down for a moment. I’ll muster a brew.’
My father, who was clearly tired, stopped fussing with the luggage and settled himself down at the table, looking incongruous and uncomfortable in his permanent-press suit trousers, grey
easy-iron rayon shirt and staff-discount Hush Puppies. His thin socks were visible beneath the cuff of his trouser legs. Above one of the socks I noticed a little stripe of pale flesh, bumpy like
chicken skin, the sight of which somehow made me sad.
Henry offered him a choice of herbal teas ‘from California’ – camomile, peppermint or liquorice ‘yogi tea’. Ray requested ‘a common-or-garden cup of
char’. I asked for coffee, which, instead of being ladled out of a jar as was invariably the case in Buthelezi House, Henry carefully prepared using a stovetop Italian-style
moka
and
beans which he ground in an old-fashioned mill. Having delivered the drinks, he lit a cigarette from a packet of twenty Lucky Strike, then joined us at the table.
The porthole windows were open, as was the front door. A warm breeze explored the room. A large brown duck waddled through the door, gave a single quack and made a beeline for my father, who
recoiled anxiously. Then the duck – which had a yellow plastic tag attached to one of its legs – altered course and marched in martial style around the carpet as if it had something
pressing to do. It snapped once or twice at my father.
‘That’s Ginsberg,’ said Henry. ‘He sometimes comes and pays a visit if he has nothing better to do. I consider him to be my lucky mascot.’
‘What’s his bloody problem?’ said Ray, eyeing the duck carefully as if it might rush him.
‘He seems friendly enough to me,’ I said.
Henry shrugged. ‘He has his good days and bad days, like all of us.’
‘What are you talking about, Henry? He’s a duck, not some tortured soul. Anyway how do you know it’s not just any old duck?’
‘Because he has a ring round his leg. Something to do with conservation. As for him being a tortured soul, on the contrary: it seems to me that Ginsberg is very much at one with
himself.’
‘You really do come out with some cobblers.’
‘Is he anxious? Is he hungry? Does he have regrets about the past? Or worries about the future?’
‘Probably not, since he’s got a brain about the size of a bloody pea.’
Ginsberg eyed my father with what I felt certain was a degree of hostility. He gave one more plaintive quack, then, still purposeful, waddled out of the front door, his rear end swinging like a
chorus girl’s.
My father, visibly relieved, took a sip of his tea. I saw him making a face as it occurred to him that it was not Typhoo at all. I had noticed the packet – it was a breakfast blend from
Fortnum & Mason.
Then Ray started to talk. It was as if the duck had shocked him into action. He was the most garrulous I had seen him by far since my mother had died.
After talking about the onerousness of his work at the shop, the progress or otherwise of my studies and the chronic back pain he suffered as a result of bending so much to fit his
customers’ shoes to their feet, he began, almost as if he had run out of other things to say, to talk of the funeral. How it had been a disappointment, how the vicar had barely known anything
about my mother, how he wished he’d chosen a more appropriate casket. It was out of character for him – but there was something in the atmosphere on that boat that made people do
surprising things, I later learned.
Also, the place appeared to intimidate him with its threat of peace. The boat seemed held in a corona of deep silence, nothing like the suburban pastiche of quiet, which was perpetually overlaid
by a soundscape of cars, planes, voices and distant transistor radios. Henry listened attentively, occasionally stealing a glance at me. Despite how impressed I was with what I had seen of the boat
and its furnishings, I was determined to remain surly. My coffee tasted black
My father, who was clearly tired, stopped fussing with the luggage and settled himself down at the table, looking incongruous and uncomfortable in his permanent-press suit trousers, grey
easy-iron rayon shirt and staff-discount Hush Puppies. His thin socks were visible beneath the cuff of his trouser legs. Above one of the socks I noticed a little stripe of pale flesh, bumpy like
chicken skin, the sight of which somehow made me sad.
Henry offered him a choice of herbal teas ‘from California’ – camomile, peppermint or liquorice ‘yogi tea’. Ray requested ‘a common-or-garden cup of
char’. I asked for coffee, which, instead of being ladled out of a jar as was invariably the case in Buthelezi House, Henry carefully prepared using a stovetop Italian-style
moka
and
beans which he ground in an old-fashioned mill. Having delivered the drinks, he lit a cigarette from a packet of twenty Lucky Strike, then joined us at the table.
The porthole windows were open, as was the front door. A warm breeze explored the room. A large brown duck waddled through the door, gave a single quack and made a beeline for my father, who
recoiled anxiously. Then the duck – which had a yellow plastic tag attached to one of its legs – altered course and marched in martial style around the carpet as if it had something
pressing to do. It snapped once or twice at my father.
‘That’s Ginsberg,’ said Henry. ‘He sometimes comes and pays a visit if he has nothing better to do. I consider him to be my lucky mascot.’
‘What’s his bloody problem?’ said Ray, eyeing the duck carefully as if it might rush him.
‘He seems friendly enough to me,’ I said.
Henry shrugged. ‘He has his good days and bad days, like all of us.’
‘What are you talking about, Henry? He’s a duck, not some tortured soul. Anyway how do you know it’s not just any old duck?’
‘Because he has a ring round his leg. Something to do with conservation. As for him being a tortured soul, on the contrary: it seems to me that Ginsberg is very much at one with
himself.’
‘You really do come out with some cobblers.’
‘Is he anxious? Is he hungry? Does he have regrets about the past? Or worries about the future?’
‘Probably not, since he’s got a brain about the size of a bloody pea.’
Ginsberg eyed my father with what I felt certain was a degree of hostility. He gave one more plaintive quack, then, still purposeful, waddled out of the front door, his rear end swinging like a
chorus girl’s.
My father, visibly relieved, took a sip of his tea. I saw him making a face as it occurred to him that it was not Typhoo at all. I had noticed the packet – it was a breakfast blend from
Fortnum & Mason.
Then Ray started to talk. It was as if the duck had shocked him into action. He was the most garrulous I had seen him by far since my mother had died.
After talking about the onerousness of his work at the shop, the progress or otherwise of my studies and the chronic back pain he suffered as a result of bending so much to fit his
customers’ shoes to their feet, he began, almost as if he had run out of other things to say, to talk of the funeral. How it had been a disappointment, how the vicar had barely known anything
about my mother, how he wished he’d chosen a more appropriate casket. It was out of character for him – but there was something in the atmosphere on that boat that made people do
surprising things, I later learned.
Also, the place appeared to intimidate him with its threat of peace. The boat seemed held in a corona of deep silence, nothing like the suburban pastiche of quiet, which was perpetually overlaid
by a soundscape of cars, planes, voices and distant transistor radios. Henry listened attentively, occasionally stealing a glance at me. Despite how impressed I was with what I had seen of the boat
and its furnishings, I was determined to remain surly. My coffee tasted black
Similar Books
