Billy's Lake

Billy’s Lake

Chapter One

The boys had been bickering all the way on the long hot drive across country to Grandpa’s stale old bungalow. Dad had finally lost his temper with them and threatened to pull over and bang their heads together if he heard another word. They knew he wouldn’t really do it but they could tell he was very cross. Jimmo and Mike had not been getting along all summer. They had become desperately bored beginning their summer break from school living in a new town where did not have any friends. They could not even remember why they had fallen out, but what had started as a simple dispute had become a continual tit for tat battle. At nine Jimmo was a year older than Mike. He had been Mike’s hero until the start of the summer. Jimmo was brave and fearless; he could climb the tallest and most difficult trees, and was a fierce and accurate tackler in their back yard football games. He was loud and confident whereas Mike was quiet and almost timid. Now they were being shipped off to stay a few days with Grandpa because Mum was looking after an ageing Aunt who was recovering from a hip replacement. Dad had been called away on business at short notice so there was no one left at home to look after them. They were not looking forward to being left with Grandpa; he was a changed man since their grandmother had died. In their younger days, trips to visit their grandparents had been magical adventures starting with their arrival in the evening to find a huge plate sandwiches laid out on a gingham table cloth. These were the best sandwiches in the world, hunks of fresh white bread that had been hewn with a bread knife the size of saw from a crusty warm loaf fresh from the stove. The ham was not uniform squares lifted from a plastic supermarket packet; instead rough, red, irregular salty slices cleaved from a joint that rested on a plate under a net tent in the pantry.

As they drew in front of the lone bungalow with its’ peeling green paintwork in a quiet country lane their Dad leaned round and with a serious face said.

‘Look, boys. I’m sorry I have to go to Germany but I have no choice so we’ll just have to make the best of it.’

‘But Dad…’ began Jimmo

‘James, I know you don’t want to be here.’

‘But Dad, Grandpa is so grumpy.’ said Jimmo

‘He’s just lonely now Grandma’s gone,’ said Mike

‘Yes,’ said Dad, ‘ you remember how much fun you used to have with him. The fishing, the long walks in the country. It will do you two and him some good to do some of that again.’

‘But he doesn’t want to do those things any more.’ said Jimmo

‘Well it’s been a couple of years now, perhaps he’s got some of his old spark back.’ said Dad.

The door to the bungalow opened and Grandpa emerged into the sun, a shock of white hair swept back over his head and down onto his collar. He smiled at them and as they disgorged from the car and Mike whispered, ‘He looks so small and old’.

Dad had to leave almost straight away and as they stood in the dark hallway they could hear the crunch of gravel as the car left the drive. Then all that was left was an uncomfortable silence filled with the ticking of the big clock in the hall. The house seemed to creak and echo with their steps and finally Grandpa said, ‘Come in boys, come in and have something to eat before you unpack your things.’ His voice was small and old too.

The next morning as they sat eating toast in the old dining room the boys scowled at each other, they had argued the night before about who would have which bed. Jimmo as usual had pulled rank over Mike and had got the old iron bedstead with its lumpy mattress while Mike had to make do with the even lumpier old sofa in the same room. It was rough and old and not quite long enough for Mike. He had had to sleep with his head pushed up against one armrest while his feet strained against the other. Above the bed there was a glass cabinet on the wall with a huge ugly stuffed fish. Below the mounted fish was a small tarnished plaque that said ‘Pike, 19lb 6½oz. Caught by William J. Emery 12 July 1952’. When Mike had read the name on the inscription he had said quietly to himself, ‘Grandpa?’

            ‘What d’ya say squirt?’ Jimmo had sneered

            ‘Shut-up Jimmo,’ retorted Mike

            ‘Shut-up yourself squirt’.

After breakfast they asked Grandpa if he would take them fishing but the old man had smiled weakly and said,

            ‘Sorry boys, not today, I am feeling a bit tired’.

The boys had shot each other a glance for once in silent agreement. Grandpa seemed older and much more tired than ever before. Jimmo had tried to catch the old man’s interest by showing off his new penknife.

            ‘Look Grandpa, it’s got five blades. Even one with scissors!’

            ‘That’s a very smart piece of equipment.’ said Grandpa

            ‘Yeah’, gloated Jimmo, ‘Mike hasn’t even got one!’

            ‘No penknife Mikey?’ asked the old man, ‘I wonder…’ his voice trailed off and he shuffled out into kitchen.

            ‘You’re such a show-off Jimmo,’ said Mike

            ‘You’re such a wimp,’ said Jimmo as folded away his penknife.

Mike was about to retaliate when Grandpa came back into the room.

            ‘Not fighting boys?’ he had picked up on the atmosphere between the boys, ‘You two always got on so well.’ he sighed.

            ‘Here Mikey, have a look at this.’ Grandpa opened a knarled old hand to reveal an old penknife with a horn handle. ‘I am afraid it’s only got one blade Mikey but I carried it around in my pocket for years and it always served me well. Here, you have it.’

            ‘Oh Grandpa, thanks that’s brilliant, really can I have it?’ Mike said

            ‘Try and look after it and be careful’, the old mans eyes smiled as he look straight into Mike’s.

            ‘You bet I will. Thanks Grandpa, thanks,’ said Mike.