The Elusive Language of Ducks (15 page)

Chapter 11

That night Hannah woke up strait-jacketed with horror. Her mother was still in the back of the pot cupboard. She had entirely forgotten. She sat up and switched the light on, aghast.

Whaaaa? Simon, lifting his head, blinked at her. What's going on?

I'm sorry, I just had a realisation.

He dropped his head down and threw his arm over his eyes against the light.

Good, he muttered. About time. We need to talk. But not now.

At the bottom of the urn was a screw. It wasn't easy to undo but she managed finally to twist it open, only to find a plastic bag within. This was the membrane between her and the last remaining elements of her mother. This was all the cups of tea and roast dinners and butter and cream and even her own mother's milk, all the breath she had breathed, all the words she had read, the beauty she had soaked up, the emotions that had coursed through her body — the love, the disappointment, the grief, the anger, the acceptance, the joy, the laughter — all reduced to this. Hannah winced as she stabbed a steak knife through the skin of the plastic bag. She allowed just a little of her mother — no more than a toe — to trickle into a ceramic dish. And how grey and colourless, so dry, thought Hannah sadly, as she tipped the urn upright again and twisted the screw closed. She returned the urn to the box and tucked it for the time being in the bathroom cupboard.

Now she was adding a sprinkling of mash and drops of water to the ceramic dish, stirring with a spoon. A miniature caldron. The witches from Macbeth came to mind.
Fair is fowl and fowl is fair.

Her bare feet brushed through the dewy grass to the duck's cage. Her mother had always enjoyed the sensuality of wet grass on her soles. And she would have had a name for the specific golden hues that drenched every leaf with the light of new morning. Lemon yellow, burnt sienna, yellow ochre, ultra-marine blue. Whatever, she had no idea.

Hannah released the duck onto the grass. Before him she placed the dish with the mash. Her heart leaden, uncertain, she watched while he gobbled her all up.

There you go, Mum, she said. Pack your bags. One day you will fly on a high wind, to be free forever.

So that she didn't have to open the urn each time, she tipped a portion of the ashes into a china sugar bowl with a lid, painted with violets. Her mother loved violets and loved fine china. Each morning she spooned some of the ashes into the duck's mash and watched as he slurped them up, making sure every single bit was gone. She placed the bowl on the sunny window sill in the spare bedroom. The urn she tucked back up into the bed where her mother used to sleep.

You left me for such a long time yesterday, the duck complained to her one morning.
And
the day before.

She had just pulled him from his cage but he was scrambling restlessly from her arms, his claws scratching her skin through her jacket.

I know I know, she said, juggling with his fidgety body until she had to let him go. I'm sorry. She couldn't say it wouldn't happen again. A big editing deadline for work, and Christmas in seventeen days. People coming to stay. Her sister Maggie, and Toby, her husband. Simon's brother from Australia. Things to buy, things to do. Preparations. Not much time for quiet contemplation with a duck, for foraging languidly in the undergrowth.

He looked up at her from the grass. The grass that needed mowing, she noted.

All day, I just sit. I know you clean my cage. I know you leave a nice plastic cushion covered with a clean white towel every day. You leave me freshly mixed mash and pellets. You shove bolted spinach and lettuce under the cage wall, so that it is secured when I tear at the leaves. You hide slugs and snails amongst the lettuces for me to find, and leave fresh water in my bowl.

You don't have to say any more, she said.

Yes I do, I do, I want to say it. It's not that I don't appreciate what you do for me. I also want to ask what is happening between us. You're not spending the time with me anymore. Like you used to.

The woman moved to sit on a rock by the grass, careful not to get her good clothes grubby. She had a meeting to go to. Across her lap she spread the clean towel she'd brought down, then scooped him onto it.

She was running late. She made a mental calculation. Five minutes. She'd give him five minutes. Her make-up could be done in the car.

Did you hear me? asked the duck, cocking that black eye at her.

Yes, yes. Look, nothing has changed between us, she told him. I still go to bed thinking about you. And when I wake up. This morning, just on dawn, a noise woke me up. I sprang out of bed, still half-asleep, and rushed out of the house and down to the garden to see if you were safe.
Can you believe that? I thought . . . it might have been an animal trying to get into your cage.

I
saw
you, said the duck. I saw you in the half-light out here, when the birds, the birds that are
free
in the trees, were just beginning to whistle up a song. But you didn't even say hello.

I didn't because it was just after five. I saw that your cage was intact and I went back to bed, to sleep. But I'm just telling you this: I
do
really care about you.

Well. Anyway, there's another thing.

What?

Five minutes was nearly up.

The man.

What about the man?

He frightens me.

Don't be silly. Why would he frighten you? He's not going to hurt you.

You don't know. You don't know what happens when you are not around.

The woman knew that the man wasn't so fond of the duck, even though he accommodated it. But really he wasn't so fond of flying things in general. She thought of him panicking in the night when a moth caught in his hair. She recalled the rough manner in which he shooed the birds that surrounded them when they ate fish and chips on the beach. How increasingly he referred to the duck as ‘that thing'. In fact, she refused to look up to the house now, but she had a feeling he was broodily watching them from his desk, judging her for being obsessive. He was aware that she was pressed for time.

Don't worry, he's fine, she said, scratching the duck's neck. He wouldn't hurt you, that I do know.

There's something . . . unnerving . . . about him.

I'm sorry, Ducko, you'll have to be more specific than that. Look, he's probably just jealous. You're probably jealous of each other. There. That's it.

That's preposterous! What would I have to be jealous of?

She heard this but chose to ignore it.

Let's run away together, said the duck suddenly. Just you and me.

Ducko, she said. We can't do that. Anyway, where would we go? But
honestly, I have to head off, now. I'm late.

I see. So this discussion means nothing to you?

It does, truly. I'll come back to it. Remember, I told you about the crows? I have to go.

Remember what
I
told
you,
the duck huffed after her as she made her way up the grass back to the house. All is not as it seems.

And as much as the rational side of her dismissed this, his words, like feathers from an exploded pillow, floated throughout her day.

Chapter 12

Hannah would wake up in the night battling with her logical self. She had always considered herself a reasonable, contemplative person. She imagined the possibility of the overnight educator infiltrating her mind as well as the duck's.

She remembered the stories of ducks vacating lakes that they'd inhabited during the year in preparation for the duck-shooting season, and, what's more, flying to duck sanctuaries where they would be safe. How could they possibly be aware in advance of this man-made licence to kill, the permit to wipe ducks off the face of the Earth? The overnight educator had a finger on the pulse of duck flocks in general. There was something going on, something that defied education or explanation, and she was being vacuumed into it.

Her mother's words also haunted her:
There's madness in this family. I think you should know that. I've been meaning to tell you for some time.

Eventually, after a night of skidding on the surface of sleep, she crept out of bed at dawn and settled at the kitchen table with pen and paper to write a letter to Claire, who did not have a computer, let alone email. She felt the occasion warranted a fountain pen and an ink well, but she had to make do with a biro.

Dear Claire,

I've been meaning for a while to write to you about the duck. And
[she hesitates here]
to thank you. I have a few questions. It looked like he was going to be a pristine white duck, but he is developing a lumpy red frame around his beak. Is this normal? I'm hoping it's not cancer. I'm thinking of the Hans Christian Andersen story about the ugly duckling. He's looking rather scruffy. His head has a furry mohawk of yellow fluff.

I need to know how much he should eat in a day. Can I overfeed him or will he know when to stop?

I'm also wondering what happened to his mother and the other ducklings. Simon said you didn't know for sure, but do you have any idea? Also, what sort of pond do you have? Where do your ducks sleep at night? Do they all huddle together? Do you farm them or are they wild
ducks that arrive and leave when the whim takes them?

Every time I pose a question about the duck, Simon says: well why don't you just ask Auntie Claire, so here I am, doing just that! Best wishes, Hannah

A few days later the reply arrived in the post.

Dear Hannah,

I am so glad to hear that our duck has helped you come to terms with your dear mother's demise. After all, she'd had a good innings and you did what you could when the quality of her life was compromised by failing health. Simon admitted to me that he was concerned about your emotional well-being. I know how these things take their toll, and really, dear, sometimes it takes a little distraction to see things as they really are. If your duck ever gets a bit much for you, you know we have a good roasting dish we can send up next time Simon calls in!!!!! And, a fabulous recipe!

Anyway, dear, your duckling is not a swan but a muscovy duck. Probably a male, from your description of the lumpy red around the beak. Muscovies in general come in a mixture of white, grey, grubby beige, and black. They graze on grass, and ours have a feeder of kibbled corn and pellets which last several days, so no, they don't just gorge until there's none left.

The ducks are really Bob's territory. He rounds them up at dusk into the covered duck-run — sometimes they escape and potter about at night. Possibly looking for snails or bugs in the moonlight. Apparently they keep together when they sleep, so Bob tells me, and the ones on the outer edge of the group tend to keep an eye open. They keep half their brains awake when they sleep so they're ready to detect predators. Isn't that interesting! I didn't know that until now.

We don't have a large pond, but it keeps them happy. Muscovy ducks mate with mallards, but their offspring is infertile. Still good for eating, though. People call them mullards, like a mule to a horse and donkey, I suppose. As long as your duck is getting food it won't wander.