Chickens
The war was taking its course and a shortage of men around the place meant that women were doing many of the jobs that men traditionally did. Rationing had begun to bite and most of our gardens had been dug over in the “dig for Victory” drive, this was a way of producing more food by digging over every bit of land,
Lawns, flower beds and unkempt bits of ground were the target for the Ministry Man who would provide you with the original help. usually Italian prisoners of war, and find an expert to change the most plant ignorant person into producing all the vegetables for the family.
Chickens could be provided to eat any scraps and produce eggs and meat but before they could be killed the ministry man had to agree. They were mostly there for egg production. The chickens, not the men!
When I was about seven years old the old ladies across the road asked my mother if I would go across after school, so I got sent over.
“Can you kill chickens” I was asked.
Now as a seven year old ask me what you will, I could do it. I believed in saying so. C ertainly, never say “No, I ca’ant do it” was my approach to most things.
So I was despatched up the hill to the old ladies allotment with the instructions to pick two fat chickens and after despatching them quietly, deliver both back to the ladies house, in the sack provided.
“Do it quietly or you will put them off lay” being my parting instructions.
Only after getting all the chickens into the hut ,a large hut, did I “think on” that I had never despatched a chicken before, still wringing a chicken’s neck cannot be so difficult; can it?. Obviously the first thing to do was to catch a fat chicken. I can tell you that chickens do not come easily when evil intent is about them.
In a hut twelve foot square ten chickens have all the advantages, they dive round boxes and sacks , fly up into the roof space, knock everything over and all the time keep up an appalling noise.
Picking out one chicken and keeping an eye on him is impossible. As for “quietly” chickens don’t do things! Quietly, believe me.
I realised that these chickens were not going to help me, so abandoning the “fat” requirement I decided the first chicken I could grab “gets it”.
Eventually I managed to snatch a chicken as he tried to body swerve me and caught him by the neck. Tucking it under my arm I turned his head round a few times and held on while his eyes closed and he was perfectly still. I pronounced him a dead chicken and placed him on top of the feed box.
The feathers and dust were by now getting to me I was covered in both from head to toe. The light through the one small dusty window was by now defused by the clouds of dust, straw and feathers , seeing these fast moving chickens was not easy now and they had realised that being a small boy I couldn’t reach up onto the roof beam anyway. My allotted task of despatching two of their number was only half completed.
However there was not enough room on the roof beam for all of them so some had to remain “in play” and after a great dive into the corner number two was securely tucked under my arm and “despatched “ by my neck turning method.
It had taken me about an hour of hard work to get these two birds but pleased that I had completed the mission and firmly holding number two chicken in my hand I turned to pick up the chicken I had murdered in the first instance.
The feed box lid was devoid of any bodies, not a dead chicken in sight.
”GONE” I couldn’t believe it!
I never thought chickens were smart enough to play dead as an escape ploy but there was no doubt that number one had revitalised himself and beggared off among his compatriots
Now there only so much a seven year old can put up with and chickens playing dead are not one of them, but still I had number two, so in order to avoid another miraculous recovery I chopped off his head with the firewood axe conveniently hanging in the corner of the shed. Thus being able to identify this chicken among the others. I dropped it; minus its head; into the sack. You can’t eat the head anyway, I figured!
MY problem now was where target number one was hiding. All nine appeared to be in rude health, none had a sagging head. I figured that at best it would have a sore neck so I threw down some corn expecting one to refuse the offer of food. All nine chickens leapt down from their current refuges and began eating with gusto while I watched for the first signs of a sore throat eater.
None of them were telling who number one was, so grabbing the nearest, I cut off his head to match the other and placing it in the sack with relief I got out of that place of skulduggery and by now total mayhem.
I took my prizes and proof of my success at chicken killing down to the old ladies house. Where, after astonishment that both chickens had “lost their heads” I was given a shilling and sent home.
All went well for a fortnight, when returning home from school I found one of the ladies in the kitchen with mother. My heart sank, not another chicken killing expedition, but no, merely an enquirery,
“Did you notice anything unusual about any of the chickens Peter” says mother.
“NO nothing”. Said I
“Miss Addison has discovered one of her chickens lying dead this morning it looks like it hasn’t eaten for a while”
“Well, they were all eating when I left “
“It looks like something has got in and chased them all over the place I expect it was a cat or something”. Says Miss Addison
Sometimes, and this was definitely one of them; it’s better to say nowt so I didn’t.
CHICKENS! Who needs em!
