The Lover's Children novel Chapter 66

JAMES

Squeals come from somewhere across the garden, Cara’s infant shrieks of delight. Then Michael’s words... “Exciting isn’t it. There, we’ll put him in here…

And more squeals…

“Yes, there’s another one…”

Charlotte gives me a questioning glance.

I shrug.

No idea…

Together we follow the sounds to Michael’s chicken run, fenced off now within a large wire mesh enclosure. I unhook the entrance gate - in truth more an entrance door as I realise my head is brushing against a wire mesh ‘roof’ to the enclosure. At base level too, the mesh overlaps the ground, the edge turfed over. No fox is going to dig its way into Michael’s galline answer to Fort Knox. Various small runs, arks and coops line the inside of the run.

A child’s vocal enthusiasm spills from inside the main shed. As I enter, a finger of light slants over Michael and Cara, both turned away from us, intent on something: a large plywood box, perhaps a couple of feet high, set on the ground, a lantern… no, a heat-lamp… dangling above. Assorted paraphernalia hangs on hooks and nails. Another container sits on a low bench: despite its transparent plastic top, it’s too steamed up to display the contents.

Michael, squatted on his haunches, glances over his shoulder. “Close the door, would you. Keep the heat in.”

Charlotte follows me in, closing the door behind her.

My infant daughter holds in her cupped hands, an egg. The shell partly cracked open, a small body inside heaves, forcing the two halves apart.

Michael beams. “You picked a good time.”

Cara babbles delight, holding up her cupped palms for inspection. “Chikkie, Nunky Jammy. Mommee… Chikkie!”

Michael holds his much larger hand under hers. “Be careful. Don’t drop it. Just watch.”

With a herculean effort, the tiny creature surges and half the shell falls away. Another surge, the other half follows, and Cara holds in her hands the tiny, wet panting body of what looks like a small dinosaur.

Michael guides her. “Now, we’ll put him under the lamp, then he stays warm.”

The plywood box, lined with newspaper and shavings is not just warm, but hot. Three chicks, in varying stages of drying out, cluster together in the centre of the beam. One is already completely fluffed up: bright yellow with a pale brown stripe down its back. The others lie quiet, tiny chests heaving, their down still damp, dark and matted.

Her tongue poking out in concentration, and with exaggerated care, Cara places her newly hatched chick beside them.

“There you see,” says Michael. “She can dry out her feathers and she’ll soon be all yellow and fluffy.”

The door creaks open. Klempner pokes his head in inside.”What…?” He halts mid-sentence and steps inside, gazing into the brooder box. Cara gapes and points. “Chikkies, Gandy Kay. Chikkies!”

Klempner regards his granddaughter, stares into the box. After long seconds, “When you said you were planning on hatching chickens, I suppose I’d not thought through what that meant.” His voice is gruff, but even he sounds charmed.

Michael wears a cat-that-got-the-cream grin. “I wanted it as a present for Cara. And since I’ve never done it before, I needed to be sure all was well before I said too much about it.” He glances up. “Vicky can help in a year or so.”

Cara squeals, pointing. “Nuther chikkie, Dada!”

Sure enough, in the incubator, through the cloud of humidity, more shells are chipping as their occupants fight the hardest journey of their small lives.

Klempner peers through the steam. “They look a mixed bag. Are they all the same breed?”

“Nope. I ordered several different varieties over the internet. I wasn’t sure what would do best here so like I said before, I thought some variety would be a good idea. See what works, and what thrives here. But they’re all general-purpose breeds, good for eggs and…” He glances down at the enthralled Cara, presses a finger to his lips… “… and other things.”

She’s not noticed. “Addie?”

Michael hooks an arm around his adopted daughter. “Yes, when they get back, we'll get Aunty Beth to bring Adam to see them, shall we. They'll be nice and pretty and fluffy then.”

“They’re already back,” says Charlotte.

Cara punches a little arm upward. “Ya ya yay ya!”

*****

By the end of the following day, Michael’s ‘nursery’ homes twenty-some cheeping occupants of assorted shades, stripes and spots. Two eggs remain in the incubator.

Cara refuses to move from the hatching shed. And I’m inclined toward Michael’s view. It’s good for her to learn about such things. Rather than drag her indoors, I take out some warmed milk and a chopped banana for her.

Cara remains glued to the incubator, watching intently…

Hell of an attention span for a toddler…

… waiting for more signs of chipping. She tugs at Michael’s pullover, pointing at the unmoving eggs. “Chikkies, Dada?”

He swings his head. “I don’t think so, Sweetheart. Let’s have a look, shall we.” He produces a torch, shining the beam through the egg from behind. The shell glows orange, but inside is only a turgid swirl. “No chikkie in this one, Cara.”

Her face crumples. “No chikkie?”

“No. No chikkie. Not in this egg. It happens sometimes.”

Cara’s little face screws up, reddens up.

He squats down, takes her tiny hand in his. “It’s alright, Sweetheart. It’s just Nature’s way of saying something was wrong with the egg and it can’t make the chikkie properly. It’s better the chikkie doesn’t hatch, than it’s born and it can’t have a nice life.” Cara’s lip still trembles. “Don’t worry about it. You have all these pretty chikkies. They’ll be yours if you help me, help them to grow up big and strong.”

Cara beams, tragedy forgotten. “Cara’s chikkies?”

“Yes, yours. So, it’s important you learn to look after them. I’ll show you how to do it.”

*****

RICHARD

Mitch whisks around the lounge with duster and spray, moving wine glasses, bottles and decanters.

“Am I in your way?”