To add to our troubles, we have a chicken crisis.
Somewhere, somehow, news of our chicken charity collecting box has been translated into an appeal for actual chickens. It is probably a simple case of Chinese whispers; after all, the leap from chicken charity to chicken sanctuary is a relatively small one. But whatever its provenance, in the course of the past couple of weeks, we have found ourselves suddenly inundated with unwanted chickens. There are rescued chickens, hen-pecked chickens, neglected chickens and even a few happy healthy chickens. There are also two vicious cockerels, and, oddly, a small white duck.
‘Chickens are us,’ remarks Eric, in a rare moment of humour. ‘And they aren’t even laying. What on earth are we going to do with them all? And those half-naked ones — they must be freezing.’
‘We could knit them little jackets,’ says Kaz.
‘Not funny, Kaz,’ I tell her.
‘No. Sorry.’
‘But at least we can eat one of those cockerels before they eat each other.’
The bird in question is duly despatched and casseroled, leaving his fellow to take out his fury on Mr. Darcy and any human being who comes his way. Meanwhile, the cockerel in residence — an unassuming, harmless little bird called Henry, who has been in sole charge at Applegarth for years and has successfully fathered generations of fluffy yellow offspring — becomes withdrawn and depressed, and the resident chickens, who all know each other and have their place in the pecking order (what else?) are confused and disrupted by so many uninvited guests. There isn’t room for them all in the hen house, so at night such newcomers as we can find are rounded up and herded into a small leaky shed. The rest have to fend for themselves and run the gauntlet of the neighbouring foxes. It is not a happy situation.
Fortunately, food isn’t a problem, for pilgrims come bearing offerings of corn and scraps (perhaps since the Virgin herself is not in a position to accept gifts, it’s felt that the chickens might like to do so on her behalf), but the sheer numbers of chickens are becoming a considerable problem. Chickens escape into the road and are run over; chickens leak out into the fields and outbuildings and even into the house; chickens roost in the greenhouse. There seem to be chickens everywhere.
‘How about a sort of chicken exchange?’ suggests Kaz, having discovered another feathery corpse in the driveway. ‘Like a bring and buy, only chickens rather than white elephants.’
‘So long as the buy outnumbers the bring,’ says Eric. ‘We certainly don’t want any more chickens.’
‘I’ll organise it,’ Mum says suddenly. ‘Why don’t you leave it to me?’
We all look at her in surprise. Mum has never shown much interest in the livestock, and has tended to avoid the chickens because of her feelings about the Virgin (Mum still has problems with the Virgin, and Dad won’t discuss the matter at all).
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ says Eric.
‘I’m sure. I need a project. Something to keep my mind off, well, you know.’
We know. And Eric gratefully accepts Mum’s offer. She spends an afternoon making a large sign to the effect that chickens may be collected and taken away, provided the prospective owners check with her first and guarantee a good home.
‘What’s a good home?’ I ask her.
‘Oh, you know. A decent run, food and water. That kind of thing.’
‘How do you know people won’t just take them home and eat them?’
‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take.’
‘Pick your own chicken,’ Kaz muses. ‘Well, it’s certainly a novel idea. What are people going to take the chickens home in?’
‘That’s up to them,’ Mum says. ‘They’ll have to bring a cage or something.’
‘How are they going to catch them?’ I ask her. ‘It’s not like picking strawberries. Strawberries keep still. Chickens don’t.’
‘That’s up to them, too. But I suppose we could make a sort of net. Perhaps Lazzo would make one. He’s good at that sort of thing.’
‘How are we going to stop people taking our chickens?’
‘They’ll have to be shut in the run for the time being.’
‘They won’t like that.’
‘I’m afraid that’s tough,’ says Mum. ‘They’ve had it too good for too long. It’s time they were — contained.’
So our chickens are padlocked into their run, which has sole access to the entrance to the hen house, while their new friends are left the freedom of the garden. It doesn’t seem a very fair arrangement, but as Mum says, for the time being, there’s nothing else for it. And when all’s said and done, they are only chickens.
But the chickens are not used to being restrained in this way, and, encouraged by Henry, set up a considerable racket in their attempts to escape from their prison, while the new, free-range chickens tease and provoke them from the other side of the wire mesh.
‘Told you,’ says Blossom, who didn’t actually tell us anything but hates anyone other than herself having ideas where the animals are concerned.
‘Well, what would you do?’ I ask her. ‘Have you a better idea?’
‘Nope.’ Blossom chases an invading chicken out of the back door. ‘Not my business.’
‘Well, if it’s not your business, then perhaps you’d best keep your ideas to yourself.’
This is not like me, for as a rule I go to great lengths to be polite to Blossom, but since Silas’s illness she has been quite impossible. Eric, ever charitable, says it’s probably because she misses him, and I suppose he could be right, but a bit of support wouldn’t come amiss. Blossom knows the score; she must see how we’re all struggling to keep going; and yet she continues to be if anything even more ill-tempered than usual.
‘What is the matter with your mother?’ I ask Kaz, having tripped over the flex of the vacuum clear which has been left out in the middle of the kitchen.
‘Search me.’ Kaz is doing her make-up, peering into a tiny mirror propped on the window sill (she’s filling in for another dancer tonight, although she’s “scaling down” her professional activities as Kent apparently isn’t happy about them).
‘She’s being so nasty.’
‘That’s Mum,’ Kaz agrees, applying plum-coloured eye shadow with a tiny brush.
‘But why? Why is she so thoroughly unpleasant all the time? What’s her problem?’
‘You know —’ Kaz applies the finishing touches to her eyelashes and puts away her mirror — ‘I’ve been asking myself that ever since I could think, and I’ve never come up with an answer.’
‘How on earth did you survive? As a kid, I mean.’
‘Dunno.’ Kaz shrugs. ‘Just got on with it, I suppose. And I had Lazzo. I’d never have survived without our Laz. And Dad. Dad wasn’t much use, but at least I could talk to him. And he was in the same boat as Lazzo and me.’
‘Three against one?’
‘Yep. Although the one always came out on top.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘There. How do I look?’ Kaz stands up and runs her fingers through her hair (which she’s recently dyed pink).
‘Fabulous. As usual.’
‘Ta.’ Kaz grins. ‘Hope the punters feel the same way.’
‘Oh, they will. If they’ve got any sense.’ I hesitate. ‘How’s — how’s it going with Kent?’
‘I thought you didn’t approve.’
‘I don’t — didn’t. But then I realised I was being selfish, and you were right. I was a bit — well, jealous.’
‘I told you.’
‘Okay, no need to gloat.’
‘Sorry. That wasn’t very nice of me, was it? Poor Ruth. You need to find your Amos, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes!’ I feel again the familiar ache of loneliness, which sees to increase with my size. ‘But you still haven’t answered my question. How’s it going?’
‘Great. It’s going really great. He’s so kind. You know, I don’t think I’ve come across many really kind people. Plus, he’s good looking, and sexy —’
‘Too much information, Kaz. I get the picture.’ I hesitate. ‘Kaz, would you — would you marry him?’
‘It’s a bit early for that! But d’you know, I think I might. And then, just think — I’d be family, wouldn’t I? I’d love to be part of this family.’
‘So he’s told you about — about Eric and Silas.’
‘Yep. I think it’s really cool to have two dads, and I think he’s coming round to the idea, too. And I’d have two fathers-in-law!’
‘I never had you down as the marrying kind.’
‘Me neither.’
‘And your mother would have to wear a hat!’
We both laugh. ‘She wouldn’t come,’ Kaz tells me. ‘Whatever the circumstances, she’d find a reason not to come. Mum hates weddings.’
‘But surely, your wedding —’
‘Especially my wedding. Trust me.’
‘Well, you’d have all of us. Lazzo could give you away. Oh — and I’ll help you choose the dress!’
For what could be more fun than dressing Kaz up as a bride? She could get married from Applegarth, and we might even have a marquee (provided enough uncluttered space could be found). Despite my initial reservations, I find myself feeling quite excited at the idea.
‘Hold on a minute, Ruth. We’re not quite there yet! But thanks for being — nice about it.’ Kaz wriggles off the table, and picks up her bag. ‘Gotta go. See you later.’
As Kaz’s car rattles off down the driveway, scattering chickens in its wake, I realise that for a whole five minutes or so I have managed not to think about Silas. But now reality kicks in with a thud, and I feel my spirits sink. Weddings — celebrations of any kind, come to that — are off-limits at the moment, and may be so for some time to come.
I fetch a bucket and start mixing pig feed.