Brian Turner: A Day on the Mataura with Nancy Watson

An anthology published this week collects a range of New Zealand writers, from Roger Hall to Keri Hulme, on the joy of fishing.

The collection's editor, short-story master Owen Marshall, is a fly fisherman, though a modest one. He calls his rod "my badge of office, my justification for being away from my work, or the garden ... "

* * *

When Nancy Watson rang and asked if I'd like to go fishing with her I jumped at the chance. "Oath," I said, "any time you like."

"Oh good, I was hoping you could come. Meet me at the station tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. And bring your sleeping bag. We'll probably stay the night."

I put the phone down and made a cup of coffee, to settle my nerves. Then I rang my mate Bill Kotzwinkle. "Guess what," I said, casually, coolly, "Nancy's asked me to go fishing with her for a couple of days."

Bill snorted. "Not surprised. I'd heard Ricky Forster was away for a while and she was looking for someone. She's already asked Miguel Wendle, Alain McMillan, Pedro Barberossi, and Eduardo Ross. Me too, of course, but we all have to work."

"Liar, Kotzwinkle, you're nothing but a born liar."

"Indeed, a born angler."

I was at the station by 8.30. Nancy arrived in her Toyota 4 x 4 on the dot of nine. Her honey-coloured hair was tied in a pony-tail and her stone-washed jeans were tight.

"Throw your gear in the back and jump in, brother."

Nancy squirted through the intersection on the amber light and swung into a park opposite the tackle shop.

"I'll just slip in and pick up the hut keys from Sandy Maltman. Thought we'd stay at Riversdale. Horace Windley says the Mataura's been fishing well, especially in the evenings."

Horace lives in spaced-out Waitati in a scruffy little welfare-funded six-bedroomed shack complete with video, TV, compact disc player, drier, dishwasher, deep freeze, automatic washer and microwave oven. Horace's heroes are Roger Douglas and Richard Prebble; he admires them for remaining in Auckland. He also greatly admires Geoffrey Palmer for showing the world that Easter Island statues not only travel well but, provided they get the right sort of schooling, can actually learn to speak good English.

I often visit Horace in the evenings. Me and a few others, anglers and opera lovers. We lie about on the shag-pile drinking wine, eating oysters, mussels, cockles and crays, and listen to the glorious sounds of Pavlovarotti and our lovely little Kiri.

Sometimes Nancy Watson turns up with that tanned fit creep Ricky Forster who always brings his own supply of Carlsberg and refuses to drink anything else. Ricky even takes Carlsberg with him on fishing trips, the snoot, while we are happy, Horace and I - more than happy - to stick with Speights, the Pride of the South.

The weather improved the further we drove south and as we cruised over the downland west of Balclutha, autumn sunshine played on the paddocks of the impoverished.

Nancy said the day was warming up nicely. She said we should do all right. She said if Horace could catch fish in the Mataura anyone could. She said his casting was worse than mine, worse even than Wendle's, and certainly worse than Barberossi's.

"If this weather keeps up," she said, "we should catch heaps."

Nancy has an impressive collection of tapes, including some early albums from the Hokey Pokeys, the Tail End Charlies, the Sexy Susannas, and the Droll Pongolians.

She is also very fond of Van Morrison, especially classic albums such as Astral Weeks and Moondance. These, she says, are the "essential Van," she is not so keen on recent "rather schmaltzy albums like Avalon Sunset."

She is also quite a fan of Buster Poindexter's. Odd woman is Nancy Watson.

The gross and glossy plastic brown trout statue was glinting repulsively as we drove through Gore, the brown trout capital of the world. That is what Gore claims for itself, and yet, as Nancy sneeringly pointed out, "the drips of councillors have just spent about $100,000 of ratepayers' money on legal fees for opposing an application for a conservation order on the river."

We decided to have a look at the water a few kilometres above the town. We had just finished tackling up and were about to head upstream when I spotted a little four-wheel drive Suzuki whizzing across the paddock towards us. It pulled up alongside and out struggled old Freddie Baveystock.

"Freddie," I said, "this is Nancy. Nancy Watson."

Freddie shook her hand and eyed her up and down, and up, and down. "I think we've met before. At the Wyndham Anglers' Christmas party. You had an argument with Valerie Cooke."

Nancy smiled. "I'd forgotten her name. Valerie, that fits."

Freddie asked us to wait, said he'd like to come with us, said he'd show us a backwater with at least six fish in it. "Tried to catch one of them yesterday. Not a chance. Tried them with Corixa, Black and Peacock, Hare's Ear, Midge, Willow Grub, Caddis ... Ignored the lot. Love to see that wonder boy Wendle have a crack at them."

As we strolled towards the river Freddie hung back a bit and whispered to me, "They say she's pretty good. They say she's damned near as good as Wendle."

"Better looking, that's for sure."

Nancy had gone ahead, leaving me to follow more slowly with the tottery Freddie.

We came to a nasty-looking barbed-wire fence. "Watch out," said Freddie, giving me a wink, "you wouldn't want to rip the scrotal sack, eh." And he cackled. "Not with Ricky Forster being away."

I rolled my eyes. "You're a dreamer, Freddie, a dreamer."

Nancy had abandoned the stone-washed jeans for a pair of dark green shorts and was up to her gleaming brown thighs in a ripple when we arrived at the river. Her rod was bent and springing.

"God, she's got one on already." Freddie was both envious and impressed.

Nancy toed the fish ashore, stooped, flicked the hook from its mouth and slipped the trout back into the river.

"Not worth keeping', she said.

Freddie was aghast. "But that was nearly 3 pounds."

"It was ripe. When I catch a nice fat little fish - one that's not going to spawn - I'll let you have it, Freddie." And Nancy returned to the ripple.

Half an hour later we came to Freddie's fertile backwater. The fish were there all right. Eight of them, patrolling up and down.

Freddie cast and spooked the nearest fish. The second ignored his offerings. I too tried and failed. Unusual, that.

Then Nancy tied on a large green fly with broad wings and a long tail which descended like a skydiver and quivered ever so slightly as it lay on the water. The biggest fish in the family just beat the others to it. Gulp. Nancy set the hook. The fish smashed the water to smithereens, rushed around the backwater three times, then streaked out into the main river.

Nancy leapt from the bank, struggled through deep mud and stumbled up a shingle bank, her rod bucking. "At last," she said, "a real fish."

Freddie was shaking. "Holy shit!" He shook his head. "She'll never land that."

I smiled.

Nancy waded across the river, the water up to her waist, her rod high above her head.

I shuddered with admiration and thought what a marvellous standard bearer she'd make for the New Zealand team at the Barcelona Olympics.

It took her a quarter of an hour to subdue that fish and wrestle it ashore.

"How big is it?"

"At least 4 kilograms."

Freddie was astounded. "That's almost 10 pounds," he said to me. "Jesus, I'd love to flop that in front of old Ralph Bainbridge." His voice was shrill when he sang out to Nancy: "Keep it! Keep it!"

Nancy considered this. I rested my arm on Freddie's shoulder, just in case the poor little bastard was doomed to yet more disappointment. "All right, Freddie," Nancy banged the big fish on the bonce and waded back to us. "Here," she said.

Freddie clutched the fish in both hands and stowed it in his bag. Then he said, "Thanks, but I'm off to the bowling club. Can't wait to show this beauty to old Ralph."

Nancy caught eight fish to my two, the usual bath. But I didn't care. Some of us thrive on humiliation.

Later, in the hut, after a huge meal of broccoli, cheese, carrots, potatoes and rib-eye steak, plus hot cross buns and coffee, I said to Nancy, "Tell me, is it true that you and Ricky have split up?"

She smiled and reached for the second bottle of Bordeaux. "Here, have some more wine." She winked at me and said, "The night's a pup."

* Spinning a Line, New Zealand Writing about Fishing, edited by Owen Marshall (Random House, $29.95). Copyright August 2001, Owen Marshall. Reprinted by permission of Vintage, a division of Random House NZ Ltd. All rights reserved.