Shag Point and Other Stories by Ross Doughty

Author:Ross Doughty
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: INVICTUS PRESS

FISHING TIME

At the funeral service, the fishing club president gave a pleasant enough eulogy about Richard, but his words missed the essence of the man. In fact, the president almost denigrated Richard with faint praise, mentioning that he’d led a simple life, never owned his own boat, but had been held in high regard by his fellow members as a good club man. The president thought he knew Richard well, but his shallow view never described the real Richard. He expressed sympathy about Richard’s ongoing heart condition but did not comment on what I believed to be Richard’s unique gift. Overall, the president’s half-hearted words disappointed me.

It didn’t surprise me that no one who spoke at the funeral service mentioned Richard’s eye for beauty: his appreciation of the patterns he saw in nature. He would point out to me the brilliant rippled hues of cirrus clouds on the dawn horizon; spirals of sea birds rising and falling and streaming away above the island at the harbour entrance; the iridescent metallic colours of a freshly caught snapper as they turned in the light. His appreciation of such things—and sharing them with me—was what formed the bond between us.

His only son, Fergus, who had worked for years on oil rigs in Alaska and the North Sea, made a rare visit home for Richard’s funeral and afterwards asked me to have a beer with him. I had met him quite a few times over the years and had always found him sullen and unfriendly, an immense disappointment to me. I had asked him to come fishing with me a few times, but he always turned me down.

After the service, like most of Richard’s mates, we went to the clubrooms to commiserate and, as we entered, I pointed out Richard’s name on the Honours Board. Fergus, who had been silent in the car, paused, looked at his father’s name and nodded. He had become a man of even fewer words than Richard.

I wondered if he was as shallow as he seemed or if he had some unfathomed depth of feeling. While I bought a couple of beers, Fergus found a leaner in an unoccupied corner.

I sat the handles of beer on the leaner.

Fergus picked up his ale and said, ‘Richard!’

‘Richard!’ I replied, and we both took a long draft of the amber liquid.

Fergus was tall and tanned, his physical strength evident even beneath a new suit bought for the funeral. Fergus had no resemblance to my mate Richard, who had been slight and short, although I could sometimes discern some of his mother’s features in Fergus’ symmetrical face.

Fergus turned to me and said, ‘Of all his acquaintances, you knew Richard best.’ It was not asked as a question or a matter for debate but stated as an indisputable fact.

‘I suppose that’s true,’ I replied.

‘And yet you never spoke at the service today?’ queried Fergus.

‘No,’ I replied, a little worried that I may have offended him.

Fergus was about my height and glared at me across

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