A FISHY TALE

The small town of Westfield was a town much like any other, two churches, several pubs, three good schools, a clutch of small local shops in its centre and a sprawling superstore on its fringes. Just an ordinary town.

Willow Close was a street much like any other, lined with neat looking houses, well manicured gardens and oft-polished cars. Just an ordinary street.

The residents of Willow Close were also much like the residents of any other street, a pleasant mix of retired people, professional couples and young families, considerate of each other and polite to strangers. Just ordinary people.

So there we have it: ordinary people in an ordinary street in an ordinary town, yet from such ordinary things extraordinary things can arise.

Number 18 Willow Close was home to Len and Shirley Brown, an unassuming couple who had moved in some thirty years ago when the houses had first been built. They had no plans to leave. Similarly, Brian and Maggie Potter were the first and as yet only occupants of number 16. Despite a tentative dream of one day moving to Spain, most likely they too would not move again, leastways until they were called to that great piece of real estate in the sky.

Neighbours for more than three decades the Browns and the Potters were also firm friends. Shirley and Maggie were always ready for a chat, be it over the garden fence or over a pot of tea at ‘Lizzie’s Café’ in the High Street, while Len and Brian stood together in all kinds of weather, be it cheering on the local football team or trying to outdo their rivals down at the allotments. Both men were quick to point out that over the years both they and their football team had produced their share of prize vegetables!

The two couples had shared the tribulations of children leaving the nest and of retirement, they had laughed together and occasionally cried together, they had even spent holidays together. Their relationship and indeed their lives in general seemed rosy, yet a black cloud was about to appear over the horizon.

Football and vegetables apart Len’s great passion was fish, Koi Carp to be precise. The pond at the end of the garden was currently home to a dozen fine specimens and every morning he sauntered down to count them.

On the day of the proverbial black cloud, a more tangible one barrelled into the Brown’s garden. This was Sooty, the Potter’s cat. Passionate as Len was about his fish he could never hope to match the love and adoration Maggie heaped upon this otherwise unremarkable feline. It was unfortunate that Sooty’s arrival that morning coincided with a moment of panic when Len realised one of his fish was missing.

He counted again “One, two, three-four, five… Dammit, stay still so I can count you. Six, seven-eight-nine, ten, eleven!” There were only eleven! Catching sight of Sooty, alarm turned to suspicion.

‘Is everything alright honey?’ called Shirley.

‘One of the fish is missing!’

‘He’s probably hiding’ she said in a placating voice, ‘Let me check’.

Sure enough, just as Shirley started the recount, the “missing” fish appeared from behind a stone at the bottom of the pond.

‘All fixed’ beamed Shirley. The lingering look of mistrust that Len aimed at Sooty suggested that far from being fixed, things were about to be irreparably broken.

Over the next few days Len took to counting the fish three or four times a day. He also took to staring out of the window in order to keep an eye out for Sooty. The days turned into weeks yet count after count twelve fish remained. Unperturbed, Len kept up his vigil, until one morning…

‘Shirley!’ yelled Len. ‘There’s definitely one missing.’

As before, Shirley came walked down the garden to put paid to her husband’s fears. Truth be told she had begun to be a little concerned by his constant counting and the hours of watching from the lounge window. She felt sure that the fish was once more hiding, probably out of spite. Shirley, like many people, was never averse to putting human emotions on animals. This time it was no game of hide and seek, there really were only eleven fish in the pond.

Several hours later Len and Shirley were sat in the lounge.

‘I’m sure it’s their bloody cat’ said Len suddenly.

‘Whose cat is that dear?’ asked Shirley, barely turning her attention from this week’s copy of ‘Woman’s Weekly’.

‘Next door’s’ he replied irritably. ‘Whose did you think I meant, the Queen’s?’

Shirley sighed inwardly and put down her magazine. ‘You don’t know that, dear. After all, he’s never taken a fish before.’

‘There’s a first time for everything’ he growled.

Later that night Shirley woke with a start to find the bed beside her was empty; bleary eyed she wandered downstairs to see what was wrong. Entering the darkened lounge she turned on the light.

‘Turn the light off, he’ll see!’ hissed Len from his spot by the window.

‘Who’ll see, dear?’

‘That bloody cat!’

‘But they keep Sooty in at night, you know that.’

‘We’ve only got their word for that,’ Len argued. ‘If my cat was stealing other people’s fish I’d lie about it too.’

‘Now your being silly dear. I’m going back to bed; I suggest you do the same.’

It was many a year since Shirley had dared to speak to her husband in such a frank way; wrapped up in his burgeoning paranoia Len took no notice.

In the morning Len was still in the lounge, albeit asleep in the chair. Later that morning, several hours later than usual, he carried out the first count of the day. There were only ten!

‘I’m sure it wasn’t my Sooty,’ said Maggie Potter, confronted on the doorstep by a red faced Len. ‘He was in all night.’

‘I don’t believe that for a second,’ Len retorted. ‘Keep him away from my fish you hear.’

‘Now Len,’ interjected Brian. ‘There’s no call for implying Maggie is a liar. If she says the cat was in then the cat was in, end of story.’

‘Trust you to take her side,’ sneered Len, stomping away as he did so.

Nothing of note occurred between the two sets of neighbours for a couple of weeks; Maggie and Shirley continued to chat, although some of the pleasure had gone out of it, while the two men kept an uneasy silence. For the first time in years Brian went to the football alone.

‘Look Len,’ said Brian that Saturday evening. ‘We’re going to stay with the kids for a few days next week, Sooty is going to be in the cattery. If one of your fish goes missing while we’re away will you be convinced that it wasn’t him?’

‘Maybe’ said Len, in a most non-committal manner.

‘I’m sure he will, won’t you dear?’ said Shirley.

‘It’s late,’ said Len. ‘Shouldn’t you be going?’

Brian and Shirley returned from their trip to find that another of Len’s fish had gone missing in their absence; Sooty was exonerated! Len, on the other hand, had another theory.

‘It’s too bloody convenient!’ he stormed.

‘So what exactly are you saying?’ asked an exasperated Shirley.

‘I’m saying that it’s only a hundred and sixty miles to their kid’s house. They drove back in the night and stole a fish to make ‘Shitty’ look innocent.’

‘It’s Sooty dear, not ‘Shitty’; there’s no call for bad language.’

‘Whatever the bloody thing is called, I bet they fed it to him. I’ll get even with it and them, you’ll see.’

The next morning Shirley found a smug and very happy husband sitting at the kitchen table.

‘Cup of tea dear’ he asked. ‘Go through to the lounge, I’ll bring it through.’

Len had no sooner turned on the kettle when a scream rang out from the lounge.

‘Oh my God, Len! There’s a heron in the pond, he’s got one of your fish; he’s eating it. It wasn’t Sooty at all.’

‘Maggie,’ said a pale-faced Len. ‘About Sooty, I’m afraid there’s been ….. a bit of an accident.’

At that precise moment the peace of Willow Close was shattered by the second scream of the day.

COPYRIGHT DM PAMMENT OCTOBER 2007