The Elusive Language of Ducks

by Judith White

  You’re potentially a dangerous bird. Nothing is the same anymore. The feral in you is boiling under your feathers. Just look at your face.

  You’re insulting. And that woman in the house. Monkey’s bottom, indeed!

  I know, that was rude. But anyway, Duckie, the man isn’t going to come back until you’ve gone.

  Ah. So that’s what it’s about. I hate the man. I always knew he had it in for me.

  He struggled under her arm through the towel and swung his neck around to peck at her. They were at the top now, in the street. A car went past. He panicked, all bone and dragon-fire and pumping needle-claw feet dragging through the skin of her arm. She managed to unclasp the latch to the gate and contain him long enough to release him onto the steps down the garden path, where he belly-flopped down one step then another, a ball of legs and wings and towel and huff. He spun around and started for her gumboots, but she grabbed the leaf rake and held it between them.

  By the front door was another pillow, one of several replica Annabels, planted there for such a situation. She managed to shuffle her way there with the rake between them, and sure enough, all his fervour was immediately directed to Annabel.

  Truce. For now.

  Chapter 23

  HOTEL DU BACKYARD

  Several mornings later, when she was releasing the duck for the day, she discovered a freshly dug tunnel leading from the lawn into the cage. Inside, the ground was scattered with feathers and maize. The duck was unsettled, quivering and side-stepping.

  She’d been putting it off, but while the duck was still with her, even temporarily, it was time to do something about his night shelter. It hadn’t been satisfactory for some time. He was a perching duck, as Simon had revealed. She’d found images of feral muscovies with their great clawed feet curled around branches in trees. His preference for standing all day along the deck railing or the limbs of the magnolia tree indicated that he liked to be elevated. Apart from that one branch on that tree, there were no other suitable large branches in the trees on their property.

  The duck’s cage came up to her thigh. There was no room for stretching upright or flapping his wings within this space that had seemed so enormous when Simon had built it for the wee duckling. The duck now had to lower his head to make his way into his bed each night. He was an old man crawling into a hole, his dreams cramped into a matchbox.

  So now this latest evidence of a night-time intruder, lured by his food, forced Hannah to act.

  She had to force the key into the pitted old keyhole before it would turn. The door opened stiffly and lopsidedly, one of the hinges loosely hanging from its screw in the frame. She emptied the shed, then set to with a broom, bucket and hose, working on the network of spiders’ webs that looped and hung from one wall to another. When she was overtaken with a spate of fierce sneezing, the duck, outside amongst the kikuyu grass, stood erect, whinnying.

  She gathered Simon’s books from the shelf and took them outside onto the plastic matting she’d brought down for the purpose. Back inside, she swished soapy water across the shelves, the workbench and the bench seat beneath it. She hosed it down. She cleaned the sill and window, heaving it open onto the catch. The interior was beginning to smell almost fresh.

  As the shed dried in the hot breeze, she positioned herself in the doorway, and one by one she flicked through the books to release their dust into the air. She wiped each cover with a cloth and slid them in lots into supermarket bags. University textbooks, engineering books, project notebooks. She felt a twist of sadness when she saw her husband’s jottings and markings, the highlighting and underlining and diagrams that meant nothing to her. Once again she was reminded of the differences between them. But somehow they had complemented each other. He was a fastidious man; it was evident in his handwriting, small and neat with a gentle slant backwards. He was logical, with a whole world of knowledge filed away neatly inside him. She was dreamy, with everything she had ever known shoved erratically into her attic mind, the stuffing of non-descript old sacks.

  Amongst papers and certificates was a letter of her own, written to Simon. It was a loving letter, contemplative, missing him. Her grandmother had just died and Hannah had been accompanying her mother on holiday. Her letter expressed concern about her mother, who, after the years of caring for her own ailing mother, was faced with the sudden emptiness in which the grief for her husband, Hannah’s father, was re-visited.

  Hannah paused in her reading. Was he her father? Did it matter? How much did knowing a thing change the subsequent living of a life? Or a life in retrospect? It didn’t change the outcome unless a person acted upon the information.

  Her mother’s thinking and expression had been so woolly towards the end that the statement about Hannah’s father was most likely a spasm of nonsense. Hannah asked herself why she should cling to the notion as if it had significance. She could have her DNA tested against Maggie’s, but what good would that do? She had no children or grandchildren for whom she had responsibility to pass on genetic information. Whoever her father was, her branch of the family tree stopped right with her. Simon and Hannah Baker.

  The final destination.

  Terminus. Everybody disembark from here.

  The duck had been sitting on his belly peaceably in the shade, his fluffy eyelids closed, but he perked up and waggled his tail when the woman dropped the letter onto her lap.

  What’s up? he said.

  I’ve just had a thought, she said. I’ve always thought of you as an orphan. But your father, he’s probably still alive. Do you remember him?

  My father is a father amongst many fathers, he said. He didn’t recognise me as his. There were many fathers, and they all had a part in the killing of my brothers and sisters, once my mother was killed so brutally.

  Oh, is that so? That’s awful. But you mentioned, once, something about your parents loving each other forever, if your mother had been still alive.

  It was a romantic whim. I liked the idea of it. But I know more about life now. I’m grown up.

  The woman thought of the pillows she had distributed around the property, and how they’d since become a replacement for the towels and her feet that he had so fiercely interacted with. His lady pillow love. His blow-up duck-doll.

  Do you think about the other ducks, back at the place of your birth?

  No. I just want to be with you.

  That’s nice, Ducko.

  Are we going foraging?

  I’m cleaning out your hotel. I’m trying to make you happy.

  I am happy, he said.

  I’m not sure who my father is, either.

  Of course. Is anybody? he said.

  Well, I was, but now I have unreasonable doubt.

  Are you being riddley again? He stood up and plodded over to a dish, slurping up water then lifting his beak like a bottle into the air. Glug glug glug glug glug.

  Hannah sighed and continued to dust and wipe down the books.

  One of the notebooks held a collection of black-and-white photos kept together in a small plastic bag, sealed with Sellotape. She picked at the tape with her fingernail and opened the bag, shuffling the photos into her open palm.

  There were photos of Simon when he was young. Younger than she’d ever known him. One of him sitting at a piano, his fingers still positioned on the keyboard, his head turned towards the camera, his mouth open in surprise. His dark hair falling around his face with a wavy Beatle fringe. Cheeks still padded with youth. Only the beginnings of facial hair. Sun streamed in through a window across the floor and a settee. A vase of daisies sat on a table, and a little white dog slept on a mat in a strip of sun.

  Another of an Asian girl, laughing, sitting on the same settee, her hand outstretched towards the photographer. She looked mischievous, tiny, dressed in a fitting skirt and woollen skivvy. Her hair black and long, flicked back from her shoulders.

  Another of the same girl with, presumably, her family or friends at an Asian restaurant. There were severa
l pictures of Simon with the girl. One walking down an unidentifiable city street, hand-in-hand; one sitting on rocks with the Sydney Harbour bridge behind them; another with the two of them in a cosy embrace — she, grinning flirtatiously, on Simon’s knee in a kitchen, his arms locked around her, enfolding her stomach.

  The last photo was of the same girl in a hospital bed, clutching a swaddled baby. She looked exhausted. The monochromatic tones lent her face a drained, ghostly appearance, although as well there seemed to be a vacancy of expression that was almost disturbing.

  And with the photos was a letter on thin, crisp paper.

  Dear Simon,

  I found these photos when we were going through Tuyen’s belongings and I thought you might like to have them. There is no need to reply. My parents would not be happy if they knew I was writing to you. But I thought it would be better for you to think of her and everything that happened. My mother cries all the time and hardly eats. My father is angry and won’t talk to anybody. They blame themselves for trusting you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Ron

  Hannah went through the photos and the letter again and again, before placing them back in the plastic bag, apart from the rest of the books, which she continued to dust and bag, on the look-out for more revelations. Her chest felt stretched and hollow. She gathered the books and stacked them up on the cleaned shelves.

  She put the duck’s dish and plastic-covered cushion from his old hutch on the floor. Covered the cushion with one of his clean white towels. She placed a waterproof pillow covered with a towel on the workbench in case he wanted to sleep elevated. Replaced all the gardening implements on the hooks.

  She turned around to see the duck on the top step.

  What’s going on? he said.

  I told you. It’s your new upgraded place. Five-star hotel. Come inside. Sit on your towel. You’ll like it.

  No, said the duck. I mean, why are you so angry? Why are you throwing everything around? What have I done now?

  Nothing.

  What’s up?

  She faced him.

  Nothing is up, OK?

  He splayed his legs, rubbing his neck over his back feathers, his crest erect. His wings starting to splay.

  OK, settle down, none of that, I’m sorry I yelled.

  She picked him up and sat on the step. He huffed and houghed.

  I’m upset that’s all. The man.

  The man isn’t here.

  No.

  So?

  All these years. No babies because he said he was infertile. He said he’d had mumps when he was eighteen and that he couldn’t have children. And now it looks as though he’s already had a child. And never a mention. All these years. You think you know somebody. And you don’t.

  I told you, though. I told you. Remember?

  You don’t have to be so cocky. My God, life is weird, I tell you.

  It’s only as weird as you make it.

  Sorry, Ducko. It’s weird. Full-stop. Look at us. Are you my mother? Are you my child? Are you a duck I have to look after because you were dumped on me? Are you a duck I can’t get rid of because you’ve eaten half my mother? Who and where is my father? Dead or alive? Where’s my husband and where is his child? My brain is bursting with confusion.

  That’s rather dismissive of you. Perhaps we are friends merely because we like each other? Have you ever thought of that during your moments of in-depth amateur philosophising?

  She folded her hands around his body, clamping his wings, and swivelled herself around to release him onto the scrubbed damp boards inside the shed.

  Well, that’s all beside the point. Welcome to your new abode. Hotel du Backyard.

  The duck waddled to the cushion, his beak swaying beneath it, pecking tentatively. He then checked his bowl. He investigated the edges and corners of the shed, his tail jiggling urgently.

  There’s a bed on the mezzanine floor, she said. Room service some time after sunrise. I’ll see you later. I have a lot of things to contemplate.

  She strode up to the house and through it to the other side, through the front door and up the garden path. Through the streets towards the sea. She longed for someone to run after her reassuringly, to walk by her side, to sit alongside her on the sea wall, to casually make sense of her life. She had nothing now but a duck, and he wasn’t going to follow her past the gate.

  The air temperature was dropping. A corner of the sky was gathering into darkness, thick plumes of grumbling thunder. Elsewhere, the sky was teal blue.

  Once at the beach, she continued past the stone wall, trudging across the sand into the mucky lagoons stranded by the low tide. The water squelching over her sandals, then lapping over her ankles. There was no one in the sea except a mother wallowing in the shallows with two kids, a boy and a girl, who were digging into the sand for pipi.

  Hannah waded towards them, her arms folded deeply into her waist. She watched the children giggling as they attempted to catch the retreating tongue tips of each shellfish, squirting each other with the jet of spit as the shell clammed shut.

  It must be nice having children, she said to the woman.

  The mother hauled herself erect, a heave of water cascading from her. She was fat; her breasts, her hips stuffed into floral black togs. Her legs meaty, solidly earthed. Her arms as well. Her skin stretched over large cheeks, her long black hair pulled back severely from her forehead. Her eyes wary as Hannah said, It must be the best thing in the whole world. I’ve got a duck, but it’s not the same.

  That did it. One round hand grabbing a small hand, the other hand grasping another. Two children complaining as they were dragged behind their mother, looking over their shoulders at this strange dishevelled woman in all her clothes, her trousers clinging to her legs. On the sand the mother was wrapping them up in towels now, wrapping them up tight in bright parcels. She hoisted a rug and a bulging bag over her shoulder. They traipsed through the sand to a car.

  For a while Hannah stood alone. All the sea, all the empty sea, all the tears. All the rumbling sky, sucking up the remaining blue, preparing to rain. All the futile days gone by, a trundler pulled behind a tramp looking for a downy hollow to lay a weary head. All the hollow straws, the short straws, the last straws. The drained cups, the empty eyes, the desiccated remains of a life that had spent its best. All the rambling shambling life that had led to this moment. Over. It had come to this. Her existence had been reduced to this unutterably monstrous loneliness.

  Stupid.

  A few stragglers on the beach were beginning to hurry to their cars. High above, seagulls, luminous flecks cast off by the moon, were stirring a deep purple potion borrowed from the night. And when it did rain, the whole black bowl tipped upon her, pitting the sea, drenching her immediately. She remained there, licking at the water pouring over her face, into her clothes, down her back, passively accepting the onslaught because she felt too tired and too wet to do anything else. After the first drops, the water wasn’t cold. If she stayed there for long enough, the tide would rise and swallow her up, and then she wouldn’t ever have to do anything again, ever. Ever ever ever.

  Suddenly through the growling rain she heard a high-pitched voice.

  A woman in a yellow sundress and green cardigan, under an enormous golf umbrella, her shoes nosing the water’s edge, was leaning forward to call through the downpour.

  Excuse me . . . excuuuse me . . . I say . . .

  Hannah looked around. There was no one apart from her in the sea.

  Are you needing help out there? You’re getting awfully wet.

  She didn’t know this person who was trying to save a drowning dog without a lifeline.

  The woman was kicking off her shoes, tucking her skirt up and wading unsteadily towards her. And now there was a manicured hand on Hannah’s arm, coaxing movement from the statue that she’d become. Hannah looked at the smooth skin, the slim fingers with their sculptured pink nails. They would click nicely on a tabletop, she thought, and imp
atiently should that be the need. A substantial silver ring curled around the middle finger. The rain was catching the back of her ballooned skirt and falling onto her firm tanned calves.

  Come on, dear, the woman was saying, tugging at Hannah’s T-shirt. Come on now. You’ll catch a chill. Here. There’s enough room under this umbrella for two. Come along now.

  They both sloshed through the water, Hannah following obediently, while the woman continued her banter, her cheeriness only just masking a tone of condescension.

  I’m Monica. I was reading in the car; I like to come and read by the sea. I looked up to watch the front head towards us. It was tremendously dramatic. So intensely powerful and foreboding. And then I saw you out there, as if you’d come down in the rain and didn’t know where you were. I thought something must be terribly wrong. Is there anyone I can ring for you, dear?

  Back on the sand Hannah stepped away from the shelter of the umbrella into the pelting rain. Water cascaded through her hair and into her eyes, her mouth.

  Can I take you somewhere? Let me take you somewhere. At least get out of this rain until it’s over. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee? Have you had lunch? Where’s your car?

  I’m sorry. I’m not far away. I need to walk. I’ll be fine.

  It was the first time she’d spoken. Her voice gave Monica a jolt, shifting her attitude. She seemed disappointed.

  Hannah faced her rescuer. She saw the concerned intelligent eyes, the lipstick, the amber pendant hanging against her sun-weathered chest, the estuary of tiny wrinkles leading into her cleavage, her compassionate curiosity encapsulated under the umbrella.

  She was tempted to follow this woman and blurt out the whole sorry tale. Her mother, the duck, her husband leaving her and how she missed him so dreadfully, yes she did, and even now with the discovery of his deception. And Eric, did he fit into this anywhere? If they had been sitting over a table in the warmth somewhere she might have opened all the dull little boxes of her life and pulled out the details for this stranger, then and there.