Well, (shhhhhh! – don’t tell anyone), to be honest he wasn’t in my sack, but the truth was that my anorak was thrown over him and then I  bundled him into the back of my car. 

To be honest, I was doing him a favour – yes I was!  But when I stood knee deep in the river with my shoes squelching, I did wonder if I was doing him a favour, or myself a disfavour.  Then, whenever you find yourself in this situation, isn’t it always the way that a friendly man looks over the river bank and politely says:  “Are you all right?” or “Is there anything I can do to help?”  At the same time, there’s an oven ready duck scrambling up the slopes of the bank in panic. 

Look, you haven’t understood.  Let me explain how all of this happened on a summer evening last year. 

You see, it was like this.  It was summertime here in Yorkshire and the  summer evening sunshine was tempting, and my little dog wanted her walk.  So I took the car down to the Riverside Gardens in Ilkley and was walking quietly along, minding my own business and my Jack Russell was walking quietly alonside me.  An agitated man suddenly appeared, climbing up the river bank and said:  “There’s five male ducks trying to drown another duck.  What can I do?”  Well, when you see a man in distress, it is only polite to try to help.  So I left him holding the dog whilst I scrambled down the river bank myself to shout at the tormentors.  “Get off him!  You beasts!” etc.  Then lumps of earth were hurled by this polite elderly poet from Ilkley at the assailants.  Then more:  “I’ll murder you if you don’t get off him” etc.  The ducks understood my meaning quite well now and whilst they stopped dead in their tracks, the poor creature under the water managed to escape and head for the bank. 

I moved down the bank a foot or so, to give the escapee more encouragement when, suddenly I must have stepped onto slippery mud, for the ground went from under me and I, on my bottom, started to slide into the River Wharfe covered with mud.  Meanwhile, the poor creature, who had been deplucked (is that the word?) made a dash past me and up the bank.  Sat in the river with water squelching in my shoes, I struggled to get myself up and onto my feet.  A voice from above, holding still onto my dog, shouted:  “Are you all right?  Is there anything I can do?” for what else could he possibly think to ask?   “No I am not!”  and “Yes, you can help me.”  Down the slope he comes, hand outstretched and pulls me out of the river dripping wet – rather like the sea maiden in my poem, only less beautiful!

By now, the tormentors are coming to claim their victim again, so, on the way up the bank, I take off my anorak and throw it over him, (the duck, not the man) and, dripping wet and with a deplucked duck in an anorak under my arm, I get my dog and make back for my car.  Into the back of the car goes the oven-ready duck, and, sopping wet, I have to sit in my car and drive home. 

My husband, Mike, opens the front door when I arrive, and seeing the state I am in says:  “Are you all right?”  “No, I’m b-------- not!”  (And these words are strange coming from someone like me who doesn’t usually swear.)  Off come the wet shoes and, on my way up to the bathroom to change I call back:  “There’s a poor deplucked duck in the boot inside my anorak.”  In Ilkley, perhaps these sort of remarks might be everyday remarks, and yet he seemed surprised.

We put our duck in the garden, thinking that the friendly ducks from the lake behind our house would come and feel sorry for him, and encourage him to live in peace with them,  but in the world of nature there really is no sympathy.  We realized that the only way for him to survive was to hide him in our hedge and take it from there.  So, in the hedge with plenty of bread for supper and a dish of water he went. 

Next morning I rushed out to see how the poor victim was doing, only to find he’d gone.  Someone who lives in the town centre reported that in the middle of the night, on returning back to bed after a visit to the toilet, they glanced out of their window only to see an oven-ready duck trotting through the streets of Ilkley in the direction of ------ yes, you’ve got it.  Back to the river and back to his tormentors.  He wasn’t seen again.