We find Mark standing amid a mess of mesh and wooden poles, hammer in hand.
‘Sky!’ Mark exclaims. ‘Great to see you again. Nothing I appreciate more than a bird fan, and around these parts … well,’ he lowers his voice, ‘some of the locals would rather point a gun to the trees than a pair of Swarovskis. You two are exactly what I need, four extra hands,’ he says, smiling at us. ‘You don’t mind, this should only take ten minutes.’
‘But Sky has to go,’ Lucy tells her dad.
I look at the rows of large enclosures, my eyes widening in surprise.
‘That’s okay,’ I say. They’re not what I imagined, small and steel, but rather towering wooden structures, twice my height, full of branches, rocks, and even toys like hanging balls and rubber tires. Nest boxes are tied high to the back corners. Birds of all kinds are perched, nibbling on seeds or resting. Many have bandaged wings or legs.
I’ve made a huge mistake – these cages aren’t for harming wild birds. They’re for saving them.
‘I’ll stay.’
It takes about half an hour for Mark to knock together a new shelter, and we help by holding poles and wiring in place. Then we go inside for drinks and snacks. Mark disappears upstairs, telling us to let us know when we’re finished – he’ll show me around.
I look around the living room, walls inlaid with wood like an antique shop and hung with oil paintings, watercolours and photographs of birds.
As Lucy pours orange juice into small rose-coloured glasses, I find out her mum works at the medical centre in town and her dad works mostly from home as an academic and part-time consultant for the National Parks and Wildlife Service.
‘He finished his PhD a few years ago,’ Lucy says, ‘on the Fairy Flycatcher.’
‘What?’ I say, thinking of Tinkerbell. ‘He studied fairies?’
‘No,’ she laughs, ‘they’re birds.’
‘We lived in Botswana. You know, the country north of South Africa? That’s where I was born,’ Lucy continues. Now I understand what her accent is.
‘But we moved all over the world for Dad’s research. I went to four schools before I was ten,’ she says. ‘He got a job here last year.’
Lucy tells me all about the exotic life she remembers in Africa and their move to Australia where her father received a post-doctoral fellowship. Her older brother has finished high school and is volunteering in Malaysia with the Red Cross.
She may be an unpopular nerd, but Lucy has an ultra-cool family. I manage to keep the focus on her family and avoid questions about me. I don’t feel like talking about Mum.
‘I’ll go get Dad again so he can give you a tour; it’s his favourite thing,’ she says, which gives me a chance to look around. It’s the total opposite to Marissa’s house.
A mishmash of furniture fills the room: a brown velvet threadbare couch draped with a bright yellow crochet blanket; an old bronze lamp and stained-glass shade; mismatched chairs surround a beaten-up dining table covered with papers and unopened mail and a myriad of worn Persian rugs cover the floorboards. The walls, when not covered with bird pictures, are lined with book-laden shelves or decorated with African masks.
The mixture of old worn items looks exotic. Paula and David’s house, although filled with plants, seems dull in comparison, and even our apartment in Sydney, with all Mum’s bright hippy furnishings, doesn’t compare.
We go back outside and Mark leads us through the enclosures.
‘This is our magpie area,’ he says as he takes a clipboard off the door. ‘Here’s the date we received the bird …’ he points to the sheet, ‘the injury or medical condition, and we write down their recovery and progress here,’ he shows me a column full of scribbled notes.
‘Some birds can’t be rehabilitated so they stay here permanently. I’m working on an educational programme and—’
‘So you don’t take the birds from the wild?’ I interrupt. I want to make sure.
‘Yes, of course, they’re wild—’
‘But,’ I say, ‘they’re all injured?’
‘Well, yes,’ he looks at me quizzically. ‘This is a rescue, rehabilitation and release centre. There’s our latest arrival, found by the side of the road, probably hit by a car,’ he stops to point into a cage. ‘He’s a beauty, isn’t he? A Brown Falcon, which is a bird of prey, he’s one of the twenty-four species of raptors native to Australia.’
We continue to walk. ‘As I was saying, you can like us on Facebook; we have 349 followers, I’d be honoured if you’d be our 350th. Lucy will send you the link, won’t you?’ Lucy nods.
‘We’re aiming to replenish bird stocks,’ Mark’s tone now becomes serious, ‘with so much land clearing for new urban development, widening roads, well … many ancient trees are cut down. And birds don’t only need living trees, they also rely on hollow dead trunks for nesting sites, and species like cockatoos and rosellas are now forced to nest in the open, vulnerable to predators and cars. Some threatened species, like …’ he motions for me to follow him
Mark shows me every cage, introducing me to the various species and describing their injuries and treatment. Finally, the three of us walk back towards the house.
Chirp would be happy here, I know it. And WildRider said I should find him a home with a carer. This is beyond perfect.
I take a breath. ‘I found a little bird the other day.’
Mark stops and he and Lucy both turn to look at me. I really should have planned what to say and now I have to think up a story quickly.
‘Bella, my dog, found him next to the house,’ I say, ‘and started barking, but I got there in time; he was nestled in a bush, well not that small, quite big, maybe a Grevillea,’ I embellish, ‘he wasn’t hurt or anything … I think he’s a chicken,’ I say, ‘a real chicken.’
I can feel my face flushing.
‘He’s in a box, Chirp, I mean, that’s his name, he’s fine but …,’ I can’t help but give my nails a quick chew. ‘Maybe he could stay here? I really don’t know what to do with him.’ At least that bit is true.
‘Goodness, Sky,’ Mark looks surprised. ‘I wonder where he came from?’
I try to look innocent.
‘There’s a chicken farm, only …’ he says scratching his ear lobe. ‘No,’ he shakes his head, ‘not likely.’
I stay silent as I reckon it’s safer that way.
‘Of course, we’ll take him,’ he says, just as I start to sweat. ‘Not our usual kind of rescue, but what the hell, a bird needs a home and that’s what matters.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I say. ‘I’ll help take care of him.’
‘Just don’t get too attached,’ Mark says. ‘If this is a broiler chicken they often don’t live so long as the selective breeding is ruthless, giving them all sorts of health problems.’
Awesome. Another horrible thing I didn’t know, another thing that Farmer Greg lied about. He advertises how healthy they all are. Hopefully, Chirp will be a lucky one.
‘I don’t think you should put his picture on Facebook, because …’
Mark interrupts to ask, ‘Can your aunt bring him round today?’
‘She’s away,’ I lie. ‘I’m really sorry. Any chance you can drive?’
‘Sure,’ he says, ‘I’ll grab my keys.’
Just one more lie, I tell myself, texting Paula and asking her to urgently pick up some glitter glue for a fake art project that is ‘due tomorrow’, from the stationery store. That will get her out of the house for long enough for me to pick up Chirp undetected.
The plan goes smoothly and I insist on returning with Mark and Lucy to help settle Chirp into a large cage at the back of the garden. Mark tells me it’s a good place for him, chickens are flock birds and he has two roommates to keep him company.
‘This is your new home,’ I tell Chirp. ‘You’ll be safe here.’ I kiss him as I put him on the woodchips. I realise this is his first time outside, but I can’t say that to Mark or Lucy.
‘Can I put the box inside
with him,’ I suggest, noticing Chirp sitting nervously in the corner ‘just in case he feels more comfortable?’
‘Good thinking,’ Mark says and we open the side of the box so Chirp can walk in and out easily.
They leave me alone for a minute.
‘Check out all the other birds, Chirp,’ I say picking him up for another cuddle, ‘maybe you’ll make a friend or two! And I’ll come visit. Okay, cutie-pie?’ I put him to my face and breathe in his soft fluffy warmth.
I take the bus home. I feel ashamed that I had distrusted and misjudged Lucy, and grateful I had accidentally discovered the truth. Lucy is so nice but I also can’t help but feel jealous that she has such an awesome father.
Later Lucy texts me a pic of Chirp sleeping snugly on his blanket,
‘He gobbled up all the seed,’ she writes, ‘U can visit him every day after school if u want.’
‘Thanks a billion,’ I respond, wondering how I’m going to keep this all a secret, ‘that would be great’.
Chapter 15
Today is father–daughter day at school.
It’s a way to get dads involved in the school community. I’m a veteran already – after surviving last year’s at my old school, which went ahead despite Mum’s complaints to the principal that it’s irrelevant and offensive for modern families. I spent most of the day, as the girls and dads laughed and talked, pretending to re-read an old book. I didn’t finish one paragraph.
At least this year I have Marissa, Jules and Kristy. And if they’re not around, I can hang with Lucy and Mark and talk birds.
Lucy’s my secret friend. I haven’t told her she’s hush-hush as such, that would be cruel, but she gets it somehow and doesn’t talk to me when I’m with my popular friends. I feel guilty about it, but now it’s just an unspoken rule.
I’ve been visiting Chirp every day after school, which is also top secret. Paula thinks I’m at Marissa’s and Jules believes I’m staying late at the library, and Marissa, well, I don’t think she cares much, being totally obsessed with preparing for the gala.
I decided not to tell Marissa or anybody else about Chirp now that he’s settled so comfortably at Lucy’s place. I know secrets are best kept when few people hold them. And this one’s big. Maybe if Melody comes next week on the way back from the rainforest action, not that I’m counting on it because she’s cancelled so many times, I’ll tell her everything and even show her Chirp.
Chirp. He totally adores me. He’s the groupie to my rock star. Every time I appear, he erupts into chattering cheeps, clucks and chirps, and when I open the cage he follows me around like Bella does at home. Lucy and I find his dust-bathing hilarious, a chicken rolling, kicking his legs with glee, and covering himself in dirt like Bella when she finds something deliciously smelly. And when I sit down, tired from laughing, Chirp pecks about looking for insects and then climbs onto my lap where I stroke his feathers like a cat.
‘Who’s a sweet chicken, who?’ I tickle his neck. ‘You love cuddles, don’t you?’ He doesn’t need to answer. I can tell he adores it and I half expect him to purr. He also loves bananas and eats straight from my hand, but his favourite food is watermelon. I’ve taken a hundred pictures of him, especially of his feathers smeared red with juice and his beak lumpy from sticky bits of banana. I’m dying to put him on Instagram, but can’t take the risk.
His top feathers are already growing big, like him, but underneath are layers of smaller ones, soft like a down pillow. His comb, the red thing that sticks out from the top of his head, felt fleshy and weird at first, but now I’m used to it. I’m learning a tonne about chickens.
I took a video of him blinking and when I was mucking about with it on my computer, I played it in slow motion, and it’s crazy because instead of his top eyelid closing, like humans do, his bottom lid moves up. I’m going to put it in my school project. The video only shows his eye so no one will recognise Chirp as a stolen chicken from the local farm.
My plans to make my project extraordinary, with multimedia video and pics is going well. Perfect, because it’s due next week.
I sent it to WildRider and he loved it too. I’m hoping he’s just forgotten to tell me where he lives and isn’t avoiding the question, so I’ve asked again just to make sure. If he lives reasonably close we could meet up one weekend and hang out. Then I could really forget Oliver and how much I like him.
Today we miss morning maths to go to assembly where we hear three fathers talk about their boring jobs; Kristy’s father is especially dull – a chartered accountant, yikes. The bell rings for lunch. I check my phone. Still no answer from WildRider.
The fathers are in charge of the lunchtime barbeque, with the money going to some charity. I take a big breath and walk into the smoky schoolyard to find my friends.
I watch the men for a moment. Like birds, they come in all shapes – tall, short, hairy, bald, weedy and butch. Some laugh loudly, others whisper quietly to their daughters. If my dad was here, I wonder what he would be like?
I remember the box of photos I found under Paula’s bed. Maybe my dad is in one of them.
‘Sky!’ someone shouts and look across the playground to see David. He practically runs towards me, with a goofy smile.
‘Paula told me, hope you don’t mind,’ he says, ‘but thought you may need a dad today?’
‘But you’re not …’ I say. ‘You’re my uncle.’
‘I know,’ his smile drops, ‘but we’ll just pretend?’
‘Everyone knows that—’ I say.
‘I mean,’ he stops me, ‘I’ll just play “pretend dad”, I don’t want you to pretend I’m your dad.’
‘What?’ This isn’t going well.
‘Look, if you want me to leave, I …’ he looks crestfallen.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Stay. I mean, thanks and everything.’ His smile returns and soon he’s holding a pair of tongs, flipping a burger and chatting to the other dads, looking as happy as Chirp in a dust bath.
I hang with Marissa and Jules and we help ourselves to cool drinks while we wait for their dads to arrive. Jules is still trying to convince Marissa that her red and black retro dress is cool. But Marissa’s not buying. I spot Oliver by the drinks table and ignore the tingles shooting up my spine. Luckily, Marissa hasn’t seen him, because she’s now showing me a picture of Taylor Swift’s latest hairdo and wondering out loud if she should do the same for the gala.
‘You have to get this done,’ she puts the phone in front of my face and zooms on a plaited up-do, ‘but it depends on your dress, is it strapless? You have bought one already, haven’t you, Sky?’
‘Well …’ I say, ‘Actually, I …’
‘Cupcake!’ a man’s voice calls and Marissa runs to embrace him. They walk back towards us.
‘Sky, this is my dad,’ she says and my jaw drops. Literally.
It’s the chicken man.
He extends his hand. ‘I know you,’ he says happily. ‘You came by my office and asked all those questions.’
‘What?’ says Marissa, ‘are you doing your project on chickens? I didn’t know that.’ She glares at me.
‘Hello,’ I say, ignoring Marissa and allowing him to shake my hand. I grip as firmly as I can; if I squeeze hard enough I could break his fingers. I’ve been fuming ever since I met him, replaying everything he said to me, and that stupid brochure, comparing it to what was real.
The brochure doesn’t show the foul smell, the poo-covered floor, the windowless walls, the thousands of hopeless animals. Doomed to a life of misery and death. The farm isn’t Club Med, it’s Club Hell, and now I know Chirp and how much he loves digging, scratching, napping under a bush, his feathers all covered with earth.
‘Nice to see you,’ I say, staring angrily into his chestnut eyes. If Chirp gets sick and dies like Mark said he might, I swear I’ll kill him.
Does Marissa even know what goes on in her dad’s farm? She probably just looks at the pretty pictures, the dancing cartoon chickens, like everyone else. Who
is allowed inside? Maybe if I get Greg to reveal the truth, Marissa will help me do something to change it.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I say.
‘That’s right,’ he winks at me, ‘the journalist’. But this time I’m not flattered. He should be scared of journalists. He’s a liar and the truth will prevail.
I feel Marissa frowning at me while Kristy and Jules are staring.
‘At what age are the chickens …?’ I can’t bring myself to say it. ‘Are they … Umm–’
‘Slaughtered?’ he prompts, like I’m some silly child.
‘Yes, killed, slaughtered,’ I repeat.
‘Depends, sometimes thirty-four or forty days old, depending how big the supermarket wants them.’
‘But aren’t …’ I continue.
‘Is this your friend?’ David interrupts, joining the group. ‘Nice to meet you, Marissa,’ he shakes her hand.
‘This is David,’ I say to Greg.
‘Seen your posters around town,’ David says, shaking his hand, ‘when are the elections again?’
‘In a few weeks, appreciate your support, mate,’ Greg says.
‘Aren’t they still babies at a month old?’ I say, determined to finish my question, ‘And how do they exercise all their natural behaviours if they’re locked inside, like dust-bathing and roosting and … and, scratching for worms and stuff?’
‘Have to field all kinds of tricky questions in the mayoral race, it’s good practice,’ Greg winks at David, adding, ‘I was just telling your daughter about the production of chicken meat, she came to the farm the other day.’
David looks at me and then turns back to Greg.
‘She’s definitely a curious one,’ Greg chuckles.
‘So?’ I force Greg to turn his attention back to me. ‘How can you kill them if they’re babies, isn’t that illegal?’
‘Now, now,’ Greg clucks soothingly, ‘they’re chickens, not babies. And how about lamb or veal; you do know they’re young sheep and cows, right?’
Now I feel stupid.
He continues, patronising me. ‘Animals aren’t like us, sweetheart, and we must be careful not to attribute human traits to them. That’s called anthro-po-mor-phising.’ He says the word slowly, like I’m an idiot.
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