‘Thees a golden duck up at Dragons Glimpse!’ I spoke through ragged breaths.
My dad, who was sitting in a crumpled suit, sausage fingers wrapped around the paper, peeped over ‘What ya on about now?’
‘A Golden Duck! Up at’t’ Dragons Glimpse! Up yonder, near Utmost Point!’
‘A Golden Duck? Up yonder? At Utmost point?’ He rolled his eyes, ”Ave ya ‘eard this owd Mary? Thees a Golden Duck Up yonder, up at Dragons Glimpse, near Utmost Point!’ He rustled the newspaper, seeming to fight with it as he closed it and slammed it on the kitchen table.
My mum walked in from the living room, feather duster in her hand, ‘A golden duck, ya say?’
‘Aye,’ I replied.
She looked at me through her big coke-bottle lenses, ‘Is that so?’
‘Aye! A golden duck up at Dragons Glimpse! I sure seen it.’ I buzzed with excitement.
My dad’s eyebrows knitted together, his arms folded over his chest, his lips pursing expletives.
‘Go up with ‘im! See this Golden Duck, Frank!’
My dad’s jaw dropped from its hinges. Uncrossing his arms, he looked up from his seat to the jam-jar bottom lenses that her eyes pierced through. ‘Why can’t you go?’ He groaned.
‘Cause I’m doin’ the cleanin’!’ She said, hitting my dad’s head with the feather duster, ‘And ya jus’ get in me bleedin’ way!’
He sneezed, shoulders shrinking inside his shirt, ‘Ya what? Ya want me t’ go on a wild goose chase with the lad!’ He baulked, ‘It’s all flights o’ fancy!’ He turned to me, ‘It’s all flights o’ fancy, lad.’
‘It was real as I saw it!’ I protested, my fists clenched by my side.
‘Go up with ‘im! See this Golden Duck will ya!’ She threatened him with the feather duster.
My dad pulled a face, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Fine, fine! I’ll go.’
With a sigh and a slumping in his chair and a huffing and a puffing, he upped his butt and fought with his bootstraps. Then, with a sigh that sank him closer to the ground, he said, ‘Come on then.’
So off we went. He trailed behind and kept tutting and shaking his head, ‘Golden duck!’ He kept muttering.

When we reached The Dragons Glimpse, there was no sight of anything. I couldn’t believe it. Not one living creature caused a ripple on that lake.
Dad folded his arms across his chest and sighed again, his sigh swallowing him down into his boots.
I remember thinking to myself that if he sighed anymore, he’d sink so low he’d become a puddle!
‘She were ‘ere!’ I told him, picking up a stick from the ground and poking into the dirt.
‘Right.’ My dad replied.
He squatted down on his haunches and looked across the lake, a sheepish smile drawing on his lips.
I drew shapes in the dirt with the stick while we waited for something to turn up, and eventually, after what felt like an eternity, a few mallards appeared, each landing with a splash.
My dad lifted himself up with a crack of his knees and stretched, ‘I don’t think that golden duck is comin” he yawned.
‘Jus’ wait!’ I scowled, ‘She’ll turn up! She ‘as to now!’ I looked at the ground sadly, ‘She ‘as to!’ I threw the stick into the lake with impatience. ‘I calls ‘er Lucy.’
‘Why’d ya call ‘er Lucy?’
I pointed to the big old house with black gates with gold lettering, ‘That ol’ witch tol’ me she ‘ad leucism.’
My dad rolled his eyes, ‘ya’ve ‘eard ya mum talkin’ ent ya?’
Well, I couldn’t help thinking my mum was right! She was a witch. I wondered what spell she must’ve cast, showing me up in front of my dad!
Then my dad turned, set on leaving, and with his back to the lake, a duck turned up, and it was only the bleeding golden duck!
Thumping the air I turned to my dad, ‘She’s ‘ere again! Look!’ And I turned back, to find my finger pointing at an empty spot on the water. She’d only bleeding well gone!
My dad frowned at me. Irritation lit up his face. ‘Let’s go ‘ome!’
I looked across to the black and gold gate and noticed the net curtains twitching. I scowled at the house as I walked away, and all the way home, I thought about that golden duck and that witch and her magic tricks. I walked on, all fists and ruin. I had a mind to go to that witch’s house and give her a fistful of fives. I didn’t know what that meant, but I’d heard it in a film and it sounded right.

When we got home, my dad slumped back into his chair at the kitchen table and picked up his newspaper.
Mum stepped in with the duster still in her hand, curious, ‘Well?’
He shook his head, ‘No golden duck.’
‘No golden duck?’ She repeated.
He shook his head.
She turned to face me, ‘Well, that’ll teach ya won’t it!’
I gawped at my mum, red in the face with anger. ‘She can bloody fly!’
She held me in place with a look to kill and snapped back, ‘You watch your language, lad, or I won’t be lettin’ you out in a month o’ sundis!’
I slouched in the chair across from my dad, ‘Sorry.’ I looked down at the table with bleary eyes.
‘Must’ve flew over’t cuckoo’s nest on’t way t’ moon,’ dad grumbled.
I just carried on staring down at the table, running my finger over scratches and gouges formed over the years.
My mum’s face softened under her big, harsh lenses. ‘Say,’ She turned to my dad, ‘I reckon he did see a golden duck, Frank, I mean.’ She gestured towards me with a hand, ‘Look at ‘im.’

I went back to Dragons Glimpse every day for a while after that, always looking for that golden duck.
I saw it fleetingly now and then, sparingly for more extended periods, and I began to doubt my eyesight. The more I went, the more I caught only glimpses for a flash.
One day, I ran back home and begged my mum for some bread to throw to the ducks.
‘Ya know we might jus’ ‘ave some bread in that will do jus’ fine fer that!’ She said, rummaging through the bread bin.
My dad, as usual on a Sunday, was sitting with his braces loose and a newspaper in his hands. He turned to watch my mum root through the bread, shaking his head and tutting, ‘Is ‘e still af’er that golden duck?’
‘I seen it since! I’m gonna lure it close t’ me with this bread.’
‘Lure it? Then what?’
‘I dunno,’ I shrugged, ‘I jus’ wanna look at ‘er.’
With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he rustled the newspaper in front of him and hid behind it.
Mum held out the bread for me and I went to grab it, ‘What do ya say?’ She had her stern face on.
‘Thank you for the bread, mum!’
She beamed a smile at me and handed me the bread, ‘Good lad!’ She ruffled my hair, ‘Off ya pop then!’
On the way out I heard my dad say, ‘I dunno why ya encourage ‘im!’
And my mum replied, ‘Even if golden duck ent real, whats ‘arm in ‘im feedin’ ducks? It gi’es ‘im an interest, sommat t’ do! s’ more than you ever do! Jus’ sit and read that bilge all’t’ damn time!’

The ducks loved the bread, and I loved feeding them. But the golden duck didn’t appear.
Still, I kept at it. I don’t know how such perseverance got into my blood, but it did.
After many trips throughout the summer holidays, I continued after school and on weekends, and one fine autumn day, I was rewarded!
The leaves were crisp on the ground. A breeze would give them new life every so often and whip them up in a flurry.
I threw pieces of bread into the water, and with a golden whirl in front of me appeared the golden duck, landing at great speed onto the water, her beak eager as it lapped up bread on the ripples.
All my focus points suddenly became more colourful, limned in the autumnal light. I glimpsed a sense of childish joy, a sense of pride in my patience. I threw more bread onto the lake, and the ducks were in a frenzy over it. Within the chestnut browns and greens, a golden whirlwind splashed amongst them.
And not too distantly, the Crows croaked their carillon calls for halloween up in the trees, trailing on the breeze from Utmost Point.

One day after school, I was back at the lake when the old rich woman came peeping at me through the bars of the black gates.
”s got leucism that ‘as.’ She said, pointing through the bars at the duck.
I nodded.
‘Got leucism,’ she repeated, ‘Jus’ be glad it ent got them red eyes thee sometimes get!’ She pulled a face. Then she tilted her head to get a better look at me, ‘I’ve seen ya comin’ an’ goin’ ‘t this ‘ere lake. Ya like it ‘ere?’
‘Sure,’ I replied.
‘Ya like that duck?’ She said, pointing a wrinkled, gnarled finger.
‘Yea sure I likes ‘er.’
She grabbed hold of the bars, looked at me piercingly and said, ‘Well, she dunt like you!’ She spat those words out like she’d been holding that in for a while.
With that, she spun on her heels and ran back to her house. I’d never seen such an old lady move so fast. It was like, after she’d got out her pent-up hostility, she suddenly feared for her life and ran.
Her words dislimned the moment; the light-hearted features of the day clouded over.

I never returned to Dragons’ Glimpse after that interaction; that was, at least, until today.
Sitting on a bench bearing that same woman’s name on a plaque, with flowers in a vase screwed onto the back of the bench.
She died at the age of 99, which makes me wonder about the relationship between longevity and grumpiness. The nicer a person was, the shorter their life; the grumpier they were, the longer they lived. It’s probably statistically inaccurate, but it feels that way to me.
The flowers are wilting, and a part of me, a nasty side of me, laughs at it—the idea of wilting flowers on the bench dedicated to the memory of a woman who behaved so viciously.
I wasn’t the only kid she came out to insult; it was local knowledge that she hated children.
But a voice stops me in my tracks.
‘Dad! Dad! Did ya see it?’ She spins towards me.
‘What?’
‘I jus’ saw a golden duck!’
‘A golden duck?’ I ask with genuine surprise, ‘Are you sure?’ I can feel my dad’s face knitting onto my own. I shake him off, ‘Let’s get some peas!’
‘Peas?’ My daughter asks.
‘Aye, t’ feed the ducks! Then maybe,’ I crouch down onto the ground and pick her up, sling her over my shoulder, which always makes her giggle. ‘We’ll find that golden duck again!’