Ducks of Days Gone

Frankie glanced down at his watch again, 10 minutes late now. 5 minutes was forgivable, an easy mistake to make, but 10 minutes was bordering on rudeness. Panicked thoughts ran through his head. What if he had decided to not come at all? Or maybe he’d been in an accident on the way here? After creating a dozen possible reasons for the lateness, Frankie pulled himself back together, forcing a grin onto his face. After one more glance along the paths for a sign of anyone coming along, he tried to calm himself down by leaning over the side of the bridge.

He had hoped to see a flowing stream and a small family of ducks, like all those years before. Instead he was met by a dry trench that wormed under the bridge. A sense of disappointment rose inside him, but not surprise. The discarded beer cans, fag stubs and takeaway cartons gave a strong impression of dereliction when it came to the care of the bridge. It was all going wrong, Frankie thought. The idea of meeting his dad after all this time surrounded by rubbish disgusted him. The precious memories he had here, those special days with his dad, shouldn’t be allowed to sour like this. He felt a compulsion to run away, to forget all about this bridge and move on with his life. But while he was thinking of running his dad, Bradley, finally arrived.

It took a few seconds to recognise him. His face seemed much more gaunt now, his skin greyer and clinging closer to his skull. He seemed lankier too, as if the years had physically eaten away at him. For a couple of agonising seconds he hovered at the edge of the bridge before stepping closer.

“Hey Dad,” said Frankie with false confidence.

“Hi Frankie,” his dad replied, a weak smile forced onto his face. “Sorry for the delay, the bus ran late.”

The duo stood opposite each other, neither one sure what they should do. Through a clumsy process of mumbles and motions they awkwardly shook hands, which felt much too formal for both of them. A silence grew between them while they hurriedly thought of things to say. Ask how their day had been? No, that sounded too quaint. Make a comment on the weather? No, neither of them were that stereotypically British.

Eventually Bradley struck upon the memories of feeding the ducks with a younger Frankie on the few visitation days he had. Before his son could stop him or warn him of what had changed he leaned over the edge, weakly sighing at the sight of the drained ground beneath the bridge.

“They’re gone…” he muttered.

It was Frankie’s turn to find something to say. He thought for a few moments before suggesting that they grab some drinks. His dad enthusiastically agreed and followed. As they walked away from the bridge, they failed to notice a paper stuck to a lamppost, proudly announcing that work was underway to restore the stream and reintroduce the local wildlife, including the ducks that made the stream their home.