The Elusive Language of Ducks (43 page)

Have you got their address? Did she give them Annabel? I hope she told them about Annabel. Otherwise he'll be aggressive.

No, oh no, I forgot to say. He'd become interested in another duck, a
female, just one other duck actually, and they took that as well, as a pair. Possibly even to breed.

Can you give me their address? Just so I can check, that he's in a good home.

No, they came and went. They just drove in from nowhere and left. They're either from Wellington or Auckland. Or was it somewhere in Hawke's Bay? I actually have no idea where they live, to tell you the truth.

She flopped down to sit on the grass. I'm going to be sick, she said. Truly, I'm going to be sick.

Oh, said Bob. Can I get you anything?

I can't believe you would do this. In fact, I don't. This is a euphemism for the travelling circus, isn't it?

No, Hannah, don't be silly. And if I'd been here it wouldn't have happened; Claire didn't realise he was your duck. A duck is a duck so far as she's concerned. And the little boy was so happy apparently. They've got a stream on their property, they said, all fenced off. They know about muscovy ducks.

Hannah yanked at chunks of grass. In the rich black soil underneath, a worm extricated itself from view. Can you please ask Simon to come and get me, she said. Tell him I want to go home right now.

When he left, she curled up in the grass, until Simon arrived and knelt alongside her, his warm comforting hand on her shoulder.

Chapter 31

June the third. It is the first anniversary of the death of Hannah's mother. It is also the anniversary of the simulated take-off of six men to Mars from a Moscow hangar. They have reached their destination and are on their way back, and now they are grappling with boredom.

The heater is on and Hannah is making bread. The room is filled with the same comforting smell of basic cooking that has wafted from ovens through the ages. As she breathes, she absorbs the ethereal vapours of her mother and her grandmother and great-great-great-grandmothers that have been transported through time, only to stop with her.

On the floor, by the deck windows, two children are lying on their stomachs, each with their own desk-pad, a packet of felt-pens and a box of crayons. Their mother is taking Eric to a doctor's appointment. Rosemary is drawing wavily elliptical circles, which she is attempting to colour in with her crayons. She also has a couple of sheets of stickers, and from time to time calls to Hannah to help her peel these off to place around her drawing. Max is drawing stick-figures that float randomly through his picture with arms spread like wings. He hasn't yet thought to anchor them to the ground. He has also scribbled great swirls of dense black smoke. Enemy fire.

Hannah thinks of her mother, but at the moment no specific memories are coming. She is thinking of the essence of the person she once was . . . warm and generous, kind, with a sense of humour, and a love of colour and beauty. All the usual stuff of a hastily drawn-up CV with unexplained gaps. And she is also wondering what has happened to her duck. Whether he is still alive, and whether he really managed to move from Annabel to a pretty pink-faced duck. She has forced herself to believe Bob's story because the alternative is too painful to endure. And perhaps it
is
true that he is waddling around a bubbling stream with his wife and ducklings, cared for by a pale little boy who has a passion for muscovies.

Simon flew to Christchurch a couple of days ago to collect his car. The plans for Toby to drive it up to Auckland dissolved into repeated last-minute postponements, though now it has been decided that both
Maggie and Toby will accompany Simon on this trip, to stay for a short visit. She is looking forward to seeing them. After Toby left, he and Hannah texted each other with jovial encouragement for their respective withdrawals. Gradually Toby's texts became more cynical and gloomy in content, less frequent, until they stopped altogether. Christchurch was still experiencing unnerving shakes. Meanwhile Maggie and Simon were in contact with each other as well. Simon reported that Toby had had a bit of a relapse but was now back on track.

The oven timer dings and Hannah pulls out two loaves of bread. She tips the tins upside-down and leaves them steaming on racks, two identical brown modules. She opens the window enough to let a stream of heat mingle with the nippy morning air.

For some reason a stray memory arrives unbidden through the open window. Questions from afar, from a day when Hannah was visiting her mother at Primrose Hill. A pensive little voice asking, So will I write poetry and put it in my head?

It seemed the best thing for Hannah to assure her that she would. Then she asked, Are they going to take it away on Saturday?

Only if you want them to, Mum.

Then, as Hannah was kissing her on the cheek before leaving, her mother asked, Will they look after you well when they take you away from me?

Hannah sighs. The old nostalgia is pouring back again. In a way she welcomes it, just for the day, for the occasion. She knows that it is tied up with love and she knows that it is an ephemeral thing that is beyond comprehension or control, and that one day it will find a place within her where it can rest comfortably and without pain.

As she sits on the sofa, she watches the children experimenting with shape and colour. Then she drops onto her stomach between them, takes a piece of paper, and starts to draw as well.

When you get to the beach you leave Simon and the others, and head towards the shoreline. Tiny wavelets are snapping crossly at your feet. You take both loaves from the plastic bag and roll them in the water, to make sure the crusty exterior is wet all over. Not too soggy, but damp. This is to prevent anyone nibbling at the bread.

The sky is icy blue except for suds of white cloud scattered above the brim — little lost ducks blown away from their flock. The sea is blue too, with streaks of silver. A kite-surfer is hurtling along under his bow of kite, catapulting like an escaping cricket, trampolining like a grasshopper on a bluegrass field. The beach is empty of life except for a man and his dog at the far end, and a couple marching arm-in-arm towards you. The man is throwing sticks and the dog is paddling out through the taut sea to fetch them, its ears held flat against its head. You watch the dog warily but decide it is far enough away.

You are sure that somewhere there will be a grounded cluster of seagulls all angled to the same direction, hunched up restlessly against the biting wind with their heads under their wings. There will also be a perky scout on a lamp post or in a tree, on the look-out for food. You tear off a small chunk of bread and throw it in the air. Nothing. You pick up the same piece and throw it again. You start to walk and repeat the action. There they are, two of them, the sentinels, lifting their heads; they have noticed the bread.

They rise, circling high in the sky, before landing near your feet to gobble up the food. They are making sure they get their share before their signal brings the competition. The other seagulls must be watching somewhere or have secondary scouts, because they don't come until you throw more. You are sure that there must be some remote communication between them. You throw another piece of soggy crust. The seagulls quickly snaffle it. Their beaks are sharp and red. You break off more and soon another three gulls arrive. Then there are more, and you throw more lumps of bread, which are readily devoured. You check that each piece has gone before you throw another batch.

Simon and Maggie and Toby are bunched under the shelter of pohutukawa which lean from a grassy verge over the beach. She waves to them and they saunter down. Toby's thin face pokes from a helmet of fat hood, his body padded in a blue Michelin puffer jacket. His face is purple. He is smoking. Maggie is bundled up in layers of red scarf, and a black woollen coat. Simon looks the most relaxed in his red parka and jeans. Nonetheless they are all cold and reluctant to be here. It is only because she has persuaded them to. When Simon and Toby agreed, Maggie complied. She is making an effort to be nice, Hannah notices.

She throws the bread into the wind, and suddenly the sky is teeming with gulls. Simon is informative: The large ones are black-backed gulls. Then you've got the smaller black-billed gulls with the black legs, and the red-billed gulls with the red legs. You might notice, he says, that the black- and red-billed gulls catch the bread in the air. They're accustomed to catching insects as they fly — cicadas, mosquitoes, beetles, whatever. And the big brown ones over there are the baby black-backed gulls.

She breaks the rest of the first loaf into three, and hand out the pieces. Toby extricates blanched fingers from his sleeve to take his portion. Sparse fair hairs over his hands doing a useless job of keeping him warm. Auntie Hannah, he says between clenched teeth, you are killing us. Let's find a nice warm café and have a coffee. Or, even better, a nice soul-warming red. No Toby, says Maggie, not a wine. They all dutifully toss out their bits of bread into the sand to the crazy wailing squabbling gulls.

Come on, let's walk, you say, and you start marching along the beach. The seagulls land in front of you. One of the black-backed gulls opens its throat and screams. Its gullet is a tunnel that leads to the centre of time, to the black hole of all the big questions. You throw bread from the second loaf specifically to that bird, but it's too busy complaining. The cacophony of wings and feet and beaks beats him to it. You toss another which it grabs.

You fling small chunks high into the air. All around you and above you is the whacking of wings and swishing of slicing bodies. Some of the gulls swoop cleanly by and take the bread mid-air with such beautiful precision that you do it again. You love the way they anticipate the rise and allow for the wind and take the bread in their beaks so effortlessly. You love the feeling of heaving your arms into the air to throw.

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.