Chickenfeed

by Minette Walters

  She squatted down to stare at a clutch of fluffy chicks. ‘Poor little things.’

  ‘Poor me, more like,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll be plucking in my sleep if the business takes off. The feathers come out pretty easily if the bird’s still warm, but it’s hard work even so.’

  ‘There’ll be a lot of feathers, pet. What will you do with them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking around the field. ‘Burn them maybe. It’ll make the place stink for a while but at least I’ll be rid of them.’

  He had more of a problem with soiled straw from the chicken sheds. He was rotting it down to sell as compost, but the process took time. Meanwhile, the growing heaps made the farm look even more run-down and tatty than it was. At first, Elsie didn’t seem to notice. But after a few weeks she began to nag him about it.

  ‘No one’s going to buy your eggs if they’ve seen where they come from. They’ll expect them to be bad. You need to paint the sheds. Make them look clean.’

  ‘I can’t afford to,’ he said crossly. ‘Paint costs money.’

  ‘Ask your dad for more.’

  ‘He’s given me enough already.’

  When her nagging became too much, he suggested she give him the money to buy paint. ‘You say you want us to be wed, Elsie, but it won’t happen if the farm fails. I know you’ve got savings. It won’t break the bank to lend me a few quid, will it?’

  ‘My dad will have my hide if I lend money to a man I’m not engaged to,’ she said coyly. ‘You’ll have to put a ring on my finger first, pet.’

  ‘And what will I buy it with? Do you know a jeweller who’ll trade diamonds for poultry?’

  *

  But in spite of the odd argument about money and marriage, the summer and autumn passed happily enough. September and October were warm, and Elsie came down to Sussex almost every weekend. On Saturdays she and Norman lazed by a fire outside the hut when their tasks were over. On Sunday mornings they walked to the Methodist chapel in the centre of town before returning home to a meal made by Elsie.

  She became expert at finding different ways to cook chicken. As often as not, the bird was an old one that needed boiling with carrots and onions. But for treats Norman would kill a young cockerel that could be fried in bacon lard from the local pig farm. It was more like camping than keeping proper house, but, as Elsie was fond of saying, ‘It’s like being on holiday.’

  Norman’s father had told him once that holidays were the worst time to fall in love. ‘People act differently when they’re away from home, son. You can’t judge a lass by the way she is at the seaside.’

  Norman wondered about that every time Elsie talked of marriage. Which was the real Elsie Cameron? The intense, nervy one who lived with her parents in London and hated her job? Or the carefree one who visited him in Sussex and played at being a wife? He knew she thought about sex almost as often as he did. Sometimes they came close to doing it.

  He would pull her to him, clasping her buttocks and thrusting his hard penis against the folds of her skirt. There was always a second or two before she giggled and pushed him away.

  ‘Naughty boy!’ she’d say, wiggling her ring finger under his nose. ‘You’ll have to get down on your knees and propose to me, Norman. Promise to make me Mrs Thorne and I might think about it.’

  ‘As soon as I make ends meet.’

  ‘And when’s that going to be?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m doing my best.’

  ‘That’s all you ever say. If you loved me as much as I love you, you’d sweep me in your arms and propose anyway. I don’t mind living in a hut.’

  ‘You would if it was every day, Elsie. It’s no holiday, believe me. If I can’t get a butcher to take my birds, I have to go house to house to sell the flaming things. And no one pays full price . . . not when they see how desperate I am to be rid of them. A dead hen doesn’t last long.’

  There was no point bringing them home. The only place to hang dead birds was from the beam in his shed and they rotted quickly in the heat. On the two or three times that he’d tried it, he’d ended up burying the corpses in the field. No one wanted poultry that wasn’t fresh. Worse, the smell of death attracted foxes and rats.

  There were no easy answers to his money problems. He’d been foolish to start the project without learning more about farming. But there was no going back now. He kept telling himself it would come right in the end. He’d been taught that God takes care of those who take care of themselves. And that hard work wins its own reward. But worry gnawed at his gut all the time.

  What if it wasn’t true? What if God was teaching him a lesson in humility? How could he explain the waste of £100 to his father? How could he explain to Elsie that he might never be in a position to marry her?

  He was always at his lowest in the hours before dawn. He lay awake, seeing himself in a trap of his own making. If he hadn’t met Elsie . . . if he hadn’t asked his father for money . . . if Elsie had been younger and less desperate to get married . . .

  They became engaged on Christmas Day, 1922. Norman left the feeding of his birds to Mr Cosham and cycled back to London for the holiday. He told his father he was doing well enough to propose to Elsie Cameron.

  Mr Thorne frowned at him. ‘Are you sure, son? The last I heard you were living in a wooden hut. Is that still the case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you expecting a wife to live in it with you?’

  ‘We’re just getting engaged, Dad. The wedding won’t be for a while yet, and by then I’ll have found a place to rent.’

  ‘Mm. Whose idea was it? Yours or Miss Cameron’s?’

  A stubborn look came over Norman’s face. ‘Mine.’

  Mr Thorne didn’t believe him. ‘Will it make a difference if I refuse to give you my blessing? I quite see why Miss Cameron wants a husband – she’s nearly twenty-five – but you’re only twenty, lad. Much too young to start a family.’

  ‘We aren’t planning to have children straight away.’

  ‘You might not be, boy, but I’m sure Miss Cameron is.’

  Norman gritted his teeth. ‘I’m not a boy any more, Dad, and her name’s Elsie. I wish you could see her the way I do. She’s sweet and kind and only wants what’s best for me.’

  ‘So do I, Norman.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem like it sometimes.’

  Mr Thorne eyed him for a moment. ‘Has Elsie given you a hundred pounds?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then don’t accuse me of not caring.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said his son unhappily, ‘but life isn’t just about money, Dad.’

  Mr Thorne shook his head. ‘It is when you sign up for something you can’t afford. There’s no time for love when the bailiffs come knocking on your door.’

  How different it was in the Cameron household. Elsie’s father clapped Norman on the back and told him he was a grand fellow. ‘Our girl’s always wanted to be wed. She had one of her turns when her brother and sister both got engaged this year. But all’s well that ends well, eh? We’re glad to have you as a son.’

  Mrs Cameron hugged him. ‘You’re a good boy, Norman. I knew you’d offer sooner or later. Our Elsie’s that keen to start a family.’

  Norman gave a sheepish smile. ‘It’ll be a while yet, Mrs Cameron. We need to find a place to live first.’

  Elsie tucked her hand through his arm and stretched out her finger so that the firelight flashed on her ring. ‘Not that long, pet. If you can give this to your girl, you can find a little house for her, can’t you?’

  Norman thought guiltily of the five pounds he’d borrowed from a moneylender to purchase the ring. ‘Maybe next year.’

  He was talking about twelve months hence, 1924, but the Camerons assumed he meant 1923. Elsie’s brother and sister planned to wed that year, and it seemed fitting that she should, too. For the whole of Christmas Day, the chat was of nothing but bridal gowns and babies.

  It was this that prompted Norman to bury his head in the s
and. It was easier to agree than keep pointing out that he couldn’t afford a wife and family just yet. He even became a little alarmed at how keen Mr and Mrs Cameron were to be rid of their daughter.

  ‘She’ll settle down once she’s away from London,’ Mrs Cameron said. ‘It’s the noise and the crowds that make her depressed. Try not to keep her waiting too long, Norman.’

  Mr Cameron took him aside after lunch. ‘Elsie gets bees in her bonnet . . . but you know that already. My advice is not to cross her. She’s better when she has her own way.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘Good man. If you can see your way to tying the knot before her brother and sister do, you’ll make her the happiest girl on earth.’

  Norman knew that wasn’t possible but he didn’t say so. In the naive way of a twenty-year-old, he hoped the issue would go away. He thought he could stall forever as long as a date wasn’t fixed.

  No one could force a bloke to marry before he was ready.

  86 Clifford Gardens

  Kensal Rise

  London

  January 30th, 1923

  My own darling Norman,

  The worst has happened. Mr Hanley sacked me today, so your little Elsie has no job any more. He was that beastly, lovey. He said he was letting me go for the sake of the others. They’ve been telling lies about me again, and all because they can’t bear to see me happy. They’re jealous of my ring and jealous that I’m engaged. I really hate them.

  Dad says I must look for another position but I won’t need to if we can marry soon. Please say we can. I can’t wait to be your wife, pet. I could find work as a typist in town and come home to the hut every night. We’ll manage fine if I promise not to have babies for a year or two.

  Oh, my darling, I love you so much. Please, please say yes.

  Your own true sweetheart,

  Blackness Road

  Crowborough

  Sussex

  February 3rd, 1923

  My dear Elsie,

  I’m sorry you’ve lost your job but I think your father’s right. You must look for another post in London. The hut’s no place to live and a wife can’t promise not to have babies. They happen whether you like it or not.

  It’s so cold at the moment that the hens’ drinking water turns to ice every night. I have to sleep in my overcoat so that I don’t freeze too. You wouldn’t like it at all. And no one will employ a typist who can’t wash herself or her clothes properly.

  Patience is a virtue, Else. If we wed now we won’t be as happy as if we wait. For that reason I’m sure it’s better to delay.

  Here’s hoping you find a new job soon.

  Your loving,

  Wesley Poultry Farm, Blackness Road – summer 1923

  NORMAN WAS COMING TO dread Elsie’s weekend visits. Her happiness of the previous year had given way to bouts of anger and depression. She nagged him about everything. His refusal to name a day. His lack of money. Her endless misery, which she said was his fault.

  Suddenly, she was unable to hold down a job. After working for the same firm for nine years, she had now been given her cards three times in five months. That, too, she blamed on Norman.

  ‘They keep asking when I’m going to be wed and I can’t tell them,’ she said. ‘They laugh at me behind my back.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t, Else. Everyone knows you have to save a bit before you can get hitched. There’s loads of lads and lasses in the same boat as us.’

  She stamped her foot. ‘They do mock me . . . and I hate them for it. I can’t work in a place where people give me nasty looks all the time.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not you who starts it? If you glare at someone, they’ll glare back. Stands to reason.’

  But it was better not to say such things. As Mr Cameron had remarked, his daughter was happier when she had her own way. And ‘having her own way’ meant that Norman must agree with whatever she said. Nothing in life was Elsie’s fault. If things went wrong for her, it was other people who should take the blame.

  Sometimes Norman believed it. He felt guilty about raising her hopes then dashing them again. But if he hadn’t proposed, she’d have been even more unhappy. A ring was proof that he loved her. It was also permission to touch her body.

  Was this one of the reasons why he had begun to dread her visits? It was no longer a case of thrusting against her skirt. When she was in the mood, she let him take her clothes off and feel her naked skin. But that was as far as he was allowed to go. Showing he could control his urges was yet more proof that he loved her.

  ‘I’m keeping myself for our wedding night, pet. A wife must be pure in body and mind when her husband enters her for the first time. You can do all sorts of other things but you can’t put that in my body. That would be wrong.’

  He dreamt about her when she wasn’t there, and became angry when she was. ‘You’re a cock-teaser,’ he would growl every time she pushed him away. ‘You can’t get a chap worked up then tell him to take a cold bath. I’ve got rubbers. Why can’t we use them?’

  ‘They’re vulgar.’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘All right, we won’t use rubbers. I’ve promised to marry you so what are you scared of? I’m not going to let you down.’

  ‘You have so far,’ she would say huffily, stepping into her dress and pulling it up. ‘If you fixed a date, it might be different, but I’m not giving myself to you for a cheap ring.’

  ‘That’s not what you said last summer. Last summer you said you’d think about it if I promised to make you Mrs Thorne.’

  ‘Then make me Mrs Thorne.’

  ‘What’s the point? You’ll just come up with another excuse. How do I know you’ll ever do it, Else?’

  ‘I want a baby, don’t I?’

  ‘And what happens when you have it? I sometimes think all you want is a new pet to moon over.’

  These were sterile arguments that went nowhere and only served to make them angry with each other. Both were sexually frustrated. Norman tried to deal with it by working harder. Elsie swung between moods of dark depression and moods of starry-eyed romance which she put into her love letters from London.

  Oh, my dearest Darling . . . our romance is like a fairy tale and it will end with ‘They lived happily ever after’ . . . How I adore you, my treasure . . . you mean everything to me. I know we can manage in your little hut . . . and Elsie promises to love you always . . . Oh, my Darling, you cannot realize what you mean to me . . . I dream of the day we are together. For ever and ever, your own true sweetheart, Elsie.

  Norman didn’t know what to make of such letters. It seemed to him that, safely back in London, she reinvented herself as a princess in a fairy story. She forgot the hardship of the farm and saw it instead as a place of beauty. But how would he ever make her happy when the reality – mud, smell and debt – was so different?

  The ups and downs of the relationship were taking their toll on Norman. More so, his never-ending money worries. Try as he might, he could not balance his books.

  He was up against farmers on long-established contracts, and there was no demand for Wesley chickens and eggs. Had he planned the project better, he would have toured the area and counted the number of poultry farms. Or the number of houses that kept hens in their gardens. As it was, he’d bought the field on Blackness Road blindly.

  He ran up debts with the chickenfeed producers. Then borrowed to pay them off. He told himself it was money well spent if it produced a profit in the end. All he needed was one good deal with a butcher for a regular supply of birds every week.

  But his father’s words haunted him. ‘There’s no time for love when the bailiffs come knocking on your door.’

  As 1923 moved on towards Christmas, Elsie became more and more desperate. She’d been out of work for months, and her brother and sister had married and left her alone with her parents. Now Mr and Mrs Cameron were on Norman’s back as well. They were
as single-minded as their daughter. When was he going to make an honest woman of Elsie?

  They might just as well have said: ‘When are you going to take Elsie off our hands?’ For that’s how Norman saw it. The more he avoided fixing a date, the harder Elsie’s parents pressed him.

  ‘You’re breaking our girl’s heart,’ said Mr Cameron coldly on Christmas Day. ‘May I remind you that it’s now twelve months since you put a ring on her finger.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’ Norman took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘But as I’ve explained several times I’m not in a position to marry at the moment. I need—’

  Mr Cameron broke in. ‘Why did you make a promise if you weren’t prepared to keep it?’

  I wasn’t given a choice . . . Elsie forced me into it . . . I should have listened to my father . . . ‘I thought the farm would come good this year.’

  ‘And it hasn’t?’

  ‘It’s only a matter of months, sir. If you could persuade Elsie to wait a little bit longer—’

  ‘It’s not my duty to persuade Elsie of anything,’ Mr Cameron snapped. ‘As I see it, my only duty is to remind you that you are legally bound to marry her . . . or be taken to court for breach of promise.’

  A sullen expression settled on Norman’s face. ‘It was Elsie who wanted the ring. I was happy as we were. In any case, I haven’t said I’m not willing to go through with it. I’m just asking for a little more time.’

  ‘Which Elsie doesn’t have, Norman. She’ll be twenty-six in April.’

  ‘She doesn’t look it.’

  ‘That’s not the point though, is it? She feels life is passing her by. Her brother and sister are wed now.’ Mr Cameron sighed. ‘She says people laugh at her because she’s on the shelf.’

  Norman felt a twinge of pity for the man. He knew how difficult Elsie could be when she thought she was being mocked. But his pity was short lived because he blamed both Mr and Mrs Cameron for the way Elsie was. If they hadn’t spoilt her by giving way to her every mood, she wouldn’t have thrown so many tantrums.