Gooses

She sifts through the bag: eggs, spinach, tartlets. Tartlets? What a name. A ray of lemony sun makes her squint and she breathes in. It’s nice here on the river. Like a reiteration of a simple program: every day groceries, walk by the river, breathe in the sun, photograph the geese. Gooses, she says. Goose-gooses. Geese sounds silly.

Her bag heavy. The geese lie about, in their social circle. Nagging each other. Sounding frankly bit dim. For such beautiful creatures in flight they look mighty clumsy and silly when they walk chasing worms or whatever it is they eat. And then the honk. She once laughed so hard at the honking she had belly cramps.

Honk honk. How stupid. I guess that’s why people eat them. I mean not them specifically. Although one wonders how they’d taste stuffed on one of those medieval platters in a Renaissance painting along with ostrich and other delicacies.

Gooses. Honk.

But no, it’s not that they deserve to be eaten merely due to the simplicity of their language. Maelys catches herself blushing with avian guilt. No. They’re smart and funny as they are; poor souls, they don’t deserve to be shot or eaten. Let them live.

By the time she’s close to the pack the curious souls reach their necks at her like question marks. She’s torn between love, curiosity and fear. Eye contact something fierce. They’re ganging up, hissing. She knows she can’t pass. She fidgets with the shopping bag. Checks time. Ah, fuck it. Back she goes on the river path to take the road, the road with cars. What a chore. If they didn’t start honking she might have gently avoided with kindly worded avian apologies. But these ladies don’t know manners. To them it doesn’t matter.

By the time she’s close to the road she forgot all about it. A man walks past. I say walk. He’s running. Fit, older, gent. Quite a proud countenance, silent dignity of runners past a certain age. ‘See what I am doing? If I can. Why can’t you?’. She just blares her big blue eyes open and stops: wait. He won’t pass. The ‘gooses’ will stop him too. I better look.

Suddenly the day is entertainment. She takes out one of the tartlets and chews in expectation, turning around.

Man runs, now 50m away. The geese don’t let him through. Honk honk. No. Honk. Nein. He’s exasperated.

She says, fuck I want to hear this. She gets nearer. Now she can just about make the silly ‘dialogue’. Silly goose. Ducks on the river join in. This is a good walk. She says. Tartlet at the ready. Crumbs drop, attracting more birds.

By God, she could swear she heard words. Actual words. Not from the runner. From the wild animal reaching its graceful neck upwards to the man’s flapping arms.

He was flapping. Running still. ‘What’??

—say, Mr Chesapeake. You left the faucets and pipes in the yard, who do you think is going to collect that trash? Brought my men in a van to tidy after the work, you can’t even get your folk to drive to the tip? We have this discussion everytime. I am through doing work for you.

Maelys walks closer. It’s like someone hit her head. ‘Maybe it’s the sunshine, I don’t know.’

—Look, I don’t have anything to do with that. Flappy Arms adds, embarrassed. I just meet them end of day, work is work, I pay them, complete the forms. You think this is a one man job? It isn’t. Whole bunch of us working our asses round the clock for ya.

—Mr Chesapeake. If ya don’t put your act in order me and the girls are gonna pay you a visit, one night, and trust me, your pockets’ll regret it.

—What? Hey? Don’t you be threatening me.

By which time the ‘gooses’ surround Mr Flappy Arms with uppity grey necks, pecking at him. He’s allowed self to be bullied. This won’t do. Maelys thinks. Maybe I can help? I mean, this is ridiculous! She walks on, groceries on the other shoulder for balance.

—I am not threatening, Mr Chesapeake. Me and the girls, we’re not threatening. We’re saying. And saying isn’t doing. And doing isn’t saying. And we say it. Do it.

Chesapeake Arms and Maelys, 20 feet behind one another, both shake their head in disbelief. The avian monologue shakes the fear of death but most of all, confusion in them. The sun hides beneath a fluffy cloud.

—me and the girls come round next time, and we’ll pretend we forgot about this whole affair, yes?

Like punctuation in a sentence, dirty old seagull lands on Mr Flappy’s shoulder. He long stopped running still and is now frightened. Suddenly looks vulnerable in his lurex shorts, scarily unarmed. No pockets. No guns. Whereas the aviary congress that’s taken charge of his person, well they have beaks, and shrill voices, and claws. He is measuring the situation, sweat frozen, eyes flapping sideways for a way out, fast, lips curling.

—please, won’t you just let me leave? I promise I’ll deal with the boys and they’ll tidy up next time you come do the work, I promise. He’s shouting. Sweat on lurex top forming, neck dripping.

The seagull nods to the geese. The geese check each other. They look fat and clumsy but determined. The geese mafia. Tall as he is almost. Maelys keeps a respectful distance. They seem to take the offer.

—OK. Mr Chesapeake. We’ll come by Tuesday to check on ya. OK? And the chief goose angles her grey neck, just about squinting her warning onto him.

—Yes, yes!! Silence. Agreement has been reached. Seagull releases the man. The geese, from angry mob pack, lift their wide wings and shoot up. Like a flock of military drones, elegant and tall in the sky. It’s nearly 4pm.