Long life: I passed a death sentence on two ducklings

My collection of poultry here in Northamptonshire (consisting at present of six ducks and eight hens) includes two little chattering call ducks named Boris and Marina. I called the drake Boris after the Mayor of London, and its partner Marina after the Mayor’s wife. The poultryman who sold them to me said that call ducks were so devoted to each other that if one of them died the other would inevitably die soon afterwards. So I became concerned a few weeks ago when Marina disappeared, and Boris was left swimming around without her on my garden pond.

But he didn’t seem nearly as disconsolate as I would have expected (in fact, he didn’t seem disconsolate at all), and after a few days it was clear why. For Marina had neither died nor deserted him. She suddenly started to reappear at feeding time, flying 50 yards out of a shrubbery to the side of the pond, and I decided that she must have made a nest and be sitting on some eggs.