The magnificent array of the colourful autumn foliage in the small village of Cawston in the 1950s created a picturesque landscape.  The decaying leaves offered a profound show of beauty in the entire parish.  This was the time of year for admiring the spectacular colours of golden brown, crimson red and vibrant yellow and orange that delicately adorned the trees and shrubs before the soft southerly winds gradually turned into cold northern gales and the leaves fell by the bucketful. 

            After the long harvest it seemed as if the parishioners were taking the first steps for planning for the winter and preparing to live a more slower lifestyle.  The people of Cawston could be seen picking the remaining fruits in their gardens and along the hedgerows which they used for bottling and making jams.  Onions from the gardens were pickled in vinegar and certain vegetables and fruit were used to make home-made wines. The remaining potatoes were stored away in the shed and apples were kept wrapped in straw in boxes for the winter.      

            The farmers around Cawston could be seen starting to make the initial preparations for the coming year.  The harvests in Cawston normally surpassed expectations which gave them the adequate resources to plan for the next harvest.  Seeds were saved in abundance for next year's planting and as a safeguard against unforeseen setbacks. 

            The habits of the wildlife on Cawston Heath and in the woods in Cawston also changed.  Squirrels were busy gathering and storing nuts for the winter.  Numerous birds were already migrating to the south and the fur on animals began to thicken to protect them from the cold winter days.

            It was the year 1952 and on a particular Friday in October there had been little cloud in the sky.  As the evening approached the glowing sun was setting over the horizon beyond Cawston and the trees in all their colours resembled a picturesque village painting.  It was early evening and Tom, a senior citizen of Cawston who lived on his weekly pension, returned back to the village on his bicycle after having spent an afternoon fishing at Booton Clay Pit.  This was one of his favourite pastimes as he had fond memories of fishing in these idyllic surroundings with his wife when she was alive.  Tom knew all the myths about the Clay Pit but was convinced that it had once been dug to extract clay used to construct houses in the immediate vicinity.

            Tom’s sullen face that day could not be mistaken.  That afternoon he had caught a large pike, an aggressive fish that was not always easy to catch.  Tom knew that this big white-fleshed and mild-tasting pike would be easier to fillet than the smaller bony ones.   But he was now very sad as he had lost his fish.  After this big catch Tom wanted to give thanks to the Lord by visiting the church of St. Michael the Archangel at Booton.  There he would frequently stand a long time in front of this rather bizarre and eccentric church admiring the ornate slender twin towers and a central minaret which made it look rather unusual in this tiny village.  

            Before setting forth to Booton that day he had put the pike in a safe place under tall grasses between some tall trees near the pit; a spot which he considered to be safe.  Arriving back at the Clay Pit an hour later he found his fishing rod, bag and stool all in the same place, but when he went to the hiding place to collect the pike, he found it was gone.  He search in vain and wondered how it could have disappeared as dead fish cannot walk.  There was nobody in sight and no one else was fishing there that afternoon.  He searched the area for over an hour but in the end gave up and started to fish again.  A while later, as the sun gradually disappeared beyond the tall trees, Tom packed his fishing rod and belongings and cycled back to Cawston, but without any fish.

            In the village Tom stopped at the Post Office to buy some postage stamps and replenish his supply of tobacco, for if he could not have the pike to eat that evening he wanted at least to enjoy his pipe.  Tom exchange words with a few people in the shop but was too shy to mention his misfortune.  As the cooler temperatures progressed and the days became shorter, it was noticeable that the people of Cawston had now finally put away their summer clothes and were now seen wrapped up in home-knitted sweaters and thick coats, many of which had seen better days. 

            Sitting in his tiny kitchen at home Tom treated himself to a cup of freshly brewed tea.  Since the rationing of tea after the war had just finished he could now even offer the vicar a second cup on his next visit, Tom thought to himself.  A few minutes later his neighbour knocked at the backdoor and said,  “Come and have tea with me tonight Tom, I have something special”.

           The friendly neighbour, who had spent all day at her sewing-table with only a brief interruption to read a chapter from “Pilgrim’s Progress”, served fish with boiled potatoes from the garden and peas that had been bought from the local shop.  “That was a nice piece of fish”, Tom said, thinking about the pike.“Did you buy it off the fishmonger?”  “No”, she said, “My son gave it to me.  It was far too big for me to eat alone as you can see.”  “Thank you, it was a real treat” Tom said, “But where did the fish come from?”  The neighbour replied, “My son found it this afternoon lying in the grass at Booton Clay Pit.”

Michael Yaxley

Bonn, Germany.         September 2008

(This short story has been written for the website of the Cawston Historical Society and may only be copied or  published by requesting permission from the Cawston Historical Society).