Page 18 of Autumn in Sycamore Park
The air was chilly tonight, and the first leaves were starting to fall from the trees. Even though the air left the tip of Jennifer’s nose feeling a little numb, Sycamore Park had a majestic autumn beauty, all browns and oranges, showers of falling leaves cascading across the path every time the wind blew. Through the buildings to the west the evening sun glittered off the ripples on the duck pond, and Jennifer led Bonky along the path to where the birds were waddling about. He looked keen to chase a few, but just as Jennifer leaned down to unclip his lead, she caught sight of a figure through the bushes, crouching low.
She felt a momentary panic that this was some stalker or weirdo, perhaps even Mark having finally tracked her down. Her breath caught in her throat before the figure moved, and to her relief she saw he was facing the other way, crouched down on the grass, some kind of metal pole in his hands. As she watched, frowning, he shuffled forward, then made a sudden jerk, before falling flat on his face.
As the man let out an exasperated grunt, Jennifer stood up to see better. It was Tom, the park caretaker, with a fisherman’s net in his hands. In wellington boots and a forest green parka jacket, he appeared to be stalking one of the ducks.
She frowned again. The one time she had met him last week, his looks had overwhelmed her somewhat, even though the kind of guy who worked as a park caretaker had to be a little rough around the edges. Surely it was illegal to catch wild ducks for food, but that looked to be exactly what he was doing.
It was still daylight and there were a few joggers and dog walkers around. Feeling emboldened, Jennifer stood up and walked up behind him, Bonky panting on his lead. Wishing she had brought her phone so she could film Tom in the act, Jennifer cleared her throat, and said, ‘Excuse me. I don’t think you should be doing that.’
Tom, surprised, jerked forward and fell flat on his face again. As he scrambled around, his look of shock changed to one of amusement. He brushed himself down and stood up, giving Jennifer a warm smile.
‘Do you think you could do me a favour?’ he asked. ‘I’m going to be here all night at this rate, and if I don’t get him, a cat will.’
‘Who?’
‘Him over there. Francis.’
‘Francis?’
‘Francis Drake. The proud little chap over there. He’s got a broken wing, so he’s not going to do well with the girls this autumn until I can get him to a vet.’
Jennifer frowned, before understanding what he meant. The male duck was waddling along the side of the pond, one wing slightly protruding from his back, a little bent and out of place. When Tom crept closer, other ducks took to flight or to the water, but Francis carried on waddling along the water side, quacking with irritated regularity.
‘If you could tie your dog to the tree there, and creep around the other side, that would be great. I’ve been after him for ages but he keeps giving me the slip.’
Jennifer, wondering if she was getting into some weird kind of comedy routine, did as Tom asked. Squatting low and spreading her arms, she tried to direct the duck back into the path of Tom’s net.
‘Watch out, it’s a bit wet over there,’ Tom said, then suddenly winced as Jennifer found out for herself, stepping into a patch of mud and sinking nearly up to her ankle. She stared down at her vanished foot in horror, only the outline of a trainer in the brown slime proving her foot hadn’t been chopped right off.
‘Oops, too late. I’ve got a towel in the shed over there,’ so don’t worry.’
Jennifer grimaced. ‘Uh, thanks. Do you happen to have a spare shoe?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Might be a couple I’ve found lying around the place. You’d be surprised what people leave behind. Ah … gotcha!’
He gave a hoot of delight as the net came down over Francis’s struggling body. Tom closed in like a professional hunter, calming the bird and tucking the trapped animal up under his arm.
‘Let me just get him in a cage,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll sort you out.’
‘I think I’m sinking.’
‘It goes down a long way over there. Three or four feet.’
At Jennifer’s look of horror, Tom laughed. ‘Joking. You’re all good. Come on, lean on my shoulder. I’ll get you out of there.’
With Francis under one arm, Tom held out the other for Jennifer to balance while she tried to pull her foot free. She had to twist it around a little, the mud refusing to give it up, then with a sudden squelchy pop, her foot slipped out of the shoe, leaving the sock behind.
‘Ah….’
‘Hold Francis a moment.’
Jennifer took the wet, wriggling duck—still in the net—while Tom pulled her shoe and sock out of the mud, holding it up. ‘It’ll probably wash off, but it looks pretty cheap so you might be better off just buying a new pair.’
‘Cheap! It wasn’t—’
Tom shrugged. ‘Just a suggestion.’
The shoes had cost fifteen pounds in Shoe Fayre, but Jennifer wasn’t about to admit it. She took the soaking thing off Tom and passed him the duck, whose feet had left muddy stains on the front of her sweater.
