Deep Waters

The English Flower Garden, it’s called. Not many flowers in this late Autumn month, though. A few ragged roses, a bed of irises, something white and anonymous in a couple of borders.

He and she walk a gravel path to the mock-Edwardian pavilion that faces lawn and ornamental pond. Around them, trees shiver in the wind. The odd scarlet leaf spirals down. 

‘Okay,’ he says, when they’re seated and gazing out across the turf. ‘Your text said you wanted to talk about something.’

He already knows what the something is. The last few weeks have been pointing towards it. So her hesitation and first words don’t surprise him, apart from the brief disbelief of hearing them spoken aloud.

‘Look… you—you’ve been really good about things. I appreciate that. It’s just… I’m feeling I need more space to myself—for a bit, anyway. More time to work things out.’

‘Space-time?’ he offers, and gets a half-smile.

‘I just—’ She stops suddenly; points and exclaims. ‘Oh, look!’

A duck is fussing its way across the lawn from one of the paths. Three small ducklings skitter behind, then two more. A quintet of fluffballs. ‘Gorgeous!’ she breathes. They can still share pleasures, even at this stage. 

They watch as feathered mother pads past the pond, heading for shrubbery on the far side. The ducklings patter and peck behind. 

She starts again. ‘…time to sort things out. I have—I need to work out some idea of where I want to be in a couple of years. Job. Ambitions and priorities. Who I am, even.’

He lets her go on. She has to say these things, even if she’ll be irritated later by her second-rate language. He’s not going to interrupt; won’t murmur understanding or acceptance. He’s promised himself that. He won’t go trotting along behind, like those ducklings.

Who I am… he thinks. Who she is—was, anyway—is someone who made him believe he’d got things right; then made him hope he’d got them right; then almost turned him into the supplicant he’s not going to be today.

They keep gazing at the pond, and the feathered life-forms pecking and darting near its edge. ‘I thought they might have come for a swim,’ she says. ‘Oh, they are!’ Because right then, two of the fluffballs flop over the side and begin paddling, zipping at improbable speed across the surface. ‘Gorgeous!’ she exclaims again. 

They both see the danger at the same time. From drainage or autumn drought, the water level is a good hand’s-breadth below the brick rim. There are no steps, no handy lily pads. How are the tiny venturers going to get out?

The mother duck confirms what they’ve realised. She stops her Charlie Chaplin waddle towards the shrubbery; heads instead for the pond’s edge, quacking urgently as she reaches it. The pair below pipe back, start swimming up and down beside the brick layers that loom above them. The two humans in the pavilion sit and watch.

‘Can’t their mother get in and help them?’ she asks. 

He keeps gazing at the feathered puffs flicking along, on as much as in the water. ‘Dunno. Maybe she’s scared the other three might follow her.’

Those other three show no interest in the pond or their trapped siblings. They jostle and quest behind their parent on the grass. A literal pecking order, he thinks, as the biggest one pushes the others aside. Usually, he’d say it out loud, but not now. 

‘Can’t we help them?’ she goes next. ‘Reach in and get them out, or something?’

‘If you go near, they’ll probably swim away.’ He’s surprised by the authority of his reply. Surprised and pleased, somehow. ‘Even if you do get hold of it, the mother might reject it—it’ll smell different, feel different, even.’ He’s not sure if that’s true or not, but he wants to sound firm this morning. She’s coming to a decision; she’s made that clear. So he’s going to be decisive, too.

Again and abruptly, she’s back to what she was saying before. ‘Look, it’s not really anything to do with you.’ (Crap, he thinks. If she’s going to decide something involving him, then how can she say it’s not…)

‘I just want some more space for a while,’ she says again. 

This time, he gestures at the lawn and pond in front. ‘More space than this?’ Her part-smile this time is an acknowledgement of how he’s trying, rather than any amusement at his line.

The little drama in front of them takes a new twist. The pair in the water flurry up to the brick wall imprisoning them—towering over them, it must seem—scrabble against it while their mother quacks summonses above, flop back. ‘Oh, can’t we—?’ she starts again. 

And right at that moment, one of the ducklings rushes at the wall, wing stubs pumping. It rises up, miniature feet flailing at the water surface. It thrashes in mid-air for half a second, then it’s over the brick barrier and onto the grass, hurrying to join the trio behind their mother, while she quacks rebukes or welcomes, and the others ignore it. 

Now just one remains in the pond. It doesn’t seem concerned; paddles out towards the middle; investigates a strand of water weed; drifts along, parallel to the edge. The mother clatters her beak at it, and it turns abruptly, skitters towards the bricks, hurling itself upwards, feet beating the water like its successful sibling. It hits the edge; falls back into the pond.

The two watchers, half-risen from their bench as it jumped, also drop down again. ‘Oh, the poor little idiot!’ she gasps, ‘Why can’t…’ She falls silent.

As abruptly as the veering duckling, she’s back once more to the other topic, the one that brought them here. ‘Tell me—do you think this relationship is going anywhere?’

He answers instantly and honestly. ‘Yes, I do. For me, anyway. But it’s about what you think, what you feel, as well.’

They’re both staring ahead again, towards the pond where the remaining duckling drifts. Silence for a beat, then—‘Are you happy?’ she asks, and he recognises the courage as well as the cleverness in her words.

‘With you? Yeah, I am. But that has to be about you, too. It’s no use my being okay if you’re not.’

The duckling turns once more towards the brick edge, and they both watch. Then it drifts away again. Mother and siblings are now all pecking at the grass nearby.

She sighs, and it irritates him. He’s been honest. He’s been… courteous, even. No need for her to play the patient sufferer. ‘I told you before,’ he goes on. ‘I’ll be there if you decide you want to keep this going. I won’t get in your way if you don’t. I know you don’t want me running after you; you’ve said so. But… well, I’ll be there, right?’

She stands; doesn’t look at him; stares instead at the pond and its developing tragi-comedy. ‘Look, can you just wait till you hear from me? Just give me—.’ 

She flicks a hand; they both know what the next word or words would be. She walks off, crunching over the gravel to the garden’s entrance.

He stays seated, gazing at grass and water. Is it only a cliché, or is the autumn afternoon cooler than when they arrived? Whatever.

He’ll remember this place and time. And he’ll remember the… the unexpected satisfaction that pricks him now. He’s stayed dignified. He’s said he’ll be ready, but he’s kept that promise to himself; hasn’t gone trotting after her, the way four ducklings are doing now behind their mother as she waddles towards the shrubbery.

He stands, too; stuffs hands in pockets, giving a sigh that consciously echoes hers; sets off towards the garden’s entrance. Outside, he turns in the opposite direction to her, stops after three steps and stares at the ground. A few seconds, then he spins around, shrugs, starts walking towards where she has gone.

Back in the pond, the last duckling sets itself. Then, faster and harder than before, it makes another dash at the wall.


David Hill lives in New Plymouth. His short stories have been published in various magazines and on Radio NZ. His novels and short stories for teenagers have been published in various countries and languages.