Marina Lewycka - Two Caravans

“You mean I give back bucket at end of day? Even if I catch nothing?”

“Maybe you are his fish, and he has caught you.” The knobbly-headed lad grins. “Not even with any feather. Huh huh huh.”

“Devil’s bum!”

Andriy looks up and down the pier. There are mostly yellow buckets, a few blue ones, and some buckets of other colours, red, green, black, grey. Really you’ve got no one but yourself to blame, Andriy Palenko, for listening to that moon-faced cretin. He counts the yellow and blue buckets and tries to calculate how much profit the Mr Tattoo has made in a day. Easy money.

Over in Africa, Emanuel seems to have been abandoned by the others and left in charge of their fishing gear. What’s going on? There is something about Emanuel that brings out a protective impulse in Andriy: he too is an innocent soul lost in this rriobilfon world. Andriy gives him a thumbs-up sign, but Emanuel doesn’t notice. He is staring intently at the sea.

Andriy also stares down at the waves, their dismal unpromising churning, their slap and gurgle against the concrete, the obscure and disgusting-looking bits of debris that come to the surface from time to time. The sea is very overrated, he thinks.

The next time he catches Emanuel’s eye, Emanuel is looking agitated and beckons him over. He seems quite distressed.

“Africa Mozambique men say please look after our fishy things, we go for toilet. One hour. Two hour. Still not coming back.”

What on earth is he talking about?

“No problem, friend.” Andriy lays a soothing hand on his arm. “Everything normal.”

This is strange, he thinks. Why is this bucket red?

After a couple of hours, the Mozambicans have still not come back and the two Ukrainian lads, having caught four fish between them, are celebrating with a roll-up cigarette and a bottle of beer and then a few more bottles. They offer him a bottle, but he shakes his head. He likes a beer as much as the next man, but there’s something desperate about the way these lads are drinking. He’s seen it on the Donets often enough-a lad has a beer, then a few more, then for a laugh he jumps into the river to cool off, and that’s it: bye-bye, body never found, end of story.

A cool breeze has sprung up, and those that have brought jackets zip them up; those that haven’t, including Andriy and Emanuel, start to shiver. The slap and gurgle of the sea gets stronger, and sometimes a spray of water splashes over them. The tide has come up. At one point there is a ripple of excitement along the pier. A shoal of mackerel has been spotted, and is definitely on its way. But it never seems to arrive.

As evening approaches, most of the fishermen are ready to call it a day. There have been a few bigger fish caught up at the Angliski end; the Balkans, too, have had a run of luck, and a fight has broken out over who gets what. Andriy still hasn’t caught anything.

“Hey, pal,” says the Klitschko-crew-cut Ukrainian, “you should keep on to that rod and bucket. Why give it back to Mr Tattoo? Then at least you get something for your money. Five quids is robbery. Better get yellow like us next time. Investing for future.”

Hm. There seems to be some logic in what the Ukrainian is saying.

“But Tattoo man waiting for us at end of pier?”

“You can get past him easy. Look, Ukrainian boy, we help you a bit. We put your blue bucket inside our yellow one.” He takes the bucket and with a quick slop transfers the four little fishes. “See? We take one rod each. We meet you at pub-over there.” He points. “You buy us pint of beer, and rod and bucket will be for you to keep.” He gives a big toothy grin. “OK?”

“OK.”

Andriy wonders if there’s a catch, but if you can’t trust a fellow Ukrainian, who can you trust?

Suddenly he hears a shout from the Africa sector of the pier.

“Reel it in! Turn the reel!” A big man in a woolly hat is instructing Emanuel, who is wrestling with a rod that is bent right over into an arc. He tries to turn the reel, but it seems stuck and he starts to tug and jerk.

“Steady, steady,” says the woolly-hat. “Wind her in gently.”

Emanuel starts to wind again; then something great and silver breaks the surface of the water, thrashing and splashing against the waves. There is a stir of excitement from the other fishermen, and suddenly everyone has gathered round to watch. The creature is massive, wild, and fighting for its life. Carefully, Emanuel reels it in, then with an incredible flip lands it on the pier, where it bucks and slaps against the concrete.

“Get it in the bucket!” someone shouts, but it is too big for the bucket.

“Haven’t you got a net?” someone else shouts.

“Or a knife? Get a knife to it!”

“No!” cries Emanuel.

He puts the still-trembling fish into the Mozambicans’ red bucket, nose down in a few inches of water, its huge tail bent sideways and quivering above the rim. Andriy pushes through the crowd to pat him on the back.

“Good job, my friend. We sell this fish make good money.” Several woolly-hats have arrived on the scene, and everyone is talking excitedly about how much the fish will weigh, with the highest bid corning in at twelve kilos.

Mr Tattoo is waiting at the exit, stopping people with blue buckets as they come out. His sidekick has a spring scale and they are weighing the puny catches and doling out puny amounts of money. His eyes light up when they see the giant fish in Emanuel’s bucket.

“Nice bit of cod you got there, mate. Big as a nigger’s dick,” says Mr Tattoo. “Unusual for this time of year. Want to stick it on the scale?”

“This fish is not for selling. Is for me,” says Emanuel with emphasis. “I catch. I keep.”

Mr Tattoo’s eyes narrow. The mermaid on his bicep seems to frown.

“Fair enough, mate. Catchers keepers. It’s a free country. But you got to give your rod and bucket back now.”

He reaches for the rod. Emanuel grips it tighter.

“No! This is rod and bucket of Mozambique Africa men.”

A small crowd has gathered. Andriy loiters on the edge of the crowd, trying to make himself invisible.

“What about the gear we hired you?” Mr Tattoo can’t take his eyes off the fish. “You got to give it back now, chum. Givee hackee bucketee. Or givee fishee. Comprenday?” He has raised his voice.

“No!” Emanuel is getting flustered. “This bucketee is of my Mozambique friends go toilet.”

Mr Tattoo grimaces. “Yuk! That’s disgusting. Don’t you black-boys get potty-trained? There’s toilets at the end of the pier.”

Pleased with himself, he looks around the crowd for approval. Andriy is keeping his head down. He is waiting for the moment to melt away and get out of the quay unnoticed, but the sidekick spots him and makes to grab him.

“There he is. That’s him what got the gear off of us.”

“That was not me. That must be other Ukrainian.” Andriy sidesteps quickly. “The one that was with dog.” He wants to make a run for it, but he can’t abandon Emanuel.

From the corner of his eye he can see that the other Ukrainians have cleared the quayside and are making their way over the roundabout, his blue bucket cunningly concealed inside their yellow one.

Another woolly-hat fisherman steps forward from the crowd and challenges Mr Tattoo.

“Let him have the fish, Bert. A fisherman’s got to keep his catch.”

“You keep out of it, Derek,” says Mr Bert Tattoo. “The bugger’s trying to nick off with me tackle. And he’s been using the bucket for a toilet.”

He looms over Emanuel menacingly and grabs the handle of the bucket.

“Give me the tackle or give me the fish. Tidge, sort him out.”

Tidge steps forward menacingly.