We were never quite sure where Jemima came from. She may have escaped from a local farm after killing everyone and tunnelling under the wire or had possibly found her way from the local nature reserve after being barred for bad behaviour and mugging a cormorant or two. Wherever she was from they were probably glad to see her go. Jemima you see was a duck but not any ordinary duck. Jemima was the Hannibal Lecter of the duck world, a veritable psychoduck, a ninja trained duck assassin of the highest order and one day we found her bobbing about on the pond outside the back door.
It was dad that first discovered her and she discovered his leg with a well aimed ninja duck peck only seconds later sending him hopping around the patio saying a few words that my seven year old self filed away for future reference and to repeat to my mates in our gang hut. This was the beginning of a ritual that would occur every time Jemima was around and an adult showed their face in the garden. From out of nowhere there would come a “QUACK!”, a flurry of white and their ankles would be viciously pecked. Other people kept dogs to deter burglars, we had somehow acquired an attack duck whether we wanted it or not.
Strangely if I was out in the garden Jemima, the duck avenger was calm and placid and I think it was only this that saved her from being served up with a nice plum sauce. I know I caught my father surreptitiously reading the sections of mums’ recipe books that involved cooking poultry in interesting ways. If there was any suspicion that she might be hiding under the Hydrangeas I would be propelled out of the back door at the end of a broom, clutching a stale scone with which to placate her so that whatever adults were in the house could make their escape un-pecked. As far as I was concerned though Jemima was a fantastic pet, a bit like Gnasher to my Dennis the Menace.
At the time my father was something of a keen gardener and my mother held dinner parties as was the fashion of the 70s so if my father wanted to impress one of his colleagues I would be banished to my room early whilst mum served dinner and dad took the guests on a tour of the runner beans. Hardly swinging suburbia but this was the edge of a seaside town that had only just crawled out of the 19th century and throwing your car keys into a bowl and getting hammered on Blue Nun had not reached that far yet although the couple four doors down had planted a large clump of Pampas grass outside the front door so maybe it was closer than we thought.
So it happened that on this particular late summer evening I had been sent to my room early whilst mum fussed over her soufflés and dad regaled his visitors, on this occasion a business client and fellow garden enthusiast, with tales of how well the marrows were doing. Perhaps the glass of wine he had consumed had dulled his memory or maybe mum had put the wrong sort of mushrooms in the Vol-au-Vents but dad decided to take his client on a tour of the garden. From my perch in my window where I was playing with my Airfix soldiers I saw them emerge onto the patio. I also had a grandstand view of what happened next.
From the foliage that bordered the pond there came an ominous “QUACK!” of doom and like a white feathery Exocet Jemima burst through the leaves at genital height. Fed up with the taste of ankles she had obviously decided to up the ante a little. Dad, seeing what was about to happen desperately tried to steer her off course but was not close enough and with an audible thump she ploughed into the client who let out a strangled yell as he toppled backwards over an ornamental urn and into dads prize marrows with a deranged duck now attempting to savage his trouser parts.
“ARGH!” said dad.
“QUACK!” said Jemima.
“EEEEP!” said dads’ business client whilst probably thinking “That bastard isn’t getting a penny out of me having lured me to his house to be cruelly abused by a psychotic waterfowl before the soufflé course!”
It was probably the sight of dad advancing on her with a garden spade but Jemima had by now realised that it was time to make herself scarce and taking one last peck flapped off over the fence and perched on the neighbours shed roof. Below me the garden looked like a scene from the Somme, well it would have if they had been using marrows as targets instead of people in 1916. Dads’ client lay amongst the wreckage of crushed vegetables and fallen runner bean poles as dad stared darkly at Jemima on the distant roof and muttered something about Duck a l’Orange.
Perhaps wisely after that she moved away as dad took an unhealthy interest in the shotgun section of mums Trafford catalogue and was seen browsing in the local sporting goods shop for duck calls. However, she was still somewhere nearby as every once in a while on a quiet summer evening I heard a distant quack followed by the sounds of tortured screaming.
It was dad that first discovered her and she discovered his leg with a well aimed ninja duck peck only seconds later sending him hopping around the patio saying a few words that my seven year old self filed away for future reference and to repeat to my mates in our gang hut. This was the beginning of a ritual that would occur every time Jemima was around and an adult showed their face in the garden. From out of nowhere there would come a “QUACK!”, a flurry of white and their ankles would be viciously pecked. Other people kept dogs to deter burglars, we had somehow acquired an attack duck whether we wanted it or not.
Strangely if I was out in the garden Jemima, the duck avenger was calm and placid and I think it was only this that saved her from being served up with a nice plum sauce. I know I caught my father surreptitiously reading the sections of mums’ recipe books that involved cooking poultry in interesting ways. If there was any suspicion that she might be hiding under the Hydrangeas I would be propelled out of the back door at the end of a broom, clutching a stale scone with which to placate her so that whatever adults were in the house could make their escape un-pecked. As far as I was concerned though Jemima was a fantastic pet, a bit like Gnasher to my Dennis the Menace.
At the time my father was something of a keen gardener and my mother held dinner parties as was the fashion of the 70s so if my father wanted to impress one of his colleagues I would be banished to my room early whilst mum served dinner and dad took the guests on a tour of the runner beans. Hardly swinging suburbia but this was the edge of a seaside town that had only just crawled out of the 19th century and throwing your car keys into a bowl and getting hammered on Blue Nun had not reached that far yet although the couple four doors down had planted a large clump of Pampas grass outside the front door so maybe it was closer than we thought.
So it happened that on this particular late summer evening I had been sent to my room early whilst mum fussed over her soufflés and dad regaled his visitors, on this occasion a business client and fellow garden enthusiast, with tales of how well the marrows were doing. Perhaps the glass of wine he had consumed had dulled his memory or maybe mum had put the wrong sort of mushrooms in the Vol-au-Vents but dad decided to take his client on a tour of the garden. From my perch in my window where I was playing with my Airfix soldiers I saw them emerge onto the patio. I also had a grandstand view of what happened next.
From the foliage that bordered the pond there came an ominous “QUACK!” of doom and like a white feathery Exocet Jemima burst through the leaves at genital height. Fed up with the taste of ankles she had obviously decided to up the ante a little. Dad, seeing what was about to happen desperately tried to steer her off course but was not close enough and with an audible thump she ploughed into the client who let out a strangled yell as he toppled backwards over an ornamental urn and into dads prize marrows with a deranged duck now attempting to savage his trouser parts.
“ARGH!” said dad.
“QUACK!” said Jemima.
“EEEEP!” said dads’ business client whilst probably thinking “That bastard isn’t getting a penny out of me having lured me to his house to be cruelly abused by a psychotic waterfowl before the soufflé course!”
It was probably the sight of dad advancing on her with a garden spade but Jemima had by now realised that it was time to make herself scarce and taking one last peck flapped off over the fence and perched on the neighbours shed roof. Below me the garden looked like a scene from the Somme, well it would have if they had been using marrows as targets instead of people in 1916. Dads’ client lay amongst the wreckage of crushed vegetables and fallen runner bean poles as dad stared darkly at Jemima on the distant roof and muttered something about Duck a l’Orange.
Perhaps wisely after that she moved away as dad took an unhealthy interest in the shotgun section of mums Trafford catalogue and was seen browsing in the local sporting goods shop for duck calls. However, she was still somewhere nearby as every once in a while on a quiet summer evening I heard a distant quack followed by the sounds of tortured screaming.
1 comment:
Now thats what I call a scary duck!
Debster
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