Silver Bream – a short story
I love fish. I’m a Pisces, see. I love all kinds of fish - battered, fried, grilled. I love seafood too. I see food, I eat it. That’s a joke. You’re supposed to laugh.
I love fishing too, for Mackerel when I’m in Wales with Mum, or for Bream like I used to with Dad. Dad’s not with us any more, he got eaten by a shark. No he didn’t. That’s another joke. I love jokes, especially fish ones. How do you get to Wales in a mini? One in the front, one in the….you know it don’t you? Everyone knows that one. It’s a groaner. You can groan if you like. Not inwardly, outwardly, make a noise. You won’t though will you? You’re grown ups.
I hate it when grown ups pretend to do things, like when they pretend to laugh and go “ha, ha, ha”. That’s not a proper laugh, that’s an “oh how very amusing, how absolutely funny, oh yes how witty” kind of laugh. Mr Watkins, our headmaster, is like that. He never laughs at anything, he’s a miserable bastard actually. He looks like a dead pike, all grey and wet and beady eyed - and scaly.
He’s always on my case. Take last Monday, for instance. We had a Cup match against Arnold Hill who are top of the league. We’re third so it was a crunch game. I’m centre forward, the top scorer. I had a dream the night before that I would score a hat trick so I knew we’d win. My dreams are like witchy premonitions, they always come true. I dreamt my Dad was going to leave us and live with Aunty Carol and sure enough the next day there was a note where he would have been having his tea - “Dear Michael, one day you’ll understand why I’ve done this. I love you son. Keep fishing and scoring goals. I’ll always be with you”. That was last January and he hasn’t taken me fishing since. He’s gone like Mr Watkins, all grey and scaly. He came on my birthday for twenty minutes wearing a suit. It’s Aunty Carol’s fault, she’s made him like a robot, a career robot. All he does is work overtime at the office. He may as well sleep in that suit, at least he won’t have to get dressed in the morning.
Anyway, back to last Monday, to Mr Watkins, and the football match, and the fish. I haven’t mentioned the fish before but that’s how it started, with a fish, a silver bream actually. Dad caught it ages ago and we put it in the freezer. I took it in for Art, I was going to do a Still Life of it, until Billy Mason started playing football with it at morning break. By the time it was rescued, it only had a head and one eyeball left.
When I picked it up everyone screamed. That gave me an idea. I put it next to my face so it looked like I had a fish face and tried to kiss people with it. I tried to kiss Laura Diprose. Thing is, I want to kiss Laura Diprose anyway so the fish was a good excuse. If I could get a fish kiss, chances were next time I’d get a human kiss. Anyway, she totally freaked out and ran to Watkins. He came into the playground all arms and legs and baggy suit shouting in my eardrums: “Michael Jenkins I want a word with you?”
I was too busy fish kissing these first years, I didn’t see him come behind me and grab me in a headlock. I had the flight or fight instinct at that moment, like me and Dad saw on David Attenborough, only I couldn’t do the flight bit due to the headlock situation, so I went for the fight option. I thought I was punching Watkins with my fist but I was holding the fish head. By the time I’d finished smacking his face with a silver bream he looked like he’dbeen eaten by a shark. He had blood and scales and the eyeball all over his beardy face. It looked brilliant. Everyone was laughing. Actually I was laughing, no one else, they couldn’t believe I’d beaten up the headmaster with a fish. I think it was a first in the history of Lady Bay Junior School.
I got sent home at lunchtime and banned from the match. We lost three – nil. No one scored a single goal let alone a hat trick. Watkins had to go for a tetanus jab in case he caught salmonella, which is weird ‘cause it was a bream not a salmon. My Mum grounded me for a week, but I got to see Dad for the first time since my birthday. Mum let him come round because it was in the paper and he was worried about me. He thought I’d become a juvenile delinquent as a result of my home being broken.
He came on Sunday and asked me what I wanted to do. Fishing, I said, silver bream fishing. We caught three but threw them back. Dad said it was safer that way; I wouldn’t be tempted to attack any more unsuspecting grown-ups with a fish face. He asked me to tell him exactly what happened. I think he was worried I’d done it without provocation. He relaxed when I mentioned the headlock – apart from wanting to punch Mr Watkins. I told him about Watkins’ face, with scales stuck to his beard and his three eyes, two human and one fish, and we started giggling. We couldn’t stop, we were really laughing, not in that “ha, ha, ha” grown up way I was telling you about, but like a couple of naughty boys. We were wetting ourselves, I actually had to take a piss and Dad had tears streaming down his chubby Dad face. He looked hilarious. Not as funny as Mr Watkins, but still flippin’ funny, he made me laugh even more just looking at him.
When we pulled ourselves together, Dad said he wanted to take me next Sunday too, so all in all everything turned out pretty well. I didn’t score a hat trick but I got to see my Dad crying with laughter and that was the best feeling, the best.
