the beach [275-277] "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? Lysander bombers? 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 onto 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 okay."
"You didn't used 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 go 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 beem 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 toward 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 sme 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."
"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? Lysander bombers? 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 onto 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 okay."
"You didn't used 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 go 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 beem 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 toward 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 sme 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."