“Can you describe the sound?”
She made a soft chirping sound, lips pouting innocently.
Looking at the computer so she couldn’t see his eyes twinkling, he said, “Do it again. I didn’t quite get that.”
She started to make the sound again before catching herself. Noticing his playful look she laughed, blushing, the carefree, musical sound going straight to his heart.
“Very funny” she smiled, realizing it was the first time she’d laughed in months; it felt good.
She had a beautiful, genuine smile. Perfect white pearls and soft lips. Little dimples completed the picture of gentle innocence.
His thoughts bounced back to reality. “Let's go take a look.”
As he followed her he couldn’t help comparing her slimmer, girlish figure to that of the magnificent Carol.
He switched on the computer and it immediately started chirping. He raised one side of the keyboard a few inches then dropped it. As it landed on the desk the chirping stopped and the computer proceeded to ‘boot’ normally.
“Stuck key,” he suggested, looking at her intently. “Probably too much coffee in it.”
“I don’t drink coffee!” she objected before realizing she’d done it again. He made her nervous, and whenever she was nervous she answered spontaneously.
He smiled. “Just testing.”
“So you can program computers as well as fix them?” she teased innocently.
“And operate bulldozers,” he said proudly.
She looked incredulous. “Was that you out there yesterday?” She pointed out the window to the embankment clearly visible across the runway.
“Yes, did you like my charge back to base when I was finished?”
“Everyone in the office thought the driver was under the influence or being chased by a wild animal. It was very impressive.”
“I’m glad you liked it. Give me a call if you want a ride.”
“Not in your lifetime.” She shook her head firmly. Suddenly a curtain closed over her face. “I must get back to work; thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” James took his cue, wondering what was really going on in her lovely little head.
At ten o’clock, when he’d finished all outstanding jobs, he told his boss Al White that he was going to check the faulty turnstile. Selecting some tools from the box under his desk, he set off for the jetty gate. He passed eleven side-roads before reaching the main gate. The same guards were on duty but the change in attitude was remarkable.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” the formerly hostile one greeted James, as he stood to attention and saluted.
“Good day, gents,” James returned the salute. “Just going to fix the turnstile.” James didn’t know whether they were being genuinely friendly or avoiding confrontation, but he went along with the play.
When he arrived at the warehouse he peered into the dark interior, eyes still adjusting after the bright sunlight. “Good afternoon, Mr. Williams,” he greeted the store man. “Solitary job when there are no ferries.”
“Yes, dreadfully boring. What can we do for you today?”
“I need to check the electronics on the gate; there seems to be a fault.”
“Sure, carry on.” Williams gestured in the direction of the turnstile to the jetty.
After inspecting the turnstile and ‘reconnecting a loose wire in its control-box,’ James stood admiring the view. Fish were rising near the jetty and sunlight sparkled on the river, smooth and inviting. He marveled at its changing moods; some days grey and forbidding, others windy and choppy.
The old man stood next to him. “Fine view.”
“Yes, very peaceful. Do you ever fish here?” James asked.
“No, if I had a rod I would. Fishing tackle’s a bit scarce around here,” he chuckled.
“I have a spare I could lend you. Do you fish with a fly rod?”
“Yes, the only way, although I haven’t done it for years,” Williams said.
“I’ll get my gear,” James said, glad to have someone to fish with.
“Don’t you work during the week?” Williams asked.
“Not if it interrupts the fun,” James laughed.
He went home quickly, telling the guards he needed more tools and that he’d be back shortly.
Twenty minutes later he reappeared with a large, brown, plastic tool box, more than three feet long. Inside, under a tray full of light tools, were three fly rods, reels, spare spools, boxes containing hundreds of flies, and even a collapsible landing net. “Here you are, a genuine Hardy six-weight.” He handed the rod to Paddy Williams who was admiring the contents in disbelief.
“Best damn toolbox I ever saw,” he laughed, stripping line and selecting a fly. “What do you find works best?”
“Mrs. Simpson or Walkers Killer, especially the ones with the ‘jungle cock.’” James indicated the shiny, pale-brown skirt near the eye of the hook.
Soon they were on first-name basis, chatting like old fishing buddies.
James caught the first fish, a small tilapia. “These are the best eating fish in the river, especially if you get one big enough to fillet,” he said, releasing it. “Go and call your big brother.”
Paddy wasn’t having much luck so he changed to a bigger fly, a number eight red and black ‘woolly worm.’ He cast far out from the jetty and let the fly sink to the bottom before to retrieving it, very slowly. Suddenly the rod bucked, reel screaming, as a large fish set off at a terrific pace, pulling out line in a blur. Fortunately it headed upstream, fighting the current as well as the drag of the line and reel.
“I think I’ve caught a crocodile,” Paddy shouted excitedly. “He’s taking all the line.” The fish swam with the steady committed endurance of a big one, giving no indication that it would stop soon. The line left the reel in a pulsating stream even though the drag was as tight as possible.
Paddy stared in alarm at the dwindling line, hypnotically counting the remaining turns. “I’m going to have to follow him along the bank as far as I can.”
“Good luck!” James called, “Shout if you need a hand.”
Paddy jumped down from the jetty, the rod bending in a sharp curve under the strain. He staggered fifty yards upstream over bushes and driftwood, the line down to the last turn when it suddenly went slack. “I think it got off!” he shouted, looking despondent as he turned to walk back.
“Maybe not,” James cautioned. “Sometimes those big catfish get wise and swim back towards you very quickly.”
Paddy rapidly retrieved the loose line and suddenly the reel started screaming again. The fish set off on a series of long runs into mid-stream before tiring, gradually reducing the length and speed of its runs. After half an hour they landed it, a twenty pound catfish, nearly four feet long.
“Nasty looking bugger.” Paddy observed the long whiskers and brown, slimy body with distaste.
“True, but they fight like hell and taste quite good too.” They put the fish back into the water and it immediately swam into the depths, wiser and none the worse for wear.
They sat for a while enjoying some tea and discussing the difference between fishing in Oregon, from where Paddy hailed, and the Congo. James thoroughly enjoyed Paddy’s company and, after agreeing to come fishing