Page 88 of The Unlikely Pair

Toby is the one to break the silence. “It’s not as if you had it easy with what happened to you at boarding school. I don’t think either of us had particularly pleasant childhoods.”

He glances at me, and I’m struck by the depth in his hazel eyes.

“I can understand why your upbringing has made you so passionate about the causes you believe in,” I say.

He’s silent for a few moments, his brow furrowed in contemplation before he replies, “Democracy has its flaws, but there isn’t a better alternative. As Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel once said, ‘There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.’”

His face is flushed, and I’m not entirely certain it’s solely due to the heat emanating from the growing fire.

“That’s a poignant quote,” I say. “I’m personally partial to the words of Martin Luther King Junior, ‘Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.’”

His lips quirk. “You need to remember that next time I’m arguing with you. I’m simply protesting about things that matter.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

Toby seems disconcerted by the fact we’ve managed to engage in a conversation about politics without it devolving into an argument.

He places another sizable piece of wood on the fire.

“The fire’s big enough now that it will last awhile. I think it’s time to go fishing.”

“Yes. I concur.”

“Can you teach me how to fish?” Toby asks as he watches me gather the equipment.

“Of course I can,” I say.

“It’s the old parable, isn’t it? Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime,” Toby says.

I’m certain I could find a way to use his words to critique Labour’s social welfare policy. But suddenly, I don’t want to argue with Toby now.

I don’t wish to disrupt the tranquil mood of this sunny morning.

Instead, we rummage for some grubs to use as bait, and I guide Toby through casting the line and dangling it at the right angle.

There’s a school of perch swimming lazily around.

“Come on, little fishies,” Toby croons.

“Patience is key when fishing,” I instruct Toby. “The fish can sense unnatural movements and vibrations, so you have to be very still.”

“Patience is a fishing rod,” Toby says.

I furrow my brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Toby says quickly.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “I thought we weren’t keeping things from each other now.”

He looks at me, abashed.

“It’s seriously nothing,” Toby says finally, biting his lip and looking down where his line trails into the water. “It’s just something my mum and I used to do, twisting common sayings. It’s just a silly thing.”

“Don’t count your fish before they’re fried?” I suggest.

Toby startles for a second before a smirk comes over his face.

“All good fish come to those who bait, and wait,” I continue.