Free The Elusive Language of Ducks by Judith White

dignity back through the hole in the hedge.

BEAUTIFUL MUSIC
    There was more to Eric, if she were to be honest. Eric was a self-employed house painter. He was also a musician. In his younger days he had played the fiddle and the cello. For a few years he was even a member of a country music band, The Eketa Hoons, which toured in the summer, doing gigs in country halls.
    Hannah had never had much to do with his wife, but by Eric’s account she couldn’t stand his music and had left him for the man who mowed the lawns at his daughter’s primary school.
    There was something about music. If it be the food of love, play on. Play on, my lover. Simon had been in Uganda. She tried not to think about it. That Easter. She’d been hanging out the washing and he was digging in his garden. They often chatted over the hedge, which at that time was kept lower than it was now. It was a sunny day with a good breeze for drying clothes. She’d been grappling with a sheet. Eric had a gumboot balanced on the spade, his hands clutching the handle as they talked. His head shining through his hair. She’d mentioned casually, conversationally, that she’d like to hear his band one day.
    Well . . . he’d said, looking fixedly at a bit of something he was scratching on the spade handle. Then he raised his eyes to hers. We’ve got a gig at a country music festival in the Coromandel tomorrow afternoon. Can’t promise you’ll like it, but, if you’re willing to take a punt, you can drive down with me in the morning. But, he shrugged, it’s probably late notice . . .
    He flicked a flop of sandy hair behind his ear.
    The Eketa Hoons consisted of four men. Singer and guitar, bass, fiddle and drums. All about fifty, all a bit weathered, all a bit sexy, dressed in black shirts and jeans. All constantly connected by seemingly mischievous glances, as if sharing some arcane joke. They all sang a bit. They knew how to have fun. That was it. She’d often heard Eric practising both his violin and his cello next door, but she’d never seen him play. His body lithe and alive, his bow sawing the fiddle so vigorously.
    She’d positioned herself on a rug in the grass. There was something about the lilt of the music, so light, so uplifting that she wanted to getup and dance with the other picnickers bouncing uninhibitedly in their bare feet, their hair flinging, the sun glinting on smiling cheeks. The singer was gruff and seductive, the lyrics funny and romantic. Her heart was flying, fighting against the Lilliputian forces of shyness pinning her to the ground.
    Afterwards Eric came and sat beside her on the rug.
    That was great! she’d said and she’d astonished herself by flinging her arm around him, and kissing him briefly but enthusiastically on his perspiring cheek. The music had created a sense of intimacy.
    Thanks, he’d muttered, lifting his cowboy hat as if to let out all the steam and energy of the music. He replaced the hat, fizzed open a can of cold beer from the chilly bin she had prepared, and drank, the afternoon light glowing on his tanned, closely shaved skin. His hat dropped off into the grass. His hair was pulled into a short pony tail. His nice sharp jawline just beginning to soften with age. She picked up his hat and handed it to him. It had an oily green feather poking from the hatband. Why was she remembering these small details? His delphinium blue eyes. Yes, delphinium blue. Or were they? Surely not. They certainly weren’t now. Did eyes fade with time? Or with circumstance?
    Eleven years ago, this was, when Simon was in Uganda on a contract for three months.
    They’d booked separate units in a motel for the night before the drive back the following day. They’d had fish and chips on the beach and a bottle of wine. They’d laughed like idiots. She hadn’t realised how funny he was, all those years of knowing him. Was he
really
so amusing?