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Summer had finally come to the South Downs. That meant seniors aggressively mowing their lawns, screaming children in the street, and an abundance of wasps.
It also meant a very happy butch who could finally sit in the garden she’d slaved over. The slight caveat was that neither she nor Rita could actually garden, so there were beautiful brick paths and hand-built wooden deck chairs flanked by scruffy greenery. Actually, those were probably weeds.
Even then, they were pretty sure Crowley was sneaking in to fix them. He was surprisingly bendy and good at break-ins. They theorised he was an ex-spy or professional thief, though he seemed a little too nice for that.
Now, nearly every time they walked past the Fells’ house, Crowley was in the garden or snoring on a chair. Aziraphale was happier to sit in the shade with a novel and an ice cream. Summer at its finest.
The digger showing up had come as a bit of a shock, as had the Bentley rounding the corner stuffed with everything the garden centre had to offer. Say what you will about their village amenities, but the garden centre was top-notch.
Mel, being handy, offered her services. Good thing she did, otherwise the Fells would still be bickering over the tarp in their back garden. She headed into her kitchen, covered in dirt, and reached for some lemonade. They’d frozen literally bags and bags of lemons from the Fells overzealous tree and were still using them up.
Of course they had glasses but desperate times called for desperate measures. She was chugging it from the bottle.
‘I married a Neanderthal,’ said Rita when she walked in.
‘Take pity on me, love. That scrawny fucker’s got me working on his new pond.’
‘Hmm. That explains the digger, then. Is that you done for the day?’
‘Yep. He’s asked me to come back for the next couple days, though. Something about ‘building a paradise.’
‘Well, if you’ve got nothing else to do- Fancy a podcast and pink gin in the deckchairs?’ She wrapped her arm around her wife’s waist.
‘Dear gods, woman, I want to marry you all over again. Yes!’
True to his word, Crowley had Mel working away. At least they provided drinks, and sent her home with a dish of aubergine casserole so big she could barely lift it.
At long last, the pond was complete, the fences reinforced, and a van rolled up to the Fell’s cottage. Rita and Mel happened to be returning from a stroll when Aziraphale ushered the workmen away just as the Bentley pulled into the spot they just vacated.
They stood in shock as a deafening ‘QUACKQUACKQUACK’ emanated from the luxury car. Crowley unfolded himself from the vehicle and gestured for them to come over. Turns out he had some carriers to unload. Frankly, when Aziraphale asked to borrow their cat carriers for ‘some new additions’ they expected cats. Or maybe some puppies. Definitely a traditional pet.
The definitely-not-a-puppy quacked mournfully at Rita from it’s prison.
‘So, yis settled on ducks?’
‘Yep. Needed the eggs. Coulda done chickens but- well- we like ducks.’
The trio, arms laden with carriers and directed by Aziraphale, made it to the back garden in one piece. Mel whistled in approval at the new garden renovations. In particular, the big pond surrounded by rocks and plants and the duck-y mansion of a coop.
‘I must say, Crowley, you’ve outdone yourself.’
‘Hmmnpfffh.’ He replied.
‘Don’t be modest, dear boy. He’s been researching for months, I think.’
‘Well, I needed to get proper ducks.’
‘Proper ducks?’ Said Rita.
‘Yep, proper ducks. Four Welsh Harlequins and two tufteds.’
‘So these quacky bastards are just farm animals then? No emotional connection whatsoever?’ Said Mel.
‘Of course.’
-
Crowley’s attempt at suaveness quickly dissipated. In fact, it dissipated the very next morning when the entire street was woken up by thunderous quacking. The quack to end all quacks. The quackening. Quackmageddon.
Crowley rolled over in bed and pulled the duvet over his head.
‘Anthony J Crowley, I think those ducks are used to a farm schedule.’
‘Five more minutesssss.’
‘We’ll have noise complaints!’
‘Sssssod the noise complaints.’
‘If you don’t get out there and either feed your ducks or teach them some manners, I’m reorganising your record collection by colour.’
That finally got the slippery, sleepy snake out of bed. He trudged into the garden in his silk pajamas just as the sun came up and filled their plates.
Unfortunately for him, the quackening continued every morning at dawn until he Miraculously stopped it with a stern talking to.
-
The ducks turned out to be very helpful. And entertaining. They hadn’t had ‘listen to gangly neighbour lead his ducks into battle against garden pests’ on their bucket list but hey, it beat listening to Mrs Marzalek playing Tipping Point at full volume.
Speaking of Mrs M, she’d taken an instant dislike for ‘the ladies’ as Crowley referred to them as. She disliked feathers, and quacking, and grumbled in the neighbourhood group chat about bird flu. Since she was a curmudgeon-y old bitch, they didn’t pay much attention to her. Save for Mel’s snarking, but that was warranted after the Garden Decking incident.
It all came to a head one day when the four of them were in the Fell’s kitchen, the back door open for fresh air and a clear view of the ducks. Crowley, despite his earlier claims of ‘not being attached’ had named all six ducks. The harlequins were Rose, Dorothy, Blanche, and Sophia. The tufteds were Freddie and Zira Jr, (Zira Jr was the fluffiest and widest.)
The idyllic scene of blackberry jam scones and watching ducks frolic in their pond was shattered by a rapping on the door.
‘I’ll get it.’ Crowley said, ‘Probably a mormon.’
The Andersons shuddered. They’d barely gotten the nitwit in the collared shirt off their front step without a restraining order.
As it turned out, it wasn’t a mormon. It was Mrs Marszalek and her mythical husband, the head of the Neighbourhood Watch and a higher up in the local council. Mr M sheepishly introduced himself as Carl before being interrupted.
Mrs M came for battle. She had photocopies of the council rules, and was waving them around with abandon. Only her husband’s copious moustache saved him from a life threatening papercut.
‘Ducks are farm animals! This is a residential area!’ She reiterated. For such a chronic arguer, her points were circular.
Crowley sighed. ‘For somebody’s sake. We checked with the council in advance, this is private property, and we can do as we like. As long as there isn’t any neglect, cruelty, or excessive noise, we’re well within our rights.’
‘It’s unhygienic!’
‘Their area is very well-tended.’
‘They’re farm animals!’
‘So what do you call all the ducks in parks? Are those farm animals?’
‘Hmphf! Well, they’re noisy! Tell him, Carl!’
‘Uh, well, uh, the council does have a duty to, uh, keep a peaceful area, so to speak-’
Carl’s speech was interrupted by several arrivals. Namely, Aziraphale and The Andersons who’d heard the commotion. And the ladies.
Freddie quacked belligerently at the irritants, and hopped into Crowley’s arms. It made quite a sight, a rock-star beanpole holding a fluffy duck, but the point was clear. Any closer and they’d meet the wrath of Freddie. Plus five others who were slowly creeping towards a pair of exposed ankles.
Mrs M took a step back. ‘This simply isn’t acceptable! I was hoping to solve this diplomatically but I fear I have no choice but to ring the council-’
‘Oh hush.’ Said Aziraphale with surprising bite. ‘As it happens, I had the head of the council over for luncheon yesterday. Mr Greenwood thinks they are perfectly delightful, and expressed his concern over your husband’s early morning hedge trimming. Apparently that lovely young couple down the lane haven’t been sleeping a wink on Sunday mornings.’
Mr and Mrs M glanced at each other, clearly uncomfortable with the flipped script.
‘You know, I listened to a lovely chat on the radio about psychology the other day. I think you pair may want to look into something called ‘projection.’ Anyways, I think it would be slightly hypocritical of your husband to complain about farm animals, since he clearly married an old goat.’
With that, he shut the door in their faces. The ducks waddled back to their pond, slightly disappointed in their lack of revenge.
Mel whistled appreciatively, ‘Feck me sideways. Dinnae think ye had it in ye.’
Rita lightly elbowed her. ‘What my dear wife is trying to say is that we really should recruit you the next time a missionary raps on our door.’
Aziraphale thanked them, and looked over at Crowley. The redhead was presumably looking quite sappy behind the sunglasses.
‘Well, my dears, with that bit of unpleasantness behind us- I say we have quite an enjoyable evening ahead. It’s a nice day.’