Sitting Duck

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.

Empty Nest

Empty Nest
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday September 5, 2015

We’d ridden halfway up the hill when I noticed a small pile of sticks by the verge. My brain registered the elliptical shape but I quickly dismissed the stick-mound as otherwise unremarkable.

“Start pedalling honey!” I shouted to the 5-year-old freewheeler on the trailer seat behind mine. Small daughter obliged by merrily pedalling backwards, creating extra drag for my screaming lungs. “Stop!” she shouted and I jammed the brakes. “What’s wrong?” I panted.

“Look,” she said, pointing back at the grassy verge. There, on our left, was the jumble of sticks. It was a large nest, shaped like a bowl.

We crouched down to inspect our discovery. A wire coat hanger served as a joist under the nest. Its grey elbows protruded like strange wings from the tangle of slender branches. Another coat hanger, this one cerulean blue, supported a finer weave of twigs laid in concentric circles towards the centre. The nest’s delicate interior was a cup the size of my hand. It was thatched with dry grasses and entwined with a single strand of white wool. A mattress of smooth brown leaves completed the soft cradle.

Threaded through the nest were two lengths of insulated wire – one red, one green – and a piece of electrical cable roughly fashioned into a round. A long strand of resin packing tape, sky-blue, completed the reinforcements. The nest was not just a feat of avian engineering. It was a work of art.

I scanned the eucalypt overhead but there was no sign of the nest’s owner, lamenting her fallen home. We inspected the verge but there were no broken shells or feathers. We biked home and returned with the car to collect our orphaned prize.

I jangled the bell at number 14. A woman wearing a toddler on her hip answered the door. “We found this on your verge,” I said, proffering the nest. “Have you noticed any birds in the tree out front?”

“No. But it does explain the bits of rubbish I’ve been finding on the lawn.”

“Please can we keep it?” blurted my five-year-old, sensing finders-keepers might not hold currency amongst grownups. “Of course,” she said, smiling. “But your job is to find out which bird it belonged to.”

The nest now sits on our hall table like a rare and peculiar crown. I often pause to admire its workmanship. I marvel at the resourcefulness of the bird who created it with just a beak and a primitive pair of opposable toes.

I search the internet for similar nests but for once, Google is lacking. I email an ornithologist who tells me that a bird in nest-building mode will press its breast against the interior to make it round. “Isn’t it a lovely idea,” he wrote, “to imprint the shape of your body on your home.”

My-mother-in law is convinced it’s the work of a bird of prey. “It’s too pretty for a crow,” she says. “A kestrel perhaps?”

I send a photo of the nest to a reader who’s a regular and enlightened correspondent.

“Intriguing all right,” he replies. “It has me beat. I’m guessing magpie, crow or chicken hawk.”

Ever since we found the nest, I’ve become a kitchen-window bird-watcher. Yesterday, I was enthralled by a pair of kookaburras sunning themselves on our side fence. We eyed each other warily as I hung out the washing. Were they studying me in my suburban wilderness or was I in theirs? I sidled inside to find my zoom lens and took their portraits. Have I turned into a bird nerd?

I now block out the noise of traffic on the highway and the din of my mind to isolate strands of bird song on the walk to school. I tune in to a silvery melody, scanning the trees for its singer.

I remember the carolling of magpies as the dawn soundtrack to my childhood. I was quite the bird watcher back then, exploring the local swamp. I never found much but it was enough: an empty broken egg or a bright green feather. “Are the birds nesting early or late this year?” Nan would ask. “Early,” I replied, still nursing my bruised ego after a swan attack. (I’ve maintained a life-long fear of long-necked birds with snapping red beaks.)

The nest has reminded me of my long ago self: a girl with two plaits and a murky bowl of wriggling tadpoles getting a heroes’ welcome on show and tell day. We kids would crowd around the latest offering from our backyard jungles: silkworms on mulberry leaves; a crowd of slater beetles packed into a matchbox; a redback spider held hostage in a jam jar.

For now, the architect of our nest remains a mystery. My money’s on a magpie, but it matters not. I’m just grateful to be a collector once again.