L'amour Actually (31 page)

  I rummaged around under the table and carefully pulled out the box. A dark brown eye peered out at me through the ventilation holes in the top. The chickens were surprisingly heavy considering that they were more feather than anything else. I had almost reached the pavement when I heard a dull thud and suddenly the box become inexplicably light. The bottom had given way and the three chickens had been dumped unceremoniously on the ground in a flutter of wings. Chaos ensued. The proprietor ran out to berate me for bringing chickens into his café, horrified diners shook their heads and even a couple of passing
gendarmes
came over to see what the commotion was about. Meanwhile the chickens sat placidly on the ground,
madame's
American Tan tights putting an end to any hopes of a quick getaway.

  In the middle of the
mêlée
we were laughing so hard we could barely breathe, never mind move. Tears streamed down our faces and I was doubled over, legs crossed. Every time I looked at Tracey the laughter started again until the whole café fell quiet and watched the two hysterical English women.

'Oh for heaven's sake! What time is it?' I rolled over to look at the clock on the bedside table.

  Next to me Julien stirred. 'I'm going to make coq au vin with that stupid bird,' he murmured, his voice heavy with sleep. I had been a poultry keeper for nearly two weeks now and it was safe to say it wasn't quite as easy as I had thought. I'd released the chickens into their run, fully expecting the hens, who I'd named Deirdre and Doris, to dash around and explore their new home but they had just plopped onto the ground and looked around like a couple of surly teenagers at a family wedding. They even looked bored.

  The cockerel, who I had very imaginatively called Monsieur Le Coq, had strutted around, puffing out his chest and looking very pleased with himself, but had then launched a rear-guard action on poor Deirdre, grabbing her neck in his beak until she squawked in pain, and mounting her without so much as 'what's your name?' or 'can I take you to dinner?'

  'Blimey,' commented Tracey. 'I've met a few blokes like him.'

  It was all over in seconds, then he hopped off and went back to his scratching and pecking, leaving Deirdre shaking her feathers in indignation.

  'Yep, definitely met a few blokes like him,' Tracey laughed.

  Julien's car had pulled up in the driveway as I was trying to coax the hens into some sort of action.

  'Right, better get on. Places to go and people to see and all that,' said Tracey suddenly. 'Don't be daft. Who do you see apart from me?'

  'Don't big yourself up, lady. I have plenty of friends.' With the briefest of nods to Julien, she waved goodbye. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. For a brief moment, a horrible thought went through my mind. The two of them? No, they wouldn't. I dismissed it instantly.

  'What do you think?' I said. 'I'm a bit worried because they won't move. I dropped them in a café and I think I might have hurt them.'

  'You did what? No, don't tell me. Nothing surprises me with you,' he laughed as he went into the pen.

  With much umming and ahhing and the odd Gallic shrug, he tried to make the hens stand up but to no avail.

  'So, what's the verdict
Monsieur le Fermier
?'

  'They're too fat.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'These are meat birds not
poules pondeuse.
Look at the breasts on them.' He poked at the hens, who clucked at him in an irritated manner. 'They have been bred for the table and they are too fat to walk.'

  'Oh great. Morbidly obese chickens. That's just marvellous. And what about the feathers on their necks? Will they grow back?'

  'Oh
chérie
, you really don't know much about them do you? These are Transylvanian Naked Necks, we call them
"cou
nus"
. They are genetically bred to have fewer feathers. It makes them easier to pluck.'

  'So not only do I have the fattest hens around here but I also have the ugliest.' I went into the chicken run and squatted down to look at them. Deirdre rewarded my interest with a sharp peck, 'And the most bad-tempered.'

  'But on the plus side…'

  'There is one then?'

  '
Cou nus
are good layers. Once you get some weight off them they will start to lay again. You need to put them on a
régime
.'

  So the following week was spent dieting the hens, and they slowly started to move around a bit more. I had taken to standing at the front door with some corn and calling them over. The only trouble was they were still too fat to do anything but run in a straight line. As soon as they tried to turn a corner, they fell over and lay there patiently waiting for me to come and right them. A few times I had found them beached in the garden, quietly pecking at the ground around them waiting for help.

  Monsieur Le Coq was insatiable and each morning started with a guerrilla defilement of each hen. They seemed to take it in their stride although so far no eggs had been forthcoming and despite his diminutive size, when sex wasn't on his mind he fussed and fretted, rounding them up if they strayed too far from him and always staying alert for danger. Sadly, he saw this in every bush, round every corner and up every tree at least every few minutes. His raspy crow was driving me slowly to the brink of madness. Every time I sat down to try and do something, his endless crowing would have my teeth on edge. Even Martine, a poultry keeper herself, had commented dryly
'il chante bien, ton coq'
. I wasn't sure why the French used the same work for crowing as they did for singing because there was certainly nothing melodic about his racket.

  Worse still, he seemed to think that sunrise started around three o'clock every morning. I was in the early stages of sleep deprivation. I had spent several evenings googling 'how to stop your cock crowing' and despite much sage advice about putting a sock over his head or covering the henhouse with blankets to shut out any light, the general feeling seemed to be that the only way was to eat him and I wasn't quite ready for that... yet.

  The morning that I got my first egg was on par with a 'what were you doing when Freddie Mercury died?' moment. I would remember it for the rest of my life. I lifted up the lid of the nesting box, fully expecting it to be empty, and there, lying on the straw, was one, small, perfect, oval egg. Its flawless shell was straight from a Farrow and Ball paint chart. I had been so excited that I grabbed the egg and ran straight round to Tracey's, let myself in and jumped on her bed – a dangerous activity when clutching a fresh egg. 'Scrambled egg for breakfast?'

  Half an hour later we were sitting round my table sharing a small spoonful of scrambled egg on toast. It was the colour of a high-visibility jacket.

  'Is that normal?' asked Tracey, looking at it slightly suspiciously.

  'Yes, apparently it's the grass that makes the yolk so yellow.'

  'Yeah, but even so…' Tracey prodded it with her fork.

  'Oh just eat it. I know you're more used to the ones from the supermarket that are weeks old.'

  'It's not just that. I keep thinking where it came from, you know, literally.'

  'Well don't, or you'll put me off too. We live in the country now so it's time to connect with our food and where it comes from.'

  'Bloody hell, you're starting to sound like a party political broadcast for the Eco-Nutters.'

  I took a mouthful of egg. 'It's pretty good though.'

  'Pretty good? It's bloody amazing!'

  From that day on, every morning I found one or two eggs, laid on the straw like the Crown Jewels on a velvet cushion. Now into my second week of a diet of omelettes, frittatas and boiled eggs I was starting to flag a bit and had the beginnings of what promised to be my very own EU egg mountain. There was no point trying to give them away either as just about everyone in St Amans had chickens themselves. My dreams of a little cottage industry selling eggs at the gate, or maybe even supplying the village shop in time had come to nothing. Eggs, it seemed, were certainly not as rare as hen's teeth in these parts. Maybe they had an off button somewhere.

  Despite all that, I found myself spending more and more time just watching them as they scratched around in the garden with Monsieur Le Coq, all puffed up with pride and full of his own self-importance. I found it quite cathartic. If only the damned crowing would stop.

  I put my pillow over my head and tried to block out the sound, snuggling up to Julien's warm back. After a few moments, I listened. Nothing. Halle-bloody-lujah! I wrapped my arms around Julien, pulling myself close to him and waited for sleep to claim me again.

  Fat chance! The crowing started again almost immediately followed by the muffled sound of voices. Someone was stealing my hens. I leapt out of bed and shoved my feet into a pair of sandals. No wonder the cockerel was so agitated. Clever boy, I thought as I ran for the front door.

  'Where are you going?' Julien, sleep-rumpled, was standing in the doorway rubbing his hands through his hair.

  'Someone's outside,' I whispered urgently.

  'Wait, let me go.'

  But it was too late. I was already creeping across the garden towards the henhouse.

  'Would you shut the bloody fack up, you stupid bird.'

  'Trace??'

  Standing in a pair of very short pyjamas, clutching a broom, Tracey was yelling at the henhouse like a woman possessed.

  'I've had it with that sodding bird. Honestly. I'm going to bloody kill it.' She shook her broom at the henhouse.

  'Come on Trace, what are you going to do? Sweep the poor thing to death?'

  'I'm not in the mood for jokes. I've only just gone to bed and he starts his bloody racket. Every sodding morning. It's driving me mental.'

  'Look, I know. I'm really sorry. Maybe you could try earplugs or something.' Tracey glared at me. 'I don't mean for ever,' I continued, 'just until I can work out what to do.'

  'I can't spend the whole night with cotton wool in my ears. I have phone calls to make.'

  'Who on earth are you calling at three o'clock in the morning? You're not trying to get back with Warren are you?'

  'Don't be daft! What would I want with that muppet?' It seemed as if I had hit a raw nerve.

  'You are, aren't you?'

  'No I'm bloody not. I'm going to LA to make a new album if you must know. I can finally kiss goodbye to this bloody place.'

  'What? When?' I suddenly had a sick feeling in my stomach.

  'Two weeks. It's all arranged. I'm going to work with Rihanna's producer.'

  'Two weeks? Trace, that's fantastic, but when were you planning to tell me then?'

  'I don't have to bloody tell you everything do I?' Tracey stalked off, pushing roughly past Julien who was standing there rather incongruously holding a rolling pin, the only weapon he had been able to find, there being no stale baguettes available.

  'No, you're right. You don't have to tell me everything. After all, it's not like we are friends or anything is it?' I shouted after her.

  Without even looking round, Tracey stuck her middle finger in the air and carried on walking. I watched her go, trying hard to hold back my tears. She was leaving. I was losing my best friend in France. Julien slipped an arm round my waist.

  'Come on, let's go back to bed.'

  Even the cockerel had been shocked into silence.

I sat outside the Café du Midi watching the progress of an auburn leaf from the lime tree as it danced and spiralled on the wind. Autumn had arrived with a vengeance and the languid, hot days of the summer were nothing but a memory that warmed me as I sipped on a steaming mug of
chocolat chaud.
And it really was hot chocolate. Stéphane, the owner of the café, had brought out a big machine that looked a bit like a slushy maker, except that in this case it was melted chocolate watered down with milk. A chocoholic's dream.