The Elusive Language of Ducks

by Judith White

  She stops. The others have dished out their bread and they are gathered in a huddle, talking. They are scrutinising something that Simon has picked up from the beach. They seem serious. Simon has his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. Toby is stamping his feet in the sand.

  She heads back towards them. They all look up at her, their faces pinched and stern.

  Her heart sinks. Down and down.

  What? she says.

  Simon is the spokesman.

  We know what you’ve done, he says to her. Maggie and Toby are standing alongside him. Maggie pressed against his arm. Toby shuffling and rubbing his hands. Flint against bone.

  What?

  You could have consulted with us.

  What?

  Maggie was just saying how your mother always wanted to come back as a seagull — so she could ‘soar above the world’, in her words. And it was Toby who put two and two together. That’s right, isn’t it?

  Yes, it is.

  You could have told us.

  I know, I’m sorry. But you never asked . . . what we should do. And I thought, since we were all together and it was the anniversary yesterday . . . I’m sorry.

  And down, how much further down, her heart. Sinking.

  She turns, hurries from them, along the lonely empty windswept beach. The plastic bag with the leftover bread is whalloping her knee as she strides. The couple out walking has disappeared. The seagulls are beginning to disperse, although several are still skittering faithfully in the sand ahead of her.

  Hannah! Hannah! They are surrounding her now, pressing in against her, Simon, Toby and even Maggie, their arms around each other’s backs, all bustling and enclosing her as she weeps. And when she looks into their faces, they are crying, too, their eyes upon hers, alive, and laughing now. Even Maggie.

  We’ve got you, Hannah the Spanner, says shivering Toby. No escaping.

  They relax and let her go, step back. The wind whips her hair around her face. Maggie pulls her scarf tighter.

  Simon moves towards her and gives her a warm reassuring hug. Then he says, We had a quick conference and we think it’s a great idea. Well, not all of us at first. It’s unorthodox and perhaps if you had put it to us none of us would have had the gumption to go ahead with it.

  You could’ve told us, says Maggie.

  I know, I’m sorry. But I didn’t think—

  Anyway, says Toby, we would like to be a part of this and we believe you have some more bread.

  You delve into the bag for the remains of the second loaf, about two-thirds of it, and you hand it over to Maggie who distributes the rest. To Simon and Toby. She pauses when it comes to you. You look at each other through tears, two little girls. She steps forward and you both hug quickly, intensely. And when she gives you your share, you are both trembling so much your hands can hardly hold the bread.

  And now, crying, laughing, calling into the wind, you all toss your mother to the sky. And the birds are back, some gobbling greedily and squawkily around your feet and some taking her so neatly on the wing, before soaring high into the wind. And when there is no more bread, you and Simon and Maggie and Toby all lift your eyes to the seagulls, seagulls rising higher and higher, searching for a comfortable place in the currents to watch the world below, to observe the motion of the sea far below, the salty salty sea.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  With grateful thanks to Klatch for forcing me to sit down at the table to write after a period of creative void. And also to the Winnies for your friendship and support, though where was Tim when we needed him?

  And I’d like to thank those people who bravely read the raw manuscript and reassured me. David White, Katie Henderson, Judy Wilford, Karen Breen, Ann Glamuzina, Mary Holm, Clem White, Xanthe White and Chris Dunn.

  Thank you to the team at Random House, and especially to Harriet Allan who never gave up pestering me, thank you thank you. In my mind you were always there pulling me along.

  And with deep gratitude for my ever-loving and supportive family, and to my sweet husband, David, for the astonishing depth of his love and patience, his spiritual nourishment and his bewilderingly unrelenting belief in me.

  To the generous and hard-working nurses at St Andrews rest home who cared for my mother so kindly.

  To the late Chico who taught me everything I know about muscovy ducks.