Death and Mr. Pickwick (45 page)

 

*

WHERE THE LONDON TO SALISBURY
road crosses the Southampton to Andover road lies the village of Stockbridge, in the valley of the River Test. Here are charming trees and meadows, kingfishers' lustre, and the sounds of peewit and snipe; but to an English angler's heart, stirred by the rise of the mayfly, here is the finest chalk stream in all the land. On a bright spring day, the water is as pure and as clear as a window on fins, gills and scales.

It was a day of unremitting sun in June 1822 – a day passed by Canon Frederick Beadon and his nephew Edward Barnard as honoured guests of the Longstock Angling Club. Now they walked back, shouldering their rods and baskets, from Testcombe Bridge to their hotel in Stockbridge.

Canon Beadon was just nine years older than his nephew, but the two were not as close in family resemblance as they were in years. Beadon had a long face, a long nose and bright eyes, under a battered, wide-brimmed hat. His frame was large and strong, which he carried in a relaxed manner, swinging forward his large boots. By contrast, Barnard was slim, with small round glasses, and spiked hair poking from under a top hat, and his eyebrows gave him a mischievous or even devilish look, at odds with the profession of his uncle.

‘A good day,' said Edward, as he took a sip from a flask of water, and passed it across.

‘A good
day
,' said the canon, ‘but a week would be bliss.'

‘Eventually you will be a member of the Longstock.'

‘When someone dies or resigns.'

‘You will have mixed feelings in the pulpit if one of the members should fall ill.'

‘You are a wicked boy, Edward.'

‘Certainly there is no chance of my taking
your
place on the waiting list. You are the healthiest man I have ever met.'

‘You should follow my diet.'

‘I know – vegetables, fruit, salad, pastries, all in spectacular quantities, and cocoa every day for breakfast. No thank you, Uncle.'

‘You would never be ill, through all the long journey from childhood to old age. And meat in moderation, like I used to tell your mother. But come, let us have a chirruper.'

*   *   *

Shortly afterwards, they sat in the bright, oak-panelled lounge of the Grosvenor Hotel. ‘I pity the man who does not fish,' Beadon said to Barnard. He whispered: ‘Now look at him.'

He referred to a hunched man sitting alone on the other side of the room. ‘He has misery written on his face,' said Beadon. ‘He goes to bed miserable, and wakes up miserable.'

‘He's like a barrister without any clients,' remarked Barnard. ‘Doesn't know what to do with himself.'

‘If someone could persuade him just once to put a rod in his hand and sit on the bank, he would come alive. He would sleep soundly, and wake up refreshed.'

‘I couldn't help but overhear you, gentlemen,' said a soft voice from beside the sofa. It was the landlord, Mr Sherry, whose affable demeanour suggested a sampling of his surname, but whose wan cheeks also suggested he did not do so often. ‘That gentleman is miserable precisely because he
is
an angler – and this very morning he has decided to sell the rights to his fishery.'

Barnard sat up. ‘On the Test?'

‘On the Test.'

‘You don't mean the
Houghton
stretch?' said Beadon. There was a hint of lust in his religious eyes.

‘The very same.'

Barnard and Beadon exchanged significant looks. ‘Are you thinking we should strike?' said Barnard.

‘I am,' said Beadon.

‘The rights to the finest trout fishing in England.'

‘You are wrong, Edward. The finest trout fishing in the
world
. Mr Sherry, do you think you could introduce us to that gentleman?'

The following morning, in the hotel's breakfast room, Canon Beadon eschewed cocoa and ordered instead a glass of champagne.

*   *   *

Soon after Canon Frederick Beadon and Mr Edward Barnard acquired the rights to fishing on the Houghton stretch, a club was formed, in friendly rivalry with the Longstock: the Houghton Angling Club, composed of a dozen members, in accordance with Dr Johnson's recommendation that a dozen was the best size for a club. A thirteenth member was added, which would seem unwise – but it was decided that anglers can have their own dozen, like bakers. As bread and fishes have a long tradition of association, this was agreed to be an excellent sentiment.

The social standing of the Houghton's membership was considerable. There was a lord and a baronet; at least two members owned large estates, with an enormous head of game; one had served on the board for the discovery of longitude; another was a man of science, a prominent member of the Royal Society; another, a distinguished sculptor; there were several Members of Parliament.

They came by their carriages down the road through the centre of the village for the inaugural meeting of the club, and duly took their seats in a bay-windowed upstairs room in the Grosvenor Hotel. With all gathered at the table, it was agreed that records should be kept. The Longstock Club, after all, had recorded not only every fish caught since 1798, but every bottle of claret and port consumed by the membership. ‘I have seen their records,' said Canon Beadon, to the other members at the table, ‘and I would judge that poison outnumbered
poisson
by a ratio of twenty to one.' With a round of universal laughter the Houghton Angling Club began its history.

 

*

‘THE EARLIEST WRITTEN RECORD OF
the Houghton Angling Club,' said Mr Inbelicate by the fireside, reading from his notes, ‘is not of particular interest. It merely states: “The Houghton Club was established in June 1822. The season was so unfavourable, owing to the north-easterly wind and the brightness of the weather, that scarcely any fish were taken.” I understand this embodies an old piece of angling lore, Scripty – “Wind from the east, fish bite the least; wind from the north, go not forth.” I am also given to understand that trout lose their appetite on bright days.'

The next record read out by Mr Inbelicate was only a little longer: ‘“In the year of 1823, it was agreed to have a spring meeting, which took place on 14 April. The weather was unfavourable owing to the prevalence of a cold, north-easterly wind; but a few trout and grayling were caught between the 14th and the 19th when the party separated. No account of the fish was kept.”'

A truly significant entry did not occur until four years later, on 16 July 1827: ‘“Although the book hitherto kept for registering the names of the members, the regulations of the club and the number and weight of the fish killed by each individual is still continued, yet it is conceived that another volume may be added not inappropriately to our piscatorial records for those voluntary contributions which either the pen or pencil of our members and friends may enable them to add to our general stock.”

‘From then onwards,' said Mr Inbelicate, ‘the records of the club are of considerable interest to us – records in words
and
in pictures, Scripty. You must imagine that the Houghton men would come down to Stockbridge according to the call of the season, and wait until conditions were right for angling. They were forced to hang around the hotel, and the local inns. They were bored. They had to entertain themselves. An examination of the club's records shows the result. They reflect all the good fellowship and conviviality – all the flow of cheerful banter, and the sparkles of wit. Something more than mere secretarial minuting developed in the Houghton Angling Club, Scripty, simply because the members were unable to fish.'

He showed me a whimsical sketch of a club member, a bespectacled man in a nightcap sitting upright in a four-poster bed, yet holding his fishing rod. The end of his line led to a chamberpot at the foot of the bed. Underneath, a verse ran:

Though winds blow cold, bedded in blanket hot

Cheerful he rests and fishes in the pot.

‘Though not everything in the records was amusing, Scripty. Here for instance – an obituary entry for 1828, for the club's man of science, William Hyde Wollaston.'

He read: ‘“Wherever science is respected and friendship valued, his memory will be preserved in lasting records of the distinguished excellence by which his mind was adorned. These our short and simple annals will only show that whilst he was actively employed in the acquirement and diffusion of knowledge he often found leisure to join us in our humble sport, delighting and instructing us by his conversation and commanding by his talents and example our admiration and esteem.”'

‘The diffusion of knowledge again,' I said.

‘Indeed. But here was a set of club records which could encompass all sorts of material, verbal and visual. And if we look at the people making the entries, the most enthusiastic contributor was one Richard Penn, a plump, cheerful and wealthy bachelor, who worked in the Colonial Department.'

 

*

ONE RAINY DAY, RICHARD PENN
and Edward Barnard trudged through the mud of Stockbridge after a session at the riverbank. Both wore fishing boots; but as a consequence of overenthusiasm, supplemented by rain, Penn's boots had become wet through and made a most disagreeable noise as he walked.

‘I can't stand the boots farting any longer,' said Penn. Saying which, he stopped, set down his bag, asked Barnard to hold his rod and took a knife from his pocket.

‘You are surely not going to cut the leather.'

‘The noise is driving me insane.'

‘But those boots are new.'

‘Mauritius will buy me another pair. Large consignment of sugar on its way, you know.' He winked. He never fully explained his activities as a colonial agent, but sugar from Mauritius was understood to keep him sweet. Leaning on Barnard, he proceeded to cut two small holes in the bottom of each boot, letting the water run out.

‘Much better,' he said, walking at substantially reduced volume. ‘Most anglers would suffer because it would never occur to them to cut the boots.'

‘Count me as one of them.'

‘It makes you wonder. What
other
bits and pieces of advice could be given to an angler?'

‘Make certain there is water in the river before you set up your rod?'

He ignored the tease. ‘I am going to think about this. There may be little things which seem obvious, but which a novice angler would not know'.

‘The water in the river should preferably be of the wet kind?'

‘Mock all you want, Edward. It would be amusing, I think, to make a list of nuggets of advice.'

*   *   *

That night, Penn sat in his home, Rod Cottage, Riverside, not far from Stockbridge. In a notebook he wrote: ‘Are there any fish in the river to which you are going?' After a pause he wrote: ‘Having settled that question in the affirmative, get some person who knows the water to show you whereabouts the fish usually lie, and when he shows them to you, do not show yourself to them.' Every member of the club would, he realised, have witnessed some idiot novice who stood at the riverbank, peering into the water, checking to see whether there were any fish, thereby making sure there would not be.

Soon afterwards, Penn, as keeper of the record book of the Houghton Angling Club, added a section ‘Maxims and Hints for an Angler to its pages. A few days later, spectacles were cast upon this entry and, attached to them, the thin face of Edward Jesse – keen angler, writer on the natural world, and friend of Richard Penn.

‘I think someone could learn from these,' said Penn, closely observing his friend's reaction to the ‘Maxims'.

‘You are surely right,' said Jesse.

‘I rather think it would be very good if they were published,' said Penn.

‘That is a very good idea,' said Jesse.

‘They might even go well as an addendum to one of your works.'

‘They would indeed.'

‘Then we should make it happen.'

‘I do believe we should.'

 

*

‘IT WAS THE CASE,' SAID
Mr Inbelicate. ‘that there was no man in the world easier to persuade than Edward Jesse. He would believe
anything
a person told him.'

‘
A gullible man
!'

‘Coming together, isn't it, Scripty? Think of what Penn had persuaded him to do. Jesse was an author. An author's work is one of the most personal and private spaces – and yet,
in an instant
Jesse was persuaded to incorporate Penn's trifles in his book. People would foist any nonsensical story on poor Edward Jesse. And he had a particular fondness for anecdotes about the sagacity of dogs – take a look yourself.'

He passed over a volume by Jesse,
Gleanings in Natural History to which are added Maxims and Hints for an Angler
. An anecdote was given in that volume which additional research has enabled me to present below, with further details.

 

*

AN OLD OFFICER OF THE
44th Regiment, who saw action in the Peninsula, had once, by fording a river, launched a surprise attack on the French while they were cooking – and always recalled with particular satisfaction how he and his men dined on the enemy's soup that day. In consequence, every five years he and a small company of veterans paid a visit to Paris to dine on onion soup in one of that city's restaurants. The officer would proudly display his medal with its three clasps, and the others wore their medals too, and once they even sang ‘God Save the King', to the great chagrin of the restaurateur and the other diners, tinkling the medals with soup spoons by way of accompaniment.

On the day of such a reunion, the officer of the 44th decided to pass a little time in a stroll across a bridge over the Seine. Always meticulous in his appearance, the state of his boots was naturally of great concern – so he was extraordinarily annoyed when a small poodle, with a coat matted by Parisian mud, suddenly jumped upon his boots as he stood in the middle of the bridge. He cursed, but did not kick the dog as others might, for he always had a special fondness for the canine race, and once owned a spaniel which flushed out game for his division. Accordingly, he wandered to a bootblack stationed a little way down the bridge, and soon the boots were shining to his satisfaction.