him from their stations about the flat, wondering if he was going to get their wheat.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Harry.
Harry always gave them their wheat before dinner. Would Mum remember to do it if he went to school next year? he wondered. The chooks would miss their snack.
Arnie Shwarzenfeather gave a short crow at the sound of the lid of the wheat barrel being opened, and O’Neil jumped down from her perch on the truck.
O’Neil was old—eight, maybe, or nine. She was the first chook Harry had ever had of his own. He’d named her after the captain of the football team up in town.
O’Neil didn’t lay many eggs anymore—maybe half a dozen eggs in early summer, maybe none at all—and most of the time she seemed to be asleep. But she was a nice chook and the tamest of the lot.
‘Here you are, O’Neil,’ said Harry. He scattered a handful of wheat just for her before throwing the rest out into the pine needles for the other chooks to scratch around and argue over. They never seemed to notice O’Neil’s secret feed of wheat. Or maybe Arnie and Mr J knew all the time, and kept the other chooks away.
The chooks bobbled and scratched like they were run by clockwork: peck and lift and peck and lift … chooks were peaceful things, thought Harry. No matter how much fuss there was you always felt calmer when you’d been down with the chooks.
He wondered if Cissie had chooks back at the camp. Did soldiers have hens? Not now, of course—he couldn’t imagine an army barracks with chooks. But back then …? There’d be no way to get eggs if they didn’t have chooks.
How often did the supply boat that Cissie had mentioned come? It must bring flour and meat and tea and coffee. Did they have coffee back then? Probably not. Or cola either. Imagine a world without a can of cola … what did they drink then?
Angie might know. She was interested in history and stuff like that.
Angie understood. Spike would keep the secret—he wasn’t the sort to go around telling if you asked him not to. But Angie really understood.
The hens had finished the wheat, both the real stuff and the imaginary grains they thought they could see among the pine needles. A couple of them began scratching again, looking for cicada and moth larvae. O’Neil had gone to bed, huddled on the lowest perch next to the far wall. Once she’d been on the top perch, but as she’d aged she’d been pushed down to the second then the third and now the last.
Did chooks mind losing the top position, wondered Harry. They must, or there wouldn’t be all the squawking about who got what position last thing at night.
‘Harry! Dinner!’
Harry left the chooks to their scratching. He’d come down and lock them in after dinner, when it was getting dark and they were all inside.
What would Cissie have for dinner, he wondered. Fish maybe (did they have chips back then?), or roast kangaroo …
Did people eat tomato sauce in the olden days? Would she eat dinner with all the soldiers? Or did the officers and men eat separately and she ate with one or the other?
What did she do after dinner? Read by candlelight? Play cards? Or did the soldiers go to bed as soon as it got dark, and get up early in the morning.
For a moment he wondered if he should look through the hole after dinner. But it would be dark in the hole by then. Cissie would be back at the garrison. There’d be nothing to be seen at all.
chapter eleven
Monday
‘Harry!’
‘In here!’ Harry peered out of the main shed. It was Angie. She wore jeans and an old T-shirt that Spike had outgrown and her riding boots. She was alone.
‘Where’s Spike?’
‘He went fencing with Dad.’ She shrugged. ‘He says to tell him if anything interesting happens. Hey, I thought you’d be looking at the hole!’
‘I was earlier. There’s no one there. I just came in here to get some chicken wire. I told Dad I was extending the chook run. It’s a good excuse to be down there all the time.’
Angie
‘Oh, all right,’ said Harry.
Harry always gave them their wheat before dinner. Would Mum remember to do it if he went to school next year? he wondered. The chooks would miss their snack.
Arnie Shwarzenfeather gave a short crow at the sound of the lid of the wheat barrel being opened, and O’Neil jumped down from her perch on the truck.
O’Neil was old—eight, maybe, or nine. She was the first chook Harry had ever had of his own. He’d named her after the captain of the football team up in town.
O’Neil didn’t lay many eggs anymore—maybe half a dozen eggs in early summer, maybe none at all—and most of the time she seemed to be asleep. But she was a nice chook and the tamest of the lot.
‘Here you are, O’Neil,’ said Harry. He scattered a handful of wheat just for her before throwing the rest out into the pine needles for the other chooks to scratch around and argue over. They never seemed to notice O’Neil’s secret feed of wheat. Or maybe Arnie and Mr J knew all the time, and kept the other chooks away.
The chooks bobbled and scratched like they were run by clockwork: peck and lift and peck and lift … chooks were peaceful things, thought Harry. No matter how much fuss there was you always felt calmer when you’d been down with the chooks.
He wondered if Cissie had chooks back at the camp. Did soldiers have hens? Not now, of course—he couldn’t imagine an army barracks with chooks. But back then …? There’d be no way to get eggs if they didn’t have chooks.
How often did the supply boat that Cissie had mentioned come? It must bring flour and meat and tea and coffee. Did they have coffee back then? Probably not. Or cola either. Imagine a world without a can of cola … what did they drink then?
Angie might know. She was interested in history and stuff like that.
Angie understood. Spike would keep the secret—he wasn’t the sort to go around telling if you asked him not to. But Angie really understood.
The hens had finished the wheat, both the real stuff and the imaginary grains they thought they could see among the pine needles. A couple of them began scratching again, looking for cicada and moth larvae. O’Neil had gone to bed, huddled on the lowest perch next to the far wall. Once she’d been on the top perch, but as she’d aged she’d been pushed down to the second then the third and now the last.
Did chooks mind losing the top position, wondered Harry. They must, or there wouldn’t be all the squawking about who got what position last thing at night.
‘Harry! Dinner!’
Harry left the chooks to their scratching. He’d come down and lock them in after dinner, when it was getting dark and they were all inside.
What would Cissie have for dinner, he wondered. Fish maybe (did they have chips back then?), or roast kangaroo …
Did people eat tomato sauce in the olden days? Would she eat dinner with all the soldiers? Or did the officers and men eat separately and she ate with one or the other?
What did she do after dinner? Read by candlelight? Play cards? Or did the soldiers go to bed as soon as it got dark, and get up early in the morning.
For a moment he wondered if he should look through the hole after dinner. But it would be dark in the hole by then. Cissie would be back at the garrison. There’d be nothing to be seen at all.
chapter eleven
Monday
‘Harry!’
‘In here!’ Harry peered out of the main shed. It was Angie. She wore jeans and an old T-shirt that Spike had outgrown and her riding boots. She was alone.
‘Where’s Spike?’
‘He went fencing with Dad.’ She shrugged. ‘He says to tell him if anything interesting happens. Hey, I thought you’d be looking at the hole!’
‘I was earlier. There’s no one there. I just came in here to get some chicken wire. I told Dad I was extending the chook run. It’s a good excuse to be down there all the time.’
Angie
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