Read Online The Burying Beetle by Ann Kelley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ann Kelley
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uniform and was very handsome. The brown hat he gave me was his first hat after he left the navy – his civvies hat, he called it. It was a bit big for me of course, but he sewed ribbons on it so I could tie it under my chin. That looked OK when I was a cowboy, cowboys do have strings for tying their hats on and sometimes they wear them on the back of their necks.
After he died, (actually, they died at about the same time) I took off the ribbons and wore it properly, in his memory. Mum thought it was morbid. I still have the pencil case Grandpop sewed for me too. It’s made of strong white canvas with a zip. He sewed it all by himself. Sailors are good at making things and looking after themselves. He used to do all the sewing and ironing. He couldn’t cook very well, though. Mind you, Grandma wasn’t such a hot cook either. Unless you like pigs’ trotters – yuk! And rabbit stew. She had a pressure cooker that was always exploding. Well, I thought it was exploding. I realise, now I’m older, that it was probably just the valve that kept blowing off the top and all the steam came out in a rush and a horrid whistle. I was terrified to go in the kitchen.
They kept chickens in the garden, and I was allowed to collect the eggs from the shed where they slept. Grandma raised them herself, buying one-day old chicks and keeping them all warm in a big box with a light bulb in the middle. They used to huddle around it – a mass of yellow feathers, all chirping together. Once, one of the chicks had a broken leg and Grandma put it in a splint with a bandage round it. But a fox got in and ate it. Only the bandage was left. I don’t understand how the fox didn’t eat any of the other chicks, but it didn’t.
‘It’s survival of the fittest, that’s what it is.’ That’s what Grandma said, anyway.
I pretended that one of the adult chickens was mine – a beautiful pure white cockerel that I called King. I used to carry him around the garden as if he was a kitten. He was so soft and light, and pure white with a red floppy crown – his comb, it’s called. He crooned to me, chook, chook, chook , very softly, like he was purring. I loved him. He was my only pet.
Grandma was a great gardener. Grew all her own fruit and vegetables – potatoes, peas, runner beans on tepee frames, carrots, strawberries, loganberries, gooseberries. You name it, she grew it. It was my job to gather the glowing potatoes when she dug up the droopy old plant. The earth filled with the pearly treasure.
I used to walk around the garden with King in my arms crooning to me, and show him the ripe soft fruit and the neat rows of beans. The chickens were allowed to run around pecking at anything they wanted, they were only shut up inside their shed at night. I was sent out to pick a bowl of gooseberries, or a bowl of loganberries, or black currants or red currants, and I could eat as many as I wanted.
One day last summer, after Daddy left, we went to Grandma and Grandpop’s for Sunday lunch, and it was chicken. At Christmas-time Grandpop used to wring the neck of whichever chicken was ready to eat and hang it upside down, still with the feathers on. I didn’t like to go in his shed then. A pool of blood, black on the floor; a horrid smell like rusty metal that got in my throat. But this was summer. So, anyway, this roast chicken was tasty and tender and I had lots of roast potatoes – my favourite vegetable, and peas fresh from the pod. I had uncooked peas, I preferred them to cooked. Grandma wasn’t any good at cooked veg – half an hour for cabbage, that sort of thing.
So, I was half way through my chicken wing – my favourite part, if it’s got crispy skin, and I suddenly had this dreadful thought.
‘Grandma? Which chicken is this?’
Everyone went quiet and all the grown -ups looked at each other.
‘Grandma? Grandpop? It isn’t… it can’t be…’
I pushed my nearly empty plate away and stood up and started hitting Grandma as hard
After he died, (actually, they died at about the same time) I took off the ribbons and wore it properly, in his memory. Mum thought it was morbid. I still have the pencil case Grandpop sewed for me too. It’s made of strong white canvas with a zip. He sewed it all by himself. Sailors are good at making things and looking after themselves. He used to do all the sewing and ironing. He couldn’t cook very well, though. Mind you, Grandma wasn’t such a hot cook either. Unless you like pigs’ trotters – yuk! And rabbit stew. She had a pressure cooker that was always exploding. Well, I thought it was exploding. I realise, now I’m older, that it was probably just the valve that kept blowing off the top and all the steam came out in a rush and a horrid whistle. I was terrified to go in the kitchen.
They kept chickens in the garden, and I was allowed to collect the eggs from the shed where they slept. Grandma raised them herself, buying one-day old chicks and keeping them all warm in a big box with a light bulb in the middle. They used to huddle around it – a mass of yellow feathers, all chirping together. Once, one of the chicks had a broken leg and Grandma put it in a splint with a bandage round it. But a fox got in and ate it. Only the bandage was left. I don’t understand how the fox didn’t eat any of the other chicks, but it didn’t.
‘It’s survival of the fittest, that’s what it is.’ That’s what Grandma said, anyway.
I pretended that one of the adult chickens was mine – a beautiful pure white cockerel that I called King. I used to carry him around the garden as if he was a kitten. He was so soft and light, and pure white with a red floppy crown – his comb, it’s called. He crooned to me, chook, chook, chook , very softly, like he was purring. I loved him. He was my only pet.
Grandma was a great gardener. Grew all her own fruit and vegetables – potatoes, peas, runner beans on tepee frames, carrots, strawberries, loganberries, gooseberries. You name it, she grew it. It was my job to gather the glowing potatoes when she dug up the droopy old plant. The earth filled with the pearly treasure.
I used to walk around the garden with King in my arms crooning to me, and show him the ripe soft fruit and the neat rows of beans. The chickens were allowed to run around pecking at anything they wanted, they were only shut up inside their shed at night. I was sent out to pick a bowl of gooseberries, or a bowl of loganberries, or black currants or red currants, and I could eat as many as I wanted.
One day last summer, after Daddy left, we went to Grandma and Grandpop’s for Sunday lunch, and it was chicken. At Christmas-time Grandpop used to wring the neck of whichever chicken was ready to eat and hang it upside down, still with the feathers on. I didn’t like to go in his shed then. A pool of blood, black on the floor; a horrid smell like rusty metal that got in my throat. But this was summer. So, anyway, this roast chicken was tasty and tender and I had lots of roast potatoes – my favourite vegetable, and peas fresh from the pod. I had uncooked peas, I preferred them to cooked. Grandma wasn’t any good at cooked veg – half an hour for cabbage, that sort of thing.
So, I was half way through my chicken wing – my favourite part, if it’s got crispy skin, and I suddenly had this dreadful thought.
‘Grandma? Which chicken is this?’
Everyone went quiet and all the grown -ups looked at each other.
‘Grandma? Grandpop? It isn’t… it can’t be…’
I pushed my nearly empty plate away and stood up and started hitting Grandma as hard
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