They took turns. The duck remained unconvinced.
Your Turn
“Any bigger?” asked Ned.
Toby held the yellow duck by its head and looked carefully.
“On this side, perhaps.”
Ned took his mouth away from the valve.
“That was my thumb,” Toby admitted.
They sat beside the abandoned swimming pool, with the duck spread across the tiles between them. Its orange beak looked cheerful. The rest of it looked like something that had been sat on for several years.
Ned straightened his back and tried again.
Toby watched the nearest wrinkle.
A leaf drifted across the green water behind them. Somewhere under the old diving board, a drop fell with a patient plink.
The wrinkle stayed exactly where it was.
“My turn,” Toby said.
Almost Something
They changed places.
Ned held the duck while Toby bent over the little blue valve. Toby had watched Ned closely and had several improvements in mind, beginning with the angle.
He tried it sideways.
Then a little higher.
Ned lifted the duck’s head to help.
“Anything?”
“You look very determined.”
Toby stopped.
“I meant the duck.”
“Oh. No.”
They examined the valve together. Ned pressed the vinyl flat around it. It gave a soft squeak.
“Maybe you’re meant to count.”
“To what?”
“Something bigger than ten.”
Toby counted while Ned tried again. At seventeen, he lost his place because a beetle crossed Ned’s foot.
“Start again,” Ned said.
“I think that was a good seventeen.”
They sat back. The duck’s painted eye stared past both of them with undiminished confidence.
“Could be a hole,” Toby said.
They turned it over. Their fingers clicked against the tiles as they spread its yellow folds, looking for somewhere the air might have escaped.
Neither found anything convincing.
A Different Job
Toby propped the duck’s head against his knee.
“He could sit here.”
“What for?”
“Watching.”
Ned considered the empty pool chairs, the rusty ladder, and the duck leaning heavily against Toby’s shin.
“Watching what?”
Toby looked at him.
“We’ll have to think of something.”
Ned began folding the limp outer ring into a seat. The beak tipped forward. Toby supported it, and for a few moments they were both occupied with making the duck comfortable.
Then Ned reached for an old towel beneath one of the chairs.
Something underneath it clattered.
He pulled the towel away. There was a small foot pump, its hose curled around the base.
Toby leaned over.
“That might help.”
Ned brushed a dry leaf from the pedal.
“Hold him.”
Toby took the duck while Ned fitted the hose. Then Ned stood, placed one foot on the pump, and pressed.
A yellow fold lifted.
Both stopped moving.
“Again,” Toby whispered.
Ned pressed. The duck began to spread across Toby’s knees.
At Last, a Duck
They took turns on the pump too.
This time, there was plenty to report. The ring rounded. The neck rose. Wrinkles grew shallower until the duck could hold up its own cheerful head.
Toby closed the valve and sat beside it.
Ned inspected their work, giving the yellow side a gentle tap. It answered with a hollow little sound.
“Much better.”
They looked towards the pool. Green water lay still beneath the diving board. Toby pulled the towel across a dry patch of tiles, and together they settled the duck on it.
Ned sat on one side. Toby sat on the other.
“I think we loosened it up,” Ned said.
“With the blowing?”
“Yes. Before the pump.”
Toby studied the smooth yellow head.
“Well,” he said, “we did give it a good seventeen.”
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