Hens

Chickens, hens as a matter of fact, as cockerels are only there if you really want to breed your own replacements for a flock, so this is a true story about hens of long ago. Well, not so long ago really, just long ago to your lifetime as you were not alive then. The long ago I am telling about is the long ago that was in your grandmothers life, just about the time when I was to be added to her burdens, or perhaps a little before. She kept hens, lots of them. She kept them in a big orchard that lay in front of the house, stretching down the slope to the bottom of the valley, the other side of which was where the land rose and rose until it become that ridge of hills known as the Malvers. Once, even before my mother's time, the farm that clung to that hillside that faced the orchard had been my great-grandfather's; but that is so long ago that it hurts to think of, and is not to do with this story, but is another story entirely. I merely mention that farm and that hillside to set the scene of deep rural peace of an apple orchard stretching down to the bottom of a valley that faced those hills and that farm; an orchard that had hens pecking between those trees; hens that laid eggs; eggs that were collected each day from the movable chicken houses in which the hens roosted; eggs that were gathered in a wickerwork basket and then laid with care onto cardboard trays, twelve by twelve eggs to a tray, tray stacked on top of tray ready to be collected by the little van that would come for them a couple of times a week. Those were days of rationing when every egg laid was counted and recorded, collected and sent off to be stamped and packed so that everyone would get their share, townies and country folk alike.

'Tis a truth that every keeper of hens knows, that hens do not lay for ever, but each in their time reaches an age when, no matter how well cared for or cosseted, no matter how rich the grass is that they peck between, no matter how good their feed, no matter how blessed they are with where they live, they will no longer lay eggs, or so few as to render keeping them any longer quite without profit. At that time the only fate that is in store for them is to be killed for their meat. In those days of rationing hotels were only too pleased to have such culled hens for their chefs use their skills upon, turning them into this dish or that, and what was left, if any, into goodly stocks and soups.

My mothers hens ended their days being supplied to The West Malvern Hotel, a once grand institution that had seen its heydays when Malvern was a bustling spa town, and which, in-spite of the privations of rationing, still had pretensions to preserving the standards of its past. It was said that it still employed a French chef, a shore token that the food was, or at least tried to be, above the average - perhaps a standard not to difficult to achieve in the early years of post-war Britain.

Be their destination what-ever, those old hens chosen each week or so to end their time as layers, were usually taken by my father, flapping and squawking, held firmly by their feet, off to the old shed by the side of the house, where he did what what was need to be done by way of wringing their necks, leaving the plucking and dressing of the carcasses to be done by my mother when he had finished.

That is what usually happened, but this one time my father was away, called off on business somewhere. The hotel had rung in an order for four hens and would be expecting them on the next day, so my mother went and selected the hens to be killed, bore them off to the shed, and, summoning up all of the courage and strength that she could, set to the task of dispatching them. She was, as you may or may not remember, tiny. Barely five foot high, if she stood ramrod straight and tried to stretch up as far as she could, and no more than six stone even at her heaviest. Certainly she was wiry. Certainly she was determined. Certainly she would not flinch from whatever she felt must be done and would give every last fibre of strength to the doing of it.

Having dispatched the hens, and hung them up by their feet on the clothes line that was stretched across the shed roof for the purpose so that they would be ready for plucking, she set to and did just that, and soon four quite still and plucked hens were hanging ready for the morrow to be supplied to the hotel. Thus pleased with herself she left the shed, closed the door well against the coming of any predators who might only be too pleased to steal a fresh chicken for their supper: even if the fox may not steal in and take such a easy meal, the farm cat, or one of the dogs might think such a treat worth having.

Now, come later that day and my mother, having done what she must around the house and kitchen, came to time to feed the hens and shut them away safely in their houses for the night. The bins with the chicken feed in were in the same shed that was used for plucking the chickens, so she opened the door to collect the feed, only to be confronted by a sight she was completely unprepared for - four naked hens standing in the feed bins pecking down food as fast as they could.

My mother might well have been a country woman, and had no illusions about the niceties of such life, but she had heart, a heart that was touched by the sight before her. She knew only too well that she had failed to dispatch those four poor hens, and she knew too that she clearly had now neither the heart nor strength to make certain of their dispatch. Her best efforts at so doing had failed. What was to be done? The poor hens could not be returned naked to the flock, nor could she apparently make and end of them so that the hotel might have their order filled. My father was away for a few days, so he, with his greater strength and skill in such matters, was not there to be able to do what she so clearly could not.

Now she had a order from the hotel that she could not fill and four naked hens that could not be returned to the flock as they were.

She phoned the hotel and apologised for not being able to fill their order. That was the simple part, no matter how cross it made the manager and his chef. A few bleatings of “I am but a small and feeble woman all on her own without some strong man to do what must be done” soon sorted that out. Little did they know that she was about as feeble as a tank regiment, nor did they know that she was about as resourceful as an entire corp of intelligence officers.

Next morning an unusual sight was to beheld amongst the hens pecking away under the trees of the orchard. Four of their number happily and warmly dressed in brightly coloured, chicken shaped jumpers, each quite content with their new plumage and feeding merrily.

I never did hear tell of what was the eventual fate of those four hens, nor what my father's comments had been at the sight that has greeted him when he returned - but I can guess that it caused some hilarity in the village pub as the sight of four hens dressed in newly knitted and well fitting jumpers was not too often seen, even in those parts.