Chance Meeting

By Harold Lawrence

I am hot, sticky and in a foul mood. Well, wouldn't anybody be? Life's too short to waste a quintessential English Summer's day tethered to an office desk, twenty five floors above a polluted urban landscape, that can only be viewed through smoked glass windows, specifically designed to reflect the sunshine, dull any sky that may be blue, and maximise the efficiency of the air conditioning. Even worse, now I am stuck in a scrum of fellow escapees who have herded on to platforms two and three on the Brighton line. I await the 6.08 semi fast from Victoria, which, I have just been informed by the distorted voice emanating from a crackly British Rail public address system, will now be expected at 6.38. 'Semi-fast' seems like an exaggeration to me. No, today was a day for lolling on a garden hammock, with a long cool glass of 'Pims' whilst being serenaded by bird-song.

Like Houdini escaping from a sack, weighted with bricks, from the bottom of a deep ocean, my thoughts are transporting me safely from the present, back nearly fifty years, to a time when warm summer days were there to be enjoyed. I used to knock about with a lad called Keith we were about 12 or 13,at the time. We were at a loss for something to do.
" Fancy a bit of fishing, down the Harbour?" suggested Keith
" O.K." I replied without too much enthusiasm. Maggots on hooks never much appealed to me.
We slung our hand lines in to our saddle bags, together with a tin of bait and a couple of cheese sandwiches, made, and wrapped in grease-proof paper, by my Mother. We cycled down to the harbour and out on to the harbour arm. On arrival, we immediately set about unravelling our tangled lines under the contemptuous stares of 'proper' anglers, who, along with their very expensive rods and tackle, had been fishing all night, apparently, with very little success.

Keith unscrambled his line, stuck a maggot on his hook and slung it over the side in to the harbour below. I continued to puzzle over the knotty problems of my line. Though I was not particularly paying attention to what he was up to, I heard the very heavy lead weight, attached to his line, enter the water with a sound resembling a depth charge. Only a matter of seconds later, Keith shouted out in great excitement.

"I've got one!" I've got one!"

I rushed over to where Keith was pulling up a large flat fish, securely hooked in the middle of its back. Apparently, according to the people with the posh rods, he had caught a Dover Sole of sizeable proportions. The poor thing had had its quiet swim in the sandy water of the harbour fatally disturbed by a blow to the head from a lump of lead followed by a hook in to the middle of the back. It didn't even get a final taste of maggot.

"Well," I said, "we might as well go home", and we did, leaving the posh rods to think on. In fact I well remember my Mum cleaning and gutting the fish (Never understood how she could do that), and there was enough, would you believe, for Keith and me to have fish and chips for tea.

Shortly after that Keith and his family moved away, and I never saw him again.

Blimey, a train's pulled in! It's not mine though. This one is bound for 'the smoke'.  Hundreds of people, all pushing and shoving, what a palaver, they won't get home any quicker! There's a bloke over there, waiting to get on, who seems to be looking in my direction. I think he's waving at me. I've no idea who he is. After all I wouldn't forget a the likes of him. A full set of whiskers and a highly polished baldhead. He certainly stands out in a crowd.

"You're Harold, aren't you, I'd recognise you anywhere"

" Yes, but who are you?"

" Keith. Good to see you again, mate, it must be years"