The Duck Who Knocked Three Times

Sam said thank you for everything.

He said thank you to the toaster when his toast popped up. He said thank you to the bus when it stopped for him, and he waved as it went. That morning, at the pond in the park, he said thank you to all the ducks for letting him watch them swim.

Then he walked home in the rain with one red mitten on and one cold pink hand.

“My mitten,” said Sam. “My best one.”

It was his best one because Mom had knitted it, and she had knitted the thumb on backwards. It stuck out at the back. Sam liked that. He said it waved at people behind him.

Now it was somewhere in the park, getting wet.

* * *

That evening it was still raining. Sam sat at the kitchen table in his pajamas, eating toast. Mom was running his bath.

Then there came a knock at the front door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“That’s the postman,” said Mom. “Only the postman knocks like that. Exactly three times.”

“At bedtime?” said Sam.

Mom opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Postman,” she said. Then she stopped. It was not the postman at all.

So she looked down. Sam looked down too.

On the mat stood a small brown duck. She was wet from her head to her tail. Her feet were very orange. And in her beak she held a red mitten with its thumb on backwards.

“My mitten!” said Sam.

The duck put the mitten down on the mat, very carefully, the way the postman puts down a parcel.

“Hello, Duck,” said Sam. He picked up his mitten. “Thank you.”

Mom leaned out and looked down the stairs. Their flat was at the very top of a tall, thin house, and there were four flights of stairs. On every single step was a small wet footprint. Duck had come up one step at a time, with a little hop on each one. Hop, and up. Hop, and up. On the landing outside Mr. Bell’s door there was a little puddle, where she had stopped for a rest.

“All those stairs,” said Mom.

“It’s the only mitten in the park with a backwards thumb,” said Sam. “That’s how she knew it was mine.”

Mom let Duck in. Mom hung the wet mitten on the kitchen radiator to dry.

Sam looked at Duck, dripping on the kitchen floor. “Thank you is only one word,” he said. “She climbed all the way up. I want to say thank you properly, before she goes home.”

“What would a duck like?” said Mom.

Sam held out his toast. “Everyone likes toast,” he said.

Duck looked at the toast. She pecked one crumb, very politely. Then she looked up at the ceiling, as if the ceiling were much more interesting than toast.

“Not toast,” said Sam.

He thought again. “A bath! Ducks love water.”

So Sam carried Duck to the bathroom and put her in his bath. She had a lovely splash. Splish, splash, splosh! Water went on the floor. Water went on the mirror. Water went on Mom’s slippers.

Then Duck climbed out onto the cold bathroom floor. She stood there and shivered all over. She lifted one orange foot. Then she put it down and lifted the other.

Sam knelt down and touched one. It was as cold as a puddle. It was colder than a puddle.

“Mom,” said Sam. “Her feet are freezing.”

And then Sam knew. Duck had a whole pond full of water, and all the crumbs in the park. What she didn’t have, on a wet night, was somewhere warm.

He fetched his own towel, the big blue one, and he wrapped Duck up in it until only her head poked out. Then he took her cold orange feet in his two warm hands, and he held them.

He held them while Mom mopped the floor. He held them while the bath went glug, glug down the drain. He held them while Mom wrung out her slippers. Little by little, Duck’s feet grew warm.

Duck shut her eyes. She made one small, soft quack.

“Thank you for bringing my mitten,” said Sam. “All the way up.”

“It’s too wet and too late for a duck to go home now,” said Mom. “She’d better stay the night.”

Mom tipped the socks out of the laundry basket. She put the basket in Sam’s room, right by the radiator. She took the red mitten off the kitchen radiator. It was dry now, and warm all through. She put it in the basket for a pillow.

Sam put Duck in, towel and all. She turned round once. She turned round twice. Then she tucked her head under her wing.

Sam got into his own bed, right next to the basket. He could reach down and touch the blue towel.

“Thank you, Duck,” said Sam, very sleepily.

Mom smiled. “That’s three thank-yous,” she said. “One for every knock.”

“Was it a proper thank-you?” said Sam.

“Warm feet and a bed for the night,” said Mom. “That’s the best thank-you a duck ever had.”

Sam smiled too. His eyes closed.

Mom switched off the light. The rain tapped on the window, much more softly than a duck.

In the morning, Sam and Mom would carry Duck down all four flights of stairs, past Mr. Bell’s door, and across the road to the pond. Going down would be much quicker.

But that was the morning. Tonight Duck was asleep in her basket, on a red mitten with its thumb on backwards. Sam was asleep in his bed, with one warm hand hanging down, just touching the blue towel.

And at the top of the tall, thin house, everybody’s feet were warm.