The Elusive Language of Ducks (11 page)

But this earth-bound creature is an enigma. It has black webbed feet and its fluff is speckled with colours of the rocks and sand and driftwood around it. It could be a bird but it is too fat. It's a mouldy pumpkin. Nothing in their experience relates to it. As they peer at it, seagulls wheel around them, whining and squealing. Fretfully. Aggressively. Some swoop unnervingly at their heads.

They both move away uneasily, pulled onwards by curiosity and absolute contentment, and a whimsical inquisitiveness as to what might lie around each rocky bend. When they finally come to a small bay, they sit on the beach sharing a piece of chocolate — the only food they have. Dainty terns scamper in front of them, leaving footprints in the sand like arrows pointing the way for the journey home. And her mother is suddenly aware that during their oblivion the day has moved on. They scramble the long obstacle-course back to camp, noting the fluffy creature again as they pass, still amidst the cacophonic vigilance of the seagulls. They arrive just as the day is beginning to fade, and there's her father with ten-month-old Maggie in his arms as he paces the sand by the rocks, his gaze fixed anxiously in their direction.

They've been away several hours, lost in reverie, not so much as mother and daughter but as two spirits moving alongside each other in the trueness of their being, in awe of the world in which they live.

And for a little while, Hannah forgot that her mother was sitting there in the box, in the paper bag with the string handle, by the fridge. And then she passed and said hello and wondered where to put her. It was only when she picked up the box and felt the weight of it that she had any sense of it being
her.
She thought of the times she'd helped her mother up from a chair, or the bath, or a fall onto the floor or in the street — all that weight was there in the box. The lightness that was her laughter, her sense of fun when she had that, all of the lightness that held her upright, all that lightness was gone.

Hannah carried the paper bag with her mother in it to the other end of the room. She considered putting her under the couch, but it seemed disrespectful. Now her mother was here, she just didn't know what to do with her. It was pretty much how it had been in life, after her mother came to stay when she became ill. She found a strip of sun on the window sill that looked warm, so she placed her there, for the time being, in the box, in the paper carry-bag, looking very much like a dumped shopping bag.

When Simon came home that evening, she waited for him to notice the bag on the window sill, but he was preoccupied with his work. Or seemingly so. Nothing was said. Nothing had been said, either, about his outing to the west coast, about her not accompanying him, though his dream about her had seeped into her mind, as if that barren terrain had been territory they had experienced together, as if his dreaming vision had been true.

After dinner, and when he'd gone to bed, Hannah took her mother to her old bedroom and slid her into an empty drawer. She found herself leaving it open a little, for air. She stood back. Then she took her out again. It didn't seem right to put her in a drawer. She pulled back the covers of the bed where her mother had spent her time of transition between her independent life and her ensnared life at Primrose Hill, and placed the bag and the box between the clean sheets. She made the bed again, arranging the duvet so that her mother's presence was a barely distinguishable bump in the covers, a life over and done with, and tucked away.

Don't talk with your mouth full, don't be silly, don't use safety pins if your buttons fall off, don't squeeze your pimples, how can we expect world peace if we can't have it at home, don't lie, don't answer back, don't be cheeky, be nice to your grandmother, don't stare, don't read with a torch under the blankets, be nice to everyone, don't pick your teeth in public, don't cut your nails in public, tidy your room, don't pull your cheek like that, if a job's worth doing it's worth doing well, a little lipstick would do wonders, if you keep your glass full they can't fill it up again, don't frown, kiss on the doorstep and then say goodbye, sex is wonderful after marriage, don't, you must know when enough is enough, don't be silly, get a haircut or tie it up, mend your holes, keep in touch, be kind, don't be silly. Be nice.

As an example, in the way she lived, her mother taught her about love, about beauty, about colour, about compassion, about commitment, about loyalty, about courage, about selflessness, about kindness, about modesty, about generosity. About gentleness and dignity. About humility. About selfless service. About honesty and respect. About friendship. All the good things. All the other things had gone and the good things were left.

And she wished now that she could talk to her mother about all those virtues, about everything, with hindsight, as an overview; she wished she could express her appreciation to her mother as the person she was before her demise. Before the illness. She wished she had been nicer. She had so much understanding, now, that she didn't have before, and the reason why her mother did this and that, which at the time seemed . . . ridiculous, or unnecessary. If only she'd been more grateful. But it was over, and all she wanted to say to people who had mothers was: Take the chance while you have it.

But now she had the duck, and there was something about this duck that felt like a second chance.

Hannah's work was interrupted by a text from Simon. Two of his engineering colleagues and their wives were coming to dinner.

Sorry, Ducko, she said as she sprinkled poultry pellets into a cabbage leaf. This is
it
for us today. Not only the crows but I've got the house to tidy, supermarket, cook dinner, and then attempt to pretty myself up. Panic stations, I'm afraid.

What about me? You're so mean. You don't care. Come back. Come back. Come back back baaaaack.

As it turned out, the evening was awkward; she hardly knew the guests and she felt like a dowdy waitress. The two wives discussed books she'd never even heard of. Hannah attempted to bring in some light and witty anecdotes about the duck, but she felt Simon's foot pressing upon hers, grinding it heavily to the floor. She stopped mid-sentence and no one seemed to notice. A budgie pausing mid-chirp. As they left, saying their goodbyes, one of the women called her Harriet, and the husband insincerely apologised to Hannah for ‘talking shop'.

And then, when they'd all gone, the duck.

The hutch stank. Usually Hannah kept it clean, but tonight the cabbage leaves were pearly bowls of poo. Flies, disturbed by the torchlight, ping-ponged above the grass, pinging in the pong. She picked up the duck, adjusting him so that he was lying with his belly against her chest, his neck lying across her shoulder. He was becoming too big to comfortably rest his feet on her arms. He greeted her desperately, nibbling gently at the soft skin under her chin. He smelt like a wet cow yard. He reeked of neglect, her neglect.

Inside the house, Simon was clearing up the dinner dishes. He turned his head from the sink.

Honestly, he said. Look at you with that thing. It's not a baby. Really.

Hannah struggled not to cry. It was the last straw. Her relationship with the duck was attracting some snide comments. Jokes at her expense, barely disguised mockery. She pushed past him, wanting to say so much but saying nothing. In the bathroom she caught her image in the mirror. How pathetic, wild, lonely, old, she looked. She was fading away. Her
reflection revealed a deranged woman who should be pacing the moors on a bleak, mist-swirling afternoon. And indeed, the duck could be a swaddled baby with an elastic neck and a deformed pinhead resting under her chin.

She just wanted to plonk the duck away in his plastic box. Instead she placed him in the bath and set the water running. He was used to having baths now. She always started out with the bath empty so she could relish the transition from clumsy old waddler to elegant floater. He started to coo as he lifted with the rising water. He turned upside-down and dived for the poultry pellets she threw in, snorting softly as he cleared his nostrils. He was as happy as a duck in water. Her depression rolled off her like water off a duck's back. He was a sitting duck, a paddling duck, a much cleaner duck. Tonight she was not laughing but was absorbed by the watching of him. She could watch him forever. She wondered what it was about, all this. She hated being forced to think about it.

He floated on a boat of thick feathers. When had
they
arrived? If she dipped her fingers into his chest, the tips of her fingers disappeared to the first joint. Her fingers were like old legs trudging through snow.

The man called out to her.

She hoisted herself from her knees and backed out of the bathroom, careful to keep in sight of the duck, his black watching eye intense.

What did you say?

I said, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been mean.

She faced him, and all the fury that had stopped her responding to his first comment surged back again.

If it weren't for you, I'd have my own babies.

The duck stopped chirruping. The man became motionless at the bench. The moment was sucking in air. She was between the two in the hallway, stepping from the sight of the duck to confront Simon. She waited, but he said nothing. He had received her words and had turned to stone.

Meanwhile, the duck was going mad over her disappearance. She could hear the heaving turbulence of the water, the thump as he threw himself against the side of the bath. When she re-entered the bathroom, his head was poking above the bath rim like a periscope, gliding up and down, up and down along the rim of the bath, searching for her.

Their moment of peace had been destroyed. It took a while before the
duck stopped panicking, before her own heart had settled. She knelt beside him, letting her hand gently ruffle the water, while she concentrated on breathing, on harnessing her breath back to a regular pace.

Then Simon came to the door and hovered there, watching. She didn't turn around. She didn't hear him go, but she became aware of her shoulders, gradually releasing themselves from her ears.

In 1966, Hannah had her very own baby. She'd arrived home from school and found her mother and father holding hands in the sitting room, gazing into a cane bassinet nestled in an oval wooden stand. In the bassinet, a mustardy red creature, mewling in vibrato, punched miniature fists at the air. Her parents pulled her back tenderly. Careful you don't tip her over, sweetie.

But Hannah was the one who had already tipped over. She'd tumbled headfirst into the needy eyes, the imploring eyes of her new sister. Her one-armed Teddy and her hairless doll, Pamela, with the blue eyes that opened and shut, were instantly forgotten.

Even though her mother expertly unbuttoned her blouse and kept a discreet blanket across her chest, Hannah could sometimes spy the swollen nipple eased from her sister's milky mouth as her mother's breast was delivered back to its rightful place, like a tongue pulled in after eating ice-cream. Hannah knew her own role was secondary, but nonetheless she'd make sure to be there to help wash the baby in the plastic bath on the kitchen table, splashing warm water on the naked wrinkled skin. She'd poke her nose over the bassinet and watch her sister's ugly beautiful face soften into sleep. For a time, she was sure that Maggie was going to grow into one of those perky-eyed monkeys she'd seen in pictures, and she wouldn't have cared.

But then the creases filled up with their mother's milk, and the ruddy skin whitened and the eyes deepened. And when Hannah discovered she was able to make her baby sister laugh, this became her sole intention in life. It was so simple. Hiding behind a tea towel and going
Boo.
Throwing tissue balls into the air and going
Wheeeee.
Putting a red stuffed cat on her head and letting it fall off. Maggie's plump face would split into a fissure of laughter, her body cramping and jiggling, her mouth open to let the joy pour out and swirl around the room.

Before Maggie took her first tottering steps alone, Hannah would take her by the hand and lead her wobbling to her mother and father's open arms. When Maggie was able to walk, Hannah led her around the house and down into the garden and down the street and into town and up
the long straight streets to the end of the road, and along the footpaths to school where she watched for her in the playground. After a year at school together, Hannah biked to intermediate, and then to high school and, by the time Maggie was at high school, Hannah was writing copy for the local radio station.

Where Hannah's hair was blonde, Maggie's was jet black. Where Hannah was pale and tiny, contentedly dreamy, Maggie was strong and sporty, with long froggy legs and burnished skin and inquiring dark eyes. They were Snow White and Rose Red. Maggie grew into pretty dresses, then sharp punky dresses, into independence, into a wild defiant thing, a thing who would be more likely to bite than hold anybody's finger, who knew everything, who was quick, cheeky, disobedient, who slammed doors and rocked the house with retort. She had so many friends that Hannah had to close her own bedroom door in search of peace. It felt as though the house was overrun with young devils. Hannah withdrew into books or sat in the willow tree by the back fence in her jeans and listened to the birds.

By the time Hannah was thinking of leaving her job in Hawke's Bay to go to university, Maggie was sneaking out of her window at night to meet her feral mates to smoke cigarettes and ride as pillion passengers on motorbikes with youths in black leather jackets. In the small hours one morning, her parents were awakened by a knock at the door. Two policemen on the doorstop informed them that their daughter was in hospital after being flung off a bike by the river. No, you have the wrong person, she's in bed, they assured the police.