John Dryden

John Dryden

The Akubra perched at an angle on Johns’ well-proportioned head gave him a Bogart kind of look, it shaded the dark eyes threatening those who approached.  Most people thought John Dryden was a hard one to know, looking out on the world with a laconic indifference almost contempt. The country style clothes he wore on his slightly stooping spare frame reminded of a character in an old newsreel. Speaking was not a habit John indulged in at much length or passion except on one topic. Then his voice would rise, taking on a vibrato quality, his body would bend towards the listener, arms and hands normally waning by his side animating themselves into persuasive instruments of his verbal utterances. Often the object of his attentions would retreat in surprise at this remarkable transformation.  Then depending if the person had comparable knowledge or some comprehension on the topic John waited expectantly like a pirate opening a treasure chest. If nothing of value was revealed he would subside and move once again into his own world behind the hat. John was a fisherman not the weekend, esky carrying, alcohol pickled, Kmart supplied caricature. But one who made his own rods, lures, bred his own worms, caught his own yabbies’, searched for wood grubs in the bush, and created his own flies and tackle. John could not remember when he had started fishing it was long ago and resided in the furthest reaches of his past. It was what he did and  did best he had always done it only for that little time when he was away in the Army that was the only time he had not fished. For in fishing he could forget the world, forget people, forget the hurt, and forget the terrible secret he kept hidden away behind the facade.

Every night John came home from the shop to his neat turn of the century cottage on the edge of Kingston he shared with Ralph a blue heeler with much the same brooding temperament as his. Pulling up his chair at the kitchen table he worked on his lures, rods or gear. Sometimes he would sit out the front on his veranda and passer byes would see him bent over a rod or tackle box, never looking up never acknowledging anything else but that what was in front of him.

In the long summer evenings he would wander down to the river and fish, always alone always he caught fish. Most he would let go, some he would keep for Ralph his dog or for breakfast the next day. John only belonged to one thing and that was the Ranges Fishing Club he was its’ secretary and life member. That was the only other place he visited, every Friday night down at the club rooms he would sit in the corner seat Ralph at his feet, doing his minutes and correspondence surrounded by trophies, cane rods, bakelite reels, faded photos and stuffed fish. Once a month the other committee members would join him and he would efficiently take the minutes and make pertinent neat comments. Bill Fitzpatrick the long running President would always shout him a Jamieson to grease the workings. Long after the others had left he would be there quietly sipping the brown gold. He felt safe here in this place the memory would not intrude and he would drink his Jamieson until he felt unsteady and then stumble home. Ralph would pull him home the two blocks and he would collapse into his bed sleep untroubled for the only night in the week.

OK I have started writing again this is the intro to my book (Interim Title -The Fishing Club) I like writing but God it is hard to get started and to spend the time. Anyway here I go early mornings, late nights, dreaming the dream, walking the walk...John C