Tengisgol – Remembers Arthur

The first time I ever cast a line was with Artie and, from that moment until his passing, we were stuck tight. In fact, Artie’s wife threatened to bury us together, such was the bond.

Born in 1900 in Leytonstone, Artie was a lively lad, an ‘East Ender’ through and through. At fourteen he ran away to the Army having seen a poster in Cann Hall Road telling him, “Your Country Needs You!” His mother thought he’d gone to the West Country and, before she worked out the truth of it, Artie was in France and heading to the front line. She caught up with him just in time (albeit with the help of the War Office), dragging him home on account of having lied about his age. I’m guessing I wouldn’t be telling this story if she’d not got to him before the Germans did.

That didn’t stop Artie though, he was a terror. At sixteen he joined the Navy and, assigned to the 63rd (Royal Naval) Division, he found himself charging up a beach at Gallipoli. With bullets flying in every direction, Artie struck lucky when ‘his’ Turk managed only to shoot out his left thumb, not his left eye. That was end of his war though, being taken first to hospital in Malta and then home. What he’d seen in France and Turkey haunted his whole life. He never spoke of it but very occasionally Artie would sit quietly in the yard, pull out a Rowntree’s tin with his medals wrapped inside and, with a tear in his eye, think fondly of friends made and friends lost in those sad times. He was quite unique, with ribbons from both Army and Navy campaigns.

Artie settled back into life in the East End with a job on the railways, got married and had a daughter. He found me early one morning, cold and wet over the Flats, with not a lot going on. So, he took me off fishing and that was how our journey began.

Artie was a grafter, six long days a week, but Sunday morning was his time. We’d bike up the Lea, anywhere from Cooks Ferry to Ponders End, and sometimes further to Waltham Cross. Out would come his fabulous London Pole and roach would be the target. He never could’ve afforded one, if he’d paid for it himself but Artie found it in a carriage one night and didn’t try too hard to get it back to the poor sod who left it there. ‘SOWERBUTTS & SON MAKER’ it said, etched neatly into the brass.

Without a thumb on his left hand, Artie had to improvise. He had a special way of unhooking the roach; he used his mouth! He’d fashioned a disgorger from whalebone, that he would grip between his teeth and used his right hand to hold the fish. From most angles it looked like he was about to take a bite and people would shout up the towpath, “Don’t eat it Arthur, it isn’t an eel!” and he’d pretend he couldn’t hear and shout back, “What’s that, these ears have been through a lot you know?” We caught thousands of roach; fishing was our escape from the grime and smoke of the East End.

Not too long after we met the world went crazy again for war. Artie was too old and damaged for a call up but made a damned good air raid warden. Some nights he’d take me out on his route and he said I was his lucky charm. He’d talk roach for hours and that took his mind off the bombs I figured.

After the war, the banks were littered with men who had missing parts; arms, legs, hands, and Artie was a bit of an inspiration down the river with no left thumb and his unique unhooking routine. There were no fancy prosthetics then, the men simply had to find a way.

Now me and Artie had a bit of an edge on the Lea; hempseed! And Artie was a master. He’d first been shown how to prepare it by a Belgian chap, a war refugee he’d met in his younger days on the railways, and those roach went crazy for it. Lord knows where he got his seeds from, he wouldn’t even tell me but rumour was he had a contact at the docks and it was quite an industry. Artie always had a pot on the boil, much to his missus’ upset, and on a Friday night there’d be a queue outside ‘The Colgrave’ waiting for him and his magic seeds. A pint of hemp from Artie and a few pints of bitter in the ‘Colly’, that was the routine for the fishermen of Leytonstone but Artie left them to it; he was teetotal and would rather spend his time in the gym under the arches.

Artie would tackle us up to fish hemp on the drop, pole in his right hand, and a dozen grains a cast thrown from his left. ‘Bait’ was two tiny bits of matchstick, soaked to soften, delicately hooked through, then left to dry. A dab of Elmers to keep it all tight and painted over black and white. He never let on to anyone (except me) how he did it, but his matchstick trick drove the anglers to despair, trying to work it out, and it mesmerised the fish as well! On a good day, Artie could stand up, waive his four left digits in the air like a conductor with an orchestra and the roach would boil on the surface as the crescendo!

We only ever fished for roach. I begged and begged to go further upstream and catch a barbel but he’d never take me on the Old Lea, always making fun and saying I was a lightweight. I could forgive Artie for most things but, to tell you the truth, that really upset me. “Gudgeon for you, my son!” he’d say, and then fall off his stool in a roar of laughter, whilst I sat there looking up at him, crimson with rage.

Artie’s luck ran out in June 1964, a simple shunting accident, just before the season was about to begin. They buried him with his London pole and a pint of hempseed.

I thought that fishing days were behind me but it turned out there were many more rivers ahead. A chance meeting led to being ‘adopted’ by a young toolmaker from Chadwell Heath. His factory had a fishing section and, as members of the London Anglers Association, every third week we’d go off in a coach. I like to think Artie was with me in spirit on those trips and I even managed a two pounder one day, down at Pluck’s Gutter. ‘Bait’ was a size fourteen ‘National Champion’, with a bit of matchstick, painted black and white and stuck to the shank.

Artie would have loved that…

This story is dedicated to the brave men, women, and children who have faced conflict in their lives and particularly Sydney George Thomas 1898-1970

Writing & Images – Tengisgol, Autumn 2023