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.
Now the chicks were transferred to the chicken run and becoming proper chickens, but they were still quite small and fluffy. I would go in and talk to them, and when I sat down Lucky would jump on my shoulder or lap and I would tell him about my day. I would take him out on the lawn and play with him until it was time for bed, then I would put him back in his pen and say goodnight.
Barbara and Ian were still tense with each other. It was something about her underwear, but I didn’t understand. It had become a cold war now; they were hardly speaking. Kevin was being his usual annoying self, swiping at me, teasing me about Lucky, but I didn’t care. Something was brewing, however, and I could feel it in my guts.
One day, after school, I saw Barbara unlock one of the kitchen cupboards, take out a brown bottle and pour some of the green pills she gave me at night straight into her mouth. She scoffed the lot. Then she turned and saw I had seen her.
‘If it wasn’t for men, the dirty bastards, I wouldn’t have to take these,’ she spat at me. ‘He’s a filthy pig,’ she said, meaning Ian. She often complained about him: how he smelt, the state of his underpants (‘he doesn’t wipe himself properly’), and even one time when her own underwear had gone missing and ended up in his drawer.
‘He’s a filthy bastard,’ she said, turning and trying to take down a huge ice cream container from the top shelf. It flew out and fell on the floor, spewing bottles of pills everywhere. I was amazed by the amount of pills, and she saw me looking.
‘Don’t you dare tell anyone about my pills, d’you hear, you little bitch?’ I nodded. ‘Or you’ll get what for!’
Next day I had my usual morning routine with Lucky and went to school with a furious Barbara, who was sulking all the way, still angry with Ian it seemed. After school I went out to find Lucky, as usual. I called for him and waited. I couldn’t see him in the chicken run, which was strange. Barbara had gone straight out into the garden when we got back and was busy hosing around the greenhouse. I went into the hen house, and there were a few chickens on their nests, including some of the school ones. But no Lucky. I carried on whistling for him. Where was he? I ran up and down the garden, round the shed, in the bushes. No Lucky.
Barbara was at the tap, filling a metal bucket. Finally I realised I’d have to ask her. She must have seen him. I was panicking now. Lucky was my friend, my world. Had he been eaten by a fox (sometimes the foxes came in and took a few chickens) or had he got out? Barbara was swishing water around with a bamboo stick as I approached. I looked in the bucket and jumped. I could see a load of baby mice, all pink and tiny, swirling around in the water like floating marshmallows. She was drowning them, poor little things.
‘If you don’t get rid of them, they’ll be all over the house,’ she hissed venomously. She turned the tap off, threw down the stick and marched back into the house. Job done.