The Day the Fish Died: A True Story

Written at Colchester Write Night, on Monday 22nd May 2017, the first meeting at our new venue, Firstsite Gallery. We looked at the story behind Grayson Perry's Julie Cope and did a writing exercise  inspired by this. Here is mine...

A young boy likes fishing in the river behind his house; that is a shop at the bottom and a flat at the top. He lives there with his mum and dad and sister, and a big white dog called Penny. Many years later the young boy’s dad remarries and his new wife is called Penny, which amuses the much older but still not very grown up man-boy, but not his dad when he reminds him of it.

The young boy used to fish in the river behind his house that was a shop at the bottom a lot. He would often walk up the road and buy maggots for bait. He (the young boy) used to put the maggots in the bin outside, until one day his mum lifted the bin lid to put some rubbish in and lots, and lots, and lots of big black flies came out. This was not the first, or the last time, that the young boys mum was cross with him, but it was the last time he put maggots in the bin.

One day, long ago, the young boy was fishing in the river behind his house that was a shop at the bottom, and the fish started to float to the top of the water, which was going blacker and blacker.

The young boy was upset, and went back to the bit of his house that was a shop, and told his mum and dad who worked in the shop (and who lived above it with their son and daughter) what had happened.

On the other side of the river that the young boy used to fish in, and loved to wade across in his bare feet and look down at the crayfish in the water and the fish he used to try and catch, was a factory. This factory had leaked some chemicals into the river which had poisoned the water and killed all the fish. The young boy never fished in that river again.

A walk Down The Lane

A fresh September Sunday morning and we set off down the lane. You have changed from your skirt into jeans and boots, wisely as it turns out, and I have my coat and hat on.

Either side of us the verdant hedgerow is lush with leaves and hawthorn berries, the last of the blackberries, and those delicate purple pink and white flowers that remind me of sweet peas but aren't.
At the metal gate we stop to feed the two horses the carrots and courgettes we have for them. One of them, the young playful black one, tries to take the bag with the food in but I am wise to him now and keep it out of his reach. The older white one nibbles at your sleeve as we stroke their long faces.
Then we continue to the boarded up cottage at the end of the lane, the witches cottage we call it, and as usual fantasise about what it must be like to live there, and who the witch was.
To your delight the overgrown path beyond has been cleared and so we carry on, into the marshland alongside the river. We have to lift our legs higher than usual to walk through but it is worth the effort. We both agree it is better than the gym and I say it is like the army yomping on some training exercise.
High up on the horizon to the right a white house stands like a lone sentinel, surrounded by trees, and there are more horses in the field. Too far away for the few carrots I have left in my pocket and they don't seem to notice us anyway. We have seen deer in this field, but none today though.
We follow the river as it bends round sharply to the left, the cows on the opposite bank watching us closely, and keep walking as is straightens out, the cows now behind us and more green stretching out ahead. I make my usual silly jokes and you laugh anyway. You always do.
By now it has started raining, making little splashes on the river, and the grass is slippery underfoot. But we don't let it stop us.