Fish or Cut Bait

Sometimes you just have to decide... will you fish or cut bait?

Fish or Cut Bait
By
Ann M. Reid

Sorry. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention to her. There are plenty of folks who
would say it was my fault"well, partly anyway. Isn’t that what parents of
delinquents mumble with downcast eyes when a “News of the North” TV reporter
asks them if 15-year old Nigel (whose just been put away for microwaving live
cats) ever showed signs of trouble before now.

But it wasn’t like that. I’m not the parent"she is. And 82.
I’m an only child. She was a shop assistant and Dad was a fisherman who died when I
was 3. I don’t remember him. The problem is, I suppose, I didn’t really remember her
either. Not like I should have. Naturally, in the last 30 years I’ve written and called. But I
had a different life. Since I left for university, and met and married an American studying
Law and Engineering and went to live in the States, I haven’t really been back except as
a tourist. Sorry for that.

Like me, my husband was an only child. Even in those turbulent years during the 60s,
we were never overly emotional. We had no causes. We lived in a large, shady house in
an expensive suburb of Philadelphia. I worked in the library at the University of
Pennsylvania. My husband did patent preparation and patent law. By the time we
noticed we were childless, 12 years had slipped by and we’d grown use to the peaceful
revolution of our days. We were not unhappy.
Not then anyway.

It was after almost 25 years that our lives crashed to the ground. In retrospect, the first
disaster was minor. But at the time, it was anything but that to me. I was laid off from my
job. It wasn’t anything I’d done. There were budget cuts and I’d been there longer and
made more money than the rest. It was “economic” to let me go.
There was a small redundancy package"but it’s not that we needed the money. Well, I
didn’t think we needed the money. It’s just that that’s what I did. I dived into seas of
arcane or complicated information, and came up with the required pearl of information.
Faculty and graduate students came to me to locate facts about the aberration in the
peptide sequence in the DNA of Albinos, or the tensile strength of a 4-inch steel I-beam
on Mars and I’d find it. What now?

My husband was supportive, but in a distracted sort of way. He was sure I’d find
something new. And, he said, we didn’t need the money.
And then it all went to pear-shaped.
During the high tech stock boom a few years ago, my husband, uncharacteristically,
was drawn in by the lure of making big money. Everyone was doing it, it seemed.
Without telling me he aggressively invested in a high tech biomedical start-up whose
patent he was filing. It was run by two twenty-something boys with degrees in
biomed engineering. However, after nearly 2 years in review, the design of Jason
and Jeremy’s device-- an implanted blood sugar and insulin regulator-- was rejected by
the Federal Drug Administration as being likely to cause thrombosis.
Within days of this announcement, their venture capital dried up. The boys declared
bankruptcy and drove off in their Porsche Carreras to work on a new high tech idea they
were very excited about.
In the letter my husband wrote before he hung himself in the garage he said, “The boys
thanked me for my confidence in them. They said not to worry. They weren’t worried.
Apparently it often takes successful entrepreneurs 2 or 3 tries and misses before they
make it big. “You want to be there for the big pay-off? “ they asked him.
“Then hang around.”

* * *

After losing everything, I went home to Mum in Ormesby -- near Middlesborough, in the bleak, post-industrial north of England. It sounds pathetic, I know. Maybe I thought I deserved a kind of banishment or to atone for my sins of ignoring her all these years. Maybe it was a reflex or a lack of imagination-- I can't really explain it. Of course, I had been back during the years: a week in the summer, a Christmas break some years ago. The terraced house on Ormsby Bank seemed  almost cozy and charming then"though now Iwondered why. Paint was peeling on the outside sashes and the bathroom lino was cracked.

Mum looked older, too. She seemed to be shrinking. Mum said that Dad used to sing her
that song that went “Five-feet- two, eyes of blue, has anybody seen my gal?” She still
had blue eyes, but she was stooped and it shortened her. And although she was only
really a little plump, now her legs bowed widely and her side-to-side waddling gait
reminded me of a saddle-sore cowboy. She was good to me, though.

“I ‘m sorry for what’s happened to bring you here, Janey, but I’m not sorry you’ve come,”
she said as she watched me unpack my and place a neatly folded stack of nightgowns
and beige knickers into the cleared-out dresser drawer in my old room.
“It’s just till I’m on my feet. I won’t be a burden, Mum. I’ve always paid my way.”

She snorted.

“I’m not worried about you paying your way, I’m worried about you finding it,” she
snapped.
“I want you to get back your fire. Look at yourself"you’re all beige and neatly folded like
those smalls you’re putting into the drawer. You don’t want that. None of us knows how
much time we have on this earth, but without finding something that excites you and
feeds the fire inside you, even one day is too bloody long.”

I shuddered.

“After all I’ve been through and lost, I just want a peaceful life. Is that too much to ask
for?”
She was sitting on the bed and I turned to her, smiling hopefully.

“Too much to ask for? Nay! It’s too little,” Mum said, frowning. “Too little by half.”

*

In the days and weeks that followed I was so determined to get my life back on track that
I realize now I wasn’t paying much attention to Mum. It was as if she were a fuzzy
specter on the edge of my consciousness. I was up at 6:30. In all weathers I walked to
the Spar and got the papers. By 7:30, over tea and toast I’d circled job postings and had
begun to type cover letters to go with my CV on Mum’s dining room table.
She was there"I remember her padding around in her bunion-misshapen slippers and
a pinny. What was she doing? Dusting? I don’t know. All I remember was focusing so
hard on the typing paper in front of me that my eyes might have burnt a hole through it.
I wanted and I needed a job. I had to type letters and fill cream-colored envelopes with
my CV. I had to reach out to someone, somewhere beyond where I was sitting at the
dining room table. I had to or die. Really.
Slowly, though, I began to notice things that made no sense. One day, I looked up and
realized that there was a pair of brown suede boots with pink faux fur and pom-poms
standing by the coat rack in the hall. They were just like the ones Britney Spears was
wearing in the in-flight entertainment trailer on the flight from Philadelphia to Manchester.
I was going to ask Mum about them, but I got a call to set up a job interview and I forgot.
Later, while looking for a spare stamp in the hall table drawer, I found no stamps but a
bright enamel “Thundercats” key ring. When looking for more loo paper in the cupboard
under the stairs I discovered a full set of floor mats for a Peugeot 306 and a case of
canned cat food"though Mum had never had a car or a cat in her life.
It wasn’t really my business, I know, but it seemed strange.
What was even stranger, though, was when she returned from the High Street with
bulging bags from Boyes and a basket bursting with thread and peaches and cut-rate
gardenia-scented talc and skate board when I realized she had left her purse on the
kitchen counter.

*

As it happens, that was just before Mum’s birthday and I‘d promised to take her to
Trencher’s in Whitby for a glorious sit-down fish and chip dinner. My father was from
Whitby" he and mum had lived there on the bluffs of the Marine Parade over-looking the harbor. In 1949, when I was 3, his boat hit a mine somewhere in the North Sea. It was left over from the war"and whether it had been an English mine or one laid by the Germans, it killed him all the
same.

Despite this, Mum still loved Whitby and especially fish and chips at Trenchers. I
decided I would talk to her in Whitby, after dinner"that was it.
On mum’s birthday we took the Esk Valley Line to Whitby. From the train station, I held
her arm as we walked the steep streets in the bright sunshine. We went to Trenchers, just across from the station"and got table without much waiting. We ordered fish and chips and mushy peas with bread and butter" as they were the best fish in chips on earth according to Mum.

After we put in our order, we both decided to slip off to the ladies’ loo. They’ve got an
elevator and it takes you to the second floor where there’s an opulent green and rose
marble palace of a loo"complete with hand cream dispensers and a glorious bouquet of
stargazer lilies on the vanity. I was taking rather longer"having decided to peel off my too-warm tights on this summer’s day. When I emerged there was mum"her handbag bulging with a 2 toilet rolls, and she was trying to cram half the bouquet of stargazer lilies into her too small purse.
“Mum-- what on earth are you doing?” I asked with alarm.
She smiled, nonplussed, and said, “Do you think if I wore one of these in my hair the
people down stairs will know where I got it?”
“Of course they would. Have you gone mad? These are not your flowers… or toilet roll.
Put them back.” What’s come over you?”

“ I’ll tell you, “ she said, while struggling to snap her lumpy, greenery-sprigged purse closed.     “ But lets not let it ruin my birthday lunch. After… we’ll talk after.”

I was speechless. And without knowing what else to do I followed my mum back into the elevator and across to our table where the waitress was just bringing our sizzling platters of fried cod and chips.

I ate in stunned silence. Mum drank her half pint of cold lager and ate her cod and chips with much relish. She even licked her fingers in a delicate lady-like way. When we were done, I paid the bill and we walked up the street to the where the benches faced the harbor and the gulls
cried overhead.

“Well, Mum, I’m listening…” I said after a long while.
“Are you Janey? I hope so. I always loved Whitby. I can’t tell you how many times your
father proposed to me here. He might do it a dozen times a day on some fine days. I’d
laugh. I didn’t think he was serious"and I wanted more time, too. Time to be sure…”

“What does this have to do with taking things that don’t belong to you? You’re changing
the subject.”

“I’m not"as I was saying one day he’d had enough. He told me, “Lily, you’ve got to fish
or cut bait. I can’t wait any longer…” and then he walked away"leaving me there on the
bluff overlooking the harbor. Suddenly I was terrified that I had lost my chance to be
happy with him"and I knew I had to take the chance. I ran after him"but I couldn’t see
him for the crowds. I kept calling, “I’ll fish. I’ll fish. Don’t cut the bait, I’ll fish, I will!” I cried-
- and in a way I’m still doing it. You have to take risks, Janey. We all do.”

“What has that got to do with taking things that don’t belong to you?”

“It’s not big stealing. It’s like a sport"like game hunters in Africa used to. I like to feel
that thrill"that sudden heart-racing sensation you get when you hunt down and capture
something you’ve been after. It makes me feel alive.”

“But it’s daft, Mum. Daft and wrong. You’re going to get yourself in trouble!”

“Maybe it’s a little wrong, Jane, but what you do to yourself"that’s a big wrong. You live
with an old lady, and like an old lady.Truth to tell, you seem older than I do. That’s a
crime I think should get a mandatory sentence. So, when you stop your criminal
behavior, maybe I’ll consider stopping mine. But before then, put a sock in it, Janey. I’ve heard enough. Fish or cut bait. That’s what your father said to me and now I’m saying it to you. You’re still plenty young"do it while you can. And that’s all I’m going to say about it. Now or ever.
Case closed.”

***

And we didn’t talk about it after that, either.
But somehow, there was a shift in the air. Things were different. I began to see her
more"not just on the edges of my life or my vision. She came into focus"my focus"for
the first time since I was a young girl at school. To my surprise, I began to enjoy little things. I got pleasure seeing her enjoy her bacon in the morning. We walked together"up the Wynd
to the High Street, and behind Somerfield's to the boat launch to feed the ducks. On hot
days, we bought ice cream cones and sat in Elliot’s outdoor café watching the world go
by. I was still looking for work"and I’d had a few nibbles.
But since that day in Whitby I hadn’t noticed Mum shopping without her wallet or bringing
home any riding mowers, drum kits or baby bottles from Boots without paying for them.
That was a relief.

Anyway--finally, in late August, I was hired as a librarian in an out-reach program that
brings libraries in vans to elderly shut-ins as well as to preschool children in the Asian
areas of Middlesbrough. I needed a job" so I took it. Actually, after working in a
prestigious university research library I was surprised at how much I enjoyed getting out
and meeting new people, and bringing them books to read. I’m even taking lessons in
conversational Arabic at the college. Soon I’ll be able to say, “ ‘Hello,’ ‘Thank-you,” and
‘Would you like to checkout two or three books this week?” in English and Arabic.
One of the grandfathers, who learned English from the RAF during the war, volunteered
to help when our library van comes to their neighborhood. His name is Monzer Abdul
Baki. He’s asked me to go to the cinema with him"but I haven’t said yes. Not yet,
anyway.
He’s a handsome, gracious man with dark brown, kind eyes. He looks like Omar Sharif.
Last week he said, “Miss, tell me a phrase you want to learn in Arabic and I will teach it
to you when you come with your library-on-wheels the next time. Anything you want to
know…” he said and smiled.
“Fish or cut bait,” I said, though I have no idea why. “Tell me how to say that when I next
come.”
“Fish or cut bait?” His smile widened and Omar Sharif winked at me. “For you, Miss,
sure thing”, he said.
“’Fish or cut bait.’ I teach you"next time.”

# # #

Reviews

[emmajoy]

Strange post this, half quite over-long reportage up to the death of the husband, then half tale of real people with real problems but apparently little hope of remedying then until .. the wonderful Mum character gets into her stride! There seems to be far more heart or sincerity in the second half which in fact, i read a second time and discovered i was smiling, relieved. 'Fish or bait', something to ponder over during both positive and negative times!

(Not sure, but when writing prose isn't one supposed to use words for numbers, eg. 15: fifteen, 3: three, etc.)

Look forward to reading more of your writing.

[Judy Ponceby]

I enjoyed this story very much. I found your description of Mum just wonderful. It was detailed and I enjoy a character with a bit of mischief in them :) I generally stick to reading poetry but was attracted to your title. I find considering current life circumstances that I relate well in certain ways to this story, though perhaps not the obvious ones. You developed Mum and daughter well throughout the story and your descriptions are very well done. I thought the beginning a bit slow for me, but as I say I generally read poetry. Will be interested in reading more of your work. :) Thank you for sharing.

[AnnR]

Thanks for your review, Sam, and for picking up on that typo. I'll see to it!

[Samuel Dickens]

This is a very good story that held my interest all the way through. Initially, I thought it might be more about fishing, but that's okay---this is better.
It's a peculiar thing about this site, but work pasted here often loses all the dashes and turns them into quotation marks. Such is the case here.
One error----" Sheeven licked her fingers in a delicate"