When I was about fourteen Father did a good turn of some kind to old Hodges, the caretaker at Binfield House. I forget what it was – gave him some medicine that cured his fowls of the worms, or something. Hodges was a crabby old devil, but he didn’t forget a good turn. One day a little while afterwards when he’d been down to the shop to buy chicken-corn he met me outside the door and stopped me in his surly way. He had a face like something carved out of a bit of root, and only two teeth, which were dark brown and very long.

‘Hey, young ‘un! Fisherman, ain’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thought you was. You listen, then. If so be you wanted to, you could bring your line and have a try in that they pool up ahind the Hall. There’s plenty of bream and jack in there. But don’t you tell no one as I told you. And you go for to bring any them other young whelps, or I’ll beat the skin off their backs.’

Having  said this he hobbled off with his sack of corn over his shoulder, as though feeling that he’d said too much already. The next Saturday afternoon I biked up to Binfield House with my pockets full of worms and gentles, and looked for old Hodges at the lodge.