as i did during the war； i’ve been struck by the fact that they never really get over that frightful drilling they go through at public schools。 either it flattens them out into half…wits or they spend the rest of their lives kicking against it。 it wasn’t so with boys of our class； the sons of shopkeepers and farmers。 you went to the grammar school and you stayed there till you were sixteen； just to show that you weren’t a prole； but school was chiefly a place that you wanted to get away from。 you’d no sentiment of loyalty； no goofy feeling about the old grey stones （and they were old； right enough； the school had been founded by cardinal wolsey）； and there was no old boy’s tie and not even a school song。 you had your half…holidays to yourself； because games weren’t pulsory and as often as not you cut them。 we played football in braces； and though it was considered proper to play cricket in a belt； you wore your ordinary shirt and trousers。 the only game i really cared about was the stump cricket we used to play in the gravel yard during the break； with a bat made out of a bit of packing case and a po ball。
but i remember the smell of the big schoolroom； a smell of ink and dust and boots； and the stone in the yard that had been a mounting block and was used for sharpening knives on； and the little baker’s shop opposite where they sold a kind of chelsea bun； twice the size of the chelsea buns you get nowadays； which were called lardy busters and cost a halfpenny。 i did all the things you do at school。 i carved my name on a desk and got the cane for it—you were always caned for it if you were caught； but it was the etiquette that you had to carve your name。 and i got inky fingers and bit my nails and made darts out of penholders and played conkers and passed round dirty stories and learned to masturbate and cheeked old blowers； the english master； and bullied the life out of little willy simeon； the undertaker’s son； who was half… witted and believed everything you told him。 our favourite trick was to send him to shops to buy things that didn’t exist。 all the old gags—the ha’porth of penny stamps； the rubber hammer； the left…handed screwdriver； the pot of striped paint—poor willy fell for all of them。 we had grand sport one afternoon； putting him in a tub and telling him to lift himself up by the handles。 he ended up in an asylum； poor willy。 but it was in the holidays that one really lived。
there were good things to do in those days。 in winter we used to borrow a couple of ferrets—mother would never let joe and me keep them at home； ‘nasty smelly things’ she called them—and go round the farms and ask leave to do a bit of ratting。 sometimes they let us； sometimes they told us to hook it and said we were more trouble than the rats。 later in winter we’d follow the threshing machine and help kill the rats when they threshed the stacks。 one winter； 1908 it must have been； the thames flooded and then froze and there was skating for weeks on end； and harry barnes broke his collar… bone on the ice。 in early spring we went after squirrels with squailers； and later on we went birdnesting。 we had a theory that birds can’t count and it’s all right if you leave one egg； but we were cruel little beasts and sometimes we’d just knock the nest down and trample on the eggs or chicks。 there was another game we had when the toads were spawning。 we used to catch toads； ram the nozzle of a bicycle pump up their backsides； and blow them up till they burst。 that’s what boys are like； i don’t know why。 in summer we used to bike over the burford weir and bathe。 wally lovegrove； sid’s young cousin； was drowned in 1906。 he got tangled in the weeds at the bottom； and when the drag…hooks brought his body to the surface his face was jet black。
but fishing was the real thing。 we went many a time to old brewer’s pool； and took tiny carp and tench out of it； and once a whopping eel； and there were other cow…ponds that had fish in them and were within walking distance on saturday afternoons。 but after we got bicycles we started fishing in the thames below burford weir。 it seemed more grown…up than fishing in cow…ponds。 there were no farmers chasing you away； and there are thumping fish in the thames—though； so far as i know； nobody’s ever been known to catch one。
it’s queer； the feeling i had for fishing—and still have； really。 i can’t call myself a fisherman。 i’ve never in my life caught a fish two feet long； and it’s thirty years now since i’ve had a rod in my hands。 and yet when i look back the whole of my boyhood from eight to fifteen seems to have revolved round the days when we went fishing。 every detail has stuck clear in my memory。 i can remember individual days and individual fish； there isn’t a cow… pond or a backwater that i can’t see a picture of if i shut my eyes and think。 i could write a book on the technique of fishing。 when we were kids we didn’t have much in the way of tackle； it cost too much and most of our threepence a week （which was the usual pocket… money in those days） went on sweets and lardy busters。 very small kids generally fish with a bent pin； which is too blunt to be much use； but you can make a pretty good hook （though of course it’s got no barb） by bending a needle in a candle flame with a pair of pliers。 the farm lads knew how to plait horsehair so that it was almost as good as gut； and you can take a small fish on a single horsehair。 later we got to having two…shilling fishing…rods and even reels of sorts。 god； what hours i’ve spent gazing into wallace’s window！ even the 。410 guns and saloon pistols didn’t thrill me so much as the fishing tackle。 and the copy of gamage’s catalogue that i picked up somewhere； on a rubbish dump i think； and studied as though it had been the bible！ even now i could give you all the details about gut…substitute and gimp and limerick hooks and priests and disgorgers and nottingham reels and god knows how many other technicalities。
then there were the kinds of bait we used to use。 in our shop there were always plenty of mealworms； which were good but not very good。 gentles were better。 you had to beg them off old gravitt； the butcher； and the gang used to draw lots or do enamena…mina…mo to decide who should go and ask； because gravitt wasn’t usually too pleasant about it。 he was a big； rough…faced old devil with a voice like a mastiff； and when he barked； as he generally did when speaking to boys； all the knives and steels on his blue apron would give a jingle。 you’d go in with an empty treacle…tin in your hand； hang round till any customers had disappeared and then say very humbly：
‘please； mr gravitt； y’got any gentles today？’
generally he’d roar out： ‘what！ gentles！ gentles in my shop！ ain’t seen such a thing in years。 think i got blow…flies in my shop？’
he had； of course。 they were everywhere。 he used to deal with them with a strip of leather on the end of a stick； with which he could reach out to enormous distances and smack a fly into paste。 sometimes you had to go away without any gentles； but as a rule he’d shout after you just as you were going：
‘‘ere！ go round the backyard an’ ‘ave a look。 p’raps you might find one or two if you looked careful。’
you used to find them in little clusters everywhere。 gravitt’s backyard smelt like a battlefield。 butchers didn’t have refrigerators in those days。 gentles live longer if you keep them in sawdust。
wasp grubs are good； though it’s hard to make them stick on the hook； unless you bake them first。 when someone found a wasps’ nest we’d go out at night and pour turpentine down it and plug up the hole with mud。 next day the wasps would all be dead and you could dig out the nest and take the grubs。 once something went wrong； the turps missed the hole or something； and when we took the plug out the wasps； which had been shut up all night； came out all together with a zoom。 we weren’t very badly stung； but it was a pity there was no one standing by with a stopwatch。 grasshoppers are about the best bait there is； especially for chub。 you stick them on the hook without any shot and just flick them to and fro on the surface—‘dapping’； they call it。 but you can never get more than two or three grasshoppers at a time。 greenbottle flies； which are also damned difficult to catch； are the best bait for dace； especially on clear days。 you want to put them on the hook alive； so that they wriggle。 a chub will even take a wasp； but it’s a ticklish job to put a live wasp on the hook。
god knows how many other baits there were。 bread paste you make by squeezing water through white bread in a rag。 then there are cheese paste and honey paste and paste with aniseed in it。 boiled wheat isn’t bad for roach。 redworms are good for gudgeon。 you find them in very old manure heaps。 and you also find another kind of worm called a brandling； which is striped and smells like an earwig； and which is very good bait for perch。 ordinary earthworms are good for perch。 you have to put them in moss to keep them fresh and lively。 if you try to keep them in earth they die。 those brown flies you find on cowdung are pretty good for roach。 you can take a chub on a cherry； so they say； and i’ve seen a roach