the gang。’
‘no； i didn’t！’
‘yes； you did！’
‘no； i didn’t！’
‘yes； you did！ you stay back home。 we don’t want any bloody kids along。’
joe had just learned the word ‘bloody’ and was always using it。 father overheard him once and swore that he’d thrash the life out of joe； but as usual he didn’t do so。 after breakfast joe started off on his bike； with his satchel and his grammar school cap； five minutes early as he always did when he meant to cut school； and when it was time for me to leave for mother howlett’s i sneaked off and hid in the lane behind the allotments。 i knew the gang were going to the pond at the mill farm； and i was going to follow them if they murdered me for it。 probably they’d give me a hiding； and probably i wouldn’t get home to dinner； and then mother would know that i’d cut school and i’d get another hiding； but i didn’t care。 i was just desperate to go fishing with the gang。 i was cunning； too。 i allowed joe plenty of time to make a circuit round and get to the mill farm by road； and then i followed down the lane and skirted round the meadows on the far side of the hedge； so as to get almost to the pond before the gang saw me。 it was a wonderful june morning。 the buttercups were up to my knees。 there was a breath of wind just stirring the tops of the elms； and the great green clouds of leaves were sort of soft and rich like silk。 and it was nine in the morning and i was eight years old； and all round me it was early summer； with great tangled hedges where the wild roses were still in bloom； and bits of soft white cloud drifting overhead； and in the distance the low hills and the dim blue masses of the woods round upper binfield。 and i didn’t give a damn for any of it。 all i was thinking of was the green pool and the carp and the gang with their hooks and lines and bread paste。 it was as though they were in paradise and i’d got to join them。 presently i managed to sneak up on them—four of them； joe and sid lovegrove and the errand boy and another shopkeeper’s son； harry barnes i think his name was。
joe turned and saw me。 ‘christ！’ he said。 ‘it’s the kid。’ he walked up to me like a tom…cat that’s going to start a fight。 ‘now then； you！ what’d i tell you？ you get back ‘ome double quick。’
both joe and i were inclined to drop our aitches if we were at all excited。 i backed away from him。
‘i’m not going back ‘ome。’
‘yes you are。’
‘clip his ear； joe；’ said sid。 ‘we don’t want no kids along。’
‘are you going back ‘ome？’ said joe。
‘no。’
‘righto； my boy！ right…ho！’
then he started on me。 the next minute he was chasing me round； catching me one clip after another。 but i didn’t run away from the pool； i ran in circles。 presently he’d caught me and got me down； and then he knelt on my upper arms and began screwing my ears； which was his favourite torture and one i couldn’t stand。 i was blubbing by this time； but still i wouldn’t give in and promise to go home。 i wanted to stay and go fishing with the gang。 and suddenly the others swung round in my favour and told joe to get up off my chest and let me stay if i wanted to。 so i stayed after all。
the others had some hooks and lines and floats and a lump of bread paste in a rag； and we all cut ourselves willow switches from the tree at the corner of the pool。 the farmhouse was only about two hundred yards away； and you had to keep out of sight because old brewer was very down on fishing。 not that it made any difference to him； he only used the pool for watering his cattle； but he hated boys。 the others were still jealous of me and kept telling me to get out of the light and reminding me that i was only a kid and knew nothing about fishing。 they said that i was making such a noise i’d scare all the fish away； though actually i was making about half as much noise as anyone else there。 finally they wouldn’t let me sit beside them and sent me to another part of the pool where the water was shallower and there wasn’t so much shade。 they said a kid like me was sure to keep splashing the water and frighten the fish away。 it was a rotten part of the pool； a part where no fish would ordinarily e。 i knew that。 i seemed to know by a kind of instinct the places where a fish would lie。 still； i was fishing at last。 i was sitting on the grass bank with the rod in my hands； with the flies buzzing round； and the smell of wild peppermint fit to knock you down； watching the red float on the green water； and i was happy as a tinker although the tear… marks mixed up with dirt were still all over my face。
lord knows how long we sat there。 the morning stretched out and out； and the sun got higher and higher； and nobody had a bite。 it was a hot still day； too clear for fishing。 the floats lay on the water with never a quiver。 you could see deep down into the water as though you were looking into a kind of dark green glass。 out in the middle of the pool you could see the fish lying just under the surface； sunning themselves； and sometimes in the weeds near the side a newt would e gliding upwards and rest there with his fingers on the weeds and his nose just out of the water。 but the fish weren’t biting。 the others kept shouting that they’d got a nibble； but it was always a lie。 and the time stretched out and out and it got hotter and hotter； and the flies ate you alive； and the wild peppermint under the bank smelt like mother wheeler’s sweet…shop。 i