Read Online The Silent Hours by Cesca Major - Free Book Online Page B

begun. At the end of the day Paul would often be sent out to herd them back into the little wooden coop we had at the bottom of the garden. Swearing and sweating he would chase them, back bent, arms waving at his sides, his large hands snatching at the air, desperately homing in on them as they raced off every which way. I would stand at the kitchen sink, peeling vegetables or idly stirring whatever was bubbling on the stove, and laugh at his efforts. He would return with straw in his hair and mud on his shoes to sit and talk to me in the kitchen as the sun set over the fields beyond. It would be just us, the waning light, the easy talk that happens between families, and the sure knowledge that this would all happen again tomorrow.
    A new memory, conjoured perhaps by the still air in the garden. I’m not sure, but it stays, I can see it.
    I am in our garden. I am crouching down, alert, my skirts hitched up, eyes watching her every move. She is cornered. I can feel the sweat collecting on my hairline and the sun beating down on my back as I remain absolutely focused. She is trapped. In a breath it all happens: her wings flutter, she sees a gap and runs towards it, head jerking forwards, backwards, feathers bending a little in the breeze, her feet raised high with every step. I gasp and plunge and grab at her but she is too fast.
    I swing about again, feeling like a gladiator in an arena. I don’t have time for these games, but this chicken will not defeat me. Back bent over once more, I slowly advance, holding her eye contact, willing her to stay still. It is just at the moment when I am to pounce that I hear a shout of laughter – the chicken races past me, I dive, arms out-stretched, I hit the ground and Isabelle is running over to help me.
    She pulls me to my feet. ‘Maman, what are you doing?’ she asks. She sees me glaring at the hen, dusting my skirts down.
    ‘She,’ I say, pointing to the offender, who is now strutting backwards and forwards in my herb garden, victorious, ‘will not be caught.’
    Isabelle looks me up and down, at the marks on my clothes and the dusty scuffs on my face, and grins. ‘I’ll help.’
    ‘She will be going in the pot if she continues to evade me,’ I warn.
    ‘Maman.’
    Isabelle joins me, we look at each other. I nod. We rush. The chicken is confused, unsure where her best exit lies. She is being backed into a corner, noisily protesting as she steps into the shadow of the wooden fence. Her eyes dart left and right as we keep coming at her. Isabelle is breathing heavily, enjoying the game. The chicken decides to make a last bid for freedom and scrabbles between us both. I move swiftly, feel her bony body in my hands as I grab her running between my legs.
    Seizing her firmly on both sides, hands clamped down on her wings so she cannot flap and free herself, I hold her at arm’s length and carry her over to the coop.
    Isabelle throws herself into the little wrought-iron chair with its rusting arms and delicate patterns, resting in the shade of the wisteria that has grown out of control, her blonde hair shining in the sunlight. I shove the chicken back into the coop, see the grateful flap as I release her wings and slide the door across quickly, shutting her in with the rest. She turns, eyes me, resenting her loss of freedom and the chance to tear up my garden, feast on the plants, and then with a blink starts to scratch at the soil beneath her, all forgotten.
    Turning to the table I take in Isabelle. We meet in that moment, and I feel a smile spread across my face.
    Our garden, the scene of so many of the memories. I snatch at them, want more. My finger plucks at the skirt I am stitching, tracing a line on the material, but the present dissolves as more faces crowd onto the wooden bench with me. My family, fresh, tanned: Vincent with his rumbling laugh and large hands, Paul nudging me in the ribs, teasingly. And she is here, as if she really was at the table nearby.
    Isabelle