On The Fly

ON THE FLY

A fishy tale of rods, flies and sex

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 Jillian Ward

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

All rights reserved.

All characters in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance between them and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Southern Stiles.

**Caution - explicit adult content and some strong language**

For Anglers Everywhere

We should all take a moment to spare a thought for those poor souls in the world, and there are many, who have been seized by the short hairs by a particularly pernicious and cruel addiction – angling.

Those already in its tenacious grip will admit, ashamedly and through tremulous lips, that angling is not a sport, but a disease afflicting both mind and body, and complete with its own set of symptoms.

The closed season will drive the dedicated angler to twitchy distraction. Obsessively counting the days until the opening of the next season, he marks off each one on his calendar with a pitiful sigh. A fisherman with redundant tackle and nowhere to go is, indeed, a heart-rending sight.

Checking the condition of his tackle and handling his rod at frequent intervals brings short-lived relief. Compelled to browse magazines, catalogues and the internet, he searches for that elusive, prohibitively expensive new piece of kit with which to console the burgeoning emptiness of his life.

He convinces himself, and his wallet, that a new rod or reel will bring him ultimate success next year and make him the envy of his fellow anglers. Buy both, and it is guaranteed.

He tries to persuade his spouse that the purchase of his latest piece of tackle may even make him a more satisfying lover. Truly, there is no depth to which he will not sink to relieve his torment.

Often suffering withdrawal symptoms concomitant with any addiction, the distraught angler may be found satisfying his lust for all things piscatorial by lurking around the fishmonger's stall in the local supermarket, breathing in the heady, stomach churning aroma of a freshly gutted salmon as if it were Chanel No 5.

The four months between the end of September and the beginning of February are a depressing time for the committed game angler…but, courage mon brave, he will weather with resilience the angling-free desert, until at last, the first day of the new season dawns.

He will emerge from the gloom with shiny new tackle, renewed enthusiasm for success, and the prospect that this will be the year he will catch 'the big one'.

Bless his little neoprene socks.

1

'And I wish you all tight lines,' echoed through the public address system. A dram of specially distilled whisky, poured from the lip of a silver quaich, anointed the river, and the dedication ceremony concluded.

To a round of polite applause, a specially invited celebrity guest cast out the first line and with the time honoured ritual over, the crowd slowly began to disperse.

The salmon season was officially open and fishing could begin again in earnest, to the great relief of all who had weathered another closed season, greeting this day with most of their sanity, if not their finances, still intact.

'A fine turnout this year,' said a tall man in tweed breeks and matching jacket. 'What do you think, Brian, about two hundred?'

Brian MacDonald nodded and smiled at the man - Gerald James, proprietor of the shooting and tackle emporium in the nearby town.

'At least, Mr James,' he said.

'You'll be looking forward to a good season this year?'

'I always do.'

James took a sip from his whisky. 'Any bookings yet?'

'Aye, I have, sir, Monday morning.'

'A promising start. Well done.' James put out his hand. Brian took it, and the shake proved firm and friendly. 'The best of luck to you, Brian.'

'Thank you very much, sir,' said Brian, politely.

James turned away to speak to someone who had tapped him on the shoulder and Brian surveyed the crowd.

Never one to shirk an opportunity to further his own interests, he had already taken advantage of the usual collection of factors, ghillies, high profile patrons and important invited guests – all well-fuelled on expensive whisky.

He had shaken numerous hands, smiled affably and handed over business cards. He even managed to slip a card to the 'celebrity' guest, a one-time rock singer, Mickey Brass, now out of the limelight and in quiet retirement.

More hip op than hip-hop, thought Brian, and inwardly chuckled at his own joke.

'Brian MacDonald,' said Brass, scrutinising the card. 'Game angling and fly casting instructor. Full professional accreditation?'

'Yes sir.' Brian's veneer of respectable civility stood intact. Touting for business was not a time for frivolity.

'Hmmm.' The man wafted the card thoughtfully under his nose. 'I might have to call on your services, Mr MacDonald. I could do with sharpening up my technique.'

'I cater for all levels of ability. My number's on the card.'

'No doubt you charge an arm and a leg, eh?'

'Just the going rate.'

Brass tapped the side of his nose with the card. 'Any chance of a discount?'

Brian smiled. 'I'm always open to negotiation.'

Brass understood his meaning precisely and smiled knowingly. Cash in hand would not go through the books and thus avoid the attention of the Inland Revenue.

The men shook hands before a steward whisked Brass away to meet more important attendees.

Brian checked his watch. He had been in attendance for a respectable length of time, the day was getting on and now would be a good time to slip away unnoticed while there was still time to do what the day was really all about – getting his line wet for the first time that year.

The day had dawned bright and sunny, but ball-shrivellingly cold. Chunks of ice - known in anglers' jargon as grue - bobbed lazily downstream in the gin clear water, and virginal snow, undisturbed by any man, lay thick along the riverbank.

Now suitably attired in his padded trousers and thick woollen sweater, Brian stood and surveyed his domain, a broad toothsome grin on his boyish features.

He clapped his hands and rubbed them vigorously together, allowing friction to warm them.

'Smashing,' he said, pleased with what he saw.

Stretching for half a mile, both upstream and down, lay gently sloping riverbank; a carefully maintained wildlife haven enclosing an undulating plane of water forty yards wide - and it was all his.

He checked the water height on the gauge, and the temperature on his trusty old thermometer, before stamping back into his bothy to enter both on the blank first page of his brand new journal.

The bothy was Brian's pride and joy. Granite built with a slate roof, shuttered windows and stone-flagged floor it served as both his office and his sanctuary. A room ten feet by fifteen, it housed a tatty old armchair, a comfortable well cushioned couch, a wood burning stove and a table with accoutrements for basic catering. It was also home to his collection of fishing tackle, of which there was much.

Brian spent a lot of time at his bothy, once part of his parents' farm until his father signed it, and the stretch of river and its fishing rights, over to him as a fortieth birthday gift, and he made full use of its isolation and privacy whenever he could.

He fed a log into the stove and dropped into the armchair to soak up a little heat before facing the outside chill again.

Warmed through, he stood, stretched and prepared himself for the delights ahead. He wriggled into his chest-high neoprene waders, tied on his boots and donned his fishing jacket.

He brought down his brand new Hardy Angel salmon rod from the wall mounted rod holder, an elegant green affair he had bought for himself as a reward for his previous successful season. He would also sign off the more than thousand pounds it cost against taxes as 'equipment essential for work'.

'You be-auty,' he cooed, and kissed it with a loud, 'Mwuah'.

He joined the tip, attached a reel and drew out the line, threading it through the rings, and as if selecting the tastiest chocolate from a selection, circled his finger over the gaudily coloured assortment of feathers and fur in his fly box before finally settling on an old favourite; a green and yellow Eternal Optimist.

Even wearing his fingerless gloves, he was able to deftly tie the fly to the leader, nipping off the excess nylon with his teeth.

He put another log onto the already blazing stove, guaranteeing a warm welcome on his return an hour or so hence, before ramming a woollen hat tightly onto his head, gathering up his tackle and setting out into the snow, closing the bothy door securely behind him.

He was not the only one stirred with excitement, as the bulge in his waders stood testament to.

Two hours later, Brian returned to the welcome warmth of the bothy. His nose glowed a fierce red with cold and his breath puffed out in fine white clouds.

In February, daylight hours were short and he had already wasted enough of them networking at the opening ceremony and having lunch. Still only afternoon, the light would soon begin to fade and would drag the temperature down with it. Already his thermometer showed it to be several degrees below zero.

Despite his layers of clothing he was numb with cold and sensibly even he, the consummate angler, be it fair weather or foul, decided enough was enough and it was time to go home.

'Good day?' asked Brian's father as he took his seat at the dining table that evening.

Brian, his stomach gnawing with hunger fiddled with his cutlery. 'Aye, not bad,' he said. 'You?'

'Fair to middlin'. Hip's playing me up summat rotten. Did ye make some new friends at the 'do'?'

By 'friends', Brian's father meant new clients – paying customers. 'A few, I think,' Brian said.

'Ye'll be busy, then?'

'I hope so.'

'Good. It'll keep ye oot frae under my and yer Mam's feet. When d'ya start?'

'First thing Monday morning.'

Brian's mother came into the room carrying a tray, and placed plates of home-cooked lasagne on the table in front of the men.

'Thanks, Mam, I'm ready for this,' Brian said, attacking the plate with vigour. 'My stomach thinks my throat's been cut.'

As he chewed on his mouthful of hot and tasty food, Brian MacDonald did indeed consider himself one of the few whom Lady Luck had favoured with her generosity – he had a comfortable home, three square meals on the table and, as far as jobs were concerned, the best in the world.

His skilful tutelage with a rod and fly reaped him sufficient income to keep his bank account mostly in the black and coupling his perfect career with owning and fishing his own private stretch of river placed him well and truly in angler's paradise.

Talented, accomplished and privileged, every day he counted his blessings.

2

Clad only his undershorts, Brian could see himself from head to waist in the mirror over the bathroom basin. His appearance was important to him. He was his own billboard.

For a man forty-six last birthday he considered himself still in good shape. His full head of brown hair, slightly wavy and greying gracefully at the temples, he kept neatly trimmed, and under heavy expressive brows, his eyes were a striking green-grey, his lightly tanned skin emphasising their pale colour. His smile could loosen the stays of the most frigid ice maiden and the few fine lines around his eyes, as well as giving his face character, hinted at a man who smiled a lot.

He liked to maintain a close shave when working; it projected an image of professional neatness. As he would be on show today, he splashed hot water on his face, slathered on a generous measure of foam and scraped the blade across his face.

Remnants of foam he wiped from his face with a towel. He assessed his effort, declaring himself satisfied with the result.

After a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage, fried bread and two mugs of hot, strong coffee, Brian felt ready to face the day.

He was looking forward to his first pupil of the season and an easy morning in the company of an experienced angler.

Most of his clients were competent, merely needing a little fine-tuning, but he was also highly proficient at instructing cack-handed amateurs with more enthusiasm than skill.

To succeed in instilling both the incompetent and the passionately inept with at least the basics of the noble art of fly-casting was a source of great pride to him

Be it by overhead, roll, double Spey or snake cast - if there was a way of getting a fly out onto the water and into the fish's mouth, Brian knew it, practised it and excelled at it.

In exchange for what he thought to be a very reasonable hourly fee, he shared his well-honed skills, advising and educating those who paid a small fortune to take rods on Fasquhillie estate's stretch of the river, although the sometimes generous gratuities he received were not always in appreciation of his services to the perfection of angling.

At nine o'clock sharp on Monday morning, tackled up and ready for action, Brian waited patiently on the bench outside the bothy for his first paying client to turn up.

Moments later he heard the crackling of a heavy motor car down the gravely track leading from the main road, through the farmhouse's front yard and down to the bothy.

A silver Range Rover Vogue pulled up and Sir Christian Todd climbed from the driver's seat. The passenger door popped open and a woman extricated herself from her seat belt.

'Good to see you again, Brian,' said Sir Christian, his hand outstretched in greeting.

'You too sir.'

The men shook hands before Brian skipped round to the passenger door and held it open for a woman he had never seen before. Sir Christian made the introductions.

'This is my wife, Helena. Helena this is Brian, the finest casting tutor this side of the Cairngorms.'

Statuesque, with liquid brown eyes, Lady Helena Todd stood wrapped tightly in a padded jacket zipped up to her nose, and wore a fluffy woollen hat pulled down to her eyebrows. Brian beamed a smile at her. She stared at him cold eyed, and then nodded an acknowledgement.

Sir Christian opened up the rear of the Range Rover, and sat on the tailgate to don his fishing gear A regular pupil of Brian's and a keen student, he was enthusiastic, capable and a good tipper.

Lady Helena strolled the short distance to the riverbank and stood staring downstream. Brian sidled up to her.

'It's lovely isn't it?' he said, attempting to engage her in conversation.

'It's very nice.'

'Do you fish?'

She looked at him coldly. 'No.'

'A lot of women do.'

'Not me. It's just a silly waste of time if you ask me.'

Noticing the tip of the woman's nose turning a startling shade of red prompted him to ask the obvious. 'Are you warm enough?'

'No I'm not,' she said, stamping her feet. 'If you must know, I'm fucking freezing.'

He gestured towards the bothy, 'Then would you allow me to warm you up?' He led Lady Helena inside the cosy granite hut.

Immediately the warmth hit her, her face lost its sour expression. 'Oh, thank God!' She stood in front of the blazing stove, her hands outstretched to gather heat.

'Sit down,' said Brian, fluffing the cushion in the chair. 'Get the benefit.'

She pulled off her hat and unzipped her coat before sitting on the edge of the deep comfortable chair. She smoothed down her ruffled hair and smiled her gratitude to her benefactor, and he saw she was lovely.

'You're welcome to wait here until Sir Chris is done,' he said. 'There's a kettle, coffee, milk – dried I'm afraid. There are books, magazines and…that's it really. I'm not really geared up for guests, but by all means help yourself.'

Eye contact between them lasted only a brief moment, but in it he felt a mutual interest stir and when the lady spoke again, her voice was refined and warm.

'Thank you, Brian. I'm sure I'll manage to keep myself amused.'

'Ahem!' Sir Christian, now tackled up and waiting in the doorway, cleared his throat and broke the spell. 'Whenever you're ready, Brian.'

An hour and a half later, Sir Christian's lesson ended and he and his wife prepared to leave.

'Chris darling,' said Helena, addressing her husband while glancing over his shoulder at Brian. 'I've been watching you two through the window and I think I've changed my mind. This fishing game looks a lot more interesting than I first thought. Do you think I could have a go?'

A wide smile broke over Sir Christian's face. 'My love, I would be more than delighted if you would.'

'I'll probably need some lessons. I want to do it right.'

'Of course you do,' agreed Sir Chris. 'And I'm sure Brian here will be just the chap to help you, won't you Brian?'

Brian nodded. 'Absolutely. It would be a pleasure. Just say the word.'

'Then we shall need to organise a mutually convenient time for you both. What do you have on this week, darling?'

'Nothing that can't be changed.'

'How about now,' chipped in Brian. 'I'm free until this afternoon, and there's no time like the present…for the basics at least. I can sort out some light tackle and we can get to work right away.'

'Excellent!' Sir Chris beamed. 'I'll go back to the lodgings and change. I have a few calls to make, so I'll pick you up at...' He checked his watch. 'How about noon?'

'Perfect,' said Helena.

She gave her husband a quick goodbye kiss and he drove away, leaving her in Brian's capable hands.

'Let's get out of the cold,' said Brian, and with his hand in the small of Her Ladyship's back, he guided her into the bothy.

'I'm not really interested in fishing you know,' Helena said once they were inside.

'I didn't think you were,' said Brian, smiling. 'I don't think I've ever seen anyone look so bored in my life.'

'I tried not to make it too obvious.'

'I've seen it all before. If it's all so dull, why do you want to learn?'

'I don't. It was just an excuse to spend more time with you.'

'With me? Why?'

'I think we both know why.'

'Sir Chris is too busy to pay you much attention?'

'Got it in one.'

The same old story, Brian had heard it all before.

'Well, that is a crying shame and should not be allowed,' he said, taking her hand and kissing