Flying the Coop (17 page)

‘Wanna a sandwich, Red?'

‘And furthermore . . . what?'

‘I said d'you wanna sandwich?'

‘A sandwich?'

‘Yeah, you know, one of them things th'Earl of Sandwich come up with.' Mac reached down into an ice-cream container next to him and fished out a foil-wrapped bundle that he proceeded to unwrap. He laid the foil aside to reveal two rounds of thick white bread sandwiches. ‘Roast beef with gravy. You 'ave first pick.'

‘Um . . .' Chris had a sudden image of those nicotine-stained fingers assembling the roast beef sandwich, and felt her stomach turn. But she also had a feeling, a very strong feeling, that the sandwich represented more than just food. It was a peace offering, an olive branch, an offer to share something that –

‘D'you wanna bloody sandwich or not?'

‘Yes.' Chris reached out and plucked half a round from the foil. ‘Thank you.'

‘Pleasure.' Mac picked up the other half and took a huge bite, staring off into the middle distance as he chewed.

‘This is good!' Chris said with surprise as she tasted the sandwich, rather tentatively, and was rewarded by a mouthful of rich, still warm gravy and tender roast beef. ‘Delicious!'

‘Yeah.'

In the silence that fell while they ate, Chris contemplated the potential difficulties within the relationship that she was going to have with this strange man for the next month. There
was no doubt that she needed him and no doubt, therefore, that she was going to have to try – harder – to keep her temper under control. To avoid looking at Mac, she concentrated on the barn instead. It was a fairly large wooden building that could just as accurately – but less romantically – be called a big shed. With a concrete floor, the barn had a large set of double doors that led out to the area with the poultry pens, and a smaller side door that led into the garden. Apart from a pair of bolted rooms at the back, the barn was comprised of one open room and a second storey loft, which could be reached via a set of metal steps that were fixed to one wall and looked precarious, to say the least. There was a large workbench fixed to another wall and a considerable quantity of boxes stacked beside it. Chris had seen it all before, on her previous visits, but was yet to enter either of the rooms at the back. She swallowed the last of her sandwich as she stared at them curiously.

‘What's in those?'

Mac followed her gaze and then, having finished his sandwich also, scrunched up the foil and shoved it back into the ice-cream container. This he closed carefully before standing up and striding off towards the room on the left. Chris, assuming that she was expected to follow, did just that. Mac slid the bolt back and opened the door a few inches before peering through for a second and then opening it the rest of the way. Immediately the sound of low-pitched but constant cheeping could be heard.

‘There y'go, Red.'

Chris stepped forward into the doorway, already having guessed from the noise what she would see. Sure enough, now crowded into one corner of the small but well-lit room, as far away from the door as possible, were a multitude of half-grown, yellow and patchy brown fluffy chickens clambering over each other. With their scrawny bodies and long, skinny
necks, they were a far cry from the cute, fluffy creatures she had actually expected. In fact, they looked like the poultry equivalent of the human teenager – neither here nor there, and decidedly unattractive to boot.

In the centre of the little room, presently deserted, was a water bowl with a suspended plastic feeder beside it. Hanging on a chain next to that was what looked like a metal lamp with three bars that glowed a fiery red.

‘What's that?' asked Chris, pointing.

‘Heater,' said Mac, walking over to it and checking a small silvery contraption that also hung on the chain. ‘Needs regulating. This lot're four weeks old now so they're fine, but we get 'em when they're day-olds and then –' he turned and gave Chris a lopsided grin – ‘you'll 'ave to kip out here with 'em to make sure they're okay overnight.'

‘No problem.' Chris smiled back, determined not to be taken in by his sense of humour.

‘C'mon then.' Mac ushered her out and closed the door carefully before moving over to the adjacent door and unbolting that. This one he flung open with no hesitation and then stood back for her to enter first. This room was bigger, colder and noisier than the one housing the teenage chooks, with the latter two differences being easily explained by the large, rumbling air-conditioner that was fixed high on one wall over a long bench. A thin red ribbon was tied to one of the vents, fluttering with the force of the artificial breeze. But Chris only took this in with her peripheral vision because, as soon as she entered the room, her attention was drawn to a huge ominous-looking machine that took up the entire far wall. It looked very much like the control panel of Dr Who's Tardas.

‘That's th'washer,' explained Mac, following her gaze. ‘For th'eggs.'

‘You
wash
the eggs?'

‘What'd you think? That th'chooks did it for us?'

‘Oh no. Of course not.' Chris flushed with annoyance. The truth was that she'd just assumed that the eggs came out relatively clean. But obviously not.

‘And those there –' Mac waved a hand at a stack of boxes opposite – ‘are for delivery tomorrow. Now c'mon, I'll take you on a tour.' Mac waited for her to exit the room before closing it and then setting off, with what Chris was beginning to realise was his customary rapid stride, across the concrete floor towards the double doors. Once outside, he fished in one pocket and pulled out his tobacco pouch, pausing then to roll himself a cigarette. This accomplished, he took a deep drag and then left the cigarette hanging from his mouth as he headed past the front pen, with the bird still prone in the middle, and towards the others beyond. As she passed the enclosures at a quick trot, Chris realised that several were empty, and that the dirt floors in those were starting to grow green again. Mac came to an abrupt halt about halfway into the compound and Chris, who had been semi-jogging in order to keep up, just stopped herself from running into him.

‘Sorry,' she muttered, stepping backwards and trying to recover her breath.

‘S' all right.' Mac took a drag on his cigarette, then looked over her shoulder and slowly grinned. ‘Watch out, Red.'

Chris, expecting some sort of joke at her expense, shook her head to let him know that she wasn't that gullible. As she was doing this, she also became conscious of a plodding, clip-clop noise that was getting closer by the second. Clip,
clop
, clip,
clop
. Clip,
clop
, clip,
clop
. From the sound of the footfalls, it was definitely a creature of the more than two-legged variety. A cow? A sheep? A
bull
? Her eyes widened as she stared at Mac, trying to reassure herself with the fact that he did not seem terribly concerned. The plodding noise had now advanced to
a point immediately behind her, and there it came to a slow stop. Clip,
clop
. Chris rolled her eyes to the side in an effort to identify the newcomer, but could see nothing. She knew it was there, however, from the heavy, solid breathing that she could feel at the nape of her neck.

‘What is it?' she whispered, being careful not to move too much.

‘Only Ergo.' Mac's tone made her flinch. ‘How're you going, Ergo old man?'

Instead of answering, Ergo let loose a wet snort that sent a gust of damply tepid air blustering through Chris's hair. Then, before she even had a chance to react, the snort was followed by a fetid stench that, finally, broke her trance.

‘
Yuck
!' Chris jumped and whirled around, all in one relatively fluid motion. And came face to face with a large, long-necked, woolly creature that, judging from the amount of white showing around its eyes, had just got as big a shock as she had.

‘
Shit
!' shrieked Chris.

‘Kerr-
umpth
!' replied the creature as it reared its head backwards, held it motionless for a split second, and then thrust it forward, spitting a thick spray of yellowish fluid. All over her.

‘
Shit
!' shrieked Chris again, this time taking a giant leap backwards as she did so.

‘Hey, you're scaring 'im.' Mac gave her a disgusted look and moved forward to where the creature stood panting heavily and glaring at Chris. ‘S'okay, Ergo old man.'

He ground out his cigarette on the sole of his boot and then, dragging his hand along the animal's thick, woolly coat, started scratching the back of its neck and murmuring softly as he did so. After a few minutes of this treatment, it visibly began to relax. From the safety of a few feet away, Chris ran a hand through her hair and then looked with stomach-clenching
disgust at the gelatinous dampness left on her fingers. Immediately deciding to ignore her hair for the time being, she wiped her hands off on her cargo pants and then straightened to stare at the creature. It, she realised now that she wasn't actually staring into its nostrils, was an alpaca. Taller than her, and with a thick, dirty white coat, it looked like the end result of a carnal encounter between a camel and a poodle.

‘Say 'ello to Ergo, Red.' Mac gestured proudly towards the alpaca, who was gazing at him adoringly. ‘A little trooper, 'e is. Keeps th'grass down
and
th'foxes at bay.'

‘Hello, Ergo.' Chris tried to smile as she tentatively put out a hand – and the alpaca immediately lunged forward with his mouth open and teeth bared. She whipped the hand away a split second before the alpaca snapped his teeth closed. ‘
Shit
!'

‘I don't think 'e likes you,' observed Mac. ‘Probably coz you use foul language.'

‘He tried to bite me!'

‘Hardly.' Mac shook his head at her with disdain and then turned to the alpaca and gave it another neck scratch. ‘Now off y'go, Ergo, we've got work to do.'

Tensed to move rapidly if the alpaca chose to head in her direction, Chris watched Mac give the animal a sharp rap on the rump. It flicked her a venomous smirk, snorted once more, and then moved away laconically towards the other side of the barn, where no doubt it would lurk awaiting fresh meat. Suddenly it occurred to Chris that maybe
Ergo
had been her nocturnal intruder! But, just as quickly, she realised it was highly unlikely that the alpaca had climbed up onto the veranda roof for a stroll – or left those small pellets of poo as a calling card.

‘Mac?' Chris turned to him questioningly. ‘What goes tut, tut, tut?'

‘Blimey, Red.' He looked at her askance. ‘Don't ask me jokes. Can't stand 'em.'

‘It wasn't –'

‘So let's get on with it. Now, over there's th'youngest ones.' Mac waved towards the compound furthest away. ‘Only bin out of the shed about a month or so.'

Chris shaded her eyes and, making sure she kept the alpaca in her peripheral vision, stared across at the compound. And realised that, yes, the poultry within that enclosure did look significantly younger and fresher than, say, the one she had killed. Even
before
she'd killed it.

‘Then there's th'next ones up.' Mac pointed to an adjacent enclosure, and then swept his hand across about six of them. ‘And so on and so on.'

‘Hang on.' Chris looked at him as comprehension slowly dawned. ‘Do you mean that they're all separated by age?'

‘Nah.' Mac looked at her, the grin hovering again. ‘When they first get 'ere, we ask 'em to form in groups according to likes 'n dislikes. This group 'ere –' he gestured at a nearby fence, behind which a cluster of chooks were having what looked like a lively meeting – ‘they're into left-wing politics. Canny buggers.'

Chris ignored the sarcasm, instead gazing around at the spread of compounds. ‘So how many are here, and what's the age range?'

‘Sixteen cages,' replied Mac promptly. ‘Twelve occupied, four not. Chooks are two months apart, with th'oldest –' he waved towards the first compound, by the garden – ‘about two years old.'

‘So where will the little ones in the shed go? When they're ready?'

‘They'll come out with th'next move.' Mac glanced across at her uncomprehending face and then elaborated: ‘Every two months or so we do th'big shift, starting with one lot going to a fresh cage. After they're settled, we clean up their old cage –
move th'coop, shovel th'manure up and all. Then get th'next lot in. And th'four that've been used th'longest go fallow.'

‘How do you move them?' Chris had a sudden image of an orderly row of hens being marched from one enclosure to the next. Left, right, left, right. She stifled a smile.

‘Tractor.'

‘And what happens to the oldest ones?'

‘When we do th'shift?' Mac waited for her to nod before continuing: ‘Well, these chooks are Isa Browns. Best damn layers in th'world. So they don't actually stop laying, just slow down. Then when they're all ready to move up, I put out a sign and sell th'oldies off for five bucks each. Go like hot-cakes.'

‘I see.' Chris thought for a few seconds, her head crowding with questions. ‘How do you know who's in what cage? Do you label them? And what do people buy the old chooks for? And, also, what do you do with the manure?'

‘Slow down, Red!' Mac held a hand up and grinned hugely, an action that both increased the cragginess of his features and softened them simultaneously. ‘No labels, I just know which are which. And th'manure gets bagged 'n sold. Same as Ergo's. Great for gardens. And – what was th'other question?'

‘What do people buy them for?'

‘Don't worry me none. Probably for laying, they're still good. Or maybe th'pot.'

Chris gazed around at the compounds and started to see some semblance of order in them. Firstly, quite a few were actually adjacent to each other, sharing a common fence, so they were not quite as scattered as they looked from the garden. Secondly, even the scattering now made sense given that, every two months, a tractor had to fit between them all. And, thirdly, she found that if she tracked her eyes slowly from the newest inhabitants through to the oldest, there was order in the positioning, with one leading directly to the other.