Frank went into overdrive. He whizzed across the surface of the pond so fast that he shot out of the water onto the bank, landing flat-footed on his big yellow webs.
“What d'you think of that?” asked the farmer.
“Amazing!” said the vet.“Look at those feet! How fast he goes! Carrie's a genius. But, Tom, what's to become of this funny bird that is a chicken but wants to be a duck?”
“Blessed if I know, Ted,” said his brother. “I hope he doesn't come to any harm, Jemima's that proud of him. We'll just have to wait and see.”
So they waited, as the weeks and indeed the months went by, and they saw Frank grow and grow till he was almost the size of his father, the big red rooster. (Or rather as big as his father had been, for one day, down at the far end of the orchard, he had met an old fox that had hidden itself in a nettle patch.) On Frank's head now was a big floppy scarlet comb, while out of the back of the wet suit there hung a fine plumy tail. His wings had grown enormously, too, so that now he could really scull with them to make his speedy progress on water even speedier.
All this time Frank spent his nights in the duckhouse and his days on the duck pond, only coming ashore for food. Of his mother he saw practically nothing, for she kept well away from him, as indeed did his brothers and sisters and the rest of the flock. Sometimes this made Frank feel a little sad, for he was after all a chicken at heart. He had his friends, the ducks, but the older he got the more he began to realize that though he could swim like a duck— far better, in fact—he could never look like one.
He would see his three brothers come strutting by and think how handsome they had grown, with their fine feathers and their elegant, sharp-clawed feet, in contrast to his clumsy green rubber suit and his awkward yellow rubber webs.
A little later he noticed that there were only two of his brothers, and later still only one, and at last none. Where had they gone? Frank wondered. Little did he dream that they had made three plump Sunday dinners for the Tabb family.
For a long time Frank had tried hard, too, to copy the sounds that all the ducks made—his first friends, the ducklings, were grown up now—but his “Quack!” was really still only “Frank!” But then, one fine morning, something quite unexpected happened to funny Frank.…
Jemima had let the hens out and then had opened the duckhouse door, and all the ducks and the big white drake and Frank came out and made for the pond as usual.
The waterfowl went straight onto the water, but Frank, instead of following, jumped clumsily up on top of a big log that lay by the pond's edge. He stood up on his toes (as best he could on his artificial feet, which was not very well), puffed out his chest (though this action, within the wet suit, could not be seen), stretched out his (by now, very long) neck, and, to the astonishment of the ducks, gave a loud, piercing “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
Chapter Ten
“He crowed, did he?” said Jemima's father when she told him.
“Yes,” said Jemima. “That means he's a proper grown-up cockerel now, doesn't it, Dad?”
The farmer looked thoughtful. “You know, Jemima,” he said,“I think it's time you thought this business through— I mean, about Frank wanting to be a duck. Okay, he enjoys swimming in the pond, but it's not natural. He should be running around with the rest of the flock, stretching his legs, preening his feathers, behaving like the chicken he is. He can't do any of that while he's dressed up in bits of an old hot-water bottle and a pair of rubber gloves.”
“Well, what d'you think I should do, Dad?” asked Jemima.
“Nothing for the present. But I think we've got to give him something to tempt him out, something that will be more attractive to him than the ducks.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” said Jemima's father, “now that he's a big boy, what he needs is a nice girlfriend. That'd really give him something to crow about. Tell you what, next market day, I'll have a look round the poultry pens and see if I can find a pretty little pullet for your Frank.”
Frank too was thinking of his future. As he watched the flock running helter-skelter across the orchard when Jemima came with food, as he saw them scratching about in the grass or taking a dust bath and then preening their feathers, he began increasingly to feel that he had become a prisoner of his own ambition. Because he had wanted to swim like a duck, was he to spend the rest of his life stuck inside his wet suit so that he couldn't preen or have a dust bath, with his feet confined in his artificial webs so that he couldn't scratch and couldn't run? He remembered how his late father, the big red rooster, had strutted noisily and proudly amongst his many brown wives. Was he, Frank, never to have a wife of his own?
Over the next couple of days he found himself spending less time on the water and more on the land. At feeding times he even tried talking to some of the flock, and went as far as saying,“Hello, Mum, how are you?” to Gertie, but she did not answer.
Jemima, meanwhile, was consulting her mother. It was she, after all, who had been to all the trouble of designing Frank's swimsuit.
“What d'you think, Mum?” she said. “Should we take it off him? He doesn't seem to want to swim as much as he used to.”
“If we take it off him, he won't be able to, will he?”
“Can't we just try and see what happens?”
“Okay, we'll do it in the next day or so. I'm a bit busy today.”
As things turned out, it was just as well that Jemima's mum postponed the undressing of Frank. For that evening the old fox sneaked back and lay up once more in the nettle patch. Most of the flock had already made their way up to the henhouse, and only Gertie and Mildred were still down at the far end of the orchard, having a last forage in the grass.
Though they were not as firm friends as they had once been, Mildred had partly wormed her way back into Gertie's good graces, mostly by toadying to her. Now, looking up at the sky, she said,“Don't you think it's getting late, dear? Time for bed. Come along now.”
Gertie did not like to be told what to do.
“I'll come when I'm good and ready,” she said.
Frank was still standing by the edge of the duck pond. The ducks had gone in, but he stayed, his eye on his distant mother. I'll try and have a word with her as she goes by, he thought. She might give me some advice on what to do.
As he peered down the darkening orchard, he saw the figure of Mildred approaching.
“Isn't Mum coming?” he asked her.
“Don't know, I'm sure,” said Mildred huffily as she went by.
I'd better go down and see what she's doing, thought Frank. It'll be dark soon. But then he saw his mother turn and begin to walk up the orchard toward him.
Then he saw a bushy-tailed red shape emerge from the nettle patch and follow.…
Chapter Eleven
“Mum!” yelled Frank at the top of his voice. “Behind you! Look behind you!” And Gertie, doing as she was told for once, came scuttling toward him, wings flapping madly, squawking in panic.
Chickens have always run away from foxes, and Frank should now have fled too. For a moment he was paralyzed with fear, knowing that he'd be too slow to escape. But then, unable to bear the sight of his terror-stricken old mother, he set off bravely straight toward the oncoming fox.
“Keep going, Mum!” he cried as Gertie dashed past, and then he marched on toward the old enemy, lifting his great yellow webs high and stamping them down again while loudly crying, “Frank! Frank!”
The fox stopped in his tracks. What kind of chicken was this that was coming directly at him, shouting some kind of war cry? What kind of chicken was this that wore a coat of green armor, that had huge webbed feet and smelled strongly of duck pond? The old fox's nerve broke, and he turned tail and slunk away.
Right then Jemima came out into the orchard to shut the ducks and chickens up for the night. She heard her cockerel's cries and ran, just in time to see the worsting of the fox. “Oh, Frank, Frank!” she called, and then she hurried to pick him up.
“What a brave b
oy you are!” she said as she carried him to the duckhouse. But when she came to its door, he kicked and struggled and squawked and shouted his name in an angry voice. So she took him to the henhouse, and he jumped out of her arms and dashed in.
On one of the perches, a breathless Gertie had been telling Mildred what had happened.
“There was a fox—” she panted.
“I told you, didn't I?” said Mildred. “I told you it was getting late!”
“Oh, be quiet and listen,” said Gertie, “because if it hadn't been for Frank, you would never have heard my voice again.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Mildred.
“He saved my life!” said Gertie. “He charged at that fox so that I could have time to escape. I only hope he died quickly. Oh, my brave Frank, he gave his life for mine.” She closed her eyes and sat in silent mourning.
“I don't think he did, dear,” said Mildred, for at that moment Frank came dashing in through the henhouse door, which Jemima closed behind him. Gertie opened her eyes to see, standing in the gloom, the rubber-clad figure of her son. “It's a ghost!” she murmured to Mildred in horror.
“I don't think it is, dear,” said Mildred.
“I'm not a ghost, Mum,” said Frank.“I'm solid flesh and blood.”
“And rubber,” said Mildred.
“Yes, I think that's what scared that old fox. He'd never seen a cockerel like me.”
“There's never been a cockerel like you, my boy!” cried Gertie. “You saved Mummy's life, you're a hero!”
Frank looked down his beak modestly.
“And it's lovely to have you back here with us instead of being with those old ducks,” said Gertie.
I daresay it was his funny gear that frightened that fox, she thought drowsily as she drifted toward sleep. But I wish he'd get rid of it.…
Chapter Twelve
The very next day Jemima's father went to market and found just what he'd been looking for.
“Come and see what I've got for you,” he said to his daughter when he arrived home. He took a crate out of the back of the Land Rover.
“Oh, Dad!” cried Jemima. “Is it a girl-friend for Frank?”
“Yes. What d'you think of her?”
Jemima lifted out of the crate a pullet of a particularly pretty color. She was not brown like all the other hens in the flock. She was speckled, her white feathers covered in little black dots.
“She's gorgeous!” cried Jemima softly. “Shall I take her out and introduce her to Frank?”
“I think I'd leave it till the morning,” said Tom
Tabb.“It's getting late, it'll be dark soon. Stick her in the old rabbit hutch for tonight with some food and water and we'll put her out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Jemima said, “Mum's going to take Frank's wet suit and webs off.”
“Wait till she has, then. This little girl might get a bit of a shock if she meets Frank in all his funny gear.”
She won't get a shock, thought Jemima as she lay in bed that night. She'll probably think he looks really cool.
So next morning, when she went to let the flock out, Jemima caught up Frank and carried him to the rabbit hutch. Frank looked in, to see a vision of speckled beauty. He let out a strangled croak. It was love at first sight!
The pullet's reaction at seeing him was rather different. She put her head on one side and regarded him with a bright eye.
“Coo-er!” she said. “You look pretty funny.”
“Funny ‘ha! ha!’ or funny ‘peculiar’?” asked Frank.
“Both,” replied the pullet, and she turned her back on him.
Frank looked crestfallen.
“Don't worry,” Jemima said to him. “Wait till we get all that old stuff off you.”
With the help of her mother, she unstuck the wet suit and took off the artificial webs. Then Jemima took Frank out into the orchard and let him go.
Hope he doesn't try to swim now, she thought, ready to rescue him if he should. But grown-up Frank seemed to have more sense. To be sure, he waded a little way into the pond on his long legs to say good morning to his web-footed friends, but no farther. Then he ran lightly off and began to scratch about in the grass with those sharp claws he'd never properly used, and gave himself a good dust bath, and shook his bright red feathers, hidden for so long under their rubber
covering, and began thoroughly to preen himself. Then he jumped easily onto the top of the big log and stood up on his toes and puffed out his chest and stretched out his neck and crowed a loud, triumphant crow.
Gertie had just reentered the henhouse to lay an egg when Mildred came dashing in.
“Quickly, come quickly, dear!” she screeched.
“I have told you before, Mildred—” began Gertie, but Mildred continued, unabashed.
“It's Frank!” she cried. “You'll never guess!”And she rushed out again.
Frank, from having been the bane of Gertie's life, was now—thanks to his saving of that life—the apple of her eye, and she forgot both her cry of triumph at laying and her dignity and went tearing after her friend.
“Where is he? What's happened? Is he all right?” she cried, and then she saw, standing upon the log by the pond, a magnificent young red cockerel. Who's he? she thought. “Where's my Frank?” she said.
“There, dear,” said Mildred. “On the log. That's him. They've taken his clothes off. Isn't he handsome!”And as she spoke, Frank gave another loud, triumphant crow.
At that moment Jemima came out carrying the speckled pullet and put her down on the grass and watched her scamper toward the new Frank and stop by the log to gaze up at him.
“Hello, handsome,” said the pullet. “Where have you been all my life?”
Inside a wet suit, thought Frank. “I think we've met before,” he gulped.
“We certainly have not,” replied the speckled pullet. “The only guy I've met since I arrived last evening was a weird-looking wally dressed up as a duck. As different from you as could be, lover boy.”
Lover boy? Frank thought.
“Hope I don't meet him again,” said the pullet.
“You won't,” said Frank.“He's gone. By the way, my name's Frank. What's yours?”
“Haven't really got a name,” she said. “My mum just called us all ‘chick.’”
Frank hopped off the log and stood beside her.“I'd call you gorgeous,” he murmured softly.
“I like it!” cried the speckled pullet. “Sounds nice. You're Frank, I'm Gorgeous.”
“Oh my!” said Mildred from where she and Gertie were standing. “How I should love to know what they're saying!”
Normally Gertie would have replied to such a remark with a cutting answer such as “The world would be a better place if everybody minded their own business.” But now she stood in a kind of daze, staring at her handsome hero of a son and the new arrival. She looks to be wellbred, she thought, and that speckled color is so distinguished. I bet she will lay the brownest of eggs. Then she saw the pullet run off down the orchard, pursued by her boy.
“Don't they make a lovely couple, dear!” said Mildred.“You'll be having more pretty grandchildren one of these fine days.”
“Mildred,” said Gertie dreamily, “for once, you're right.”
The rest of the flock had been staring too, first at Frank's new look, and then at the very pretty pullet. The ducks, too, watched the proceedings with much interested quacking.
“We miss Frank,” those ducks that had once been his little duckling friends said to their father, the big white drake. “D'you think he'll ever come swimming with us again, Dad?”
“He will not,” said the drake. “However, there's nothing to stop you from walking out of the pond to go have a chat with him and his girlfriend whenever you want to. He's a nice boy, Frank is, but it wasn't wise of him to try and be a duck. Ducks are cleverer than chickens, you see. We can walk about and we can swim. Chickens can only walk about. They can't swim.”
That afternoon Ca
rrie Tabb tempted her brother-in-law the vet to come over to tea (she'd just made a fresh batch of fruit scones), and so the four of them—Tom, Carrie, Jemima, and her Uncle Ted—leaned on the orchard gate and watched as Frank strutted proudly past, Gorgeous at his side.
“Funny, Frank, wasn't he?” said Jemima.
“How d'you mean?” they said.
“Well, wanting so much to be a duck. He doesn't anymore, does he?”
“He's found his true place,” they said.
“And his true love!” said Jemima, and they all smiled happily.
Frank and Gorgeous stood wing tip to wing tip by the edge of the duck pond.
Frank's friends swam by, loudly quacking his name in greeting.
“Poor things!” said Gorgeous, tossing her pretty head. “Sploshing about in that cold stuff. Why, water should only be for drinking!”
“I suppose so,” said Frank, “but don't you ever think it would be nice to be able to swim?”
“To swim?” cried Gorgeous.“A chicken, swimming? Oh, Frank, you are funny!”
Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children's Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Text copyright © 2001 by Fox Busters Ltd.
Illustrations copyright © 2001 by John Eastwood
Originally published in Great Britain by Transworld Publishers Ltd in 2001
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