The Elusive Language of Ducks (38 page)

I'll do my best, he'd said, squeezing her shoulder. But, well, Annabel. If he's satisfied with . . . Annabel . . . how is he ever going to want to look for a mate?

She swerved the car off the road into a picnic area. An elderly couple was sitting at a wooden table, with a thermos and sandwiches on a spread of lunchwrap.

Toby sat up. What's up?

I'm going back, she said. I can't do this. It's not fair on him. He won't understand what's happening. Everything he knows whipped away from him.

When she'd walked away finally, he was incredulous. Each time she'd looked back, he was standing with his neck as straight as a broom, watching her go.

Toby rubbed his fingertips feverishly through his hair. Hannah, Hannah. Hannah Hannah Hannah. Hannah Hannah.

He opened the door and got out, locking his fingers and stretching his arms skyward.

She was gripping the steering wheel, observing the elderly man and woman. Such an ordinary couple, unspeaking, enveloped in habit. The woman passing a sandwich to the man. He took it without looking at her, though his fingers lingered, brushing over hers. She poured hot drink into cups. He blew into his before sipping. As they ate and drank, they both stared out across the road to the farmland that stretched beyond. How many years had they known each other? Where were they going and where had they been? She envied their sense of complacency. One day, that'll be us, she and Simon used to say about such a couple.

And Claire. Last night at the dinner table, blithely chatting as they ate stew and mashed potatoes and roast kumara. Talking about a baby. Toby sensitively trying to steer away from the topic. Toby. Who obviously knew. And she. Who didn't. But informed by the letter in the shed, she was able to pretend, and glean from bits of conversation a few more dislocated details. Something about Dennis. Simon's brother. And Tuyen, his girlfriend, Simon's girlfriend in Sydney, not long after he left school. And Tuyen, becoming pregnant — was it to Simon or Dennis? As far as
she could fathom, the baby had died. Why, why had Simon never told her? Never ever in all their conversations had it come up, never ever even a mention or a hint of the girlfriend. And Toby's concerned gaze upon her indicated that he was aware that she had been excluded from the knowledge of whatever it was.

And if Toby knew, so would Maggie.

She'd attempted to bring the subject up with Toby as they drove but he deflected it. He knew nothing, he'd said. It was unfair. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to collect the duck and take him home and live with him forever and to hell with Simon.

And here was Toby back in the car again, bringing with him a cloud of smoke.

Actually Hannah, he said, you're doing very well so far. This is the hardest part. Well, this is part of the hardest part.

You're talking as if you're an expert in leaving ducks behind.

I am in a way. I left a wife once. My first wife. We all have our obsessions and addictions. Things that aren't good for us.

What happened with your wife?

My wife. I really loved her. I was fussy, worked hard late hours as a baker. She was playful. And, so I thought, dependable, reliable, almost conventional. But we complemented each other. Lots of laughter. But then I discovered. Too playful. Affairs. Many affairs. And she wouldn't stop. One day I walked out. Literally. I hadn't even planned to. Went for a walk to think about it all and I didn't stop.

They sat for a while in silence. Hannah thought of the intensity that propelled him forward, a young man walking through the streets, each step taking him away from his laughing wife. She remembered their night-time march down to the beach a few months ago, how purposeful and fast his stride had been.

Where did you go?

I just walked. I walked through the night and into the day, along gravel roads far out into the country. Bush on one side, farmland on the other. Then I found myself by a gate. It opened to a flower-lined stone path winding to a cottage. In the garden was a wooden seat set into the bush. I lay down and slept, and when I woke up, an extraordinarily beautiful woman, Emma her name was, was standing alongside me with coffee and
fresh cake. She was an artist. She invited me inside where I rang my wife to tell her I wasn't coming back. That night Emma shattered my whole compact conventional world, introduced me to the realm beyond fidelity and predictability. I discovered the insignificance of my life, but within that, the significance as well. Et cetera. The sort of thing everyone goes through in one way or another, of course. The clichéd epiphany.

Hannah wasn't sure whether she'd ever experienced any clichéd epiphany. She said, Sounds like a fairy tale. Or, more likely, drugs?

Exactly. A week or so later, Emma dropped me home. I never saw her again. My wife and I stayed together long enough to have our two babies, but the separation, when it inevitably came, was less traumatic. We're still reasonable friends. Well, more or less.

But what about the children?

Oh, you never leave children. They leave you in the end. Both of them are in London. Why do all the children of the world end up in London? But no. We shared them. Yes, no, that part wasn't ideal.

But were you sure they were yours?

No, but I loved them so much I couldn't bear to find out, just in case. It mattered but it didn't matter.

At the picnic table, the old woman was throwing crusts to sparrows, and folding up the lunch paper over and over into diminishing squares. She tipped the last drops of liquid onto the ground, then screwed the lid on the thermos.

And the other things that aren't good for you? When are you going to walk away from those?

Hannah, sweetie, haven't you noticed? Not a drop or anything since the Cointreau. Bob called me a metro wimp. No beer, no whiskey, no wine thank you very much. What are we now? Day four?

Oh. I'm sorry. I hadn't noticed. Well, I don't know what you do under the covers. But truly, Toby. That's great. But how long is it going to last?

As long as you keep away from the duck.

How could you compare caring for a duck with addiction, if that's what you're trying to say?

It depends on the intensity of the caring. Come on, Hann. Let's make tracks. One day at a time, as they say.

Hannah started the car.

The problem is not so much leaving but wondering how he's going to get along without me.

I know. You'll see things more clearly in a week or so. But give Simon some thought as well.

There's so much I still don't know about him. Like, sometimes he taps his beak into the web of his right foot between his right and middle toes. It's something very deliberate and it means something in muscovy parlance. But I have no idea what. And I don't even know his real name. When we were amongst the other ducks it mattered even more. It seemed that without a name I was just throwing him into obscurity.

What about Rumpelstiltskin? Or maybe Rumpledredskin.

Of course!

They both laughed. The old people lifted their hands in a cheery wave as she swung the car onto the road.

It was just getting dark as they made their way down to the house.

There's someone here, Hannah said, pausing on the path.

Don't be silly, said Toby.

Yes, there is. Look — lights.

We must have left them on.

No, no, we didn't. They wouldn't have been on when we left, anyway.

And the door was unlocked. They walked in. Maggie was sitting at the table with an open bottle of red wine beside her. Simon was at the bench, holding a wooden spoon. Cooking! A striped tea towel tucked down his front. Stirring onions and mushrooms. A large pot of water on the stove boiling. Salad on the table.

Wahoo, said Maggie flatly. Here come the swingers.

Simon turned around and leaned against the bench, his hands behind his hips gripping the handles of the bottom cupboard.

Hey, said Toby and moved towards Maggie, bending over to kiss her head when she didn't get up. Instead she took a swig of her wine.

Toby went to the cupboard and took a glass which he filled with water from the tap, drinking thirstily. He filled the glass again.

What have you got here? Smells good. Hmmm, pasta? Enough for four?

Hannah remained in the doorway. She and Simon looked at each other, neither moving. He was wearing a new shirt, a stylish black one, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His beard was shaven off, revealing lips parted slightly in an expression of helplessness and fear. What had happened to him? The skin around his mouth and jaw had a bluish hue. How long had he been away? And once again, how far away he was, and there in the middle, between them, was an island, a solid wooden island with a carefully crafted tabletop of totara. They had both been so proud of it once. And how was it that she had never been aware of the moat surrounding it, inhabited by starving unknown creatures that had been breeding there while she had been preoccupied with other things?

Hi, she called across the island.

Was that a screech of waterfowl that she had disturbed from the shallows? No, it was Maggie.

Oh, I'd forgotten, she was crooning. You two don't know each other. Simon, this is my sister, Hannah.

Hannah, he said softly. Where have you been?

We took the duck back, she told him. The duck's gone. Toby helped me. We stayed with Bob and Claire.

She bounced against the doorway, her hands clasped so tightly behind her back.

So there you are. It's done, she said.

He shrugged, one shoulder lifting to his now-exposed chin.

No excuses now, she added.

Hey, why don't I take over the cooking while you two have a talk? said Toby.

No no no, it's nearly ready, said Simon, picking up the wooden spoon from where he'd propped it on a saucer. He started to stir the food around the frying pan. Opened a jar of tomatoes and threw them in. The windows behind him were blistering from the steam. He made his way across the moat to the table, took Maggie's bottle and poured a dollop of wine into the pan. Refilled an empty glass on the bench and took the bottle back to Maggie. Hannah noticed the look that passed between them. It was too late. Her marriage was over.

So why are you here? she asked Simon.

She found herself slipping slowly down the wall to the floor, her feet dabbling in the poisonous moat. Her body was leaden. There was something from the centre of the Earth that had snared her, that was pulling her into its depths.

We thought we'd come and see how the merry couple was, interjected Maggie jauntily. We were concerned. But we realised we needn't have been. The birds had flown, but leaving all sorts of evidence of activities in their nest.

She pushed herself up from the table, went over to where Simon was cooking, resting a hand on his back as she knelt down to take a large empty saucepan from under the sink. She left the room, stepping over Hannah's legs as she went. When she returned a short time later, she stooped over to hold out the saucepan, like a magician revealing a trick. Despite herself, Hannah peered inside. Her hair ties, face cream. Her nightdress. Toby's socks, underpants.

Toby doesn't use face cream or hair ties, Maggie said. Do you, Toby? And since when have you worn blue flannelette nightdresses? She thrust the saucepan high under his nose. And I happen to know that these socks and underpants belong to my husband, don't they, Toby? Careful, they might smell.

Toby gawked at the contents. What's going on, Maggie? What is this crap? What are you talking about?

Simon flinched and turned his back.

It's not what it seems, Hannah tried to say, but the words were inaccessible, locked far away. She could hear the dry clatter of pasta pouring into the pot of boiling water, the whoosh of the water as it accepted its quarry. She turned over and crawled out of the room. She dragged herself upright and made her way from the hallway to climb the steps to their bedroom. Shoes off. Bed. She pulled the feather duvet over her head, lying with her face buried in the pillow, in the feather pillow.

The door to her room was opening. The mattress sank as somebody either sat or lay on the bed.

A weight in the centre of her back. Ballast. How many fathoms to the centre of the Earth?

Hannah.

Her name. The weight of her name. A noose around her name, hauling it in. A twisting in the tourniquet to stop the flow.

Hannah.

Someone pulling the duvet from her face. She turned over, peeped out. Toby was sitting there holding a plate of pasta on his knee.

I'm not hungry.

Of course you're not. But I had to find some excuse. Look, sit up, Hannah, please. I need you.

She hauled herself erect, her head against the wall.

What? she said.

Please come down, he said. They're both drinking. I won't be able to stop myself if you're not there. To make me. Please, Hannah.

Oh well, we'll be able to get the duck back then. So no one will have to try anymore.

I hope you're joking.

Yes, I am, she said, pushing back the bedclothes. Well, sort of.

He got up and opened a window, perched on the other side of the bed now as he lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply before dangling his arm into the void outside.

Listen, he said. Can I just give you some advice from where I'm sitting? It's pretty audacious I know, and you can tell me to shut up, but if you could just make an effort to reach out to Simon . . .

Me? But
he
left
me!

Yes, maybe ostensibly, but he feels that you left him quite a while ago. And you're not going to like this, but I'm going to tell you now so you don't have to hear it from Maggie, who is crowing about it, because she's angry with me. Last night they slept together—Ssssh, stop. Your stuff under the pillow, I didn't even know it was there. They put two and two together and got one. Us. Anyway, I put them right about that, but at the time they thought what the fuck, so to speak. But it didn't go very well, I gather — they discovered your mother in bed with them! I suppose she was there with me, too, was she?