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Authors: Rosie Harris
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thrust him out into the cold, frosty night leaving the door wide open. Eddy shook his arm away. ‘I’ll have to go back inside, I haven’t got any bread,’ he protested.
‘You won’t need bread, whacker! Now, lift that bloody chicken out of the crate. Go on, do as I tell you!’ Michael Quinn roared as Eddy hesitated.
Shivering, partly with the cold, partly with apprehension, Eddy did as his father ordered. The light from the open doorway streamed across the backyard. The chicken struggled for a moment then settled against Eddy’s chest, its bright eyes eager as if it was expecting to be fed.
‘Grab it round the neck with both hands,’ his father ordered.
‘What for? I might hurt it if I do that.’
‘Do as you’re bloody well told before I grab you round the soddin’ neck.’
Gingerly, still cradling the chicken in one arm, Eddy placed both his hands on its neck as he’d been ordered to do.
‘Not like that, you bloody idiot. Hold your hands so that you can twist them one against the other. Go on. Now, twist! As hard as you can.’
Bile rose up in Eddy’s mouth as he realised what his father was telling him to do.
‘I can’t do that … it will kill it,’ he gasped.
‘Of course it bloody well will. Best thing that can happen to it if you can’t be bothered to feed it, though, isn’t it!’
He suddenly moved closer, his large calloused hands closing over Eddy’s, forcing the boy to twist one hand against the other. There was a panicked squawk from the chicken as it tried desperately to break free, but Michael Quinn increased the pressure of his own hands over those of Eddy’s. When he released his grasp the chicken was limp.
Tears blinded Eddy’s eyes as he held the lifeless body, and white feathers drifted down onto the yard like a sprinkling of snow.
Before he knew what was happening, his father had taken a penknife from his pocket and slit the chicken’s throat. As hot blood gushed out over his hands Eddy dropped the bird in horror. Picking it up, his father tied its legs together and suspended it upside down from the edge of the crate. ‘No point in wasting it! We’ll have it for our Christmas dinner,’ he said complacently as he turned on his heel and went indoors.
Chapter Eight
Vera was quite sure that none of them would ever forget Christmas 1922. Except perhaps little Benny who, since he had had only just turned three, had very little idea about what was going on.
The tension as they sat down to eat their Christmas dinner was palpable. Their father was the only one who seemed relaxed enough to pick up his knife and fork and attack the food on his plate with relish.
Vera had helped her mother to do the cooking, although neither of them had any stomach for what should have been the most enjoyable meal of the year. The beautiful black and white chicken that Michael Quinn had told Eddy he had bought for him as a pet, lay in a big serving dish that occupied the centre of the table. It was surrounded by roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts, carrots and parsnips. There was another dish full of boiled potatoes and a smaller one with peas in it.
A mouth-watering feast, better than anything they had sat down to all year, but none of them had any appetite for it. Each of them knew, though, that if they refused to eat what was put on their plates it would incur Michael’s wrath, and they dare not even think about the consequences if that happened.
The moment they were all seated, Michael picked up the carving knife and fork and signalled to his wife to place the loaded serving dish in front of him.
‘Nice looking bird,’ he commented, as he pierced the crisp, brown outer skin with the fork, and plunged the knife into the crevice where one of the legs joined the carcass.
He licked his lips as juices spurted out. Calmly, he severed one plump leg and laid it on his own plate. He selected a generous helping of the vegetables that surrounded it on the serving dish and arranged them on his
‘You won’t need bread, whacker! Now, lift that bloody chicken out of the crate. Go on, do as I tell you!’ Michael Quinn roared as Eddy hesitated.
Shivering, partly with the cold, partly with apprehension, Eddy did as his father ordered. The light from the open doorway streamed across the backyard. The chicken struggled for a moment then settled against Eddy’s chest, its bright eyes eager as if it was expecting to be fed.
‘Grab it round the neck with both hands,’ his father ordered.
‘What for? I might hurt it if I do that.’
‘Do as you’re bloody well told before I grab you round the soddin’ neck.’
Gingerly, still cradling the chicken in one arm, Eddy placed both his hands on its neck as he’d been ordered to do.
‘Not like that, you bloody idiot. Hold your hands so that you can twist them one against the other. Go on. Now, twist! As hard as you can.’
Bile rose up in Eddy’s mouth as he realised what his father was telling him to do.
‘I can’t do that … it will kill it,’ he gasped.
‘Of course it bloody well will. Best thing that can happen to it if you can’t be bothered to feed it, though, isn’t it!’
He suddenly moved closer, his large calloused hands closing over Eddy’s, forcing the boy to twist one hand against the other. There was a panicked squawk from the chicken as it tried desperately to break free, but Michael Quinn increased the pressure of his own hands over those of Eddy’s. When he released his grasp the chicken was limp.
Tears blinded Eddy’s eyes as he held the lifeless body, and white feathers drifted down onto the yard like a sprinkling of snow.
Before he knew what was happening, his father had taken a penknife from his pocket and slit the chicken’s throat. As hot blood gushed out over his hands Eddy dropped the bird in horror. Picking it up, his father tied its legs together and suspended it upside down from the edge of the crate. ‘No point in wasting it! We’ll have it for our Christmas dinner,’ he said complacently as he turned on his heel and went indoors.
Chapter Eight
Vera was quite sure that none of them would ever forget Christmas 1922. Except perhaps little Benny who, since he had had only just turned three, had very little idea about what was going on.
The tension as they sat down to eat their Christmas dinner was palpable. Their father was the only one who seemed relaxed enough to pick up his knife and fork and attack the food on his plate with relish.
Vera had helped her mother to do the cooking, although neither of them had any stomach for what should have been the most enjoyable meal of the year. The beautiful black and white chicken that Michael Quinn had told Eddy he had bought for him as a pet, lay in a big serving dish that occupied the centre of the table. It was surrounded by roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts, carrots and parsnips. There was another dish full of boiled potatoes and a smaller one with peas in it.
A mouth-watering feast, better than anything they had sat down to all year, but none of them had any appetite for it. Each of them knew, though, that if they refused to eat what was put on their plates it would incur Michael’s wrath, and they dare not even think about the consequences if that happened.
The moment they were all seated, Michael picked up the carving knife and fork and signalled to his wife to place the loaded serving dish in front of him.
‘Nice looking bird,’ he commented, as he pierced the crisp, brown outer skin with the fork, and plunged the knife into the crevice where one of the legs joined the carcass.
He licked his lips as juices spurted out. Calmly, he severed one plump leg and laid it on his own plate. He selected a generous helping of the vegetables that surrounded it on the serving dish and arranged them on his
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