The Fisherman, the Rugby Club, and the Rusted Bike

by Steph Maria Gray

There was a warm summer wind that blew strongly, nudging Geraint towards Abersoch’s rugby club. The welcoming lights twinkled through the windows, matching the serenity of the setting sun over the sea. However, his brain was whizzing with numbers, costs and breakdowns. 

It was another quiet day at his seaside shop and the numbers were starting to look concerning. Geraint’s feet knew the way, they walked this way daily. The closer he got, the hum of chatter got louder as the fishermen, tradesmen and teachers were already done for the day. He paused, lingering by the entrance to the club. 

The thoughts of returning to the fishing boats sat most prominent in his busy head, the memories of his time before the shop so potent, he could smell the blend of fish guts and salted air. They were a small but close community, faring quiet winters and hectic summers together. They had all lived in and around Abersoch their whole lives, grown from boys scrapping on the rugby pitch, to men getting drunk in the rugby club. They did what their fathers and grandfathers had done before them. They worked, they played and they drank. 

When he entered the cigarette-smoke-filled room, for the first time, he really looked at everyone. No longer the boys he once knew, the room was now filled with grey hair and weathered skin. His former classmates, teammates and friends now stared intently at the news on the television screen, discussing what they saw, or wistfully at the beers in front of them. Round tables littered the carpeted room with a pool table at the back, dimly lit and murky through the smoke. A small bar with a couple beer taps stood near the front door, with a television next to it. This used to show rugby games, football games, or any sporting event that could be used as an excuse to drink. Now, in the trophy and photo-filled room, it mainly showed the news, reflecting only an echo of the energy this place once held. 

“Sut mae, Geraint, the usual?” Rhian asked from behind the bar. The sturdy barwoman must be pushing sixty now but her rounded, rosy cheeks always made her appear youthful.

“Not anymore, Rhi,” Geraint replied sheepishly. “Going to give the hard life a try.”

“Ah, has this come from Mari?” Rhian teased, putting down the glass she was polishing. 

This caused a smile from Geraint, amused by her comment. “Although I am slightly scared of my wife," Geraint joked, “surprisingly, I just want to be better.”

She gave him a knowing nod. Rhian had seen Geraint being carried out every other night. She worried about him. She worried about all of them. The times had changed so quickly. No longer was she drinking them under the table; no longer were the prideful melodies of Calon Lân sung with such togetherness. The raucous rugby club her parents had passed on to her, had become a place of solemn solidarity and drowning sorrows. 

Her warm brown eyes followed Geraint as he made his way toward the seats near the pool table. Silently, she was proud. He had always been a shy and awkward kid. Although he was a good laugh and people liked how fun he was drunk, she still always saw him as that sensitive, contemplative boy. Tonight, she saw that boy again. When he reached his childhood best friend, she lowered her eyes and went back to polishing glasses. 

“Sut mae, Al,” Geraint greeted, placing a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. This broke Alan out of his trance of watching the nearby pool game.

“Gez.” Alan smiled. “How you doing, pal?” They shook hands firmly. Geraint slumped into the chair opposite. A round, sticky table littered with waterstains and cardboard beer mats sat between them. 

“Oh, you know.” Geraint smiled sadly. “And you?” 

“Not bad.” Alan took a sip of his beer. Geraint couldn’t help but watch hungrily. “Bloody nightmare trying to fish with those hobby sailors out there. Don’t know their port from their starboard, those nutters.” Alan chuckled bitterly. “How’s that lovely wife of yours?” 

“Mari? She’s good, thank you. Busy prepping Bronwyn for the Eisteddfod.” Geraint smiled fondly. “And Sue?”

“Oh, you know my Susan.” Alan laughed heartily. “In her element either gossiping with the ladies who run the caravan sites or on the beach sunning herself.”

Geraint had seen Sue earlier when he was closing the shop, walking along the shore with her children. The four of them looked like blacked-out silhouettes with the vibrant orange from the setting sun blurring the four of them into one. The light had reflected so beautifully off the water, sparkling in the last of the evening light, with only a few of the remaining sailboats dotted along the horizon. Sue’s loud, joyful, roaring laugh, adding to the beauty of the scene.

Keys in hand, Geraint couldn’t help but stare at the beautiful picture. They looked so happy and content, laughing and singing loudly in Welsh. He felt a swell of pride for his home. 

“Rhian not get you a drink?” Alan noticed the empty beermat in front of his friend, snapping Geraint out of his thoughts. “That’s not like her.”

“Actually,” Geraint spoke quickly, stopping Alan from getting out of his seat, “I’m going to try being sober.” He felt like a school boy again, admitting something embarrassing to his ‘much cooler’ friend. Throughout school and adulthood, Alan had never understood Geraint’s embarrassment around talking about himself. Geraint, however, never quite grew out of that slight insecurity. Even now, as grown men with wives and children, he felt like he did not quite compare to his friend. He was not sure why he felt this way; he just did. 

“Sober?” He couldn’t hide the shock in his voice, “Geraint, you hold the record for most of the drink related challenges in this place; you love to drink. In fact, it was just last month you brought Aled’s bucket and spade to the club and used the bucket as a pint glass.” There was a fondness to Alan’s words as he recalled the memory. “I still don’t know how you convinced Rhian to fill the thing up with beer,” he muttered mainly to himself.

Geraint sighed. “I know.” He no longer felt proud of this; the joke had finally gotten old. 

Alan carried on, “And there’s so much shit going on right now, don’t deny yourself the comfort of an old friend.” As if to prove his point, Alan lifted his glass and tipped it slightly towards Geraint. 

“I know all of this, Alan.” His voice was now tense, a sharp edge trying to cut out all of the thoughts of how nice a beer would be right now, in addition to that childhood insecurity of not doing what everyone else was doing, of feeling different. “I’ll try and cope in a different way; I don’t know.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe I’ll start running?”

Alan nearly spat out his beer. “Running?! Mate, you’re a prop forward.” 

“Fair point; can’t argue that.” Geraint cracked a smile. “My heart may just pack in.” He was thankful for the break in tension.

“Yeah and your knees and back, next you’ll be watching that Jane Fonda stuff Sue is obsessed with.” Alan laughed. “I think the leg warmers would suit you.” Geraint let out a hearty laugh. Alan finished the dregs of his pint. “You sure I can’t tempt you?” 

As hard as it was, Geraint smiled politely and shook his head. He watched his friend walk to the bar. He watched him cracking jokes with Rhian. He felt his skin itch with desire, his mouth water with the thought of what it would taste like. Digging his nails into his denim clad thighs, he fought to keep his head clear, fought to remember why he was doing this.

It was even more important now the shop was not doing well. Now more than ever he needed to be there for his family. The increase in rent alone will set them back significantly. 

When Alan came back with a fresh pint, he sat heavily in the chair opposite. “So, are you going to tell me why or will I have to work it out of you?”

Geraint paused, collecting his thoughts. 

“It was Aled’s bike.” He stared at Alan’s fresh pint from across the table, thinking of his son. “Everytime I would get home, I would see that rusted old bike sat out the front.” He kept his eyes fixated on the dark stout. “Seized brakes and a rusted chain and he still uses it.” Geraint was now tearing at a cardboard beer mat, needing to do something with his hands. 

“And, for the nights I didn’t remember, when I was in bed the following morning, head pounding and stomach churning, I would hear metal on metal as he pedalled up the street, grinding away with rusted spokes and a worn down saddle.” Alan kept his focus on Geraint, drowning out the news on the television behind them. Around him, all eyes remained fixed on updates from the miners’ strikes, Margaret Thatcher’s government, and yet another crisis facing farmers. All eyes stared to the front, but Alan looked the other way, watching his friend. “It feels like a reminder of how I’m failing as a father.” Alan remained silent.

“I love the rugby club; I do, Alan,” Geraint continued. “And you boys are great, but the amount I spend here… I’ve missed my kids growing up; I’ve let my wife down; I’ve risked my business, and I just know, I know to my core, that if my Mam saw that old bike, saw that I’ve put nights I don’t even remember above my own flesh and blood, she would be so disappointed.” He tore the last pieces of the beer mat in half, leaving a neat pile below his fidgeting hands. Geraint reached for another from the middle of the table.

“Business not doing well?” Alan wanted to keep the conversation going, scared that if it ended now, he’d lose his friend. He knew how Geraint could shut down. Despite Geraint thinking he was slick with hiding his insecurities and need to fit in, Alan knew his friend liked to put up a front. 

“Oh, you know how it is.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “The Saes are now holidaying abroad and the south are too busy striking and too poor to travel. The farmers are offing themselves; it’s so bleak.”

“So you thought you’d stop drinking?” Alan mused, sipping his beer. It was room temperature which was what he preferred. Proper beer, not that lager nonsense. 

“I know, I know.” Geraint dared to risk a smile, appreciating his friend’s humour. “I just thought that maybe those shillings are better spent on my family, saving what we can as the busy seasons are getting quieter.” 

“I understand that, Gez, but it’s just a pint,” Alan pushed. After seeing Geraint’s determined face, he moved on. “Sue keeps mentioning how the campsite owners are seeing it now as well.” This did not help Geraint’s nerves. However, it did provide a slight consolation in knowing he was not alone in this. 

“I feel the Saes are done with us and will discard us. You saw what they did to Capel Celyn? The Tryweryn valley has never been the same. Over fifteen years and my cousin never got all the money for his farm. He was separated from his community and his home.” Geraint’s upset at the situation was contagious. 

Alan could feel the anger rise. He took another sip. “That’s all they do, isn’t it,” Alan said bitterly. “Can’t have a conversation in my own mother tongue without some Saes pointing and laughing.” He had had a bit to drink by this point, making his tongue looser than normal and his frustration more potent.

“I’m scared about what will happen in the future,” Geraint finally confessed timidly, lifting his openly fearful eyes from the glass. “Our families have been here for generations and I’m scared we are going to get pushed out.” 

Alan’s brow furrowed slightly. Geraint continued. 

“Getting drunk and ignoring all of this, ignoring everything that’s going on is not helping set a better future for our children.” Geraint sighed deeply, “all of this politics and money talk makes it so easy to drink.” 

Alan gave a slight nod, encouraging Geraint to continue.

“I’m not like you, Al; I can’t stop until I’ve had too much and there is so much misery right now. Everything feels so bleak, but that will not turn me into a sad drunk. I will buy my son a new bike. I will listen to my daughter sing in the Eisteddfod. I will kiss my wife when I’m home from the shop, and not be ashamed of smelling like cigarettes and beer.” Geraint’s voice gradually got louder as he spoke, causing a couple glances from men on the neighbouring tables. “And I will no longer be sorry about missing any of that because I was getting pissed here, with the other miserable bastards drowning their worries.”

“Too right, Gez,” Alan muttered, not wanting to interrupt Geraint’s thoughts. It was as if he was seeing his friend as a stranger, so different from himself and the other men here. Alan knew Geraint had already changed. 

“Feels like we’re losing everything, Al,” Geraint continued. “I lost customers in the shop because I spoke in Welsh to my wife.” He scoffed and Alan shook his head in disbelief. “Can you believe that?”

“It’s shocking, mate, honestly.”

“I will not be someone who drowns the nation’s sorrows,” Geraint said indignantly, words dripping with determination. “I will be a good father, a good husband and the type of son my Mam would’ve been proud of.” 

Alan was silent, too stunned to know what to say. The eavesdroppers had shifted their attention back to the television, their beers clasped in their hands, providing comfort like a baby with their bottle. 

Alan took a heavy gulp of his drink, letting it sit in his mouth before swallowing. He always admired Geraint’s determination, but now he was proud of his friend. He hadn’t been this proud of Geraint for many years. The memory flashes in Alan’s mind, how he left the fishing boats to live that dream of his. A seaside shop in his beloved home town. All the other fishermen thought it was a waste of money and time, but Alan really hoped, to his core, that it all worked out for his friend. He felt like that now.

Too many times he had carried him home drunk. Too many times Alan had seen a disappointed Mari as the men dropped Geraint off, too consumed with alcohol to know where he was or who he was with. Alan wanted Geraint to succeed with this. He couldn’t say he was proud of his friend as they never spoke like that; their friendship was always based on showing up for each other. So, he kept them in a comfortable silence, shifting his gaze back on the pool game.

Geraint watched Alan as he started to shut down. He knew, without a doubt, that his friend supported his decision. He appreciated Alan’s silence as it allowed them both to digest the conversation. However, as Alan stewed on the exchanged words by sipping on his beer and watching the pool game, Geraint was left with an unquenchable thirst that only some hops and barley could satisfy.

With the adrenaline from his vulnerability still pumping, Geraint was unsure if he could stay away from the pints any longer. He stood up abruptly. “Thank you, Alan.” He nodded, hoping to express his gratitude through a stern nod and small smile. Alan could tell his friend was at his limit. “For listening. I mean it.” 

Alan looked up, his drink nearly empty with both hands gripping the glass. “Alright, pal. I’ll see you soon?” Without the rugby club, Alan was unsure as to when he would see his friend again.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll see you at the end of the week.” Giving his friend a sad smile, he finally admitted, “I need to ask you about joining the fishing boats again.”

“Ah. Shit man; I’m sorry.” Alan knew what this meant. He knew how hard Geraint worked for his shop, how hard this must be for him. It made Alan understand Geraint’s decision more. 

“It’s alright, mate. See you then?”

“See you then.” 

Alan hoped he would not see Geraint then. He hoped he would not see him for some time. If he didn’t come to ask about the fishing boats, that meant the shop was doing okay. His big presence missing from the rugby club, meant he was doing his Mam proud. Although he would miss his friend, it was the first time ever, he hoped he would not see him.

***

The summer air had cooled significantly as the crisp breeze cleared out the stale cigarette smoke in Geraint’s lungs. In the blue twilight, the small town looked so beautiful. There were echoes of laughter coming from the beach and the thumping bass of a band in a nearby pub. There was so much life here still. 

For the first time in a long time, Geraint enjoyed his walk home from the rugby club. He took in the rolling hills and endless horizon. He felt nothing but pride for the beauty and community of his home. 

It was at that moment, he dared to believe everything would be okay, as if chancing the thought was a risk in itself.

As he closed the front gate behind him, approaching the front door, he came face to face with that rusted bike. He thought of those few coins he saved tonight by not washing his earnings down a pint glass. If he kept this up, he could buy a new bike before Christmas.

Geraint smiled, imagining the joy on his son’s face. That was motivation enough.

***

Abersoch continued to change over the years. Geraint’s shop survived for over a decade due to the sudden swell of tourism in the late 1980s onwards. But, as second homes became more common than permanent ones, work grew increasingly seasonal. Like many local families, Geraint, Mari, Aled and Bronwyn eventually left too. But, he left happily and sober, as his home no longer felt like his home. He was ready to move on.