short story
The Mystery of Woolley Dam
1,900 words
When the Dobsons moved into their new home, Colin was delighted to discover an overgrown lake at the end of his lane — an otherwise no-through road.
“It must belong to someone,” he told his wife Liz over a cup of tea. “It looks as though it used to be managed, but how long ago is anybody’s guess.”
“You’ll have to Google it,” she replied, placing a saucer of biscuits on the arm of his chair — garibaldis, one of his favourites. “Or ask some of your fishing chums.” She sat down next to him on the settee, nursing her own cup of tea and biscuits. “But I’d bet it’s something to do with that big house up there.” She meant the riding centre on the other side of the main road. Local rumours had the buildings down as belonging to a famous gymkhana family who lived nearby. “They seem to own everything else.”
This was true, agreed Colin to himself. The family even owned the house he’d been forced to move into so that he could be nearer to work.
After their snack, Colin fired up the computer and navigated to Google. A few clicks later, he swivelled on the chair to face his wife.
“You’re right,” he said. “That equestrian family do own the lake. But the local authority owns the angling rights.”
“You’re registered to fish with them, aren’t you?” asked Liz.
“I used to be, but I let it lapse. I’ll see if it’s worth re-joining.”
At the weekend, Colin walked up to the lake to see if there were any fish in it. The closer he got to it, though, the more overgrown the lane became. He tripped on some old brambles that pulled at his trouser leg. An old angling club sign had fallen away from the tree it had been nailed to and lay rusting on the ground. Above where the sign had been was a crudely-painted hand-written sign warning ‘tresspasses’ to ‘KEEP OUT’. There were similar hand-made hand-painted semi-literate signs nailed to other trees, fences and gates, all saying things like ‘PRIVITE’, ‘TRESSPASSES WILL BE PROSSICUTIED’ and ‘NO FISHIN’. And along one particularly scraggy length of hedgerow, Colin could see barbed wire.
“I’m sure that’s illegal on a public right of way,” he mused out loud.
After he’d been walking for a few minutes, sometimes stumbling in potholes or over stones, he noticed a small clearing up ahead. He was sure there was a car parked there too. As he neared the vehicle he could see that it wasn’t a clearing at all but, in fact, what used to be a small car park, big enough for about a dozen cars. But it was as overgrown as the path that wound its way around the lake. He could, however, see a fellow camped out on the opposite bank. He looked as though he were fishing.
That must be the owner of the car, he thought, picking his way along what was left of the path. As he went, he fell down more than one hole allowed to deteriorate and grow bigger. He narrowly avoided falling into the murky stream that fed the lake as he crossed both of the dilapidated footbridges. And he kept his short-sleeved arms high above his head to avoid being stung by the Triffid-like nettles that lined the path and strangled the wild garlic.
“How’re you doing?” he asked the lone angler when he finally reached his bivouac.
“Not so bad,” replied the man, not taking his eyes off the end of his pole.
“Many in?” asked Colin.
Without moving a muscle, the man replied again. “A few perch, the odd roach and some small skimmers. I’ve caught about twenty or so today, but it’s not as good as it used to be.”
“I thought there might be some carp in at least,” said Colin. “It looks like a good carp lake.”
“Aye, there’s a few left. Some fancy ones that stay at the other end. But you can’t get up there now. The path is so overgrown and they’ve been fly-tipping. You can’t get through –”
Colin waited patiently and with admiration while the man landed a fish. Only a tiddler, but a fish all the same. And when he released it and resumed his position watching the end of his tip, Colin continued.
“I’m surprised the local authority bother paying for this if there are no decent fish.”
“Is that who runs it?” asked the man, totally oblivious to the fact that he’d just as good as admitted he was fishing without a permit.
‘NO DAY TICKETS’ screamed the signs. ‘PRIVITE MEMBERS ONLY’.
Oh dear.
Not that it mattered much to Colin. He wasn’t the bailiff and he wasn’t even a member yet of the angling club, let alone on the committee. Nevertheless, he did feel his hackles rise anyway, and he made a mental note to see how many others might fish here over the coming weeks without a valid permit. It was, after all, completely off-circuit and not on any beaten track. Colin certainly couldn’t remember seeing any competitions advertised here, or any results in the local newspapers.
Woolley Dam, that’s what it was called. And Colin couldn’t recall hearing the name before. No wonder it was a lake he hadn’t even known was here.
Colin quietly observed the statue-like angler for a few minutes more, then bid him ‘tight lines’ before attempting to get through to the other side of the lake. He had a fancy to see if he could find some of those ‘fancy carp’, but the ‘path’ was indeed impassable. The area smelt of stagnant water, rotting vegetation and rank fish, so he gave up and turned back towards home.
For the next few days, as he dallied over sending off for his new angling book, he pumped the locals for more information — in the pub, at the petrol station, in the post office, on the farm…
“Too much fly-tipping,” said one.
“Too many pikies,” said another.
“Place has been abandoned for years,” said a third. “I’d forgotten it was still there.”
“They’re putting poison down. Don’t take your dog for a walk there.”
“Used to be a lovely little spot,” said an elderly man. “Little shop there used to sell snacks and sandwiches. It’s where I courted our lass. We used to be able to row boats out onto the watter.”
Colin couldn’t imagine a snack bar up there at all. Did he mean a trailer that sold beef burgers?
“Oh no,” said the chap. “Proper plumbed in, like, with foundations and everything. Car park anorl. It was demolished years ago.”
“I wouldn’t go up there,” advised one of the neighbours. “There are no fish in there thanks to after-dark poachers. They’ve taken all the carp and then they eat them,” he shuddered. As a coarse fisherman, Colin shuddered too. British people simply didn’t eat carp.
And finally, when he actually spoke to the local angling club, the news was bleak there too.
“Yes, we’ve heard that what the mergansers haven’t taken the owner’s netted and taken out. We’re thinking of letting it lapse. You’re right, there’s no point in paying for fishing rights if there are no fish in there to fish.”
“Actually,” interrupted Colin, “I doubt very much that it’s been netted. It doesn’t look as though anything has been that close for years. It’s totally overgrown. Who told you that?”
“I think it was the landowner’s gamekeeper. Told one of our lads he was wasting his time as his boss had ordered it netting.”
“Nah,” said Colin. “And some of the local anglers have no problem catching skimmers. They say they’ve seen carp in there too. Ornamental carp.”
“Hmm,” said the voice at the end of the phone. “That’s interesting. How do you feel about showing one of our bailiffs the place? We’d be keen to get it back into use if there are fish in there.”
And so Colin arranged for the bailiff and the landowner to visit the lake and see what could be done.
“I’m most frightfully sorry,” said the Ponsonby-Smythe fellow from the equestrian property. “We had no idea it was so badly in need of maintenance. We employ a man, don’t you know, to keep it all under control and have done for years. It was so frightfully sad, you see. His wife ran away with one of our stable lads — stable girls, actually — and we felt sort of obliged.”
“Well,” said the bailiff, removing his tweed baseball cap to scratch his thatch. “It looks as though you’ve been paying him to do nothing.”
They’d brought tools with them, but as they hacked their way through the very heavy undergrowth, a scruffy man in a flat cap, dirty jacket, and trousers held up with string approached them, pointing a shotgun right at them.
“Gerrorf my land,” he growled.
“Er, I say, old chap,” said Ponsonby-Smythe. “I think you’ll find this is my land.”
“Sorry, sir,” said the scruff, uncocking his gun, placing it over one arm, and then docking his brow at the squire. “Didn’t recognise you there, sir –”
“No. And quite clearly you haven’t done a damned thing we’ve been paying you to do. I’d say your days here are numbered, old chap.”
“Ee can’t do that,” blustered the tramp, priming and aiming his gun at them once more.
Colin felt something stir in his lower gut… he’d never had a shotgun pointed at him before, let alone twice.
“You have two shots and there are three of us, all much younger and fitter than you, man,” said the bailiff.
“So just put the gun down, old chap. There’s a good fellow,” said Ponsonby-Smythe.
Colin, amazed at the total calm the other two men were displaying, was bricking it.
“Come on, man,” said the bailiff. “Let us through to inspect the fish at least.”
“No fish in there,” said the old man. “Watter’s too polluted –”
Yet another made-up tale, sighed Colin. Someone didn’t want anyone coming anywhere near Woolley Dam, and Colin thought he’d just found out who.
Reluctantly the old man let them through to ‘inspect the fish’. Afterwards, the bailiff and the landowner agreed to share the financial burden of restoring and maintaining the lake again, and Colin was asked if he’d like to be the site bailiff, which he agreed to straight away, even forgetting to run it by his wife first in the excitement.
However, Woolley Dam as an active fishery was not to be for some while yet, as it turned out. For on the very first day of restoration, the mini-machinery was moved in and dredging begun. And the first thing to be dragged up from the depths was what turned out to be a woman’s body. And she’d clearly been there for a very long time.
The area was cordoned off as a police crime scene, and a manhunt begun. For the former gamekeeper of Mister Ponsonby-Smythe had sloped off and disappeared from the face of the earth. Perhaps his wife hadn’t run off with one of the stable lads after all — or even one of the stable girls…
This short story is © Diane Wordsworth. It has been published as a standalone story and in the following anthologies: Twee Tales Twee, Twee Tales More, Five Slightly Sinister Stories, and Ten Short Stories: Wordsworth Shorts 1–10. You can buy all of my books at books2read.com/DianeWordsworth
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