The Elusive Language of Ducks (33 page)

Now they were severed voices in a void, drifting away from each other.

Don't be stupid, Simon. It's the first time. I'm not in bed. I was upset. Because of Japan.

Hannah, have you been drinking? You aren't making sense.

No, nothing makes sense, I agree.

Are you eating? What have you got in your mouth?

In my mouth I have almost a whole night without sleep. In my mouth I have a jumble of words cowering under my tongue. They are choking me while they blunder around trying to arrange themselves into questions for you. Big scary questions.

Hannah, perhaps this isn't the best time to speak to each other. It seems that I have rung at an inopportune moment.

I was asleep for heaven's sake.

With the duck.

Look, I've got to go. Turn on the radio. Google Japan. Are you ever coming back? How's my sister? Are we still married? Do you have any children? What are you doing with your life? Bye.

She turned the phone off, threw it across the sofa and buried her face in her hands. Her fingers carefully pressed around her temple, the puffiness under her eye, her tender cheek. She could smell the remnants of the corn she'd stirred a few hours before. Corn, and soap. Her mouth was dry. She opened her eyes. Through her fingers the light of dawn was filtering through. The duck was pecking at her toes. A busy exploratory nibbling. A tug. A yank. Ow.

Quit it! She shifted her foot, stood up, stretched. The duck backed away, straightened, whinnied. She opened the door and guided him out to the deck. He waddled to his dish and drank, his eye upon hers as she closed the door. Then she went to the sink, pouring herself a large glass of water to drink at the window, her eye upon his.

The tsunami warning for New Zealand had been down-graded to a precaution to keep away from beaches for the day, but there were new sickening images of the earthquake plummeting through the internet, mainly of the tidal wave sweeping along the east coast of northern Japan. She forced herself to turn the computer off. She couldn't help thinking of her own daily walks around the foreshore . . . what if the sea had suddenly swallowed her up? She had never doubted the safety of it, always accepted unconditionally that the boundaries between her and the sea were undisputed, with allowances in the buffer zone between high tide and low, and the occasional show of force during a storm. Beyond that, it had always been a matter of trust. That was the way of the world. The harmony resonating between every living thing, every dead thing, the dependence upon the predictability according to the nature of the beast. Otherwise, how could anyone breathe freely?

Right now, though, she was only capable of taking a couple of Panadeine and going to bed in a darkened room. But at that moment there was a knock at the door.

Sheila was standing on the doorstep, alone, her dreads and all her
joie de vivre
bundled away under what looked like a tea cosy. She clasped a hand to her open mouth.

Oh my God, she said. Look at your black eye. Oh no! I'm sorry. Dad would be mortified if he saw you.

He shouldn't be, it was an accident. Come in. Have a cup of tea.

No, I've left the kids with Andrew, but he's wanting to get some things done about the house. Thank goodness it's Saturday. I just came to collect some things for Dad. He's in hospital; they're keeping him there for tests. His blood pressure is really high for a start, but they want to look into the way he's been behaving. I've been next door having a bit of a tidy up. The house was a bomb-site. But anyway, I just wanted to see how you are. You insisted yesterday that you were all right, but you didn't seem all right to me. You wouldn't let anyone help you.

I'm fine, lied Hannah. It's all a bit of a blur after the kick, but I'm OK now. Got a shock to hear about the earthquake and tsunami in Japan, though.

Already the gigantic event that was still having repercussions across the world was relegated to a few lines of shared dismay, to be squeezed into day-to-day conversation amongst people whose lives were unaffected directly by its force.

Oh I know, said Sheila. Everyone was talking about it up at the hospital last night. Horrifying.

She paused, chewing intently at the edge of a nail. That duck of yours is a wild thing, I have to say. I don't want Rosemary or Max wandering through the hedge by themselves again. It's worse than a mad dog. Dad's legs are covered in bruises, and the doctors were wondering what they were.

Hannah's heart lurched.

Normally he's fine, she lied again. I tried to warn Eric.

Or did she? She couldn't remember. She pressed her forehead. What exactly had happened?

But anyway.

She tried a calming smile. It hurt.

I won't report it, said Sheila. But I must say that I was worried.

No, no, no, truly, he's just a stupid duck. He looks worse than he is. The red face makes him look angry. The flapping wings and everything. It's all bravado. He doesn't even have teeth.

Really? No teeth? How does it eat?

Well, he's got little ridges along the edges of his beak for filtering and also gripping worms and insects or whatever. And he eats stones and grit to help grind up food in his stomach.

She was beginning to sound like Simon.

Well, it certainly made some hefty bruises on Dad's leg.

Actually, Eric was attacking
him.

The way I saw it, the duck was attacking Dad.

Hannah envisaged a van with a metal cage and men in boots, overalls and thick leather gloves arriving to take away her savage pet.

Sheila, I'm sorry. I am. Things got out of hand, it was all a string of events. The duck has a thing about white pillows. I'll watch him. How is Eric now? I'm glad he's getting attention. Please give him . . . please tell him I'm thinking of him.

Hopefully he'll be OK. He was supposed to be taking medication, but
he never does. Either that or too much. Hopeless.

Hannah stepped forward and gave the girl a quick hug.

Keep in touch. He's a lucky man having a caring daughter, she said.

Hannah was surprised to see a flush of pink spread across Sheila's pale complexion.

Thanks, she said shyly as she turned to go. After something like this I realise I should have been more attentive. You take things for granted and then . . . Anyway, I'd better go and see how he is. Hopefully he won't have discharged himself.

They both laughed as they realised that the likelihood of escape was high.

Let's hope the food is good and the nurses are patient, said Hannah.

As she waved Sheila goodbye, a movement caught Hannah's eye. The duck had come up the side of the path from around the back, and was peering around the house. Just his red head, poking around the corner, his shiny eye watching her.

Ducko! she said. Hello! I was just coming around to see you.

His head retreated. By the time she'd taken the few steps to the corner of the house, he was nowhere in sight.

And he wasn't on the deck or in the tree. Maybe all her troubles were over. No more decisions to be made. She'd be able to ring Simon and tell him the problem between them was solved.

Even so, she continued to search the property, calling. She crawled through the hedge to Eric's place, calling, calling. Down to the rock garden in the corner where she'd lazed one balmy afternoon as Eric played his cello for her. There used to be a cultivated tangle of geraniums, daisies, iceplants and rambling roses growing there. Now those plants were struggling with the weeds attempting to strangle them all.

Oh well.

Chapter 26

Hi, pet. I believe this is the sanctuary for abandoned ducks? Is that correct? Here am I. Quack quack quack. Nowhere to go. Flew all the way from Christchurch. Wings are wung out. Exhausted. And they're after me. Stoats, ferrets, hawks, the lot. Rats. Can I come in? Please. Let's quack inside. Quick. I mean, quack.

Toby! What . . .?

He arranged an expression of quizzical despair, his head tipped to let his red hair flop over his forehead, a joker's woeful pleading posture.

Oooh, your face! Is this the face that launched a thousand ships? Yep, I'd say so.

He blew a whistle of concern.

Her fingers were still clamped around the door handle, as she held the front door open for the second time that day, blinking at him on her doorstep. Black jacket over a plain black T-shirt, blue jeans and a gym bag at his feet. Again those dark shadows under his sparking eyes. His skin looking more sallow, more wan than before.

Yep, 'tis me. Toby or not Toby. That is the question. Toby, the godforsaken drake. Homeless and looking for shelter. No sex, I'm British. No, I'm not. But, just a roof. Won't be any trouble. Whaddaya say? Yes, no? Maybe so?

She opened her arms and stood on her toes to give him a hug. He stooped to allow her. How grateful she was to feel those bony shoulders, breathe in the stench of stale cigarette smoke. What sort of magic was swirling in the universe?

Is Maggie with you? she asked, knowing full well the answer.

Nup. I'm demagnetised. And sigh-man, the Good Samaritan, left far behind as well. Oh dear. They'll be looking under every leaf and I won't be there. I'll be here. But I might not be because you might give me a roasting
à l'orange
and turf me out. As you have every right to do, but I am hoping that you will not.

Yes, no, of course, she said. Come in. Actually it's so lovely to see you. She felt tears welling, her face collapsing.

Oh no, no no no . . . No blubbing please, please, please. I'm not built
for emotion. I'll have to go, I'm afraid, if that's the case. He bent to pick up his bag, feigning a gesture to walk back up the path.

She grabbed a handful of jacket and playfully pulled him back in. He whirled around, and this time he wrapped his arms around her, whacking her with his bag as he did so.

Come on, he said. Let's go inside and have a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about the thug who beat you around the face so mercilessly. And don't tell me you ran into a door.

She made the tea, watching as he paced about the deck, smoking a cigarette which he plunged into a pot plant when she called him in. At the table, he sat on the edge of his chair, his legs splayed as if ready to run. Gingernut for a gingernut, he said as they dipped gingernuts into their tea — she, tentative little edges to nibble; he, half a biscuit at a time before hanging it above his mouth just in time to catch the soggy dropping.

How's your duck? he asked.

He's . . . he's OK, I think. He's hiding actually. How's everything down in Christchurch?

That, he said, is — what do they say? — a very good question. Yes. However. Would you like to be more specific?

Oh, well, ummm . . . She nipped her biscuit. You'd probably have more idea than I would as to where to start.

The earthquakes? They suck. He suddenly turned and picked up the table with his knee, crashing it violently and noisily upon the floor. Every nerve in her body exploded.

God! You gave me a fright.

Exactly, my dear. That's what's happening every day. Sometimes small ones, sometimes big ones, in the night, during the day. And you never know whether it's going to be a big one, because we thought we'd had the big one and then when February the twenty-second happened it was more devastating, so you think there's going to be yet another bigger one. And you never know whether the container truck going past is another earthquake. You just don't know for a split second, but by then your whole body is shot with adrenaline. Anyway . . . your man Simon is down there digging us all out of the mire.

At the mention of his name, Hannah felt her stomach drop. The day
was so still and quiet. Toby was a flea, and she was a jumpy cat, his host. She had questions for him, but she was concerned that, if she threw them at him too soon, he'd be frightened away. So they discussed Japan and the Earth, his work. Her eye.