Flying the Coop (16 page)

T
he day was promising to be one of those that made one genuinely glad to be alive. Caressed by spring sunshine, and invigorated by a slight wind that tousled the tops of the trees and, now and then, sent a leaf floating to the ground. In the background was the ever-present noise of the poultry, a low-level throaty cackling that just seemed to make the whole setting that much more rustic, and charming, and cheerful. Unless, that is, one was severely sleep-deprived. Then it was all just bloody irritating.

Chris, dressed in cargo pants, a new paisley shirt and dark sunglasses, had tried to use the cheerfulness, and the sunshine, to lift her mood when she first sat down on the papasan chair to wait for Mac. But her head was thick and heavy, and her eyes felt as if somebody had gently prised the lower lids out, and then poured a quantity of particularly gritty sand into each one. With daylight had come a sense of disbelief that she had allowed herself to get so worked up, but by then it was too late. There was breakfast to be made, and children to be organised, and groceries to be bought.

Both Michael and the girl now known as Zoe were at their respective schools, in their brand new school uniforms, hopefully
being educated. Zoe had left for her bus, with a long note explaining her change of Christian name, and looking much like she was being led to her execution – but that was nothing new. And Michael had been firmly ensconced within a circle of kids before his mother even departed the school grounds – but that was nothing new either.

After collecting some groceries, she dragged herself home to put things away and then, finally, start learning the ropes – or so she thought. But it had been almost half an hour now, and there was still no sign of Mac. At first she used the time to investigate the area outside her bedroom, even going to the extent of clambering up onto the balustrade in order to examine the veranda roof. And evidence of foul play there was in plenty – little cylindrical pellets of faeces scattered in a trail across the roof and leading over to the willow tree and beyond. Much like an innovative version of Hansel and Gretel. But at least it proved her animal theory, so all she needed to do now was discover what sort of animal mimics a spinning jenny, and she would have her answer.

Chris rubbed her eyes tiredly and then, for about the fiftieth time, glanced at her watch. The problem was that she had no idea what time she was supposed to expect him, and no way of getting in contact with him either, so had no real option but to wait. Too tired to be impatient, but tired enough to feel even more depressed and unenthusiastic about everything and anything. Including the farm.

With a heavy sigh, Chris made herself get up and walk over to the veranda balustrade, peering around the corner to see if she could spot anybody approaching. But all that could be seen was the black cat, in his customary position soaking up the sunshine.

‘Was it you?' asked Chris, staring at the cat. ‘No . . . probably not. But I've got a treat for you tonight. I've bought you some
proper
cat food.'

The cat rolled over slowly and gave her a long, contemplative look through slitted eyes. Then, flicking out a surprisingly pink tongue, he dexterously licked his shoulder for several minutes before rolling back over and ignoring her.

‘Fine, have nothing then,' Chris dismissed the cat and stared over at the gate, through which could be seen a few chooks scratching happily in the dirt. Suddenly it occurred to her that perhaps Mac was already up amongst the poultry enclosures, behind the hedge where she couldn't see him. This thought galvanised her into action and she crossed the garden to the gate, where the nearby poultry stopped what they were doing to cackle at her curiously.

‘Excuse me,' said Chris politely as she pushed open the gate, slipped in, and then closed it quickly behind her before any of the occupants could escape. Apart from a brief tour she had given Garth and Cynthia yesterday, this was the nearest she had been to her new charges, so she took a few moments to examine them as she traversed the enclosure. Their white-flecked, chestnut-brown colour was quite unlike that of Fluffy the rooster, with his dirty-white feathers. With these chooks, even the tips of their tails were a nice, crisp snowy-white. Their fleshy reddish combs waddled as they flitted briskly around their compound, amazingly nimble on their thin, clawed feet. All in all, Chris was pleased to confirm her earlier impression of them as surprisingly attractive creatures. By now she had reached the far fence and a few hens gathered around her feet so, with some apprehension, she bent over to pat one on its back. The hen, which automatically crouched as she patted it, gave her a disdainful look and ran off.

‘Fine, be like that,' said Chris, who was feeling rather proud of herself for actually touching it. She straightened and then peered through the wire at the rest of the enclosures, scattered across the property. Slowly looking from one to another, she was eventually forced to acknowledge that Mac was not here
either. But, rather than return to the papasan chair – where she was sure to fall asleep – she decided to explore and perhaps gain some advance knowledge. Surely that would help with her overall confidence.

Next to her, by the fence, was a slim galvanised pipe: aboveground plumbing that supplied a steady trickle of water into a small concrete trough. Before she did anything else, Chris bent down and, using her cupped hands, gave her face a thorough wash. The cold water was distinctly unpleasant but it did the trick. She immediately felt more awake, more alert, and more human. With this accomplished, Chris dried her face with a handkerchief and then walked back over the compound to the hen-shed in the centre. From there, she turned to survey the whole area. It, like all the other compounds scattered beyond, looked to be about 300 metres square and was made up entirely of brown dirt, with no grass or other vegetation to be seen. Apart from the gate she had come through, there was another one set in the fence opposite the barn doors so that there was no need to go back through the hedge to access the barn, or the rest of the enclosures. Next to the hen-shed was a rusted ten-gallon drum that was surrounded by chooks, thrusting their heads into the large holes cut into the bottom to access the grain within. So there would be no scattering after all, and no particular feed-time either.

Feeling decidedly more educated already, Chris decided to explore the shed itself. Set up off the ground, it was made from corrugated iron sheeting and looked like it could be easily obliterated by even a medium gust of wind. At the front was a rather precarious looking ramp, up and down which ran a continuous stream of chooks. Chris moved towards the entrance and, with one hand on the roof, took a look inside. The floor was a rather heavier version of chicken wire, and a pyramid of chicken poop could be seen building up underneath. Then towards one side
was a row of slats on which several hens were even now making themselves comfortable.

Chris examined them thoughtfully. That was obviously where they laid the eggs, but how did one extricate the eggs from beneath them? Did they get nasty if you tried to elevate their rear end?
She
certainly would. One of the hens looked across at her and clucked with annoyance, almost as if it resented this imposition on its privacy.

‘Well! Sorry to intrude, ladies,' said Chris, pulling her head back out. Then it occurred to her that the only thing left was to conquer her aversion to actually
holding
one of the little blighters. So, feeling rather emboldened, she sidled over to the ten-gallon drum where most of the poultry were currently gathered. There she made a series of cluck-cluck noises and then bent down quickly, slid her hand under the belly of a passing chook and lifted it smoothly up into her arms before she could change her mind. Thrilled that she had actually done it, Chris now paused awkwardly, unsure what to do next, but the hen unhesitatingly settled itself trustingly into the crook of her arm. So she stroked it, marvelling at its lightness and softness and slowly realising that there was, in fact, something incredibly soothing about its placid docility.

‘Hey, there!'

Startled, Chris flung the bird up into the air and then, realising immediately what she had just done, scrambled forward to try and catch it again. She grabbed wildly at it, missing the body by millimetres and then clutching one leg as it tumbled back down through the air before her. This meant that the bird's fall came to an abrupt halt as the leg was almost wrenched from its socket, whereupon it went mad – feathers flying as it spun squawking and shrieking around her hand. Chris fell to her knees, thinking that she would release it closer to the ground, but, as the thoroughly panicked bird was now
flapping around her hand at a rapid rate of knots, it promptly smashed itself face first into the dirt – and lay still.

‘Oh my god.' Chris, still on her knees in the dirt, stared at the motionless bird in shock and then quickly looked around at the other poultry, half fearful of instant retribution. But not one single bird displayed any fear, or even curiosity – and certainly there was no whispering going on behind the hen-shed with regard to an attack, organised or otherwise. Instead, the other chooks, with blatant disregard for their departed comrade, continued to feed at the drum, or scratch around in the dust, or run up and down the ramp. Very conscious of whoever had spoken behind her, Chris waited a few seconds, then reached forward and prodded the corpse with one shaking finger.

‘Dead as a dodo.'

Her face pale, Chris finally turned to the speaker, who was standing halfway between the enclosure and the barn, watching her with unconcealed amusement. He was an elderly man, somewhere around the mid-sixties, with untidy grey hair, a face that had almost as many nooks and crannies as Katherine Gorge and, peering out from these craggy features, a rather piercing pair of blue eyes. She stared at him for a minute but, as he did not seem inclined to add to his last comment, she took one more look at the prone bird and then struggled to her feet and walked over to the fence.

‘Can I help you?'

‘I'm thinking it's more a case of me helping you.' He looked pointedly across at the dead hen and then pulled a leather pouch out of his pocket that, when opened, revealed tobacco papers, a quantity of tobacco and a box of matches. He proceeded to roll himself a cigarette.

Chris tried again. ‘Were you looking for someone?'

‘All th'time, lass, all th'time.'

‘Okay.' Chris, her annoyance with the newcomer rapidly
gaining on her distress over the fate of the hen, decided to get straight to the point. ‘My name's Chris Beggs and I own this place. So who are you?'

‘Mac.'

‘
Mac
?'

‘Mac.' He looked at her, amused. ‘Expecting someone different, hey?'

Chris stared at him as he took a long draw on his hand-rolled cigarette and then, leaving it dangling from one corner of his mouth, let the smoke waft out from his nostrils. Next, with nicotine-stained fingers, he shoved the leather pouch back into a pocket of his baggy brown corduroys. So
this
was what Dot called ‘bloody good looking'? Good lord – he wasn't tall,
or
dark,
or
handsome – or even within spitting distance of any of the three.

‘So
you're
th'lady that bought it.' Mac raised an eyebrow with evident approval. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. Now if I were ten years younger . . .'

‘Then you'd
still
be old enough to be my father,' snapped Chris, and then instantly regretted it. ‘God! Sorry! I didn't mean that!'

Mac, if anything, looked even more amused. ‘No worries. Point taken.'

‘I
am
sorry, you know.' Chris shook her head in bewilderment, unsure what was upsetting her the most – that she had just brutally murdered the first of the fowls she'd actually had close contact with, or that the handsome, muscle-bound assistant she had been led to expect was really a weather-beaten old chain-smoker. Or maybe even that she could just have mortally offended the only person who was capable of transforming her current state of ignorance into whatever was necessary to keep this place a going concern, thus protecting every last cent she had in the world.

Mac took a last draw of his cigarette and then stubbed it out against a booted foot before placing the butt into a pocket. ‘So, you looking for me?'

‘Yes, I've been waiting. I'd almost given up.'

‘Since when?'

‘Pardon?'

‘I said, since when? Because I
did
say morning, you know,' commented Mac
as
he straightened up and started to walk towards the barn. ‘And I was here then.'

Chris, thoroughly annoyed, grabbed the fence with both hands. ‘It
is
morning!'

‘Nah,' Mac's voice floated back over his shoulder. ‘It's almost bloody lunchtime. Morning's when th'sun comes up.'

‘But that's . . .' Chris trailed off as Mac opened one of the double doors at the front of the barn and vanished inside, leaving it open behind him. She stood for a few minutes, clutching the fence and grinding her teeth in anger. Then, as their conversation and his abrupt departure merged with her irritable tiredness, a cold wrath descended over her, obscuring all but a focused fury. She thrust herself away from the fence and went across to the gate, which she flung open with enough force that it bounced closed again as soon as she passed through. Without hesitating, she walked purposefully over to the barn and through the open door. There she paused briefly until, in the semi-gloom of the huge interior, she made out Mac's figure, sitting on what looked like an overturned bucket in the far corner.

‘How
dare
you just walk away from me,' Chris spat out furiously, and then, when no answer was forthcoming, stomped across the barn floor and came to a halt in front of him, her hands on her hips. ‘If you think I'm going to put up with that sort of behaviour, you are
very
much mistaken. I'm already feeling much too miserable about this whole thing without
having to put up with that sort of crap. If you wanted to meet me at bloody sun-up, then you should have
said
that you wanted to meet me at bloody sun-up, not just said morning. For your information,
I've
been awake since before four. But I am
not
– I repeat, NOT – a mind-reader.'