A mixture of mallards, coots, shelducks and moorhens were milling about at the water’s edge; some standing in the shallows, some lightly afloat, others toddling about on dry land. Also two bloody great mute swans, possibly dangerous, swelling, hissing, bridling, and generally threatening anyone silly enough to presume that a handful of bread was enough to earn their gratitude and trust. Beside these graceful thugs, the practical little coots, treading purposefully on clown-sized feet, had the greater perspective, and more wit.
My grandson, Oscar, and I sat down on one of the four benches provided by the parish council. The freshwater lake stretched away before us: cloudless blue sky above. The unseasonable warmth was stoking the water fowl into a frenzy of courtship, nest building and squabbles. Clouds of midges were out, too, as though we were in high summer already.
The other three benches were occupied by elderly day trippers on a coach tour of coast and villages from one of the big Torquay hotels. I could tell by their clean shoes, their colour co-ordinated clothes, and their delightfully modest air of being en fête. Occasionally one or other of them, surprised by the insolence and persistence of these midges, was driven to flapping a retributive hand at them. Clearly no one had warned them of the tenacity of the local midges when they’d assembled earlier on their Torquay hotel forecourts.
These trippers had smiled gladly at us as we sat down. They’d liked us immediately. If I’d greeted them they’d have greeted me back with knobs on. And as usual Oscar’s blond curls and surly expression had won the women over from the moment they clapped eyes on him. They liked us above all though, I think, because we weren’t above sharing their simple pleasure of sitting on a bench on a sunny afternoon and looking at the ducks.
But once we’d settled ourselves, and begun to appreciate the waterfowl politics that were being played out in front of us, we realised that what these placid old folk were really enjoying — and what had made them so glad that we were able to join them — was the spectacle of a jolly good fight. For the doting mallard drakes especially, it was one vicious fight after another.
Typically what happened was this. Mallard A stalked mallard B across the shingle foreshore, rushed and overpowered him, got his head in his mouth, and tried to bite it off. They don’t muck about, these mallards. They go straight for the head. Then while mallard A tried to murder mallard B, mallards C and D rushed to the scene and also began biting the head of mallard B. But in the general mêlée, everyone might suddenly leave off attacking poor mallard B and randomly attack mallard C instead. Alliances seem to be entirely opportunistic. The only reason God gave mallards beaks with rounded edges, I now realise, was to lessen the carnage in the mating season. It was thrilling, edge-of-the-seat entertainment.
As one of these four-cornered pecking matches went into a rolling maul right at our feet, my phone rang. It was a call I’d been expecting for several days. A quietly spoken lady doctor said she was ringing on behalf of the practice. The results of my biopsy had come back, she said. She was so quietly spoken I assumed she was being funereal and it was a prelude to devastating news. It was nothing to worry about, she said. A pause. I waited. She seemed uncertain about what to say next. Finally she said, ‘They think they’ve managed to get it all.’
I looked down and thought about this for a moment. Each of the four ducks in the rolling maul had its beak clamped on a different head. Oscar’s interest was tempered with dismay. Those must be someone else’s results then, I said, because they only took a small sample.
This new aspect failed to alter her beliefs in any shape or form. She wasn’t going to let having the wrong person’s results in front of her prevent her from the satisfying job of reassuring me that there was nothing to worry about. I found her intransigence commendable.
One of the mallards broke away and made a run for it, closely pursued by the other three. A lady on the next bench was leaning forward and smiling winsomely at Oscar. Her smile seemed to say, ‘My, isn’t this duck violence thrilling!’ Oscar rewarded her with one of his surliest looks. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ said the doctor. One of the thuggish swans decided it was time it threatened someone and began menacing the row of trippers on the far bench. I thanked the doctor for calling.
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