Free Come Not When I Am Dead by R.A. England Page B

admiring.   “You’re very lovely” I say “thank you for your love.”   I feel blue birds could fly to me in a
little troupe and flutter around me, prinking my hair and clothes as they trill
a little tune.   I feel I am good, a
really good person.   The midges are
biting at my head and neck now and a deer leaps out from the undergrowth on the
other bank, it makes us jump and be even quieter.   And I drift into magical silence.  
    We were having a bit of a sit down
and a cup of drinking chocolate from his flask before we changed rods to fish
for sea trout.   We waded in together
just below the hut.   Tired, I was
glad of a sit down and to go into a daze.   Sometimes he doesn’t take to fishing so very easily, he forgets
everything and he is clumsy in the water “think about where you’re walking” I
say “you should always be having a little conversation with your feet whilst
you’re wading, you do have to be very aware of your feet Charlie, that’s the
difference between success and disaster, it’s so important.”   I feel like shaking him by the shoulders
to make it settle in his head.   It
bores me to be a bore, but I have to spell everything out for him sometimes
“look, now you’re standing on solid, unshifting bedrock and there’s no slime
beneath your feet to unsettle you, see?”   And I shuffle my feet as an
illustration   “Charlie,
concentrate!   And sometimes, like
back there, you’re wading through shifting shingle with those slimy slippery
boulders, they can be utterly treacherous, the mud is all oozy and grabs your
legs, did you feel it? You have to just be aware of your feet all the time.”   I don’t think he’s getting it.   It is getting dark now and we should be
quiet.   “Do be careful Charlie, I’ve
fallen in loads of times and it’s horrible as well as dangerous.”   I am softer now.  
“I know you have” he says “I’ve seen you a few times”
“Don’t be such a bloody prat, it’s not funny, don’t make a joke of it.   Listen to me!   And always put the belt on your waders”
and I take it from his shoulder strap and put it around his waist, tightening
it up and adjusting it “Yes ma’am”
“It’s important, it will stop the water from getting straight to your feet if
you topple over” and I lean a little more forward, reach my hand up, high,
high, high and stroke down his left cheek I am taking pollen from a
flower.   And all my insides gushing
and waving frantically into disintegration.   The sky is black fudge and heavy and
sweet all around us and a sea trout lifts it’s body high in the air and flat
backs splash in the water “you’re showing off” I say “and your exuberance could
be the end of you, that joy could suddenly turn to dread, to hopelessness and
to flesh on my plate.”   I watch
Charlie in what light there is, I watch him in my grandpa’s waders, trying to
impress me, he wades towards me, trying to walk with dignity.   He has his rod in his left hand and
reaches out for my hand with his right and we walk side by side, I feel the
adult but look the child “I am looking forward to this” and he is, he wants to
learn how to fish, he wants to feel the same passion for it that I do, I would
love him to, but somehow think he won’t.   The river is pinching our legs through
the waders now, we feel the pressure in the faster flowing water try to carry
us off, kidnapping us for some boisterous and possibly lethal adventure, I tell
Charlie that sometimes, especially when fishing in a flood, debris can take you
from behind, and bang, before you know anything about it, you’re off your
feet.   I tell him how if you go over
in waders they fill up with water and then you’re buggered, or sometimes the
air can stay in the legs and feet of the waders and turn you upside down.   These are things I was taught when I was
little and I’m passing them on to him, but whereas with me, they screwed their
way deep down in my