by Anna Wilson
‘Oh,’ said the hen, lifting her head in a haughty manner. ‘Well, that’s just as well, because I am not frightened of you either.’
Ned gave a snorty purr. ‘Which is why you got in such a flap just now, I suppose?’ he sneered.
The hen flew up at him, her wings wide. ‘Now listen to me, you – you – what exactly are you, anyway?’ she asked, hovering at the top of the box.
‘I, my feathered friend, am a cat,’ said Ned smoothly.
‘A cat? A CAT?’ the Pekin screeched. She flew at Ned, her feet out in front of her like daggers. ‘I’ve heard all about you cats! You are one of those whatchamacallits – an Arch-Enemy. Not to be trusted!’
‘Oh, for goodness sake. Keep your feathers on, will you? You are in no danger from me – I am very well fed by the family – and even if I was looking for something to eat it would have to be something a lot tastier than you. I prefer a rather more gourmet diet, if you know what I mean.’ He shot the hen a very disparaging look. ‘All those feathers of yours – terribly bad for the digestion. No, no: my meals always come pre-prepared with only the best ingredients.’
‘Beeuuurrck!’ protested the Pekin. ‘You, sir, are very distasteful, not to say rude!’
Ned gave one paw a thoughtful lick. ‘I am also the best chance you will have of surviving this madhouse, so do stop chirruping at me and listen.’
The hen hopped back down on to the floor of the box. She needed a moment to think things through. It was true that Ned was a very large cat who certainly did not look in need of more food, but how did she know he was not lying when he said he was not interested in eating her? Maybe he was planning to capture her now and eat her later?
‘All right then,’ she said slyly, ‘I’ll listen to you if you let me out. It’s awfully hard to hear what you’re saying from in here.’
The cat raised his eyebrows. ‘If you think I’m falling for that . . .’ he said. ‘Honestly, we felines invented the word “crafty”. I know what you’ll do if I open the box. You’ll be out of here and away, and I will get the blame when the family comes home and finds an empty box and a few scattered feathers. Oh no, you are staying right where you are.’
The hen sighed noisily. ‘I am not,’ she said sulkily. ‘That is the last thing I am doing. I am going to get out of this box, out of this house and out into the big wide world as soon as I can. Just you watch me.’
Ned’s eyes widened. ‘I would simply love to watch you,’ he said in a disbelieving tone. ‘I would love to see how you think you are going to get past the Terror, for a start.’
‘What are you talking about now?’ snapped the hen.
‘All I can say is that you had better start scrabbling about for that “returns label” Mrs Peasbody was talking about,’ hissed Ned, ‘because unless you get down from your high horse and let me help you that’s the only way you are going to be getting out of some very hot water.’
Later that day, Mum, Wilf and Grandma were sitting around the table discussing what should happen to the Pekin. Or ‘Titch’, as Wilf had already named her. Wilf had got her out of the box as soon as he had come home from school (much against Mum’s will) and had her on his lap while they discussed her future.
‘I am going to Google all the farms and chicken breeders in the area,’ said Mum. ‘One of them is sure to take her off our hands if I can’t find out where she came from.’
‘Talking of Google, have you checked your internet history, dear?’ asked Grandma, using her careful and patient voice.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Mum answered crisply. ‘I have checked and I have definitely not been ordering Pekin hens in my sleep.’
‘Maybe you thought you were requesting Peking duck when you did your last online supermarket order,’ Grandma smirked. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time you had made a mistake on the internet.’
It cannot be emphasized enough: Wilf’s mother really did do a lot of internet shopping. And thankfully it was not just horrible things like juicers that she ordered. Sometimes she ordered a year’s supply of Wilf’s favourite cereal because it was on special offer. Sometimes she ordered rolls of carpet, not because the Peasbody family needed rolls of carpet, but because there was a deal on carpets that was ‘too good to pass by’. And Grandma was right: she had made mistakes in the past. There was the time she had taken delivery of 500 cucumbers when she had wanted only five. Mum had made them eat cucumber with everything. She had even made a cucumber cake. Wilf had never wanted to see a cucumber again after that episode.
‘Anyway,’ said Wilf, ‘I am calling her Titch and she is staying.’ He raised his voice before the conversation could go off track and he lost his chance altogether. He was patting the hen while holding on to her firmly to prove his point.
He had to hold on to her firmly as she had already tried more than once to free herself from his grasp.
‘Titch? Weird name,’ Meena said softly so that only Wilf could hear. ‘Sounds like “itch”. Maybe it’s got fleas? Are you feeling itchy, Wilfie?’ she said, tipping some biscuit crumbs down the back of his neck.
Wilf squirmed and tried to scratch himself on the chair back without using his hands to avoid letting go of the hen.
‘Don’t you have anything better to do?’ asked Wilf angrily. ‘Anyway, she’s a she, not an it.’
‘How do you know?’ Meena said.
Wilf looked fondly at the little bird. ‘She’s obviously a she,’ Wilf said. ‘And anyway, she hasn’t said “cock-a-doodle-doo” and it said she was a hen on the “Instructions for Care” letter, not a cockerel.’
‘She’s very cute,’ Grandma said, following Wilf’s gaze. ‘And ever so warm and cuddly. And it does say in that letter that she will make an excellent pet.’
She winked at Wilf, who grinned gratefully in response.
‘You are most definitely not helping,’ Mum grumbled.
‘Titch,’ said Meena. ‘Itchy, scratchy Titchy . . .’ She made her eyes go big and did silly kissing noises.
‘Stop doing that,’ Wilf said. ‘She’s not a baby. Or a cat.’
As if on cue, Ned appeared.
‘How does that cat do it?’ Mum said.
He had found his way into the house, in spite of the fact that Mum had shut all the doors and checked all exits and entrances.
He was stalking around Wilf’s legs and weaving in and out of the chair legs too, giving off a low, warning growl every so often, and curling and swishing his tail as though trying to lasso the bird and pull her off Wilf’s lap. He was also licking his lips.
Wilf said nervously, ‘I think if we can’t keep Ned away we should take Titch somewhere safe.’
‘Exactly, Wilf,’ said Mum. ‘And that “somewhere safe”, as you put it, is the place she came from. In other words, we are sending her back.’
Wilf clutched Titch firmly to him. ‘I’ve told you already – I did not order her!’ he said. ‘Grandma’s right. It was probably you, Mum. You are the one who is always on the computer ordering things.’
‘Wilfred Peasbody!’ Mum said through gritted teeth. ‘For the last time—’
‘She’s just pooed,’ announced Meena, beaming. She pointed to her shoes, which were directly underneath the little hen.
Ringo was by now well-practised in his role, and immediately Hoovered up the mess and sat back licking his chops in a bemused fashion like a wine taster, as though trying to work out what vintage of chicken poo he had been lucky enough to try.
‘Disgusting!’ cried Mum. ‘Oh, I can’t bear it. Ringo eats too many unspeakable things as it is. That’s it! Put her back in the box she arrived in. I’ll fetch some Sellotape and then you can take her to the post office,’ she said to Grandma.
‘Gran’maaaa!’ Wilf howled as Mum tried to take the hen off him. ‘Tell her you can’t.’
‘I can’t. She might get claws-trophobia – get it? Claws? Claustrophobia? Haha!’ Grandma chuckled at her own joke. Mum rolled her eyes and was about to protest, so Grandma said hastily,
‘Anyway, I definitely can’t send her back if you don’t have a returns label. And the post office is closed now,’ she added.
‘Beuurccckkk!’ Titch said indignantly. She was clearly not happy.
Grandma listened to the clucking and fussing coming from the small chicken and chuckled. ‘She certainly doesn’t seem to like the idea of being put back inside that box any more than you do, Wilf,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you put her in with Brian? That will at least mean she is out of the house. And safe from Ned,’ she added, eyeing the prowling feline. ‘The information does say that Pekins like company, after all. And that they don’t need much space.’
Mum huffed and puffed. ‘We-ell, I don’t know . . .’
‘Think about the eggs,’ continued Grandma. ‘Oh, there’s nothing better than a fresh egg for breakfast.’
Meena laughed. ‘They’ll be TITCHY eggs!’
‘Exactly,’ said Mum.
‘Oh, good one!’ Grandma giggled. ‘Eggs-actly. Get it?’
‘Beuuuurrrcckkkk!’ protested Titch.
‘You’re all upsetting her,’ said Wilf.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Mum. ‘Your grandmother’s jokes upset me on a regular basis.’
Grandma made a big show of looking hurt, which made Wilf giggle too. Then he said, ‘I’m going to do what Grandma says and put her in with Brian until we can build a proper chicken run.’
‘A what?’ cried Mum.
‘I think Wilfie’s right, actually, Mummy,’ Meena simpered. She sidled up to Mum and hugged her leg. ‘The chickie is really, really cute. And titchy eggs would be just the right size for me, wouldn’t they, Mummy?’
Wilf was puzzled. It was not normal for his sister to be on his side about anything. What was she up to?
But then, he reasoned, why should he care what she was up to, if her powers of persuasion meant that Mum might change her mind? And, by the look on her face, it seemed she might be about to do just that. Wilf held his breath and waited . . .
Mum made an exasperated noise. ‘Dooohhh!’ Then she swung Meena up on to her hip and kissed her on the head. ‘I suppose you’re right, baby,’ she cooed. ‘What harm could it possibly do to have another pet around the place? Especially one that lays delicious eggs!’
So Titch did escape the ‘madhouse’. But if she thought she was escaping to freedom she was to be sorely disappointed. Wilf and Grandma took her out into the garden where she had a brief glimpse of green grass and shady trees and bright blue sky. But she was immediately set down in another box. Admittedly it was less dark than the one in which she had arrived at the Peasbodys’: this had wire mesh across one side, which let in light. But it was still a box.
‘A prison, more like,’ chirruped poor Titch.
She looked about her new home. Her feathers were distinctly ruffled and she felt sure her beak was out of joint.
‘This is preposterous,’ she said, scratching and fussing. ‘How dare the boy treat me in this way? I should not be here. I am a CHICKEN for heaven’s sake. And if anyone out there is listening, will you please GET ME OUT OF HERE?’
Sadly, no one did seem to be listening.
Titch sat down and tucked her head under her wing while she thought for a moment. Then, when no great brainwave sprang to mind, she popped her head back out and looked around.
‘I may as well get my bearings and make myself comfortable,’ she said glumly.
She had noticed that there was lots of lovely bedding, which was a welcome sight after the discomfort of the cardboard box. The very idea of snuggling into it made her feel like taking a nap right away. And someone had helpfully made it into little mounds that were just the right size for nest-building. She considered hunkering down there and then, but caught a whiff of a particularly tempting aroma coming from a small white pot in the far corner of the coop. The cereal that Wilf had fed her earlier had not made much of an impact on the hungry hen, so she was thrilled to find more food had been put out for her.
‘Hmmm!’ she cooed as she dipped her beak into the pot. ‘Corn and cornflakes . . . and seeds! And – oh! I wonder what these yummy squashed green things are?’ She had a tentative nibble. ‘No idea, but they are delicious. That boy evidently knows how to care for a hen after all. I should not have been so hasty to judge him. Hmm, I must remember to lay him a double-yolker as a special treat. But first things first!’
She pecked and swallowed and chirruped with delight, making quick work of the pot of food.
‘I could take the remains of this meal over to one of the nesting piles,’ she said to herself. ‘It would be lovely to have a little snooze followed by a late morning breakfast in bed. I feel quite exhausted after all those goings-on in the house.’
She latched on to the side of the pot and dragged it along the ground. Then, setting the pot down right next to the pile of bedding, she bustled and scratched about until she had made a wonderfully cosy little indentation in the fluffy sawdust mound.
‘Aaah!’ she sighed. She nestled down, closed her eyes, fluffed her feathers and was soon fast asleep, all ideas of egg-laying immediately forgotten.
As Titch slept, she dreamed of rolling green hills and of a small yet friendly community of like-minded feathery friends. She felt the warmth of the sun on her shiny red comb and she purred with happiness, her eyes half closed against the light.
‘I shall stay out here forever,’ she said to herself. ‘I shall be safe and warm and free and – OH! BEURRRRCKKKK! STOP IT!’
Titch woke up with start to find herself face to face with a blur of nasty spiky little claws and pointy teeth.
‘A rat?’ she squealed. Titch knew all about rats. Rats were worse than cats. Rats were the Archest of Arch-Enemies. Rats gave nasty bites and swiped at you with their claws. They were bullies. Rats stole food. And freshly laid eggs. And . . .
‘GERROFFF ME!’ she squawked as the rat had another go at her. She scrabbled out of her nest and opened her wings to make herself look huge, scary and imposing. Then she kicked her feet out high in the face of the intruder and with much cawing and furious screeching she set off a rumpus fit to wake the sleepiest of hibernating creatures.
‘Ow! Ouch! YOU get off ME!’ squeaked the stranger. He backed away and squashed himself against the far wall. ‘You’re the one who’s broken in and stolen my food. I was only protecting what is mine by rights.’
But Titch was not interested in what her attacker had to say, rights or no rights. She was now airborne, feathers flying, wings kicking up bedding and food, her head hitting the ceiling in her panicked attempt to escape. ‘Let me out! I want to get out!’ she screamed.
‘AND I WANT YOU OUT TOO! THIS IS MY HOUSE!’ the stranger shouted, rearing up on his funny little stumpy legs.
At this, Titch finally came down to earth with a bump. ‘Your house?’ she exclaimed. Now that she inspected the creature closely, she saw that he was not the terrifying rat that she had assumed him to be. For a start, he did not appear to have a long and horrible tail. And his face was rounder and decidedly more appealing than that of a rat (although it was furry, and it had to be said that Titch was not keen on furry faces, as a rule). His colouring was an interesting combination of orangey-brown, black and white, and his fur seemed to swirl over his body in spirally shapes.
‘What on earth are you?’ Titch asked. She opened her wings wide again to emphasize that she would not stand for any more nonsense. Cute face or not, he had sharp claws, and you had to be prepared.
The creature squeaked and backed further into a corner. ‘I could ask you the exact same thing,’ he said. ‘And, seeing as this is MY house and you have broken in and stolen MY food and ruined MY bedding, I think that is exactly what I will ask: what on earth are you? And what do you think you are doing here?’
Titch let out a warble of disgust. ‘Bueeeerrrrck!’ she tutted. ‘I am a Lavender Pekin, a rare and beautiful hen. And this is my new home.’
‘It most certainly is not,’ shrieked the creature. ‘It is my
home. I am a tortoiseshell Abyssinian guinea pig, of the species Cavia porcellus (according to that know-it-all cat). And we pigs are very particular indeed about hygiene and tidiness. Something I can see we do not share with your species.’ He twitched his nose as he surveyed the mess Titch had made. ‘I hope you’ve had your vaccinations,’ he muttered. Then, ‘And what is your name, may I ask?’
Titch gave a little harrumphing noise and then said, ‘I had a perfectly good name before I ended up being renamed by those humans indoors. I was called Mei Li, which means “beautiful”. Those idiots have called me Titch.’
The guinea pig wrinkled his nose. ‘Think yourself lucky. My real name is José-Maria Manuel de Torres, but those “idiots”, as you call them, have named me Brian.’
Titch sniggered. ‘You don’t sound very Abyssinian,’ she said, ‘especially with a name like Brian.’
The guinea pig nibbled one paw in an embarrassed fashion. ‘Yes, well. You don’t sound Chinese, do you? And as I say, Brian is what THEY call me – not my choice. I’m from Peru, anyway, not Abyssinia—’
‘But you said—’
‘Oh, what’s the point in explaining? I’ve been living here so long, it doesn’t matter where I’m from originally,’ the guinea pig sniffed. ‘At least the family looks after me. I mean, they give me delicious food and lots of comfy bedding and the boy comes in once a week to refresh my environment so, frankly, who am I to complain? Except—’ He stopped abruptly as though he was about to say something else but had changed his mind.
Titch put her head on one side and waited. ‘Except what?’ she said finally.
Brian stared back at her and then said, ‘You say you have been renamed by the family?’
Titch nodded.
The guinea pig looked thoughtful. ‘Hmm. I suppose I’ll have to get used to you then,’ he said. ‘Just as I have had to get used to that bossy feline and that frankly insane excuse for a dog. If they’ve renamed you, you’ll be staying. But NOT here – not if I have anything to do with it,’ he said darkly.
