by Louise Allen
I creep out of my room, onto the landing, holding my breath. I stop and listen out – I can hear Barbara’s voice in the kitchen. She’s making breakfast for Kevin. Ian has gone already. I don’t always get breakfast now. There are days when I’m starved completely because I’ve been bad. I’m given a dose of bicarbonate of soda in a glass and told to drink it. I do, without a word. It tastes yuck and makes me feel sick. I’m hungry, but I’m used to it now. I try not to think about William any more. When he pops up, I push him to the back of my mind. There’s a numb place like a black hole in my head where he used to be. I can’t think about him. I’m not allowed to talk about him. It’s as if he was never here. In my tummy there is a stone. I carry this stone everywhere. A heavy weight. A dull pain. I get moments when I think I see him, when I’m walking to school, or if we ever go to the shops. Every time I walk down the road I automatically look to the right with a sad, heavy feeling and hope that I might see the top of a red head bobbing along the pavement. I look at all green cars – is he there? But he never is. I just cover the hole in my head with an imaginary stone and keep on walking.
I get to the toilet, which is next to the bathroom, and turn the doorknob as quietly as I can. The toilet is green with a black seat. I know the drill. I sit on the seat and feel a poo coming. I catch it carefully in the palm of my hand. It’s hot, soft and heavy. It feels comforting. I look at it a moment, wondering at the colour and texture. It has so many colours in it – not just brown. I place it carefully on the toilet paper and mould it into a flattish oblong. I pull up my knickers one-handed, pull the handle and tiptoe out of the toilet and along to the big bedroom. I listen carefully, but there are voices downstairs and I know Ian is out. I hold my breath and creep in, to the end of their double bed. There is a second single bed to one side of the room, stacked up with china dolls and fluffy toys that I’m not allowed to play with. I get down on my knees as fast as I can, on Barbara’s side of the bed, and squish my patty of poo right up into the corner of the bed frame, near the head end of the bed. Squish, squish, squish. It sticks. I look under. It looks dark and blends in with the wood. My right hand is dirty now, and I tiptoe out of the room as fast as possible, pulling the door to, leaving it as it was, with my left.
I go quickly into the bathroom to wash my hands with carbolic in the green sink. I put the toilet paper rolled up into the bin. I dry my hands and feel my heart racing. Job done.
School was as horrible as ever. It was nothing like Vernon Lane. There were rules and it was boring. I was also in the remedial class, as I still couldn’t read or write properly, even though I was now seven. I was laughed at for being so behind. One day we were all taken into a big classroom. Mrs Biggs, the Biology teacher, was in her smart blue suit. She had glasses on and dull mousey hair. She told us she was going to explain the ‘life cycle’ using chickens to show us. I was instantly interested, as I looked after the chickens at home. I never understood before that the eggs I collected, and which we ate, were also the same eggs that made a chick, which then grows into a big chicken. This seemed a fantastic thing. I learnt that it would take about twenty-one days for a chick to hatch from the egg, and that it had to be ‘fertilised’ to become a chicken. I didn’t really understand what ‘fertilised’ meant, but it sounded wonderful. The teacher said we could all take an egg home – or even more than one – to watch them hatch over Easter, and explained how to look after them, keep them warm and so on. We needed to ask our parents that night for permission.
All the way home I was wondering how I could ask Barbara if I could look after an egg. I’d never asked her for anything and I feared her answer would be the usual ‘No’. She was striding along, grim as ever, dragging Topsy and swearing, but I was desperate to have a chick. I tried to think. I knew she liked chickens herself and often drove miles to farms to get new hens. She was keen to get good layers and frequently tried out different breeds. With Barbara I learnt that I had to play being nice to her if I ever wanted to get something, anything. So I tried hard to be helpful and polite while finding ways of flattering her. I said things like, ‘Thank you for my nice tea,’ when in fact I was still starving hungry and bored with having the same old thing. Or, ‘That looks nice, Mummy,’ when she’d hacked the garden plants down in fury. I’d had to forget my heartbreak over William and put a smile on and be a perfect, helpful little girl, saying, ‘Yes, Mummy’ or ‘No, Mummy’ to anything she would ask me. It was the only way I could survive.
That evening I offered to style her grey wavy hair. She actually liked this. I hated it but it was part of my campaign. After my usual, tiny dolls’ tea, I wandered round the garden rehearsing what I’d say, while Ian, Kevin and Barbara ate their proper tea. I tried to blank out the meat and gravy smells, determined not to be upset. I imagined how I was going to ask her if I could have an egg or two to look after. Then, later, when I was combing her hair and rolling it with curlers, I worked up my courage and told her about the chicken and egg lesson at school. Usually she snapped at me, but she didn’t that night, so I carried on telling her, trying to sound casual, about how you can make a chick hatch at home. I finished her hair and she stood up and peered down her sharp nose at me.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘bring one home.’
Was this really Barbara? I was amazed. It worked. She’d never been nice, but I was so excited about the egg, and I’d planned my campaign so well, curling her hair and flattering her, that I’d somehow got her to let me have one.
I felt my heart lift the next day as I walked home with Barbara and Topsy with an egg-box in my hand, carefully guarding five brown speckled eggs. Mrs Bliss had explained that at least one out of the five would probably hatch, and we should take more than one, just in case. I think the idea of free eggs appealed to Barbara. In fact, she prided herself on her egg-hatching and often took a box of six to my headmaster to show off what a good mother she was.
That afternoon, once we were home, to my further amazement Barbara found a cardboard box and put straw in the bottom. Then we put it in the larder, on the lower shelf, and she got a grey angle-poise lamp and put it on, with the light bulb close over the eggs, wrapped in straw. Was this the same Barbara? She still had the same hard look on her face – she never smiled at me or hugged me – but she was letting me do something I really wanted. She had never, ever done anything like this before. I felt I was walking on eggshells myself.
From then on, all I could think about was my eggs – day and night. As soon as I woke up I jumped out of bed and rushed down to see if any of them had hatched. I knew it would take about three weeks, but I was impatient. It seemed like total magic. For once there was something to look forward to. It seemed to take ages and ages, as every morning there was nothing: the eggs sat there, brown, round and glowing in the straw. I couldn’t believe the chicks would ever hatch.
Then one morning Barbara called up the stairs: ‘The chicks are hatching.’ I rushed down the stairs, which were carpeted in swirling brown-and-orange patterned carpet, to the larder, and peeked into the box. I held my breath. There were the five eggs and, on one of the shells, a crack had appeared. As I watched, the crack got bigger and the egg started moving, and suddenly a little yellow beak appeared, chipping its way out of the brown shell. I was utterly amazed. I watched as a little creature pushed its way out of the round shell and fell onto the straw, all soggy and helpless. My heart went out to it. Then the next crack appeared in the next egg, and soon four out of five of the chicks had hatched, one by one. The last one was even more amazing, as the chick that came out had black feathers. I had never seen a totally black chicken, although some of our hens were black and white. The little black chick lay in a panting heap on the straw, its tiny red-rimmed eyes closed, looking soggy and pathetic. My heart leapt. It was the most astonishing sight I had ever seen.
Barbara appeared in the larder doorway. I looked up at her with saucer eyes, and said, ‘Mummy, you can have these three chicks, but could I keep the black one?’
/> She thought for a second and nodded. ‘Yes.’ I had to blink. She was saying yes. Was this really the same Barbara? I had to be careful not to show too much pleasure. So I said a polite, ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ like the good girl I was trying to be, but in my heart I was shrieking and yipping with joy at having my little black chick to myself. I decided to call him Lucky, as I felt sure he would bring me lots.
That day, going off to school, I made sure I did everything Barbara asked of me. I wanted to please her even more now she let me keep my Lucky. I tidied up my room, made my bed with hospital corners and helped clear up the kitchen, folding the tea towels exactly how she liked. I swept the floor and helped dry up. After school I rushed to the larder in wonder. Lucky was staggering to his feet, his eyes were opening, and he and the other chicks were beginning to go ‘peep, peep, peep’. It was joyful. I carefully picked up Lucky and held his tiny, shaky body, so fragile and tender. His feathers weren’t wet now, they were fluffing out into the softest, finest fur. He was beautiful. He had a little beady eye and a tiny yellow beak set against his black fluff, with a white patch on his chest. My heart swelled with pride. My Lucky. My own little chick.
I talked to him all the time. I walked round the kitchen with him cupped in my hands, held to my chest. He was so tiny I wanted to protect him. I had always talked to the chickens in the garden, and now I was telling Lucky about all sorts of things. I told him his name, and that he would have a good life. I told him I loved him, that we would be friends for ever and I would always look after him. After a while I could tell he was getting tired, so I put him back in the box with the other chicks and they all got into a little pile on top of each other and fell asleep. It was adorable. I stood and watched them sleeping, and bent the lamp down nearer, tucking the straw round to make sure they kept nice and warm and snug.
For the first few days after the chicks had hatched I felt I had woken up in another house altogether. The atmosphere was different and Barbara was nicer than I had ever known her. I felt myself relax a little bit. The night routine was still the same, but I was used to that now, and it was ‘normal’. She wasn’t being so harsh all the time, so I made the mistake of loosening up a bit as each minute of calm went by. Maybe the chicks had made her happy and things would be different from now on. However, after school one day she seemed back to the old Barbara, her face in a tight, vicious point. I could see she was in a very bad mood; it was like grey clouds covering a watery sun.
I checked on the chicks and they were all there peeping away in a furry little heap. I felt a surge of love. From the larder I could hear Barbara crashing about with the kitchen pans, so I thought I should probably get out of the way. I crept into the kitchen and asked sweetly, ‘Can I tell Sean about the chicks?’ She knew I visited Sean in the caravan, and was often very bad tempered and suspicious about it. I felt if I told her, and was open about visiting him, she would be less angry. She didn’t answer, as her back was to me by the stove, so I crept out the back door and down the garden and beyond, glad to get away.
I knocked on Sean’s caravan door. He opened the top half and leant out, smiling widely, showing me his yellowing teeth. I started laughing – I always found his big smile and sparkly eyes very comforting. His head popped back in and he opened the bottom half of the door for me to enter.
‘I t’ink I cooked the cabbage a little too long,’ he said hoarsely, still laughing, and there was steam and smoke coming off his Baby Belling stove and a strong burnt cabbagey smell. His kitchen was about as big as a narrow phone box on its side and I marvelled at him cooking anything in there.
‘Want a drink, girlie?’ he asked. I nodded. Out came the Kia-Ora orange squash he’d bought just for me. He filled a beaker almost full and put a bit of water in the top, so it was really strong. He asked me if I’d eaten anything and I shook my head. Sean knew I was always hungry. He had a loaf of bread on his drainer, so he got his one and only sharp knife with the knobbly handle and cut off a huge chunk. He opened his little cream fridge, the size of a small cupboard, and spread on a wedge of yellow butter. He then pulled out a cooked ham and sliced me off a big bit and put it on top. Heaven.
‘No Irish mustard, I’m afraid,’ he joked. I’d never had mustard and didn’t know what it was. He always made a joke and it was clear he wouldn’t find Irish mustard in Oxford or anywhere at all.
I squeezed onto his sofa, which doubled up as his bed and was covered with knitted cushions, crotched blankets and dog hair, next to the little table and a huge smelly black Labrador, Frida. She was so old she was half blind and could hardly move. The whole caravan smelt of a mixture of old dog and burnt cabbage but I didn’t care, as it was cosy, warm and lovely, especially as I sank my teeth into the buttery bread and ham. I told Sean all about Lucky and his brothers and sisters, as he brought a steaming mug of tea over and sat with me. He rolled one of his cigarettes and listened, smiling.
‘Ah, that’s grand now, isn’t it?’ is what he said, when I told him I had made him warm and snug in the box. After a while I noticed the light was changing outside and I got a jolt of fear in my stomach. I shouldn’t be away too long.
‘You should put Lucky in an apron or a pocket,’ Sean said, as I went down the steps. ‘T’would keep him nice and warm.’
As I walked back through the orchard and over the lawn I considered what he’d said about an apron – I would have to think of something.
All was not well when I got to the kitchen. It was war. Ian and Barbara were standing facing each other and arguing. She had her hands on her hips and he had his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. I seldom saw him standing up to her. It sounded bad, and although I wanted to see Lucky, I snuck in and crept past. They didn’t notice. No tea had been laid for me, and their voices were getting louder all the time. I didn’t know what was wrong. I sat up in my room and could hear doors slamming and voices raised. Barbara came in later and did the usual night routine, but I worried about Lucky. Would he be all right with all the shouting and crossness going on? And then I swirled into the usual drugged darkness.
In the morning I lay under the covers, still worried. I wanted to hide away, as I still felt scared about what was going on, but I wanted to see the chicks, especially my lovely Lucky. I got up and went down straight to the chicks – all was well. I topped up their water and stroked their feathers. They were getting bigger by the day. Then I had an idea. Barbara was out in her greenhouse, watering cuttings in little pots. I knocked on the glass of the sliding door. I could see, when she turned, that she was still in a bad mood and that the ‘mist’ was still upon her, so I’d have to be careful. When she was like this, it was like she was covered by an angry veil.
‘What is it?’ she snapped. Back to the old Barbara. I asked if now the chicks were bigger they could go in the shed rather than be in the kitchen. The reason was I wanted to spend more time with them, watching them grow, and it was awkward being in the kitchen as so much went on in there. But I put it to her that it would be better for her.
‘They’d be out of your way and I’d not be under your feet,’ I said.
There was a pause.
‘All right,’ she said, finally. ‘Close the door and get ready for school.’
I didn’t mind Spencer pulling my arm back that day or kicking my shins as I waited for Barbara to pick me up. I didn’t care that he and his friends called me ‘smelly’ and ‘dirty little cry baby’. I had Lucky at home, and he was my friend.
Once home I carefully carried the chicks in their cardboard box to the shed, which was unlocked. This would mean I could visit them more. Since William had gone, Barbara left the padlock off the shed quite often. It was still used for my punishment, but she preferred putting me over the stool in the kitchen or just whacking me on the head or round the face with the paper. So the shed had become more of a refuge – a place I went to, along with Sean’s caravan, to get some peace. I thought of the times in the shed with William, and our birdseed-eating days (which I still
did when I was starving), so it felt oddly like the shed was home.
Having set up the chicks, I saw Sean walking down the outside path, on his way to his caravan. I left the shed and ran after him, keen to tell him about Lucky’s new home. In his caravan he gave me two presents: one was a Ruffle bar, a wonderful sweet with chocolate covering a raspberry coconut filling. He bought these just for me, and gave me one nearly every time I visited him. The other was a Co-op bag. My eyes widened. A present. I opened it and inside was a yellow gingham apron with big pockets that had embroidered roses on it. It was for Lucky! The pockets were big enough for him to go in without him being squashed.
From then on I would go to the shed in the apron, put Lucky in, and walk him round the garden, morning and evening. I would feed the chickens and change their water and sort out their feed; I would wander round the orchard and talk to him as my bird-child, my brother. He filled a William-sized space in my life as he grew. If I came up to Lucky he would run towards me, flapping his wings and dancing up and down. I was devoted to him, and lavished all my love on him. I made sure the other chicks were looked after too, though.