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Dave Gladwell's Fishing Tale for Christmas

In praise of a Vegetarian Xmas = REGINALD - a diabolical duck above all others

It was alleged that Reginald came to Diss to be sold into slavery on a Friday morning. With others, in a crate at the Saleground on a fine October day, the hammer would fall and a new owner be born. Our Reg would be filled with the finest of food and fattened as well as any Holy Cow. For there amidst the bidders were those with Christmas dinner on their minds and evil intent for dumpy ducks.

Things didn't quite work out like that though. Out of the truck came the crates with its occupants close together in mild confusion and disarray. Into the sale-shed they were handled and then, as the top lid opened for transfer to the range of wired wall selling cages, one agile Aylesbury flapped ferociously amidst much quacking and squawking to break free.

With great intelligence and dexterity it ran through the assorted archways of long legs and made great its freedom amidst much confusion and cursing via the open entry.

It scuttered speedily through the lots in the outside yard darting in and out avoiding clutching hands and sacks thrown at it. Crouched low it took temporary refuge amongst the pen of jumbled unsold items avoiding all inducements and threats to emerge for capture.

After an hour or so, with the temporary excitement all forgotten and settled down, our mutual friend stuck its head out and ascertained all was safe and sound. It waddled warily down past the Crown Public House, electing to cross the road and head downhill for the Post Office. The ingenuity of the enterprising bird was such that it chose to ignore the water at the Conservative Club. An aroma of the farming fraternity frequenting the establishment, smelt very much of the menacing market, farms and farmers.

Following a fruitless endeavour to establish popularity with busy bustling market traders, selling at their stalls, he was shooed down to the old King's Head Yard. This dude of a drake surveyed the scene, long and hard. The three-acre Mere looked large and uninviting with its assortment of residents.

Eventually launching himself downward on to the surface, it took to the waters for the rest of the day. Come the morrow it was legs eleven and the homing instincts drew him down to the River at Denmark Bridge.

Each day it was going to be a calm paddle and peck behind the Co-op with a few wild friends, but an overnight rain spate soon took poor Reginald in its sway and bore him downstream at an alarming rate.

He zoomed under the Bridge at Homersfield and saw not a friendly face on the way. At Earsham he clambered out and fluffed a few feathers but heard Father Christmas charging about checking on the behaviour of small children ascertaining their suitability for the "Good boy" category of rewards on the festive day. The "Goodwill to all men and blow the Poultry" attitude in celebration of that Holy Child's dreaded anniversary sent shivers down his spine. His parents had told him of rumours about Orange Sauce and Parsley, not to mention whispers of hot plates and very sharp knives.

Soon it was a week avoiding wild hunters on the Outney Common and at long last a friendly place came into view. There just below the Iron Bridge was the Haven of Falcon Meadow. So, therein settled our fine feathered friend, feasting on white bread in generous proportions and the safety of vegetarian residents.

By June and the arrival of the coarse fishing season Reginald was well established in his new domicile. Eating much and competing with his many Mallard companions. Bullying the odd Moorhen and consulting with the crazy Coots.

It was 1954, and Eric carefully cast his maggots on the hook. The white duck cluttered and clacked noisily across the surface with its feet, landed creating considerable turbulence and expertly engulfed the hook bait in an instant. Creating a great disturbance with much flapping and furiousity it beat the water with its wings and tried to snap the line to free itself.

The ardent angler gradually won the salient unsilent struggle, netted the bird and with some difficulty and dexterity wrapped the dejected and defeated duck in a towel. A successful attempt to remove the hook induced objection although wrapped in a towel, with pecking and strenuous struggling.

Our Angler in amidst the frantic affray, noticed a short length of orange plastic string set tight into the flesh of the leg, cut down to the bone, with a very nasty sore place and infection. Eric's mind went back ten years to when he had been parachuted into Italy during the Second World War.

High winds had swept along the ground dragging him into barbed wire and impaling firmly upon it. For twenty long hours he had lain with the wire stuck fast in the flesh of his throat, and gouged deep into the bone of his shin as the intensity of the Mediterranean sun hardened and clotted the blood sapping his strength.Eventually cut out and released by comrades who stitched the wounds without anaesthetic, he was to endure an experience he was never to forget.

Looking down at the bird the scene drifted to the back and a decision had to be made. A companion hung on to the now placid performer towelled, trapped and trembling with shock, the hook length removed from his mouth. The tackle was soon patiently packed neatly away and the Vet sought after.

A few hours later on, our Eric was £4 worse off. The duck looked less sorry for itself but was a little lame. It was settled down in the garden shed for the night on some scrounged straw beside a delightful dish of chopped worms and brown crusts soaked in milk.

Three days later it was feeding fast from the hand, gulping well, and like the good book says 'rose again from the duck and the dead'. At the weekend it was duly christened under the glowing red sky of the summer's evening sun as it stood contentedly on one webbed foot by a large bowl of water. 'Well, thou hast to have a name, Old Master', the widower's world of loneliness was addressed along with the duck.

Accordingly, 'Reginald' was so named and endowed with the Church of England faith by a bottle of Newcastle Brown in Eric's hand, and a little in a saucer for the Duck's pleasure. A spot of blue paint was dobbed on the back of the neck for identification purposes and he appeared both pleased and grateful to be returned to his "Paradise Lost".

It was not long though before the sad and sorry sins of the over tame Reginald started to accrue with a list of crimes against Society and the State as long as your arm. Not to mention the Town Council! His fame spread with alarm and laughter. The Flower Shop was among the early victims as the heads of flowers displayed for sale were devoured and in the same week, boxes of bedding plants chewed up beyond all hope.

At opening time our rampant Reg paraded at the door of the Chequers Inn and cadged crisps in the bar. His own bowl, donated by a beneficial boozer was not infrequently filled with stout and mild. A taste, a quick shake of the head, and then down to the business of quaffing quantities, interspersed with contented quacks and rufflings.

One Thursday market morning he caused major mayhem by pecking at a roll of red ribbon. The nylon fibres became frighteningly enmeshed in the rough inside of his beak. Flightless and fickle he rapidly ran away from the protesting shouts and gesticulations. In noise and quacking confusion, yards of red ribbon trailed after him from the large spool. The trader moved to grab the precious material, knocked over his stand and many of the contents spilled and shattered all over the ground amidst outrage and obscenity.

Reginald ran away down the hill, his streamer floating in a long trailing train behind him, looking particularly pleased with himself if not a little uncomfortable. A very social and people-loving personage, our Reginald, never forgot his induction into the Christian faith. When born again Baptists played their guitars and sang their songs he would join the small throng quacking loudly in participating praise of his maker (or his own personal Saviour - our Eric).

The Salvation Army Band attracted him in minutes, standing blinking besides the cornet player on a Sunday and shaking his head in an effort to raise the notes in his throat. He would try but it was most out of tune and he received little encouragement. Eventually, bored at the negative response, our protector of the faith would waddle off dejected in search of more mischief having paid his truculent tributes to his Maker.

Often he would perch on bicycle cross bars and bestow upon them his own personal predominance, soiling the saddle he became extremely unpopular! Every week Eric always brought him cake and the two would recognise each other in seconds.

One wicked angler however constantly visualised his potential alongside peas and Yorkshire pud, but the duck would vamoose rapidly when he shouted loudly "roast potatoes". Reginald's genetic hall mark started to appear in profusion as he mated with mallard and every other conceivable species that dare swim upon his beloved River.

White patches adorned many offspring in true testament to his virile fertility and parental prowess. Eric visited his old friend every month until the stroke took him off to the great waters of the unknown, and he was still thinking about him in his last few hours. Reginald - well he always avoided Christmas dinners but could not beat modern transport and was eventually run over. Sad, but even today his hallmarks remain upon the swimming strain at the end of Donald and kind Deidre's garden - go and see for yourself!.

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