It was only the afternoon sun catching the stream where he had cast his fly but he couldn’t help it. Nor could he stop the trembling in his arms that followed. His hands were not obviously shaking but the tiny rapid quivering of his muscles was enough to vibrate the tip of his rod. He lowered it into the long grass and clasped his hands hard. The shakes came only now and again but if Phil, the squadron doctor, saw him spill his beer in the mess he might take him off flying. He kept his eyes on his fly, which was still on the water. It was an Infallible, a wet fly, which meant that it would gradually sink. He would have preferred a dry fly, or at least some grease to keep his line afloat, but there was no chance of finding either. He had been a keen angler since his first boyhood trips with his stepfather, back home in Canada, but now, here in wartime England, he no longer minded whether he caught anything. You were almost never alone in the air force and he treasured these rare periods of solitude, content to be in the presence of the unknown, loving the quiet mystery of dark pools as much as – perhaps more than – solving it.
