The Insect House by Shirley Day

Author:Shirley Day [Day, Shirley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books
Published: 2022-06-07T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Helen

The door to the chicken run was banging on its hinges when Helen got there. She checked the catch. Pushed it down then up. The mechanism still worked. It would certainly hold until morning. She entered the run, battling all the while against the wind. Most of the chickens had got themselves into the hut. It was only Natalie Wood, a large Rhode Island Red, who had foolishly wedged herself in between the feed tray and the bail of straw Helen used as a windbreak. Natalie’s feathers ruffled in the gusty breeze as she sat stubbornly, all extremities: legs, beak, wings pulled into her fat fluffy body.

‘Short-term gain, you foolish bird.’ Helen slid her hands underneath the bird’s warm bulk, pulling her up from the ground. ‘You’ll freeze if you don’t move and if I get dirt on my clothes, Natalie,’ she whispered into the bird’s ruffled feathers, ‘it will be Sunday lunch for you.’ But as Helen moved away from the straw, she saw the small brown egg. ‘Ah, so that’s the problem. You really are feather-brained, Natalie. Loyalty gets you nowhere.’

She walked quickly to the hut and pushed the bird firmly through the hole in a whirlwind of flapping feathers and squawks before sealing the hatch. She dusted her hands together and examined her clothes. There appeared to be no visible damage. She went back to the small egg and took it gently between her fingers. It was a beautiful breakfast brown. In truth, Natalie was well past her sell-by date. Eggs were rare, maybe that’s why she had been reluctant to leave it. But probably not. Helen wondered if hens even had a concept of getting older, of slipping slowly out of the spotlight. She doubted it. The concept of ageing was most likely a curse singled out for humans. Helen slipped the egg into her pocket, locked the door to the run behind her, and headed towards the shed.

It had been an old mushroom shed, so there were no windows and, despite having not been used for purpose for a very long time the smell of fungus in warm earth was unmistakable. There were three rows of mushroom trays running down one wall. Over the years, Helen had used the shed for a multitude of projects. The shelves had been cluttered with all manner of things; fossils, dried flowers. Once even materials for perfume; the three long shed trays lined meticulously with rows of tiny glass containers and empty margarine tubs containing flower petals soaked in water. The shed was the first real parcel of land that Helen had inherited, so it held special significance. For the past ten years or so it had been given over to egg propagation, and Helen knew that this project would probably be the one to see her out.

She stepped in, hitting the light switch on the side of the door and leaving the cruel wind outside. The shed had electricity, a small supply, just enough for a twenty-watt bulb and an incubator.

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