13 July 2012
A true story of battery hens.
It seemed light years from my upbringing in the shadow of London's Dockland, with our arbour less streets and little back yards of concrete and corrugated iron. A house in rural Essex, half an acre with Quince trees, and high bird haven hedges. The realization of a dream, but before the things "normal" people want, there was something I needed to do: save some battery chickens. I had often seen them transported, crammed into crates like discarded waste. On their way from a miserable existence, to a pitiful end. I had always disturbed me. Now at least I could make a little difference; light that small proverbial candle in the darkness. For a pittance, I arranged to collect eighteen hens from the Killing Place. Parking my truck, complete with a hastily made chicken wire pen, I walked across the factory yard to the office. A sliding door to the place was partly open. Winter sun streamed the shadows, allowing a glimpse of the horrors within. A great white hen, trapped by her feet moved by an overhead rail. She flapped her tatty wings and turned her face to the light, she had seen so little sunshine. My imagination, or did she really look at me? I was to pull alongside a trailer with two large wooden crates on the back where an "operative" would come and "sort me out". I wasn't prepared for my first close up of their contents. I have never been soft or squeamish, growing up in a rough part of the East End saw to that and I have often been grateful for it. But this was different. Those pathetic creatures! Squashed one upon another, with few feathers left, some dead, others breathing, but bereft of life; overwhelmed me. I didn't want to be in this place, it felt unclean, defiled, it assaulted my spirit. The "operative" arrived clambering onto the trailer. His white overalls were smeared with red. "Dozen and a half was it?" I nodded. "You'd get a hundred in there" he said eyeing the pen on my pickup. "Maybe you could", the disdain in my voice lost on him. The first bird he pulled out was dead and he cast it aside. To my amazement he began to throw the hapless hens, two at a time into the pen. They offered no resistance. "Don't do that", I shouted, "Hand them to me!" "That don't hurt 'em." And with a stupid grin he defiantly hurled another. This bird found the strength from somewhere to spread what served for wings in a vain bid for freedom. She hit the side of my pick up and fell floundering to the concrete. One of her legs appeared to be broken. I felt the anger rising, the red mist descending and before I knew it, was on the trailer with the operative firmly in my grasp. I resisted the urge to dash him to the ground. He was stunned, ashen faced, stupefied! And all at once it dawned on me: He wasn't to blame! The wretched man understood me no more than I, him. It was as if we came from different worlds, separate solar systems and perhaps we did. He looked at me as one would a being from another planet. Maybe he was right! An alien ancestry lost in time would explain much in my life. "Do it yourself then" he stuttered. And slunk back to the killing place, blood stained and sulking. I retrieved the old hen still crippling across the yard. Her beak was twisted and broken as was her leg, but they were old injuries from past ill treatment. I sat her gently on the front seat of my cab, wondering how she had ever survived. The rest of my hens were put carefully into the pen. Then a few more and a few more until it was full. I felt no shame in doing so and couldn't help myself anyway. The yard was still empty as we made our escape. I constantly checked my rear mirror, fearful that a staff car from the killing place would appear, set on reclaiming their lost prisoners. It never did, but I still agonised about those poor creatures left behind and kept thinking like a poultry Oscar Schindler - I could have saved a few more. The children dubbed the old hen: "Kiev." Despite their protests I put her with the rest in a spacious new home. To my disappointment they huddled in the darkest corner of the shed, unaware of the Elysium Fields beyond the open door. Hours passed, but eventually a twisted, broken beak appeared from the gloom and Kiev hobbled into the sunlight. She began pecking grass and clucking almost as a real hen should, the others soon followed. Some of us are blessed with a will to survive, an unquenchable spirit denied to the rest. And so it must be with all creatures. Kiev was such a creature. She learned to cripple down to the house and tap at the kitchen door. Once inside she would terrorise the fat overfed cats with her wicked beak and steal their food. The children loved her and she became a favourite of mine, following me around, revelling in her new life. Sometimes I fancied that she almost understood. A few birds died unable to overcome their previous treatment, but in all it was a success. The hens grew fat, feathered and happy, laying the most delicious free range eggs I had ever tasted. One day in late spring with the Quince trees in full bloom and duck and geese coming in waves from the west, I sat under a clear blue sky watching the little flock scrap around as they were meant to do. How unrecognisable from those poor creatures in the killing place. Kiev was perched on my boot pecking at the laces as she had taken to doing, everything seemed perfect - my small candle was burning brightly. When quite suddenly I was swept by a wave of acute sadness, misting the pink of the Quince flowers and blurring the blue of the sky. What a big girl's blouse! You might think. What a fat egg! But then again if you came from my world maybe you'll understand.
TOM MAY
Kiev & The Alien. • Opuss № I