startling white, and as muscular as a water-carrier’s from hoisting his rod and throwing his line.
He pointed under the spreading mulberry branches. “Slide out as far as you can on that rock and tell me what is beneath it.”
Pegge got down on her hands and knees, first crawling, then sliding, leaving a glistening trail from her wet clothing. Walton was snapping open the bait-boxes and the warblers were quarrelling over the ripe fruit in the tree above her. When she reached the narrow outcropping,her hands were as purple as the fallen mulberries. She lay on her stomach and wriggled the last few feet to peer over the edge. Beneath the rock, dark ovals swayed gently in the weeds.
Soon Walton was standing at the foot of the rock, almost hopping from one leg to the other, his face daubed with clay to blend in with the riverbank. “Can you see below?”
“Just shapes.”
“Is it a trout? Lean out further, I must know what bait to use.” He was back rummaging through his boxes, inspecting the cow-turd and tossing it away. “The beetle has escaped. Why did I not bring red worms or paste? But I do not think it will be a trout,” he consoled himself, “for the water is not swift enough.”
“You hardly need bait,” she said. “I have one in my hand.”
Now he was in a fever, creeping along the wet rock towards her. He crouched over her ankles at the neck of the rock, for there was no room beside Pegge on the narrow overhang. “What fish is it?”
“I cannot tell.” It was hard to concentrate when water was dripping all over her legs from his heavy breeches. “But it is not long enough to be the pike.”
“And its bigness? Is it only a gudgeon?” He tugged at her petticoat to make her answer.
“As big as a bream, but not so round.”
He let out his breath and pushed up closer. “Then it is too big for a roach, which is well, for it is a foolish, simple fish. What sort of fins does it have? The tench has large fins and smooth scales,” he prompted.
She ran her fingers along the spine of the fish, which seemed drugged by the warm sleepy water. “Only one fin on top.”
“Then it cannot be a perch, for it has bristles like a hog.”
“Here is another brushing past,” she said, as it rubbed against her palm.
All morning the rock had been gathering heat, and now she melted into it, a new and not-unpleasant feeling, her breasts tender against the hardness. The rock was talking to her body, and her body to the rock, but what they were saying could never be written down, not in the King’s English as taught to gentlewomen. Steam was rising from her petticoat, causing an uncommon moistness all about her.
“I hope it is not a pair of ruff-fish.” He sounded deflated.
“There are more than two, Izzy, there must be half a dozen, and they are not ruffs. They are slipping in and out of my hand as if they are tame. Come, lie next to me and touch them. I cannot tell you how it makes me feel—you must stroke them for yourself.”
“We must call this only the river , Pegge, never by name. We will take them straight to the Frog & Pike. How shall we have them cooked, on the coal-fire or in a pan with oysters?”
“First help me catch them,” she said, laughing. “Then you must eat them howsoever you choose while I run back to Sevenoaks before my father discovers I am missing.”
Above her, the warblers were fighting again, dropping as many mulberries on top of her as they were eating. Without warning, a red fin rose out of the rippling water. As a huge, protruding mouth scooped up the floating berries, Pegge saw her face reflected in a single row of giantscales. The belly was fat and quivering, the best eating. A female, bursting-full of spawn. Now Pegge knew what they were, a shoal of them, scarcely a foot beneath the overhang. She turned to Walton and mouthed the word mirrors. Then she mimed the belly of the female.
“The queen of the river,” he whispered. “The big she-carp. Some call her the
He pointed under the spreading mulberry branches. “Slide out as far as you can on that rock and tell me what is beneath it.”
Pegge got down on her hands and knees, first crawling, then sliding, leaving a glistening trail from her wet clothing. Walton was snapping open the bait-boxes and the warblers were quarrelling over the ripe fruit in the tree above her. When she reached the narrow outcropping,her hands were as purple as the fallen mulberries. She lay on her stomach and wriggled the last few feet to peer over the edge. Beneath the rock, dark ovals swayed gently in the weeds.
Soon Walton was standing at the foot of the rock, almost hopping from one leg to the other, his face daubed with clay to blend in with the riverbank. “Can you see below?”
“Just shapes.”
“Is it a trout? Lean out further, I must know what bait to use.” He was back rummaging through his boxes, inspecting the cow-turd and tossing it away. “The beetle has escaped. Why did I not bring red worms or paste? But I do not think it will be a trout,” he consoled himself, “for the water is not swift enough.”
“You hardly need bait,” she said. “I have one in my hand.”
Now he was in a fever, creeping along the wet rock towards her. He crouched over her ankles at the neck of the rock, for there was no room beside Pegge on the narrow overhang. “What fish is it?”
“I cannot tell.” It was hard to concentrate when water was dripping all over her legs from his heavy breeches. “But it is not long enough to be the pike.”
“And its bigness? Is it only a gudgeon?” He tugged at her petticoat to make her answer.
“As big as a bream, but not so round.”
He let out his breath and pushed up closer. “Then it is too big for a roach, which is well, for it is a foolish, simple fish. What sort of fins does it have? The tench has large fins and smooth scales,” he prompted.
She ran her fingers along the spine of the fish, which seemed drugged by the warm sleepy water. “Only one fin on top.”
“Then it cannot be a perch, for it has bristles like a hog.”
“Here is another brushing past,” she said, as it rubbed against her palm.
All morning the rock had been gathering heat, and now she melted into it, a new and not-unpleasant feeling, her breasts tender against the hardness. The rock was talking to her body, and her body to the rock, but what they were saying could never be written down, not in the King’s English as taught to gentlewomen. Steam was rising from her petticoat, causing an uncommon moistness all about her.
“I hope it is not a pair of ruff-fish.” He sounded deflated.
“There are more than two, Izzy, there must be half a dozen, and they are not ruffs. They are slipping in and out of my hand as if they are tame. Come, lie next to me and touch them. I cannot tell you how it makes me feel—you must stroke them for yourself.”
“We must call this only the river , Pegge, never by name. We will take them straight to the Frog & Pike. How shall we have them cooked, on the coal-fire or in a pan with oysters?”
“First help me catch them,” she said, laughing. “Then you must eat them howsoever you choose while I run back to Sevenoaks before my father discovers I am missing.”
Above her, the warblers were fighting again, dropping as many mulberries on top of her as they were eating. Without warning, a red fin rose out of the rippling water. As a huge, protruding mouth scooped up the floating berries, Pegge saw her face reflected in a single row of giantscales. The belly was fat and quivering, the best eating. A female, bursting-full of spawn. Now Pegge knew what they were, a shoal of them, scarcely a foot beneath the overhang. She turned to Walton and mouthed the word mirrors. Then she mimed the belly of the female.
“The queen of the river,” he whispered. “The big she-carp. Some call her the
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