The Haystack

by Jack Lasenby

  We had chops for tea, with mashed potatoes again, which was good, but with soggy boiled cabbage, which was bad. I closed my eyes, held my nose, shoved the cabbage down, and saved my chop till last. I nibbled around the bone and put it on the hearth, but Milly wasn’t that interested.

  “She had a good go at the scraps Mr Cleaver put in for her,” Dad said. “Chewing bones is something dogs do.” He gave me another chop. “Gruff!” he barked.

  “Miaow!” I told him. “I wonder if cats eat dripping on toast?”

  “There’s a tin in the safe, but it might be a bit salty for her.”

  I sat in Mummy’s wicker chair, and Milly jumped on my lap. Dad washed a bagful of sultanas in the colander, opened a newspaper on the rack above the stove, and spread them to dry.

  “Why do you wash sultanas?”

  “They’ve been handled by umpteen different people, from the growers in Australia and South Africa, to when they’re weighed and made up into bags at the store. They pick up all sorts of dirt, dust, and straw—because they’re sticky. I’ve even seen maggots in them.”

  “Eugh!”

  “These ones were okay. Do you want some?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  How Mowgli Singed Shere Khan’s Whiskers; Why Dad Was a Jungle Animal; and the Cockerel, the Axe, and the Chopping Block.

  MILLY DIDN’T LIKE SULTANAS, but I nibbled a handful, plump and moist from their wash, better than when they dried out.

  “Dad,” I said, “I told Freddy Jones about Shere Khan.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “And I showed him one of his footprints outside his place.”

  “What else?”

  “I told him Shere Khan eats boys.”

  “Come on, you might as well tell me everything.”

  “I told him tonight he’d hear Shere Khan trying to get in his window. And I told him about Bagheera; I said he’s worse than Shere Khan.”

  “If you think you’re going to run down the street before you go to bed, and roar, and scratch Freddy’s window—forget it. Remember what happened the time you hooted like a morepork? Poor Freddy.”

  “He said he had a mother and I didn’t.”

  “All the same.”

  “He reckoned his cat had kittens, and he put them in a sack and drowned them.”

  “He’s just trying to impress you. You give him nightmares with stories about Shere Khan, and I won’t read you any more about Mowgli. Look at those knees. Just as well it’s Saturday night. You can have a good bath, soak off the dirt, and wash your hair while you’re about it.”

  Stretched out full-length, head floating, I could turn the hot tap on and off with my toes.

  “Are you going to use all the hot water?” Dad yelled from the kitchen.

  I waited a few minutes and yelled back, “Are you going to rinse my hair?”

  “Did you scrub those knees?”

  “Hold on.” I held my nose, closed my eyes, and Dad tipped the bucket over my head.

  “All wet wisps like a drowned rat. You can open your eyes now.”

  “I’ve got soap in them.”

  “Here.” Dad dabbed them.

  “Why does cold water take away the sting?”

  “It just does. Here’s a towel and your pyjamas; they’ve been warming on the rack. Make sure you dry yourself properly.”

  I ran out to the kitchen, wrapping my head in the towel. “Read us some now? Please, Dad? Milly wants to hear some more about Bagheera.”

  So, while I sat with my feet in the oven, and Milly sat on my lap, Dad read us the bit about how no jungle animal, not even Bagheera, could look Mowgli between the eyes, and how Shere Khan plotted to overthrow Akela, the wolf leader, and eat Mowgli. But Mowgli took the Red Flower, the fire in a pot, and singed Shere Khan’s whiskers, and then Mowgli cried, and I cried with him, because he had to leave his family and the jungle, and go to live with men.

  “I wanted him to live for ever with Mother and Father Wolf, and Baloo, and Bagheera.”

  “It’s not the end of the story.”

  “But it said he left Mother Wolf…and I love Mother Wolf.”

  “Of course you do.” Dad hugged me. “But there’s more to come.”

  “Will you read us some more tomorrow? Because Milly’s worried about Mowgli. You see, she’s got no mother now.”

  Dad stretched and yawned.

  “Promise?” I asked, looking him between the eyes.

  “Promise.” Dad stared back and closed the book without looking down. “I know what you’re trying to do. Just look at the clock. High time you and Milly were in bed.”

  “You looked away at the clock,” I told him, “so you must be a jungle animal.”

  I think Dad piggybacked us both to bed. Outside, I knew the black shadow was keeping guard in the lemon tree. If Shere Khan roared for Freddy Jones I didn’t hear him, because I woke and it was Sunday morning, and Milly was staring at me, her nose almost touching mine.

  “Were you trying to wake me up?” I stared back until she closed her barley-sugar eyes. When she opened them, I stared between them as Mowgli did. Milly looked away, and I knew the story about Bagheera must be true.

  “My name is Mowgli,” I told her as I slipped out of bed. “I am crying because I am a man’s cub, and I must go.” I rubbed my eyes. “But I will come back to lay out Shere Khan’s hide upon the Council Rock. ‘Do not forget me! Tell them in the jungle never to forget me!’“ But Milly had curled up and gone to sleep.

  I fed the chooks, told off the cockerels for making such a din, warned the wicked old white rooster what I’d do, collected the eggs, and emptied Milly’s dirt box. I poked her poop with a stick.

  “That’s an awful stink.” I threw the stick on the compost heap. “For a dainty little kitten…”

  When I came back, she was asleep again and wouldn’t wake up and look away, not even though I held my face right up to hers and stared and stared between her eyes.

  I let up the blind carefully, so it wouldn’t shout “Hulla-baloo!” and looked outside at the lemon tree, but the black shadow had hidden itself, and the yellow footballs hadn’t grown any bigger. Milly yawned, looked at the sun spilling through dark green leaves, and yawned again.

  “You’re the sleepiest cat ever,” I laughed, and there was a groan from Dad’s room.

  “Shhh!” I put my finger to Milly’s lips and grinned at her.

  Dad groaned again. It sounded like “Hurgle”.

  I put my hand over Milly’s mouth to stop her giggling.

  “What’s the time?” he asked.

  I whispered, “Half past nine, hang your britches on the line”, as I ran out to the kitchen, looked at the alarm clock, and called, “Half past six. Dad, do I have to go to Sunday school?” I whined, “Milly will miss me.”

  The voice gave several long groans which meant: “That’s all right, but you’ll have to explain to Mrs Dainty. You know she watches.”

  “I’ll tell her I had to keep Milly inside.”

  Dad groaned back to sleep. Sunday was his morning for a lie-in, which was why I took pity on him, and tried not to let the blind fly up.

  “You stay there,” I told Milly, and got the fire going. Dad had set the porridge to soak before going to bed, so I shoved the saucepan over the heat.

  Milly seemed to know as soon as the kitchen was warm. I stirred with the wooden spoon and told her, “You got trodden on, last night, sitting there.”

  When porridge starts going “Slop! Plop! Glop!” it looks like the mud pools at Rotorua. Still stirring, I moved the saucepan to the back of the stove, so it wouldn’t catch, put the kettle over the heat, and listened to it sing. Milly ran and sat under the table when I nearly trod on her, but she could still see everything from there.

  “Aren’t you a clever kitten?”

  Dad came out, bumping into everything, arms straight out in front of him. “Is it midnight yet?” he asked in his sleep-walking voice.

  “It’s after seven, and I felt
the washing, and it’s just about dry enough to bring in.”

  “We’ll bring it in as soon as it looks like clouding over.

  “How do you know it’s going to cloud over?”

  “It’s been fine for days; and it feels like a change coming.”

  “Mr Bluenose says he can feel it in his bones.”

  “That’s aches and pains in his joints. Rheumatism.”

  “What’s that other -ism word? What Kaa did. I woke up this morning, and Milly was staring into my eyes, trying to…trying to—you know!”

  “Hypnotism?”

  “Trying to hypnotism me.

  “Hypnotise.”

  “Hypnotise me. So I stared back between her eyes like Mowgli looking between Bagheera’s.”

  “Did it work?”

  “She just closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Dad, do you think I could hypnotise the old white rooster?”

  “You put your face too close to his, he’ll peck out your eyes.”

  “But you said you can make a chook go to sleep by tucking its head under its wing.”

  “I wouldn’t try it on that wicked old devil. Which reminds me, I thought we might have a cockerel for dinner today. What did you say?”

  “Nothing; I just wondered if Freddy Jones would go to sleep, if I stuck his head under his arm.”

  Dad tried to catch me and put my head under my arm, but I was too quick. “You can give me a hand catching a cockerel,” he said.

  “Are you going to kill it?”

  “It’s kinder to kill them first, before cooking them.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  They came running when I threw a bit of wheat and called, “Chook! Chook!”

  “You’re about the biggest.” Dad grabbed a cockerel by the legs, so it flapped its wings a couple of times, then hung upside down with its beak open. “It’s not a bad weight.”

  I followed to where the axe leaned against the chopping block.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chopping Off the Cockerel’s Head, What’s Polite for Bum, and Doing Next to Nothing and Not Knowing Where the Time Goes.

  DAD LOWERED THE COCKEREL till the white-feathered neck lay across the chopping block.

  “Want to hold it for me?”

  I shook my head.

  He swapped hands so his left held the cockerel’s feet; he took the axe in his right hand and raised it. The cockerel, its eye like a bright bead, twisted its head to look. Its neck drooped back across the block.

  I wanted to tell it, “Hold up your head.”

  The sun shone; the blued sheets dazzled white. I blinked. Chop! Eyes closed, the head lay on the block beside the axe, the beak still wide open, and Dad was holding the body so the blood didn’t go everywhere. It jerked a bit.

  “Freddy Jones reckons he killed one, and it ran around without its head for a couple of days. And it was still squawking.”

  “They flap around a few seconds, if you put them down, but dirt sticks all over the neck because of the blood.”

  “I’m glad Milly didn’t see it. I think she’d be scared.” I was glad I hadn’t given the cockerel a name, not like the wicked old white rooster. Dad laid it in the mouth of a sack and started plucking.

  “Have a go. You’ll find those feathers on the breast easier.” He was stripping off handfuls, and I tried to copy him.

  “They come out easy for you.”

  “There’s a bit of a knack to it. Plucking them warm helps, and young birds are easy. The old rooster, he’d be a job to pluck, and he’d be like chewing old boots.” Dad was stuffing the feathers into the sack, as he worked, so I did, too.

  “Saves them blowing all over the garden. Try not to tear the skin, if you can help it. These wing feathers are the hardest, and the ones on the end can be the very devil.”

  “Why can they be the very devil?”

  “Nothing to get hold of. With old boilers, you need pliers to pull out the wing feathers.”

  “What about all those little bits?”

  “Pin-feathers. Hand us that newspaper?” Dad patted his pocket and took out his matches. “We’ll light it over on the path.”

  “Why does it have pin-feathers?”

  “I think they’re the little growing feathers that come away after chooks moult.”

  It wasn’t a cockerel any longer, just a pale lemon body that had taken off its clothes. Dad screwed up the newspaper, lit it, and turned the pale body in the flames so all the little pin-feathers charred. I rubbed my hands over it, feeling the tiny black bits crunch and brush off. The skin was warm from the flames, and I liked the exciting smell.

  “That didn’t take long.” Dad brushed burnt hairs off the back of one hand. “Newspaper flares up so fast, you’ve got to go lickety-split to turn the chook and burn all the pin-feathers.”

  I stared at his hand.

  “They’ll grow again. But that’s why you’ve got to be careful with long hair—never bend your head near a candle or a fire. Your hair can swing into the flame, and it just explodes.

  “Do you want to cut it open?”

  “Next time,” I looked at his hand and shivered. “Maybe.”

  Dad ran the knife from the breastbone down to what he called the vent.

  “The vent?”

  “Polite for its bum. See how I’m cutting through the skin, but not into the guts.”

  “Why?”

  “They smell something pirau. You slip your hand inside, feel around, make sure you’ve got the lot, and pull it out in one go.” He dropped the guts among the feathers, slipped his hand back in.

  “The heart.” He pointed. “The liver, kidneys, gizzard.” His finger had blood on it.

  “What’s the gizzard?”

  “Where it grinds up its food. See, it’s full of tiny little bits of stone, grit.”

  “Why does it grind it up?”

  “Cause chooks don’t have teeth. We wash out the gizzard, like everything else, and it’s good eating. All those bits, they’re the giblets.”

  I looked at the hole. There wasn’t much blood. “Can I put my hand in?”

  “Feel the windpipe?”

  “There’s something.”

  “Try pulling it out.”

  “I can’t get hold of it.”

  Dad yanked it out,

  “Have I got one of those?”

  “You’d have trouble breathing if you didn’t.”

  He cut off the yellow legs and pulled the white strings called tendons, so the claws opened and closed. “You could chase Freddy Jones with them.”

  “Milly wouldn’t like them.”

  Dad threw in the head, and tipped the sack into a hole in the garden. I shovelled in the dirt. One scaly yellow leg was the last thing to disappear.

  “That gets rid of the evidence. Now, we turn the sack inside out, sling it on top of the chook house, and give the rain a chance to clean it. And we give our hands a good scrub to get rid of the smell, or Milly might try eating us.”

  “Do the other cockerels know we’re going to eat them?”

  “They’ll come running for their tucker tonight.”

  “Will they have forgotten this one?”

  “Probably.”

  “That’s not very nice of them.”

  “It’s the way chooks are.”

  “What about sheep and cows?”

  “It might take them a bit longer, but they seem to forget.”

  “I wouldn’t forget if somebody came and chopped off your head, and plucked, and ate you. I’d remember you, Dad.”

  “Nobody’s going to do that, so you don’t need to worry about it.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair on the cockerels though.” I rubbed on plenty of soap, so Milly wouldn’t eat me.

  “It’s the way the world is. We only keep chooks for their eggs. And we only raise the cockerels to eat them. They cost a few bob for their feed; and they’re a fair bit of trouble.”

  “Milly’s more trouble than the chooks,” I said, “and we feed
her, too, but we’re not going to chop off her head and eat her…”

  “Cats are different.”

  “I told Mr Cleaver about the giant rat in the wheat bin, and everyone in the shop laughed. And I told Mr Bryce, too.”

  “Here, give your nails a good scrub. You didn’t tell them I said the rat stood up and shook his fist and wanted to fight me?”

  I scrubbed and nodded.

  “You’ll get me put away in the Wow.” Dad rolled his eyes up and grinned. “Pick us some parsley?”

  “Can I just have a look at Milly first?”

  Dad had left the door open into the front room, and she was sitting on the hearth in front of the open fireplace, licking her paw, wiping it over the top of her head, flattening one ear with it, licking her paw and wiping it over the top of her head again. Each time she wiped her ear, it buckled and sprang up.

  “You’ve been up the chimney getting cobwebby. If you’re up there when Dad lights the open fire, you’ll get cooked, and that’ll be a shame because we don’t eat cats.”

  Milly stood, back arched, tail straight up, and galloped out to the kitchen.

  “She’ll trip me. Purring and rubbing against me because she can smell the chook. Put her out in your room, till we get it into the safe.”

  “Wait for me. I want to help with the stuffing.”

  “Don’t be too long.”

  I tore back in with the parsley. While Dad adjusted the dampers, I ripped up bits of bread and chopped the parsley. He cut an onion in half, sliced one half, then cut it the other way, and then the other way, so it finished in tiny square bits. All very neat—except for our eyes watering.

  “Some day, I’ll go through this drawer, throw everything out, and start all over again.” Dad was looking for the little tin of sage. “That’s where you were hiding from me.”

  I mixed the bread, onion, and parsley, Dad sprinkled the sage, salt, and pepper, poured in some milk, and I stirred everything.

  “You can put in baking powder,” Dad said, “to make it lighter, but I like the stuffing a bit on the stodgy side.”

  “Me, too.”

  I shoved in handfuls of stuffing till the chook’s stomach bulged.

  “Can I do it?”

  The big needle was ready, threaded with string and stuck in the pin cushion on the wall.