Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

by Victoria Twead

  “¡Hombre! That pest, Jesus!” William prised the tape measure off with a screwdriver. “Sí, it is as I thought. The terrace door has been made to fit the front door, and vice versa.”

  “Are the two sizes very different?” Joe asked.

  “I will show you, no?” William’s brow was furrowed. He picked up a pencil and tried to make a mark on the door. The pencil wouldn’t write. The point had been coated with glue which had dried. Muttering terrible threats to the absent Jesus, William picked off the layer of glue and tried again.

  “That’s not acceptable,” said Joe. “How come the joiner got it wrong?”

  William looked embarrassed. “I do not think it was the fault of the joiner,” he said carefully. “I think, er, something else may have happened.”

  “You mean Colin gave the joiner the wrong measurements?” I knew Joe was annoyed, the narrowing of his eyes was a reliable indication.

  William didn’t reply immediately but his hesitation was answer enough. “I’ll phone Colin,” he said at last. He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone, then patted all his pockets in disbelief.

  “JESUS!” His voice echoed round the valley as he lunged outside. “Jesus! What have you done with my mobile phone? When I get hold of you - I am going to staple you to the damned workbench! Fernando? Where is that no good heathen brother of yours? Jesus? I know you are here somewhere… Jesus! Where are you, you scrawny little immigrant?”

  Joe and I exchanged glances. If Jesus knew what was good for him, he would lie low for a while.

  William must have caught up with Jesus judging by the colour of one of Jesus’s ears, and the fact that Colin turned up in response to William’s call. Colin’s solution to the door problem was original and dramatic.

  “Would you object if we widened your Porsche?” he asked.

  “How do you mean?” Joe was doubtful. “How can you widen the porch?”

  “Well, we knock this wall down here, rebuild it there, then widen the steps up to the front door. Then the door will fit.”

  We didn’t really object, although it seemed a little drastic. It meant we lost a metre inside the living room, but gained a metre of porch. The terrace doorway could be narrowed quite easily to accommodate the other door.

  Colin left William to oversee the project and drove away. Fernando and Eduardo set to work with sledgehammers, while Jesus removed the rubble as fast as he could. William continued rendering the new roof terrace walls up above but came down occasionally to see the progress, and to snarl at Jesus.

  That evening, Joe and I leaned on the new roof terrace wall and looked down below, watching the Equators prepare to leave for the night.

  Colin’s Careful Construction team were already in the car, waiting for William. William climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. Pandemonium reigned and the Equators let out a unanimous yelp of fright. As William started the engine, the radio blasted at full volume, the hazard lights flashed, the windscreen wipers crashed back and forth and the car jerked violently forward before stalling.

  There were a few seconds of complete silence, then William’s door was thrown open. Before Jesus could escape, William had hauled him out of the car by the ear and thrown him unceremoniously to the roadside. Jesus protested but William accelerated the car away in a cloud of dust. Jesus picked himself up, and, still rubbing his painful ear, galloped after the fast disappearing car.

  “¡Hombre! Wait! Stop! I am sorry, honestly!” But Jesus had gone too far. We watched the car shrink as it drove out of the valley followed by the tiny figure of Jesus waving his arms, imploring them to stop.

  ∞∞∞

  The chickens scratched and pecked in the orchard, oblivious to the fact that Colin’s Careful Construction team were creating a chicken palace for them in our garden.

  It was magnificent. I had designed it so that the chickens would have as many interesting diversions as possible. (In zoos, I believe it’s called ‘enrichment’.) I was trying to make up for the fact that their new coop would be far smaller than the orchard. Eduardo, meticulous as always, had embraced the project.

  A third of the area was roofed with traditional terracotta tiles to provide shelter from sun and harsh weather. Inside the shelter was a wall of elevated nesting boxes which could be reached by a ramp. Another ramp led up to the roosting perch. Outside in the run, Eduardo and I built a water feature complete with waterfall cascading out of a terracotta pot. More ramps accessed platforms at different levels. I planted a small palm tree in the middle to provide shade and somewhere to escape when Attila the Hen was on the warpath.

  Many years ago, in England, I had a small business designing and manufacturing stencils for the interior decorating market. Stencilling became unfashionable, and I stopped production, but still had plenty of stencils left. The new chicken coop was the perfect opportunity to use some. I painted all the walls white, then stencilled orange trees, butterflies and bees. Even the ‘autistic’ Eduardo approved of the result, although Paco and Carmen-Bethina fell silent when they saw the finished coop.

  “It’s very nice,” said Carmen-Bethina at last, “but what is it for, exactly?”

  “It’s for the chickens. When the building begins up in the orchard, the chickens will move down here.”

  “¡Madre mia! You decorated it for chickens? All that painting on the walls?”

  “Yes. Well, as it’s in the garden, I thought I’d make it pretty.”

  “And the mirror?”

  I had hung an old wardrobe mirror left by Alonso onto a wall. I figured that if budgerigars like mirrors, why shouldn’t chickens? I didn’t know the Spanish word for budgies so I didn’t reply.

  “And the waterfall?”

  “Well, they can drink from it, or paddle, or whatever.”

  “It’s, er, very unusual,” said Carmen-Bethina.

  ∞∞∞

  Colin was colour blind as well as clumsy. I had asked for creamy, terracotta coloured slabs to be laid in the garden. When the delivery truck arrived, I nearly had a fit. The slabs were salmon pink. Joe and I watched them being unloaded.

  “I never ordered pink slabs! I told Colin I wanted terracotta! I wanted a nice neutral colour!”

  “Now, come on, Vicky,” said Joe, scratching his nethers thoughtfully. “It doesn’t matter. They’re not that bad. It’s only because they’re new that they look so…”

  “Awful?”

  “No, I was going to say ‘bright’,” Joe said. “I’m sure you’ll get used to them. You can’t expect the men to take them all the way back down the mountain again.”

  Somehow I was persuaded to accept the dreadful pink slabs. Eduardo laid them beautifully, and if I was honest, after ageing and fading in the sun, (the slabs, not me) I did get used to them. Only when wet did they regress to that initial violent pink.

  Slowly, steadily, the work was completed. Colin had promised to accompany his team on the last couple of days, so that all the final snags could be rectified. Joe and I were a little apprehensive as we knew things usually went wrong when Colin got involved. We would have preferred William to tie up the loose ends.

  Colin set to work. Task One on the list was to put the glass into the doors. With the first one, he cracked the glass very slightly with the pins he was tapping in too enthusiastically. He cut himself glazing the second door and his blood seeped into the wood grain. The stain remains today.

  Task Two was welding the final step in place on the wrought iron staircase. Jesus had welded the rest without mishap. Colin not only welded the step crooked, but also managed to bond a screwdriver to the step. It would have made a good Tate Modern exhibit.

  Task Three was to fix chicken wire to the frame of the new coop. Borrowing our garden table and chairs to reach inaccessible places - he did an expert job. No mishaps, no problems. I admired his handiwork, then it dawned on me.

  “Colin, we have a problem.”

  “What? It’s a perfect job, you just said so.”r />
  “Colin, the table and chairs.”

  Colin stared, then clapped his hand to his forehead. He had trapped the table and chairs inside the coop. Now he would have to undo all his good work to retrieve them.

  At last all the jobs were completed to our satisfaction. We paid Colin and shook hands with each of the Equators.

  “Thank you, William, you did a good job. You are an excellent foreman,” said Joe. William beamed and puffed out his chest.

  “Fernando, thank you for all you’ve done. The terraces are fantastic. We really appreciate your hard work.” Joe allowed Fernando to crush his hand in his great paw.

  “Thanks, Jesus, and we’ve got your mobile number in case we have any more little welding jobs. Now, behave yourself in future. No more pranks, eh?” Jesus blushed beetroot and looked sheepish.

  “ Eduardo,” Joe said, “Colin was right. You are an artist, and we have the best chicken coop in Spain.”

  “And thank you for letting us watch you work, Eduardo,” I added. “It’s been a real pleasure.” Joe was still glowering at me when the Equators drove away.

  ∞∞∞

  The wonderful new chicken coop in our garden remained empty because we had no need of it yet. Our building plans for the orchard needed to run a gauntlet of official permissions, bank perusals and the usual Spanish delays. However, this delay was good for the chickens who were able to enjoy the run of the orchard until the last possible moment.

  What neither Joe, I nor the chickens knew was that a fiendish little individual was about to enter our lives and shatter our peace.

  Tuna with a Spicy Sauce

  Atún con Salsa

  2 large fresh tuna steaks or 4 small ones 6 garlic cloves 3 tablespoons olive oil 1 teaspoon hot paprika Salt and pepper

  Grill the unpeeled garlic until they become soft

  Allow to cool a little, then cut the end off each garlic clove and squeeze the garlic flesh into a bowl.

  Add the paprika, olive oil, salt and pepper to the bowl and mix well.

  Place the tuna steaks into a shallow dish, pour over the above sauce and leave to marinade for about half an hour.

  Cook on a barbecue or grill for about 5-6 minutes each side.

  Serve with a salad and boiled potatoes

  CHAPTER 19

  COCKY

  I was on my hands and knees laying floor tiles in the kitchen. I love tiling. To begin with, I love making up the tile cement: tipping in the powder, adding water, spinning with the whirly attachment on the drill until the mixture slaps around like a giant bucket of cake mix. I love the satisfying splats as I ladle out large dollops and they hit the floor. Next, the pleasure of spreading it evenly with a serrated trowel that combs patterns like a newly ploughed field. Then laying the tiles, each one straight and true, transforming dusty earth floors to cool, shiny surfaces that invite one to tread them.

  Joe returned from collecting eggs in the orchard. “We’re really low on grain,” he said. “We’ll have to go down to the chicken shop and get some more.”

  “Well, you’ll have to go by yourself, I’ve only just made up all this tile cement.”

  I was so deeply absorbed with my project that it wasn’t until some time later that a thought occurred to me. I had forgotten Joe is the most impulsive shopper I have ever known. Send him out for a carton of milk and he comes back with a crate of milk, beer, chocolate biscuits, a set of glasses and a cuddly toy. He loves buying things, even if we have them already or don’t need whatever it is. It may have been a serious mistake sending him to the chicken shop alone.

  I stripped off my rubber gloves quickly and grabbed the mobile phone.

  “How r u getting on? Don’t buy any more chickens!” I texted.

  “Am on way home. Everything fine. C u soon,” came the return text.

  I wasn’t fooled. “NO MORE CHICKENS! No space in new coop.” I stabbed the keys as fast as I could.

  “Ok, don’t worry. Xxx”

  But I did worry. I cleared up my tiling mess, admired my handiwork and waited for Joe. I climbed the staircase to the roof terrace and watched for the returning jeep coming down the mountain into the village. At last it appeared and I shot outside to meet him.

  Three large sacks of grain shared the back of the jeep with an ominous looking cardboard box.

  “How did you get on with the tiling?” Joe asked, lifting out the box nonchalantly.

  “Never mind the tiling. What’s in the box? Please don’t tell me you bought any more chickens…”

  “No, I didn’t. Honestly. I promise I didn’t get any more chickens.” But Joe’s eyes refused to meet mine.

  And then the box crowed.

  “You’re joking! You didn’t buy a cock, did you? Tell me you haven’t come back with a cockerel.” I found my hands were on my hips in typical fishwife pose.

  Joe looked a little rueful, then went on the defensive. “I couldn’t resist him. He’s very small, only a bantam. He was in a cage all by himself and he was crowing so…” The rest of his speech was drowned out by more crowing.

  “But we discussed this! We agreed we didn’t want any more chickens, especially not a cock! It said on the Internet cocks can be aggressive, and we haven’t got the space!” I could hear the whine in my own voice.

  “He won’t be aggressive,” said Joe. “He’s very small.”

  Well, the deed was done and I blamed myself for sending Joe shopping alone. Now my dismay was replaced by curiosity. I wanted to see the little fellow, I wanted to know how our girls in the orchard would react to him.

  Joe carried the box to the orchard, I pulled open the gate, and we stepped inside. As usual, the girls crowded to meet us. They eyed the box suspiciously. Joe set it down on the ground, pulled back the cardboard flaps and lifted out the newcomer. I gasped.

  Only ten inches tall and about half the size of the other chickens, Cocky was exquisite. His feathers were an iridescence of colours, like an oil film on water. Mainly silver and lavender, they shimmered with different hues as the sun caught them, luminous and gleaming. His comb was crimson and exaggerated, as was his matching wattle. The tips of his wings touched the ground, slightly spread like the fingers of a hand. His tail was very upright and showy, while his feet were as bright as his comb.

  It was difficult to say who was the most astounded by this flamboyant little creature, the chickens or I. Mala, Attila the Hen, Ginger, Bugger, Fuck and the others circled him warily. Fraidy gave off a nervous alarm call.

  “He’s amazing,” I said, “but the girls are going to make mincemeat out of him. He’s tiny!”

  Joe stepped back and the chickens leaned forward to examine this extraordinary spectacle more closely. They towered over him. Cocky totally ignored his audience, stretched (not) very tall, pointed his beak to the sky and crowed.

  The chickens were outraged! United in fury, they dived on him with shrieks of indignation, cutting him off in mid-crow. But Cocky was quick. He blasted out of the melee like a feathery cannonball and shot across the orchard into a leafy bush, sixteen angry chickens on his tail.

  “They’ll kill him!” I said, hand to my mouth. “Do you think we should rescue him?”

  “Just wait,” said Joe, but he sounded worried and was scratching himself down below, a sure sign of nerves. The bush shook, rattled and convulsed as the battle raged in its centre. Detached leaves flew off as the branches whipped and thrashed. Enraged squawks and screeches ripped the air.

  Suddenly, without warning, Bugger catapulted out of the bush like a piece of soap in a shower. Then Fuck, Mala, Ginger and all the rest. Even Attila the Hen flapped out, righted herself and began to preen furiously in an attempt to regain her lost dignity.

  Finally, out strutted Cocky, the unlikely champion. He rattled his feathers, flapped twice, stood on his tiptoes and crowed victoriously.

  “Would you believe it?” said Joe. “He beat the lot of them!” He was indecently pleased by Cocky’s victory, perhaps as he saw it as a coup for m
ales in a female dominated world.

  But the show was not over. Joe was about to be taught a lesson in stamina that may have left him feeling a shade inadequate.

  Cocky sidled over to Bugger who was innocently pecking away at something microscopic. He executed a little side-stepping dance towards her, then quickly clambered aboard. No easy feat as Bugger was twice his size and not co-operative. However, he hung onto his object of desire by seizing the feathers on her head and then bucked like a jack hammer.

  Bugger succeeded in shaking him off but Cocky’s ardour was not cooled. He repeated his performance systematically with every chicken, and there were sixteen of them. When every chicken had been covered, Cocky just started again, jumping onto whoever was closest at the time.

  “That little fiend certainly has stamina,” said Joe. “He must be exhausted!” (Did I detect a tiny note of envy in his tone?)

  From that day, the dynamics of the orchard changed dramatically. It seemed size didn’t matter, after all. The girls adored their new leader, even though he was so small. Wherever he went, his harem followed. They allowed him to jump on their bones many times a day, and bore him no grudges. The tops of their heads became bald, like shaven monks, but still they endured his onslaughts and shadowed him like disciples. At dusk they clamoured to roost next to him and bickered amongst themselves to share his perch.

  And the crowing! He never stopped. He crowed all day and often during the night, too.