THE OUTING

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Trevor, can’t I have one day to myself?’ Jack’s mum muttered. ‘Take him with you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ his dad said. ‘He doesn’t want to come with me. He’ll be bored and start mithering.’ 

‘You mean you don’t want to take him.’

‘And the others. Harry and Ken and the boys. It’ll change the whole day if I’ve got him in tow.’ 

‘You’re always complaining he’s not the son you wanted. Well, this is the perfect opportunity for you to do something together.’

They didn’t know Jack was listening, hidden in the dead space behind the pantry door where he went when he was feeling small. 

‘Hm... well…’ His dad had run out of excuses. 

‘I’ll get him ready and pack some extra sandwiches.’

Jack heard his dad leave the kitchen, stomping out into the garden to collect things from the shed. When his mum turned on the tap at the sink he slipped out from his secret den. 

‘Oh, where did you spring from, Mister Jack-in-a-box?’ 

‘I was upstairs,’ he said. 

‘You’re as sneaky as a  snake.’ She was washing lettuce leaves under the gush of cold water. ‘Dad might have a surprise for you in a minute.’ Jack pulled what he hoped was an expression of innocent curiosity. 

When his dad came back with wellies, rods and the big wicker basket that he called his ‘creel’, his mum said, ‘Your dad’s got something to tell you, Jack.’ 

‘Hm,’ said his dad. 

‘Go on, Dad.’ 

‘Well, would you like to - ?’

‘To tell  you,’ she said again. 

‘Hm. Jack, you’re coming with me today. We’re going to Granton Water. Fishing,’ he added, as if the props weren’t enough of a clue. 

‘Oh,’ said Jack. 

‘Won’t that be fun?’ his mum said. 

‘Um…’ said Jack.

‘Hm…’ said his dad.

‘You two boys will have a grand day. Fresh air, catching fish and all that time to chat and… and to chat.’ She was slicing a tomato as if it deserved to be punished. 

‘Looks like rain,’ his dad mumbled. ‘We might not catch anything.’ 

‘You always do.’ She grated cheese through the metal sleeve and it showered like snowflakes. ‘I’ll cook it for your tea. Now, Jack, get your wellies from the garage and your anorak, just in case.’ 

Jack did as he was told, like his dad. He went outside, opened the passenger door, climbed onto the front seat of the Morris Oxford and pulled the door to with the red leather strap. It gave a solid clunk. The body was shiny from the wash and polish it had been given the day before; his dad had spent ages buffing it with the rag he called his ‘shammy’. 

‘You all set?’ Gear loaded into the boot, his dad got in, pulled the starter knob and the engine gave that throat-clearing rasp. His mum waved them off from the front step, removing her apron in case anyone saw her, and called, ‘Have a lovely time. And I don’t want to see you again before five!’ 

Jack felt important being promoted to the front seat instead of his usual place at the back. He could see better and liked to watch his dad in control of the vehicle, observing all the right techniques so that when he got to seventeen – ages away yet – he’d know what to do. Press the clutch – the one on the left – release the accelerator – the one on the right. Change gear with the lever and then swap the feet so this one comes up as that one goes down. Again and again he mimicked the movement with his own feet, dangling towards the floor. Mirror-signal-manoeuvre; hands at ‘ten-to-two’. Some of his friends’ dads had cars with flashing indicator lights but on the Morris there were old-fashioned orange paddles that flipped out between the doors. Others had two-speed wipers and a cigarette lighter or radio but Jack loved Black Beauty  as his dad called it. Called her. ‘Cars are always female, Jack,’ he said once at tea. ‘Good looking and stylish but temperamental. And what goes on under the bonnet is a total mystery.’  He’d given the sort of laugh that Jack didn’t understand and his mum had said, ‘Trevor, really.’ 

Jack liked the smell of the cracked leather seats, the look of the walnut dashboard. He felt like royalty being chauffeured along the streets and practiced a slow wave as they passed a group of people outside Anderson’s Hardware. 

‘See someone you know?’ his dad said. 

‘No.’

His dad turned to look at him for a second as they waited at the lights. ‘You’re a queer one, you are, Jack Jacobs.’ 

‘Am I?’ Jack said. ‘Is that good?’

‘Hm,’ said his dad. ‘That depends.’ 

They drove for ages, out of the village, through places Jack knew at first, then places he sort of knew and then ones he definitely didn’t. Wide roads turned into narrow lanes and houses became scarce. They had to slow down for two people on horses and in some parts the hedges were so tall it was like going into a tunnel. 

His dad asked Jack questions about school, the teachers, his friends and what books he was reading. Jack felt as if it was one of the neighbours speaking to him in that too-polite way they did, pretending to be interested in his toys or impressed with his painting.  

‘You don’t have to talk, Daddy,’ Jack said. His dad laughed and steered the car down a bumpy track and through a gate into a field. An expanse of water was visible beyond a line of willows. There were a few other vehicles in a row and Jack noted: Hillman Hunter, Ford Anglia, Austin Cambridge, Vauxhall Victor and a green Commer van, where two men were unloading equipment. His dad parked next to it. 

‘Morning, Trev,’ said one of the men as his dad turned off the engine and opened his door.  

‘Morning, Harry. Ken. Nice day for it.’

‘Oh, what’s this, taking the whippersnapper somewhere?’

‘He’s with me today. All day.’

The men looked at each other, at Jack and then at his dad. 

‘With you? You mean… with us?’

‘I do. Now, let’s get sorted,’ he said to Jack quickly, as if something was wrong and he wanted to hide it.  

They took the creel and rods out and his dad changed into his boots. 

‘Well, that’s put the kibosh on things, Trevor,’ said the man called Ken. ‘What’s this all about?’ 

‘We’re spending the day together, aren’t we, Jack? We’ll have a grand day, catch fish for tea and do some… some chatting.’

Ken raised his eyebrows and said nothing. He walked away, limping dramatically. Jack wanted to ask him why he walked like that. Maybe later. The one called Harry gave Jack a small smile, said, ‘OK’ and followed Ken. 

His dad did that thing dads do: taking control and calling the shots but including Jack by giving him small tasks, making decisions appear to be shared. 

‘Why don’t you carry the Tupperware and your rod and I’ll bring this lot?... Shall we take the path or cut across here?... Does this look a nice spot, what d’you reckon?’ 

‘Together’ they chose a place on the edge of the lake to sit and fish, in a gap between two clumps of bullrushes. His dad laid out the equipment, screwed the pieces of the rods together, threaded fine line through the little metal rings, fixed reels and tied hooks on. Then he opened a tin and picked a fat purple grub out of the writhing mass. He pushed it onto Jack’s hook, making it squirm and wriggle as the barbed tip was forced through its soft flesh. Jack couldn’t watch. He turned away and wanted to tell his dad to stop, but he knew it was a test for him and so he fought back his disgust. His dad helped him to cast out into the water and unfolded a small canvas stool for him to sit on. He pushed a stick with a ‘v’ in the top into the ground so Jack could rest his rod in it. 

‘Now, you see that red float bobbing in the water? Keep your eyes on that and if it suddenly goes under, hold on tight and give me a shout. O.K.?’

‘O.K.’

His dad settled himself a few feet away with a longer rod and a bigger stool but in the same hunched manner, eyes glued on his own float.

Jack wanted to look around, see the trees, fields, plants, other people further along the bank, cows grazing to his right, probably a rabbit or a pheasant not far away. But his job was to keep his eyes only on the little wooden float. He did as he was told; Jack was a good boy.  

He lasted several minutes before he asked, ‘Dad..?’

‘Hm?’

‘How do we do this?’

‘Do what, Jack?’

‘Go fishing.’

‘We’re doing it. This is what we do.’

‘Oh.’ After a pause: ‘How long for?’

‘As long as it takes.’

‘As long as what takes?’

‘Until we’ve caught enough fish. Or it gets dark.’

‘Oh.’ Jack’s heart sank as low as his wellington boots.

‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ his dad asked. 

Jack knew the right answer. ‘Yes.’ 

He lasted another ten minutes, watching the immobile float, maybugs, an occasional dragonfly and strange things called water boatmen rowing across the calm surface of the lake. There was a pleasant waft of summer greenery and the sounds of birds chirping and trilling in the trees. The early summer sunshine had a gentle warmth. It wasn’t awful, just… He couldn’t quite identify his feeling. It wasn’t… enough.  

Jack started to sing. He’d been given a new LP for his 8th birthday a few weeks ago by his Uncle Christopher and he loved it. Now was the perfect time to recreate his favourite moments. 

‘The hills are alive,’  he began, ‘with the sound of music…’

‘What are you doing?’ His dad was alarmed. 

‘Singing.’ 

‘Why?’

‘I like singing. You like fishing, I like singing.’ 

‘Um… Right. I suppose.’ 

So Jack went on; he knew almost all the right words. He got through the whole song; then Edelweiss and had just started on Do-Re-Mi when the man called Ken hobbled into view along the bank. He stood there, tilting to one side and staring at Jack. Good, Jack thought, an audience. He stood up and turned towards Ken with a big smile of welcome, as if he was performing on stage in the school hall like those actors when they did Toad of Toad Hall. 

‘Let's start at the very beginning,’ he sang loudly and with confidence, ‘A very good place to start. When you read, you begin with A-B-C. When you sing, you begin with Do-Re-Mi…’ 

‘What the hell?’ said Ken. 

‘He’s singing,’ said his dad. 

‘I can see that. And we can all hear it. Why?’

‘He likes singing,’ Jack’s dad said.

‘You’re scaring away the fish, lad,’ Ken said as Harry appeared behind him. ‘I haven’t had a tickle since you started warbling.’

‘Why is he singing?’ said Harry. 

‘He likes singing,’ Ken said. 

‘Do, a deer, a female deer; Re, a drop of golden sun…’

Now another man appeared from the other direction, younger and wearing bright red shorts. 

‘What the fuck?’ he said. 

‘Language, Maurice,’ said Jack’s dad. ‘Not in front of the lad.’

‘Why is he singing?’ 

‘He likes singing,’ chorused Ken and Harry. 

‘He’s got a bloody good voice,’ said the man called Maurice. ‘Does he do requests?’ 

‘Like shut the fuck up?’ said Ken. 

‘Oi,’ said Jack’s dad. ‘Cut out the swearing.’ 

‘Mi, a name, I call myself. Fa, a long, long way to run…’

One or two others were approaching now, all men, all curious. One or two were smiling but most of them weren’t.  

‘Do us a favour, Trev, I’ve spent two quid on today’s permit.’ 

‘So, a needle pulling thread; La, a note to follow So…’

‘Who brought Shirley Temple along?’

‘Fair’s fair, mate. It’s not the bleedin’ Palais.’ 

‘Trevor, can’t you get your songbird to pipe down?’

‘Why would I do that? Don’t you like his voice?’

Ti, a drink with jam and bread…’ 

‘Come on, this is bang out of order. We’re here to fish, not listen to some little fairy.’ 

Jack stopped singing and looked at the men. He looked at his dad for guidance. For a second the only sound was a nearby cuckoo, its notes making a warning sound: uh-oh… uh-oh.  

Jack waited. His dad was chewing a piece of grass. He spat it out. ‘Let the lad sing. If he wants to.’ His voice was low and certain. ‘He’s that sort of boy.’

Ken pulled a face of disgust, turned and hobbled away. Harry took a step closer, taking Ken’s place. 

‘Sing, Jack,’ said his dad. ‘Sing.’

Jack sang. ‘That will bring us back to Do, oh, oh, oh…’ 

More of the men smiled now. Some grumbled, some shrugged. One or two laughed. Jack got through to the end of the number, word perfect, and there was a smattering of applause. 

‘Fair do’s,’ said Maurice in the red shorts. 

They began to drift away. Jack sat back down on his stool. 

He continued to watch the float but never saw it move. He carried on, not at full volume but more quietly now, happily working through Sixteen Going on Seventeen, The Lonely Goatherd, My Favourite Things and finally Climb Every Mountain with a big finish, his arms stretched wide. 

Then his dad said in a small voice, ‘There’ll be no fish here now. We may as well head off.’

They packed up the creel, unscrewed the rods, folded the stools and carried the whole lot back to the car. One of the men gave a wave as he saw them leave. Jack wasn’t sure if it was a ‘bye-bye’ or a ‘good riddance’ wave but he didn’t care. He waved back.

On the drive home Jack and his dad didn’t say much. Jack felt that something important had happened on the bank but he couldn’t work out what. 

The roads changed from narrow tracks to wider streets. Fields disappeared to be replaced with buildings. Jack began to recognise one or two places: a church here, a roundabout there. 

‘Let’s have that packed lunch, eh, Jack?’ 

His dad pulled the car into a lay-by and they got out to sit on a stack of wooden pallets to eat cheese and salad sandwiches from a Tupperware box. There was a bottle of  dandelion and burdock too, which they shared, wiping the neck after taking a mouthful and passing it back and forth. Jack’s dad looked at Jack as if he was about to ask a very important question. But he didn’t speak.

‘O.K.’ he said eventually. ‘It’s nearly five.’ 

As they got close to home his dad stopped the car again, this time in front of a familiar parade of shops. 

‘Hang on, I won’t be a tick,’ he said. Jack saw him go to Myton Fishmonger’s and point at something outside on the tray of ice. He came back with a package that was floppy and smelled fishy. He handed it to Jack with a wink. ‘You caught this.’ 

When they went in the back door his mum was sitting with her feet up in the lounge. Jack could see her through the serving hatch. 

‘Ah, the wanderers return,’ she said, coming into the kitchen. ‘How was it? Did you have a good time? Nice chat?’

Jack saw her look to his dad and they both looked at him. 

‘It was… lovely,’ he said and they both smiled. 

‘Jack was a star,’ his dad said. ‘And look what he caught.’ 

He handed the package to his mum.

‘Ooh, lovely…’ She looked inside. ‘… salmon steaks! Who’s a clever boy?’ 

‘Dad,’ said Jack. ‘I don’t have to go fishing with you again, do I?’

‘No, lad. You don’t have to.’

‘Get upstairs and run a bath,’ his mum said. 

‘Can I - ?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You can put some of my salts in. Not too much, mind.’ 

Jack walked towards the door into the hall, aware of the silence behind him. He wondered what his mum and dad would be saying to each other once he was out of the room.