The Elusive Language of Ducks

by Judith White

  For at least two days she’d been encapsulated on the ship with hundreds of passengers as they moved from one destination to the other. There was no escape. The ocean and the sky surrounded them. Internally, they were entertained with drink and food and music and dancing and pursuing men. They were on an island, a spaceship, a floating seed capsule. They were parasites living in the gut of a floating duck. Some passengers were continuing to South Africa, some to England, back home or to start new lives. Everyone was in the same boat. If it had sunk mid-ocean they would have all gone into the soup together.

  In many ways, the time between Christmas and New Year was like this. They were passengers on a boat moving through time between Christmas and New Year. At the other end, they would disembark and continue with their lives. Hannah only had to hope that there’d be no storms. Even more worryingly, that they wouldn’t sink. She was aware that there were rocks lurking just beneath the surface.

  HEAT WAVE

  They were immersed in a heat wave. Their ship had slipped its mooring, was drifting from shore. Every morning Simon would dive into the sea for a swim but could never persuade anyone else to join him.

  And now Toby was asleep on the couch in his beanpole jeans and black T-shirt, his lean white feet twitching spasmodically, his gingery hair wilting over his forehead as if it, too, was affected by the heat. Everyone else, muttering that they had overeaten, took themselves into the garden, searching for respite from the cloying humidity.

  Simon’s brother, Dennis, perched miserably on the wooden bridge with his feet on either side, cooling in the pond. Two divorces, and he’d just been made redundant. His whole demeanour was heavy, as if he had grown too round for himself and was sagging, only just supporting himself, his chin in his palms, his forearms resting on his thighs. His back was curved and his stomach drooped wearily over his belt. A goldfish, enticed by his motionless body, investigated the hairs on his leg.

  Maggie, on the other hand, had filled a plastic bucket with Belgian beer packed in ice and was sitting on a rug in the shade alongside Simon, their backs against a cabbage tree. Even the duck was droopy, seeking refuge in leafy shade. Flies buzzed and darted in the sun. Birds hung around on the lawn with their beaks hanging open, their wings spread out from their bodies as if broken.

  It was only when Hannah brought out the hose to wash away his droppings from under the deck that the duck sprang to life. When she shot the jet at his feet, he parked his legs apart on the tiles, like a dazed old man who had just wet himself. However, when she lifted the spray into the air above him, he was gone, crashing across the lawn around the pond. She couldn’t resist giving his tail a sprong — he ran like the same old man rushing for a bus. She laughed. Whoever heard of a duck scared of water?

  The others were lazily watching her. She was their entertainment, and it wasn’t because they were sharing her delight. Instead, they were united in their disdain. Simon was pleased to have an ally; he had seen it before, after all. But Maggie was a keen spectator, her chin propped on her bare knees, swigging from a bottle. Hannah had an urge to give her tail a sprong as well.

  The duck was watching her from behind a bush. She turned the hose off at the nozzle and dropped it by the pond.

  Dennis, still on the bridge, lifted his head from his murky gaze and gave her a forced, embarrassed grin.

  Are you OK? she asked.

  Yep, yep. Yep. Thanks, he said, stepping up onto the bridge, shaking water from his legs before moving over to dump himself beside Simon and Maggie on the rug. He, too, was now drinking the beer that Maggie had handed him.

  Hannah joined them, sat down on the edge of the rug, her toes in the cool grass. The duck placed himself beside her feet. There was an awkward silence. Maggie offered her a beer. She opened it herself and took a swig. No one said anything as the heat shimmered around them and the boat floated further and further from shore.

  HALFWAY

  Four days later and they were still afloat. Each morning Hannah stealthily mixed up the special mash for her duck and watched as he gobbled it up, along with a few members of an extended family of snails she’d found stuck to the concrete wall behind the agapanthus.

  FINALLY, THE ROCKS

  It had been a languid sloppy day with their destination only two days ahead. The sun belted upon them. If they’d been passengers in a yacht, its sails would have been drooping flaccidly. Toby took himself to his room to sleep, after promising to prepare the evening meal. The others left the house for a walk, ambling down the street and over the rolling buttocks of grass to the point.

  Hannah could hear a skylark, a tiny bell jingling in the blue. She stopped, shielding her eyes as they followed the wavering dot climbing to the heavens. She imagined her duck one day accompanying the lark, his enormous wings batting against the air to swing from one end of the sky to the other, as if a pendulum suspended from the small bird, pinned to the sky.

  Maggie and Simon had moved on ahead, out of earshot, with Dennis lumbering a short way behind them. He gave the impression of being such a lonely man. Maggie was laughing at something Simon had said, had thumped him on the arm and had her head back, her straight black hair bouncing on her shoulders. Then, abruptly, they both turned and looked directly at Hannah. She waved and moved to catch up, but they turned again and continued to walk, increasing their pace.

  Dennis hung back for her, and they all straggled down and over the hills to the road and strolled along the waterfront to a restaurant. They sat at a table under a Norfolk pine and lethargically watched kids dash around slides and swings and up ladders and through tubes. Hannah could never come to terms with the screams and shrieks of children as they played — it always gave her an unnerving sense of underlying panic.

  Maggie ordered a bottle of sauvignon blanc. Hannah waved her glass aside. It was too hot to drink wine in the middle of the day.

  Of course you can’t drink, you’re in charge of a duck, said Maggie. I’m surprised you managed to leave it behind for so long. Or resist bringing it with you.

  Does your duck have a name? asked Dennis gently.

  Oh, let me guess, said Maggie. It would have to be Gabriel. No? Oh I know. Duckie-wuckie. Or maybe Quackie-wackie? Or is that you?

  You realise, don’t you, said Simon, that for one, Hannah’s duck is not a duck, but is probably a drake? And secondly, it’s not a true duck, as such, genetically.

  Maggie rolled her eyes. What do you mean, not a true duck?

  Well, it is and it isn’t. It doesn’t have the same DNA as a common duck, like a mallard. It’s a Cairina moschata momelanotus. It’s not a duck and not a goose. It’s a perching duck, one of the greater wood ducks. It seems that they — scientists — had difficulty placing it in the order of things. Dabbling ducks and perching ducks and shelducks. Family Anatidae, genus Cairina. There are two species in the Cairina genus, but the other, the endangered Cairina scutulata, the white-winged wood duck, is not related in external morphology.

  There was a silence. Everyone looked at him.

  Fuck it’s hot, said Maggie. Let’s eat and start walking back before we quack up.

  Back at the house, Toby was out. There was no sign of food preparation. Maggie grabbed a bucket of ice and beer, a book and a rug and went out to the lawn. Simon sat down at his computer, and Dennis went to his room and shut the door.

  Hannah stood in the kitchen. Simon was peering at his screen. She moved over to the table and watched as he worked, but he didn’t look up.

  She said: I can’t stand it.

  His eyes flickered and he bit his lip, but still he continued his gaze at the screen.

  You’ll be right, he said.

  I’m going mad.

  You’ll come right.

  She left him and went outside to where the duck was waiting under the deck. She picked him up. Avoiding Maggie — who was involved in her book and didn’t stir anyway — she went down to the very back of the garden, perching on the steps of the shed with the duck on her lap. He
was so big now that he spilled over her lap from one side to the other.

  Are we going foraging? said the duck.

  Ssssh, she whispered. We have to be quiet.

  What’s going on?

  Nobody likes me. Everything is closing in and I’m feeling sad.

  You know I like you.

  Ssssh, I told you. Not so loud. Anyway, you’re a duck. And I don’t even know your name.

  I’m hungry.

  What’s your name, Ducko? They want to know your name.

  By any other name, I’d smell as sweet.

  Don’t be stupid. Let’s just sit here together and be very, very quiet.

  OK. Together is fine. And after that? Snails?

  Everything is going a bit weird, Ducko, in Peopleland. I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t like it.

  Snails? Cockroaches? Slugs?

  Leaning from the step, she tugged at a few tufts of grass, directing the duck to a scattering of tiny cockroaches. She poked around with a stick looking for more. She hit a stone, and prised it up. Underneath was a small ziplock plastic bag, pressed flat by the stone. She peeled it from the soil. Inside was a key. The key to the shed.

  Look at this, Ducko, she said. The key to your future hotel. We won’t mention it just yet; we might need to do a bit of subtle negotiation.

  She didn’t bother to try the key, but eased the bag back into its earthy grave.

  When the air temperature dropped, everyone made their way back to the kitchen where Toby, surrounded by a cluster of supermarket bags, chopped and scooped and darted and stirred. Maggie opened a bottle of bubbly and poured a glass for everyone.

  Cheers, she said, insisting that everyone catch her eye as they clinked glasses. Come on now, make eye contact. Look at moi. That’s the rules. No clinking without linking. In Europe it’s considered boorish if you don’t. Dennis, Dennis, lift up thine eyes. Looks don’t kill.

  She brayed like a donkey.

  And with each eye connection there was a statement, thought Hannah. Each person revealed something of themselves. Toby was preoccupied, Dennis was depressed for some ungodly reason, as he always had been forever, Maggie was scathing, and Simon was so far away she almost didn’t recognise him. She would need binoculars to cover the distance, to find the craters and seas and mountains of his orbiting thoughts.

  They ate olives and delectable canapés that kept appearing, and by the time dinner was ready they’d already drunk two bottles of bubbly. Toby was a whirlwind, his shoulders up around his ears, prancing from the bench to the oven, ignoring them all as he worked. Soon there was a steaming creamy concoction of green-lipped mussels, prawns and schnapper in a bowl, with a salad of greens. And then Hannah realised it was almost dark.

  Oooops, the duck, she gasped.

  But the food is ready. Leave the duck for once.

  She rushed outside, grabbed the duck, his legs air-cycling for the Tour de France. Fortunately she’d already set up his water and pellets. She peeled a couple of snails from behind the agapanthus, threw some bolted lettuce into his cage and tossed him, complaining, inside.

  By the time she returned, everyone was eating.

  You could’ve waited for once, said Maggie, her cheeks bulging.

  There was a silence for a while as everyone tucked in to the meal. Another bottle of wine was opened and poured.

  Toby, you’re not eating? This is superb, said Hannah. He was pushing his fork at a mussel with disinterest.

  Yeah, I am, I am. I’m never particularly hungry after cooking.

  Leave him alone, snapped Maggie, reaching for her wine.

  Remember how Mum would always have to have salt on the table, said Hannah. Whether the food needed it or not.

  That’s right, said Maggie. She used to complain bitterly about how you refused to let her have salt when she stayed with you. Told us how she used to sneak some wrapped in a tissue and surreptitiously sprinkle her food when your eagle eye was turned.

  I thought it was bad for her, said Hannah ruefully. We were always told . . . arteriosclerosis . . .

  Well yes, so much for a little knowledge being a dangerous thing. With her low blood pressure it turned out she needed it. I have to say that she felt vindicated after that was diagnosed.

  Actually, said Hannah, actually, I’d like to propose a toast. She shot a glance at Maggie. We haven’t given her much of a mention over the past few days and, rather than fight about her, I think it’s time we acknowledge her. So, here’s to dear Mum.

  Here’s to a gracious lady, said Toby.

  To Mum, said Simon.

  Dennis raised his glass.

  Maggie lifted her glass half-heartedly.

  Well, yes, all right then, to Mum. Poor old Mum. But I’d like to add this. She hated it here. Did you know that? She was miserable. Away from everyone she knew, her friends, her life. It was cruel to haul her up here away from her memories . . . of Dad . . . her whole married life down there. I couldn’t believe, honestly, couldn’t believe that you would do that to her.

  Every cell within Hannah’s body collapsed.

  Her friends and neighbours were ringing me, imploring me to help, she said. There was no other choice. What else could she have done?

  Lived at her home. As she wanted to.

  But she was always falling over, fainting, hallucinating — as you noticed yourself. Did you see the scars on her hands and arms, and legs and head from her falls? Her skin peeled away like cling-film. Her skin was an old suit perished, left too long in the sun.

  So what? What if she’d died on the floor? She wouldn’t have had to endure what she did over the next few years. It was cruel. It was a travesty. And she hated it.

  I didn’t notice you having any say in the matter at the time.

  I wasn’t asked.

  That’s not exactly true. I kept you informed. I told you everything. Anyway, you have no hesitation in saying your piece now. It wasn’t easy, you know. Looking after her. It wasn’t exactly roses. Hannah sighed. But what’s the point in bringing it up now?

  Maggie dabbed at each corner of her mouth with a manicured finger. She tossed her Japanese-doll hair and blinked slowly. Lifting her cruel eyes to pierce right through Hannah from her heart to her back.

  Actually. What I’d really like to know, while we’re finally having a real conversation, is this: what is it about the bloody duck? Everyone thinks you’re crazy. Everyone. It’s just a filthy bird. It’s absolutely filthy. And the way you handle it. And talk to the bloody thing. I don’t know how Simon puts up with you. He has the patience of Job.

  Hannah glanced at Simon who was zealously managing his knife and fork to extricate flesh from the shell of a prawn. She placed her glass on the table and left the room. Left the house and went into the garden. The night was clicking with insects, and somewhere the snuffling of a hedgehog. Over the road, loud music and mirthless laughter. She walked up the garden path, up the steps and out the gate and down the street. Footsteps hurrying behind her. Who? Maggie to apologise? Simon, to see if she was all right? The local mugger?

  No, it was Toby. She was so surprised she forgot to be devastated, forgot to be angry.

  He linked his arm through hers and joined her step as she marched. The smell of cigarette smoke leaked from his clothes, his skin. She could feel the hard rib cage of his skinny body against her arm as they strode in unison through the night. She hardly knew Toby, and for this reason she warily pulled herself together. They passed an old man leaning against his letter box under the spotlight of a street lamp while his obese dog trembled a poo into the grass. Further along, a gaggle of kids lounging on steps were snorting and giggling like kookaburras.

  Neither Toby nor Hannah said anything until they arrived at the beach. People were sitting in couples or clusters on the stone wall. Behind them, a fountain sprayed rainbows from the mouths of serpents. Toby directed her to a place apart from others and they sat down, the hard cool stone cutting into her legs. Soft swathes of light swept the
beach from the lamps above. Toby dived into his jacket and brought out his cigarettes. She watched as he flick-flick-flicked at his lighter, his face aglow as he inhaled deeply, cupping the flame like a secret.

  Do you ever think of giving up? she asked him.

  Do you ever think of getting rid of the duck? he replied.

  Her heart sank.

  Oh. You as well. Being mean.

  Not at all. We’ve all got our obsessions and addictions. Our vices and devices. Sometimes we want to let them go and then we realise we can’t, or we don’t want to just yet, because we’re afraid of the hole.

  You think the duck’s an obsession?

  She felt him looking at her, but she took her gaze out over the sand to the small ripples at the ragged frill of shoreline, the black expanse of the sea pitching Rangitoto darkly against the sky.

  Not in a bad way, he said carefully. It might be affecting your marriage, but it’s probably not affecting your health. Probably a relatively common case of anthropomorphism. It won’t give you cancer and it seems to make you happy. Doesn’t it?

  She nodded. I don’t know. I suppose so. Why do you say it’s affecting my marriage?

  No, I didn’t say that. Just that it might be. Might, I said. Marriage is a complex and varied institution that only the members of each branch who are privy to the subset of rules and conditions, determined either consciously or implicitly at some stage by both parties, can answer to.

  You sound like a lawyer.

  No. Just someone who has moved from one branch to another. Look. This is beside the point. Don’t listen to your sister. She’s got her own issues. She’ll have forgotten everything in the morning. Everyone, including Maggie, knows you did what you could with your mother.

  He flung his legs out and leapt onto the sand, then sat beside her again.

  And Simon, too. He was right there beside you, the whole way. Your mother appreciated that.