The Elusive Language of Ducks (30 page)

His saturated feathers made him look thin, diminished; all that pompy roundness had been just fluff and air. She knew now that muscovy ducks, being tropical ducks from Central America, were less waterproof than most ducks, and could chill in cold wet conditions.

She was worried that he might develop pneumonia. He had pulled himself into himself and was
tolerating
the cold, the wet, the indignity.

Finally she couldn't stand it any longer. She slipped on her raincoat, grabbed a towel and went out to him once more, wrapping him up firmly as she used to when he was a duckling. She took him in her arms and brought him inside to sit on her lap. He wriggled against the towel at first, but once she was seated, he quietened. She pressed the towel into his feathers. Already it was soaked. Her coat was dripping puddles onto the floor. He grunted and poked his neck into the fuggy heated air.

There you are, Ducko, she said. That's better, isn't it?

The duck was now nudging his beak up the sleeve of her wet coat. Perhaps it
was
possible to live together harmoniously. And when he closed
his white feathery eyelids, and his beak upon her hand became heavy with sleep, she was thinking, as she tucked him closer into herself, that really, she would sacrifice anything, anything at all, to make him happy.

Later she slipped into her gumboots and took him outside, still secured in the towel. By this time he was struggling against the strait-jacket, his beak swinging to peck her. She carried him to his new shed.

Inside, she released him from the towel. He landed inelegantly on his chest, but picked himself up and pecked at his bed. He stood on tiptoes and flapped his enormous wings. Yes, he liked his new house. He shimmied like a dog, a cloud of droplets spraying from his feathers. He dredged his breast and belly feathers, lifting his beak to drink from his sodden self. But when she started to shut the door, he stiffened, staring at her in disbelief.

Just until it stops raining, she assured him, and squelched her way back to the house while the rain thundered on the tin roof of his roomy dwelling.

Chapter 24

The next day the storm had cleared. She had a deadline to meet, so worked inside through the morning until she'd finished the job and couriered it away. The sense of relief she had when she'd completed a project was liberating.

She took herself into the garden. The duck was sucking at murky puddles looking for worms and grubs while Hannah picked up branches and raked leaves. She kept the rake ready in case he made a dive towards her, but since he'd had access to his multiple Annabels, their relationship had improved.

Er . . . hello there, Hannah. The hedge was dancing, wildly showering droplets. Eric's daughter emerged. Her brown hair was a tangle of dreads pulled up into a multi-tail of octopus.

Oh, hi there, Sheila. How's things with you? As usual Sheila was colourful, in her lime-green tights and two layers of long chocolate-brown singlets. Hannah noted how fresh and clear her skin was, how strong and upright she held herself within the frame of dripping leaves.

Good thanks. But I was just wanting to talk to you about Dad.

And then Rosemary was pushing through the foliage, running over to clutch her mother's green leg.

I've got a pink rabbit, she said.

The duck side-stepped up to the group.

The chicken's got a red face, she said, reaching out to him. He's shivering. His tail's wagging. He's breathing at me.

It's a duck, said Hannah. Not a chicken. But keep away from him, there's a good girl. He gets a bit pecky sometimes.

And indeed his wing feathers were flat and he was doing that sidling waddle around them.

It's OK, I'll watch her, said Sheila. No, but I was just wondering if you've noticed anything funny about Dad recently.

Hannah gripped the rake, resting the handle under her chin.

I certainly have. For one, he's hardly spoken to me for months. Ages. Something out of the blue seems to have upset him. And for another . . . She hesitated, reluctant to expose all the details of Eric's night-time
escapade to his daughter. Well, for another he was gallivanting around in the garden here a while ago. Not making much sense. I can't make him out. Why? Is he funny with you, too?

Rosemary had picked up a twig and was now poking at the duck.

Honestly, please don't tease the duck. He might bite.

Sheila directed the little girl away from the agitated duck, her hand splayed across her chest.

I'd organised for him to babysit Rosemary this afternoon, but when I arrived just now he'd forgotten. He was dressed, but I swear he was in bed when I got here. And he's usually tidy, but his house is a mess. There's stuff everywhere. Clothes. Newspapers, still folded and obviously unread. Plates of half-eaten food. He was following me around the house almost suspiciously. Scary. I don't know whether it'd be safe to leave Rosemary with him. I don't know. But I thought you might be able to shed light on the situation.

Rosemary ran around her mother's leg, a tadpole darting around a frog.

I wish I could. I'm sorry to hear this, but in a way it makes more sense of what's been happening. I thought it was something to do with me or us, but . . . Perhaps he needs to see a doctor?

I suggested that, but he was quite affronted and refused point-blank. ‘Whaddo I need to see a friggin doctor for?' She lowered her voice and filled it with gruff.

Hmmm, that makes it difficult.

They were interrupted by a fist banging against glass, then Eric's bedroom window opening above them.

Sheila! What's going on? What are you doing over there! His face flaming, his grey hair sprouting like hillside tussock over a fire. He disappeared inside again.

Would you like me to look after Rosemary?

Sheila hesitated. It's OK. Max is going to play with a friend after kindy, so I was just going to catch up with friends. Coffee, you know. Easily cancelled. I'll try and organise Dad and tidy up a bit. But thank you. Are you OK? You're looking tired. You've lost a lot of weight.

Oh, have I? Maybe.

And how's Simon? I haven't seen either of you for ages.

He's good. He's down in Christchurch on a contract.

Christchurch!

Yes, I know, but he's fine. He's staying with my sister and her husband. They're luckier than some.

Will he be there long?

With this earthquake, his contract has been extended. So we don't know exactly.

Rather him than me. Oh well, better get up there to Dad. Actually, perhaps you
could
look after Rose — just for half an hour, while I get the place organised a bit. If he lets me. Would that be possible?

Of course! Hannah bent down and picked up the child, settling her on her hip, guiding her legs to wrap around her back and stomach.

Is that a flower on your pocket? And look . . . pretty flowers round your trouser legs.

She was dressed in purple velvet overalls, with a pink jersey underneath. Hannah's fingers, still in the rubber gloves she used when gardening, pointed out the cuff design.

They're pink, said Rosemary, pulling a tent of rubber glove from Hannah's hand and twanging it back. Why is your skin coming off?

I'm moulting. I'm growing a new pink one underneath.

Sheila forged her way back through the hedge. Eric. She could hear him, already down on the lawn, waiting for Sheila on other side.

What in the world are you doing over there? Where's Rosemary?

And there he was exploding through the hedge, cracking branches as he surged, a wild creature from the depths, bursting through for air. His face livid and twisting, his chest foaming with fury.

What are you doing with my granddaughter? Give her back to me. This minute!

His grasping fiddling hands. And now Sheila, back.

Dad. Dad, calm down.

Rosemary wailed, her pink woolly arms extended for her mother. Both Eric and Sheila were vying to take the child from Hannah, who was stretching to pass her to Sheila. As she stepped away from Eric she caught her foot on brick garden edging. She started to topple. Snatched at a handful of Eric's shirt to regain her balance. Sheila lunged to rescue Rosemary, crashing head-on with her father, butting goats
clunking temple against temple. They all fell to the ground, grunting and screeching. Hannah, still clutching Eric's shirt, pulled him on top of her as she went. Sheila, reeling from the head clash, managed to seize Rosemary before she crashed alongside Eric and Hannah. They all came to rest on the soggy lawn.

There was a moment's pause. Even Rosemary stopped her screaming, as everyone assessed the damage. Eric's face was turned away, tucked in the crook of Hannah's arm. His head smelt personal, almost rank. He needed a shower. She could see the droopy lined flesh of his ear lobe, a dark sprig of hair sprouting from the moist cave of his ear, hair that he used to keep neatly clipped. She could have lifted her hand and rested her fingers over his forehead, but she didn't. Instead she started laughing uncontrollably, her belly contorting, taking Eric bouncing alongside her. Rosemary was bawling again. Sheila lifted her head to glare at Hannah while she pacified Rosemary. They could all have been lying in the grass on a summer's day, replete after a picnic, such was their abandoned pose.

Then, the duck.

Sidling up to them, up to her, panting, his mouth open, tutting and clucking, his crimson head towering above her, tipped to view her, his black eye rimmed with scheming yellow lodged in crimson lava. She could see the sky through his nostrils. She stopped laughing and tried to pull away from Eric who, she realised, had her pinned down. The duck moved in, tentatively, piercing her with that mad eye. Edging closer, still tutting, then hesitantly pecking at her jersey, her hair.

No no, Ducko. Eric, Eric, she said. Move! But then she realised his wings weren't flat. He was anxious, concerned, but not aggressive.

Ducko, she said, I'm fine. We're all OK. She tugged herself away from beneath Eric's back. His head dropped to the grass. He snorted.

Oh, no. Sheila. Your dad. Eric. Quick.

Sheila put Rosemary down and together they linked arms to help Eric upright. His head lolled, dribble leaking from the side of his mouth.

Quick, she said to Sheila. Get a pillow and a blanket and call an ambulance.

Sheila tore through the hedge again. I meant from my place, Hannah called, but it didn't matter. She had positioned herself behind Eric's shoulders, his head on her lap. She placed her open hand through his shirt
onto his chest, her palm moving across hair, across the cushy padding of flesh that had not been there eleven years ago. And beneath it, eventually she located a distant drum against his ribs.

Rosemary was starting to burrow through the hedge after her mother.

Ssssh, sweetie, Mummy's coming back. Come here and stand with Poppa.

But Rosemary continued to the other side.

And now she did run her hands over his hair, his face, sticky with cold sweat, rough with more than a day's bristle. Eric, it's all going to be all right, she told him. Whatever it is, we'll have it sorted. His face grey, his lips purple. His creamy feet standing up from his trousers, his toes knobbled and wayward, ten sparsely-bearded and blank-faced sentinels observing their master from afar. This is what happens, she thought, when musicians stop playing music. The elements holding them together collapse. Somewhere within this armour of flesh was the light-hearted person whose soul she had dived and danced into for twelve days. Or perhaps that spirit had escaped already. How many portions of ourselves constitute the whole? she wondered.

Sheila appeared with a duvet, a couple of pillows and her cell phone.

Where's Rosemary?

She followed you.

Rosemary?

She tossed the bedding to Hannah and went back through the gap to retrieve the child.

Hannah hauled Eric over onto his side on the squishy grass, eased a couple of the pillows beneath his head and arranged the duvet over the length of his clammy, chilled body. Again she wondered what had happened to the music. Like a seed under siege it might have formed a protective prickly spore and lodged in his brain. She recalled that eye connection amongst the members of his band as they played. Perhaps he was pining for his flock.