Old Sancho still took his evening walks through the streets of the village, the black cat scampering at his heels. We heard the distinctive tapping of his stick accompanied by the usual fruity bursts of flatulence as he rounded the corner. So did Cocky, who would crow loudly. Old Sancho would approach the fence, lean on his stick and crow in reply. This infuriated Cocky who would crow louder and longer, standing on tiptoe for maximum effect. And there they would stand, the fence dividing them. Ten inches of feathered fury and the old man in his worn carpet slippers, each crowing at the other.
Eventually Old Sancho would get bored, smile benignly at Cocky and call to his cat. Off he shuffled, ‘tap, tap, paaarp, tap, tap, paaarp’, up the road. Cocky, satisfied that he had won the crowing contest yet again, strutted back to his adoring wives.
The villagers were fascinated by Cocky, or perhaps they just wanted to see the source of the endless crowing. There were a few cocks in the village at the time, but Cocky was easily the most handsome, the smallest and definitely the loudest. Our Egg Ladies brought their grandchildren to see him when they came to buy eggs. Cocky always obliged by crowing loudly but often disgraced himself by leaping onto a passing wife, regardless of his young audience.
“Abuela,” asked the puzzled toddler, “Grandmother, what are they doing?”
“Oh, he’s just pumping the other chicken up,” I heard Teresa say. “Come on, let’s go and get our eggs from the English.” The child was dragged away by the hand, accepting this surprising piece of information as only a small child can.
Cocky had some endearing habits, too. Whenever he found some particularly delicious treats, like an ants’ nest, he never ate them himself. Instead, he would emit an extended, high pitched chirrup, ‘tkk, tkk, tkk, tkk’, to call his wives. They would stop whatever they were doing and career over. Then they hoovered up his offering while he proudly stood by.
Although he was so much smaller than his wives, he had another trick that ensured his popularity. He would half fly, half jump to reach tasty fruit or new leaves. The prizes were pulled down and he would triumphantly call the girls, ‘tkk, tkk, tkk, tkk’. His harem gobbled up the treats as he watched over them like a benevolent uncle.
It was Ginger who first alerted us to a growing problem. When we took our cups of coffee to drink in the orchard, Ginger usually perched on the arm of the old yellow sofa and chatted to us. This irritated Cocky no end. He was growing bolder by the day, and was clearly not happy to allow Ginger to consort with us. He resented our very presence and his body language left us in no doubt. Neck feathers bristling like a bottle brush, he faced us, hurling insults.
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked. “Why is he always in such a bad temper?”
“Oh, he’s just protecting his wives,” said Joe. “He doesn’t want Ginger to talk to us, that’s all. He thinks we’re after his women.”
Maybe so, maybe Cocky was just following his instincts, but it was very uncomfortable. And his behaviour worsened as he grew in confidence. Collecting eggs and feeding became a problem and Joe took to carrying a stick to fend off the ten inches of feathered fury. We abandoned the yellow sofa and spent as little time as possible in the orchard. Chicken husbandry became a chore, not a pleasure.
“I think we should call him ‘Quilp’,” said Joe, “after Mr Quilp in Dickens’s Old Curiosity Shop. He was a malevolent dwarf just like Cocky.” But Cocky’s name had stuck although it was often preceded now by a choice word of Anglo Saxon origin.
It all came to a head one day when Teresa brought her husband with her when she came to purchase eggs.
“Miguel has seen an old box in your orchard,” she said. “It’s like an old packing case, no? Miguel likes old trunks. Do you want it, or can he take it?”
“Of course he can take it,” I said. “Everything in the orchard is rubbish. The builders will be coming soon to start the new houses and they’ll clear everything away. Help yourself to anything you want.”
“Help yourself,” agreed Joe. “You’re very welcome to anything you want, but be careful of Cocky. He’s really aggressive.”
“What, that little thing?” laughed Miguel. “¡Hombre! He barely reaches my ankles!”
Joe and I exchanged knowing glances, but Miguel would not be put off. He strode off to the orchard before we could warn him further. Teresa, Joe and I carried on chatting about eggs, the rising price of bottled gas and who would be elected the next Mayor.
“What was that?” said Joe suddenly, holding his hand up for silence. Teresa and I stopped and listened. Then we heard it too. A distant cry of “¡Ayúdeme! Help! Help!” filtered down to us.
“Miguel!” said Joe, horrified, and galloped off up the street with Teresa and I hot on his heels.
CHAPTER 20
THE COMMUNE
Poor Miguel had never even reached the old trunk. No way was Cocky going to allow an intruder into his territory, a threat to his harem. He circled his human enemy, screaming insults, his neck feathers spiked out to twice their normal size. And where exactly was Miguel?
“¡Madre Mia!” gasped Teresa.
Our jaws dropped. Miguel had rolled himself up in a discarded cylinder of chicken wire. He stood upright, clutching the edge of the wire like a lady holding a towel around herself to shield her nakedness. Little trickles of blood dried on his legs where Cocky had managed to rake him.
Cocky was a whirling dervish. In perfect fighting-cock stance, his body was scythe shaped, airborne, with talons and spurs extended and sharp beak stabbing. Again and again he attacked, furious feathers bristling as he fought to rip his enemy to shreds. Thankfully, the roll of chicken wire protected Miguel from further injury.
We unwound and rescued the poor man and apologised profusely for Cocky’s appalling behaviour. Teresa bathed the cuts on her husband’s legs and I gave the couple a dozen eggs, refusing payment.
By now Miguel had recovered from the shock and was reflective.
“Well, you did warn me. ¡Madre mia! What a creature! Never have I met such a fierce little…” Words failed him.
The chest that Miguel had wanted was rotten and dotted with woodworm. It was the one that Joe had sawed an entrance into for the girls to lay their eggs. Unsurprisingly, Miguel refused it and left, still muttering and reliving the experience.
Joe and I sat down at the kitchen table for a conference.
“This can’t go on,” I said. “Cocky is a demon. What if a child wandered into the orchard? Cocky would rip a child to shreds.”
“I agree. He’s getting worse by the day. I don’t see how we can keep him.” Joe was depressed. Cocky may have had a filthy temper, but he was an awesome character.
“Who would take him?” I asked. “Who’d take a manic little cock who’s convinced everybody wants to steal his wives? I know he’s only acting on instinct, but he’s positively dangerous.”
“Phone Judith,” said Joe. “She may have an idea.”
I reached for the phone and dialled Judith’s number. Somebody picked up the receiver and spoke, but it sounded as though they were talking through a cushion. I could hear several dogs barking so I was pretty sure I had dialled the right number.
“Hello, is that you? Judith? It’s Vicky here. Are you okay? You sound really strange.”
A short silence, then fumblings, then Judith’s voice, loud and clear.
“Vicky? Hello, there. Yes, dear, of course I’m absolutely fine. Mother answered the phone and she’s got a kiwi and porridge face pack on at the moment. Face is as stiff as a bloody board. Can’t talk properly. Now, how can I help you?”
“I need some advice, please, Judith. It’s Cocky.”
“Cocky? Poor little chap, is he sick?”
“No, he’s fighting fit. That’s the problem.” I described Cocky’s dreadful behaviour and his latest battle with Miguel.
“…and so we’d like to re-home him, but we don’t know anyone who would take him.”
“Vicky! What utterly beastly behavi
our! I can see the problem.” There was a note of admiration in Judith’s tone. Cocky had that affect on people; whatever ghastly crimes he committed, they were still in awe of the little devil. “Leave it with me, and I’ll have a chat with Mother when she’s scraped that gunk off her face. I’ll phone you back later.”
I thanked her and replaced the phone in its cradle. I could clearly picture the scene at Judith’s house. Mother floating around in a silk negligee, with face mask, Judith in her tweeds and the dogs and cats generally creating havoc. A typical day at Casa Judith.
Later, as promised, the telephone rang.
“Vicky? It’s Judith.” Who else could it be with a voice that cultured and strident?
“Thanks for getting back to us, Judith.”
“Well, dear, I think Mother has solved your problem.”
“She has?”
“Yes, dear. Cauliflower.”
“Sorry, Judith, it’s a bad line. Did you say ‘cauliflower’?”
Joe was listening and rolled his eyes at me. I turned away, trying to concentrate on Judith’s words. I agreed with Joe. How could feeding Cocky cauliflower calm him?
“Mother knows someone who’ll have him. Free range, don’t you know. Oodles of space for Cocky to run about in.”
“That’s brilliant news! But what did you mean about the cauliflower?”
“That’s his bloody name, dear. Cauliflower. He’s a Brit, and Mother says he’s always been called that, though most people call him ‘Caul’ for short.”
“Oh, right. And how can I contact this, er, Caul?”
“Mother’s already given him a tinkle on his mobile, dear. He’s one of those New Age chappies. No electricity, no mains water. Lives in a commune in a valley near Lanjarón.”
“So what do we do? Just turn up?”
“Yes, just turn up. Mother says he’s very vague, very relaxed, don’t you know. But I’m sure he’ll be awfully thrilled with Cocky.”
I scribbled down the directions Judith gave me and turned back to Joe. Joe raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to speak.
“Well,” I said, “I think we may have found Cocky a new home. He’s going to join a hippy commune.”
“Hippy commune?” said Joe, “Aren’t they laid-back peace-loving types? Can’t see Cocky fitting in there.”
“Well, at least if he misbehaves they won’t eat him. They’re all vegetarians, aren’t they?”
Outside, Cocky crowed, oblivious to the fact that tomorrow he was to become a flower child and live with a man named Cauliflower.
∞∞∞
As Joe and I drove towards Lanjarón, we could be forgiven for thinking that Andalucía was as close to paradise as is possible. The craggy mountains jutted against the sky, serving as a backdrop to the ancient whitewashed villages that appeared frozen in time, barely changed since Moorish times.
Rivers cut deep gorges through the countryside, and it was the sheer volume of water that surprised us. Waterfalls fed by snow-melt cascaded enthusiastically through crevices, sending up rainbows through the spray. The rocks were sculpted into fantastic shapes by the constant exuberance of the rushing water. It would have been an idyllic drive if Cocky hadn’t crowed every few minutes from within his box.
“So how does Mother know this Cauliflower bloke?” asked Joe as we approached the reservoir below Lanjarón.
“Judith said Mother buys herbs from him.”
We winced as Cocky crowed again, then marvelled at the expanse of water laid out before us. Lanjarón is famous for its bottled water. We trailed behind a convoy of lorries making their way towards the bottling plant.
Higher and higher we climbed into the mountains, until we were abreast of the giant windmills whose massive arms swept the sky.
“What if he doesn’t like Cocky?”
“He will.” I was confident. “And he’s getting two of Cocky’s wives. The No-Name Twins are great layers, he’ll welcome the three of them with open arms.”
The No-Name Twins were quiet and well behaved in their box. Unlike Cocky who crowed his dissatisfaction with tireless regularity.
Overlooking the town of Lanjarón is the ruin of a Moorish castle. Some say that the Moorish ruler at the time hurled himself to his death from the castle tower. The Christian army, led by King Fernando, was advancing and suicide must have seemed the better option. Death on the rocks was preferable to being conquered and converted to Catholicism.
Following Judith’s directions, we swung off the main Lanjarón road and down a dirt track. Branches scraped the jeep’s paintwork and bald rocks lay strewn in our path. A little stream bubbled in the centre of the track, leading the way down. Even Cocky fell silent as we bounced and jolted, Joe steering round obstacles designed to puncture our tyres or tip us over.
At last the track widened into a clearing. Parked in the shade of the trees was a jumble of extraordinary vehicles. London cabs, ambulances, vans and removal trucks sat axle-deep in vegetation, a cemetery of obsolete transport. There was even a red London bus. Saucer-eyed, we stopped and gaped.
The occasional old-style British number plate peeped out of the scrub. Peeling sign-writing proclaimed ‘Fine Furnishings from Farnham’ and ‘Enjoy Real West Country Pork Pies’ on the sides of ancient vans. Even more curious were doors cut into vehicle sides, and metal tube chimneys that erupted from roofs. Scattered around were dilapidated couches and chairs, encircling the blackened debris of past camp fires.
“What a place…” breathed Joe.
“How on earth did they manage to get all these vehicles down here?” I asked.
A tangle of puppies played under an antiquated dormobile, the only sign of life.
“What shall we do?” I asked. “Knock on a door?”
Joe got out of the jeep and stretched. A few more dogs lifted their heads out of the scrub, blinked and went back to sleep, unconcerned by Joe’s arrival. Joe strode purposefully to the dormobile, and knocked on the door. Seconds passed. He was about to leave when a moth-eaten curtain twitched aside and a face appeared at the window.
“Hello,” said Joe. “Can you direct me to where, er, Cauliflower lives, please?”
The face was immobile, a smudged pale shape blurred behind filthy glass. Then, very slowly, a hand appeared, forefinger pointing down the track.
“Thank you,” Joe called, and the face hung there for a moment longer before melting back into the gloom.
“I suppose we’ll have to carry on down,” said Joe. “Talkative chap, wasn’t he?”
The track did not improve, but we meandered down, tyres scrunching on scattered rocks. Another clearing opened, smaller this time. A battered minibus propped on bricks held centre stage, flanked by rusting carcasses of other aged vehicles. A tarpaulin awning shaded a seating area of threadbare cushions piled in dirty heaps. A figure reclined, oblivious to our arrival.
Cocky chose that moment to crow and the figure sat up slowly. Near him, a lethargic brown dog opened one eye, shook its head then flopped back down on the cushions.
“Hello? Are you Cauliflower?” called Joe.
The figure stood unhurriedly and faced us. He was of average height, middle-aged and round shouldered. I noticed his skin was the same colour as the cushions and his dog. Dry clumps of coarse hair sprouted from his scalp. A faded, tattered T-shirt that may have been green at some time clung to him. The lettering, once black, now faded powdery grey, proclaimed Bob Marley sings No Woman, No Cry.
He scuffed towards us, sandaled feet dragging in the dirt.
“Are you Caul?” Joe asked again. “I believe you’re expecting us?”
“That’s me,” said Cauliflower after a long pause.
“We’ve brought you a little bantam cock and two chickens,” I said, climbing out of the jeep. “I’m Vicky, and this is Joe.”
I extended my hand then almost wished I hadn’t when he clasped it weakly in his own dirt-ingrained one. His eyes were heavily hooded and expressionless.
“Mother said you were com
ing,” he said at last.
I wondered fleetingly if anybody knew Mother’s real name. Chatting obviously wasn’t one of Caul’s strong points, so Joe and I busied ourselves unloading the feeder, water container and boxes out of the jeep. Caul watched us, deep in thought.
We carried it all to the awning, where someone else had materialised. A woman, dressed in a sun bleached shapeless shift, leaned against the minibus, smoking a home-rolled cigarette. Stringy hair straggled down her back and her feet were bare. She swatted flies half-heartedly with a limp hand.
“Hello,” I said, trying to behave as though everything was normal. “I’m Vicky.”
No answer. She looked at me but made no reply.
“My woman, Nebula,” said Caul. “She don’t talk much.” I resisted the urge to point out that neither of them were sparkling conversationalists.
“Right,” said Joe. “Have you kept chickens before?”
Caul looked at Nebula. Nebula gazed back, impassive.
“Yeah,” he said, a little shiftily. “Coupla years ago.”
“Oh, that’s good,” I said, too brightly. “We’ve brought a supply of grain, but as you know, they’ll find plenty to eat in the undergrowth as well.”
“And the chickens are really good layers,” said Joe. “You should have eggs every day.”
“Eggs…” breathed Nebula. We all looked up. It was the first time she had spoken, but if we were expecting more, we were disappointed.
“Shall we let them out?” asked Joe. Cocky was scrabbling loudly in the box, claws scraping the cardboard sides.
Neither Cauliflower nor Nebula replied.
Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools Page 16
