Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  Only ten inches tall and about half the size of the other chickens, Cocky was exquisite. His feathers were an iridescence of colours, like an oil film on water. Mainly silver and lavender, they shimmered with different hues as the sun caught them, luminous and gleaming. His comb was crimson and exaggerated, as was his matching wattle. The tips of his wings touched the ground, slightly spread like the fingers of a hand. His tail was very upright and showy, while his feet were as bright as his comb.

  It was difficult to say who was the most astounded by this flamboyant little creature, the chickens or I. Mala, Attila the Hen, Ginger, Bugger, Fuck and the others circled him warily. Fraidy gave off a nervous alarm call.

  “He’s amazing,” I said, “but the girls are going to make mincemeat out of him. He’s tiny!”

  Joe stepped back and the chickens leaned forward to examine this extraordinary spectacle more closely. They towered over him. Cocky totally ignored his audience, stretched (not) very tall, pointed his beak to the sky and crowed.

  The chickens were outraged! United in fury, they dived on him with shrieks of indignation, cutting him off in mid-crow. But Cocky was quick. He blasted out of the melee like a feathery cannonball and shot across the orchard into a leafy bush, sixteen angry chickens on his tail.

  “They’ll kill him!” I said, hand to my mouth. “Do you think we should rescue him?”

  “Just wait,” said Joe, but he sounded worried and was scratching himself down below, a sure sign of nerves. The bush shook, rattled and convulsed as the battle raged in its centre. Detached leaves flew off as the branches whipped and thrashed. Enraged squawks and screeches ripped the air.

  Suddenly, without warning, Bugger catapulted out of the bush like a piece of soap in a shower. Then Fuck, Mala, Ginger and all the rest. Even Attila the Hen flapped out, righted herself and began to preen furiously in an attempt to regain her lost dignity.

  Finally, out strutted Cocky, the unlikely champion. He rattled his feathers, flapped twice, stood on his tiptoes and crowed victoriously.

  “Would you believe it?” said Joe. “He beat the lot of them!” He was indecently pleased by Cocky’s victory, perhaps as he saw it as a coup for males in a female dominated world.

  But the show was not over. Joe was about to be taught a lesson in stamina that may have left him feeling a shade inadequate.

  Cocky sidled over to Bugger who was innocently pecking away at something microscopic. He executed a little side-stepping dance towards her, then quickly clambered aboard. No easy feat as Bugger was twice his size and not co-operative. However, he hung onto his object of desire by seizing the feathers on her head and then bucked like a jack hammer.

  Bugger succeeded in shaking him off but Cocky’s ardour was not cooled. He repeated his performance systematically with every chicken, and there were sixteen of them. When every chicken had been covered, Cocky just started again, jumping onto whoever was closest at the time.

  “That little fiend certainly has stamina,” said Joe. “He must be exhausted!” (Did I detect a tiny note of envy in his tone?)

  From that day, the dynamics of the orchard changed dramatically. It seemed size didn’t matter, after all. The girls adored their new leader, even though he was so small. Wherever he went, his harem followed. They allowed him to jump on their bones many times a day, and bore him no grudges. The tops of their heads became bald, like shaven monks, but still they endured his onslaughts and shadowed him like disciples. At dusk they clamoured to roost next to him and bickered amongst themselves to share his perch.

  And the crowing! He never stopped. He crowed all day and often during the night, too.

  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 ca
rried 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.

  20 The Commune

  Spanish Cauliflower and Paprika

  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 behaviour! 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 t
he 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.