To Those Who Wait

'Airfix models.'

'Or Matchbox models. Either.'

'Any particular reason?'

'Curiosity.'

'Mister Duck, we just buried Sten today. Sal made an amazing speech. There's some celebration called Tet coming up, which you've never mentioned, and...'

'Spitfires,' he said patiently, sliding himself round to face me. 'Messerschmitts. Did you ever make them?'

I looked at him.' ...Yes.'

'Hurricanes?'

'Hurricanes too.'

'Lancaster bombers? Lysanders? Mosquitoes?'

'...I think I made a Lysander once.'

'Hmm. Any jets?'

I resigned myself to the unlikely topic. 'No. I never liked making jets.'

'Me neither. How about that? No jets... Or boats, tanks, trucks...'

'Or helicopters. They were such a pain, which was a shame because I loved the way they looked.'

'Naturally.'

'It was the rotor blades...'

'Those bloody rotor blades. They'd keep falling off before the glue was dry.'

I didn't reply for a moment. A gentle tickling had alerted me to an ant that had found its way on to my stomach. After a couple of seconds I found it, trapped in the line of hair that ran from my belly button. I picked it up by licking my finger so the ant stuck to the spit. 'Very difficult,' I finally said, and blew the ant away.

Mister Duck's eyes gleamed mischievously. 'So you weren't very good at making models then.'

'I didn't say that.'

'Well, were you any good?'

'Uh...' I hesitated. 'I was OK.'

'You didn't use to mess them up? Too much polyester cement, the pieces not fitting together properly, annoying gaps where the wings met the body, or where the two halves of the undercarriage met. Be honest now.'

'Oh, well... Yeah. That used to happen all the time.'

'Same. It used to drive me nuts. I'd start the model with the best intentions, trying so hard to do a perfect job, but it would almost never work out.' Mister Duck chuckled. 'And at the end, I always got left with the same problem.'

'Which was?'

'What to do with the messed-up model once it was finished. I knew a guy who made perfect models and he'd hang them from his ceiling with bits of thread. But I didn't want to do that with the planes I made. Not with their gluey fingerprints all over the place. It would have been embarrassing.'

'I know what you mean.'

'I thought you would.'

Mister Duck lay back on the grass contentedly, using his folded arms as a pillow. As he did so a butterfly passed near him. A big one, with long strips on each wing that ended in a bright blue circle, like tiny peacock feathers. He reached up a finger, hoping for the butterfly to land, but it ignored him and fluttered off down the slope towards the DMZ.

'So, Rich,' he said lazily. 'Tell me what you used to do with the messed-up models.'

I smiled. 'Oh, I used to have the best laugh with them.'

'Yeah? It didn't drive you nuts then.'

'Sure. At first I'd be kicking chairs around and swearing. But then I'd go out and buy some lighter fuel and I'd drop them out of windows. And also I'd cut holes in the bodies and slide in a firecracker to blow them up.'

'Good fun.'

'Great fun.'

'Burning the bad models.'

'So you used to do the same thing?'

'Sort of.' Mister Duck closed his eyes against the hot sun. 'I burned the good ones too.'

It must have gone midday before I checked on Zeph and Sammy. Our chat had distracted me from the job at hand, which may have been its intent. I'd sunbathed and dozed for a couple of hours, remembering melting Focke-Wulfs and plastic burns from being careless. I might have forgotten about them altogether if Mister Duck, with careful timing, hadn't reminded me.

'Sal's not going to be happy,' he said.

I sat up. 'Huh?'

'Sal's not going to be happy. In fact, she's going to be seriously pissed off. She'll do her funny little frown... You ever notice her funny little frown?'

'No. But how come she isn't going to be happy?'

'I can't believe you've never noticed her frown. I always used to think she looked so pretty when she was pissed off. Her eyes would glow and... Do you think Sal's pretty?'

'Uh...'

'I think she is.'

I looked at him for a couple of moments, then burst out laughing. 'Well, well! You had a crush on her, didn't you?'

'A crush?' He went red. 'I wouldn't call it a crush. We were very close, that's all.'

'You mean she didn't fancy you.'

'I just told you, we were very close.'

I laughed harder. 'Nothing ever happened, did it?'

Mister Duck shot me an annoyed look. Then he said, 'Nothing physical happened. But some relationships, close relationships, don't need a physical connection. A spiritual bond can be more than enough.'

'Unrequited love.' I groaned, wiping tears from my eyes. 'Now I understand why you put up with Bugs all that time.'

'Well, you'd be the expert on unrequited love.'

'Excuse me?'

'Does the name Françoise ring a bell?'

I stopped laughing.

'Ding dong!' Mister Duck chimed. 'How's that for a fucking bell?'

'Do me a favour. It's completely different. For a start, Françoise actually does fancy me. And whereas Bugs is a prick, Étienne is a great guy. Which, I should point out, is the only reason nothing happens. Neither of us wants to hurt his feelings.'

'Mmm.'

I glowered at him. 'Anyway. Do you think we could get back to the point?'

'What point?'

'You said Sal was going to be seriously pissed off about something.'

'Oh... Yeah.' Mister Duck chucked me the binoculars. 'Because of the raft.'

'...Raft?' I scrambled over to the edge of the look-out point and slammed the binoculars to my face. Quickly, I scanned along their beach. It was empty. 'I don't see anything,' I said. 'What are you talking about?'

'Where are you looking?' Mister Duck replied languidly.

'Their beach!'

'Find the split palm.'

'...Got it.'

'OK. Now go to six o'clock. Six or seven.'

I eased the binoculars downwards, leaving the sand behind, moving into the blue water.

'There yet?'

'Where yet? I still can't see anythi...' I gulped. '...Oh fuck.'

'Impressive, huh? They may have taken their time, but they sure put it to good use.' He sighed while I hyperventilated. 'Tell the truth, Rich. No bullshit. Do you think Sal ever thinks about me?'

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 637