Sitting Duck
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday September 12, 2015

I admired her as she glided across the pool. Reaching the deep end, she slid under the water, barely rippling the surface. I watched the sunlight flickering across her submerged shadow before she bobbed up and began another graceful lap.

She was a duck: a Pacific Black duck with a sweet face and a vivid patch of emerald in her flight feathers. “I’ve always loved that colour,” I told her as she hopped out of our pool and flapped her wings. She clucked appreciatively. I think that’s when we became friends.

I might never have discovered her if not for the single and resounding “Quack!” that rang out from the bottom of our garden last Tuesday. I flung open the back door, cocked my head and strained my twitcher’s ear. “Quack!” There it was again, loud enough that I couldn’t tell where the quack ended and the echo began.

A movement under the hedge caught my eye. There, huddled by the back fence was a small, brown duck guarding a brace of ducklings. As I crept closer, she eyed me nervously. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I’ll look after you.”

She winked at me. Or maybe she had something in her eye. I dashed inside to consult my laptop. “Do ducks wink?” I typed. But Google wasn’t on top of the vagaries of anitine expressions. Instead it offered up the anatomical tidbit that ducks have three eyelids. She nodded when I told her, then continued teaching her babies how to dig up our lawn. I crouched down and filmed her on my phone.

I wondered why she’d chosen to move in with us. Perhaps she’d read last week’s column – about the orphaned nest I’d found – and had me pegged as a bird-lover? Or maybe she’d flown over our house and been impressed by the murkiness of our pool? It didn’t matter, because her family was now my family. I named her Mabel. That was my first mistake.

I never remember David Attenborough naming any of his subjects, even if he’d spent three days holed up in a cave with a lizard. He called the Komodo dragon Varanus komodoensis, not Stanley or Imelda. After a week tracking West Africa’s elusive white-necked rockfowl, the bird was still Picathartes gymnocephalus, not Engelbert or Clive. Sir David knew the dangers of attachment. He wisely kept his emotional distance.

Seeing I’d already flouted the first rule of nature documentaries – do not name your subjects – I went ahead and broke the second: do not get involved in their lives.

But Mabel looked hungry. She stared longingly at my lunch as I sat at the back table to be nearer her. I tore off a crust and crumbled it on the ground. She gobbled up the morsels. I scattered more crumbs. She fell upon them greedily. Between us, Mabel and I polished off a smoked salmon baguette in three minutes.

By mid-afternoon, keeping Mabel and her ducklings safe and happy was all I could think about. I moved to the veranda so I could work while warding off crows. I leapt from my chair and ran shrieking across the lawn when a kookaburra tried to swoop on a duckling. I kept Alfie the cat locked inside so long he relieved himself in the bath. I spent an eon standing sentry by the pool – opening and closing the gate whenever Mabel and her brood fancied a swim. I felt like a hotel maitre‘d, constantly pandering to the whims of a demanding guest.

Feeling overwhelmed by my new responsibilities, I rang the wildlife ranger. “We don’t interfere with ducks,” he said. “You didn’t feed her, did you?”

“Um.”

“You didn’t feed her bread, did you?”

“It came from a French patisserie,” I said defensively.

“She’s all yours then,” said the ranger. “Lock up your cat. Your mother duck ain’t going anywhere.” I was sure he snorted as he hung up.

I spent the next morning chasing crows. I built a pool ramp for the ducklings. I combed the agapanthus for snails while Mabel sunned herself on the lawn. At school pick-up, half a dozen children begged to see the ducklings. We trooped home, cradling earthworms for Mabel’s afternoon tea.

“She must be hiding,” I explained, when Mabel and her ducklings failed to greet us. A grid search of the backyard proved we were duckless. In disbelief, I alerted the neighbours and put the street in lockdown. But Mabel had vanished. I was an empty-nester. I wandered the garden bereft. I searched for her by torchlight.

And then the next morning I got cross. How dare she up and leave like that – selfish, ungrateful bird! After everything I did for her! But being angry didn’t feel good. I missed Mabel. Better to luv-a-duck than not to have loved at all.