Chickenfeed (2 page)

Norman doubted that. Surely a baby would give her more to worry about? But he didn’t say so. Elsie was easier to get on with when she was making plans. She took it for granted that her future would include him.

Once or twice, he tried to suggest differently. ‘I’m not the only bloke in the world, Else. Maybe you’ll find someone better.’

‘How can I? You’re my own sweet darling.’

‘Maybe
I’ll
find someone better,’ Norman teased, not completely in jest.

She put him through hell when he said such things. An older man might have used the sulks as an excuse to end the affair. But not a church-going boy of nineteen who was both flattered and trapped by Elsie’s devotion.

Which may explain why the idea of a chicken farm outside London was as welcome to Norman as it was to his father. He hoped a breathing space would help him make up his mind.

He bought a field off Blackness Road in Crowborough, Sussex, and took it over on August 22nd, 1921. In the hope of blessing the project from the start, he named the plot Wesley Poultry Farm. (John Wesley was the founder of the Methodist Church.)

Norman lodged locally. During the day he built chicken sheds and runs. The weather was warm in September and the work was hard. His only transport was his bicycle and he was careful what he spent.

After the purchase of land, he had to buy timber and wire, while keeping enough in reserve for chickens to stock the farm. It meant he spent most of his time alone and never treated himself to a night out.

Of course he missed Elsie. She wrote to him every day so that he wouldn’t forget her. ‘My own darling Norman . . .’ ‘Oh, my treasure, how I adore you . . .’ ‘Do you think of me as much as I think of you, pet . . . ?’ ‘Does absence make your heart grow fonder of your little lovey . . .?’

It did. Every Friday evening he cycled the fifty miles to Kensal Rise to spend the weekend with her. But the round trip was tiring, and he warned her that he wouldn’t be able to do it once the poultry arrived.

‘I can’t abandon them, Else. They’ll need to be fed and watered Saturdays and Sundays, same as during the week.’

She became tearful, so he told her he was planning to build a hut to live in. ‘It won’t be much,’ he said. ‘Maybe twelve feet by eight feet, but there’s a well for water and I can make a bed along one wall. I’ll cook on an oil stove and light candles when it gets dark.’

Elsie said it sounded romantic.

Norman shook his head. ‘It’s the way the lads lived in the trenches,’ he told her. ‘Hard and rough . . . but it’ll be cheaper than paying for a room every night. I’ll add to it as things get better and one day it’ll be a proper house.’

She was already thinking ahead. ‘I can visit at weekends.’

‘It’s not built yet.’

‘I’ll come down by train and walk from the station.’

‘You won’t be able to stay overnight, Elsie. It’ll look bad.’

‘I know.’ She gave his arm a teasing punch. ‘Silly boy! I’ll sleep in lodgings and spend the days with you. We’ll have fun, pet. I’ll do the cooking while you look after the chickens. We can pretend we’re married.’

It did seem romantic when she put it like that. And Norman
was
lonely. Sussex folk were wary of strangers and the new friends his father had promised had never appeared. So far, his only reward for ‘spreading his wings’ was hard work. And hard work was joyless when there was no one to share it with.

In any case, he was a healthy young man. He still had strong chapel views, but the thought of being alone with a woman excited him.

He built his live-in shack to the same design as his hen houses. The walls were made of wood and a high-pitched roof gave a feeling of space inside. Two beams, one above the other, ran across the centre to hold the structure rigid. At one end, a mattress on a platform served as a bed at night and a sofa during the day. At the other end, a small window let in some light.

He furnished the room with bits and pieces to make it more homely. A table and two chairs, an oil stove, a tin bowl for washing, and some matting on the floor. But, otherwise, it was just as he had promised Elsie. Rough, hard living. Made worse by the cold as the days shortened and winter drew in.

He refused to let Elsie visit until the spring of 1922. ‘The weather’s too bad,’ he wrote to her. ‘It’s hard to keep warm and most days I don’t bother to wash. I sometimes think the chickens are better off than me. At least they can huddle together.’

He kept from her that the farm wasn’t going well. Few of his hens were laying. Some were too young, some were off-lay, but most were affected by the rain. A local man warned him that the weather might stop the birds producing eggs for two months.

Norman was shocked. ‘I can’t afford to wait that long,’ he said. ‘I need something to sell. I’m living from hand to mouth as it is.’

The man shrugged. ‘It was a bad time to start a poultry farm, lad. Chickens don’t like the winter. Eggs are scarce now, but you’ll have more than you can sell when the spring comes. You’ll be lucky to cover the cost of the chickenfeed.’

‘What will I live on?’

‘Eggs?’ the man suggested with dry humour. ‘You’ll come to hate the taste of them . . . but they’ll keep the wolf from the door.’

Wesley Poultry Farm, Blackness Road – summer 1922

E
LSIE
LOVED
N
ORMAN’S LITTLE
shack. She’d never been so happy as on the weekends that she spent at the farm. She took a room down the road with Mr and Mrs Cosham, and walked to the field every day. She helped with the feeding and the collecting of eggs, but she wouldn’t clean out the hen houses.

‘The smell makes me sick,’ she told Norman, wrinkling her nose. ‘And I can’t go back to London reeking of chicken mess.’

Norman didn’t mind. He was content to let Elsie sit and do nothing as long as she was there. Her joy rubbed off on him and he began to think the project could work after all. True, he was producing more eggs than he could trade, but the cockerels and the broody hens were doing their jobs well. He now had plenty of young chicks to fatten and sell for the pot.

Elsie asked him how he was going to kill them.

‘Break their necks,’ he said.

‘Dad says his mother in Scotland did it with a knife.’

‘I don’t want blood on the neck feathers.’

‘Won’t you have to pluck them, lovey? Who’s going to buy a chicken that’s not been plucked?’

‘It’s only the bodies that need doing, Else. You leave the heads and neck as they are so the butcher can hang them in his window. They don’t look so good with blood on them.’

She squatted down to stare at a clutch of fluffy chicks. ‘Poor little things.’

‘Poor me, more like,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll be plucking in my sleep if the business takes off. The feathers come out pretty easily if the bird’s still warm, but it’s hard work even so.’

‘There’ll be a lot of feathers, pet. What will you do with them?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking around the field. ‘Burn them maybe. It’ll make the place stink for a while but at least I’ll be rid of them.’

He had more of a problem with soiled straw from the chicken sheds. He was rotting it down to sell as compost, but the process took time. Meanwhile, the growing heaps made the farm look even more run-down and tatty than it was. At first, Elsie didn’t seem to notice. But after a few weeks she began to nag him about it.

‘No one’s going to buy your eggs if they’ve seen where they come from. They’ll
expect
them to be bad. You need to paint the sheds. Make them look clean.’

‘I can’t afford to,’ he said crossly. ‘Paint costs money.’

‘Ask your dad for more.’

‘He’s given me enough already.’

When her nagging became too much, he suggested
she
give him the money to buy paint. ‘You say you want us to be wed, Elsie, but it won’t happen if the farm fails. I know you’ve got savings. It won’t break the bank to lend me a few quid, will it?’

‘My dad will have my hide if I lend money to a man I’m not engaged to,’ she said coyly. ‘You’ll have to put a ring on my finger first, pet.’

‘And what will I buy it with? Do you know a jeweller who’ll trade diamonds for poultry?’

*

But in spite of the odd argument about money and marriage, the summer and autumn passed happily enough. September and October were warm, and Elsie came down to Sussex almost every weekend. On Saturdays she and Norman lazed by a fire outside the hut when their tasks were over. On Sunday mornings they walked to the Methodist chapel in the centre of town before returning home to a meal made by Elsie.

She became expert at finding different ways to cook chicken. As often as not, the bird was an old one that needed boiling with carrots and onions. But for treats Norman would kill a young cockerel that could be fried in bacon lard from the local pig farm. It was more like camping than keeping proper house, but, as Elsie was fond of saying, ‘It’s like being on holiday.’

Norman’s father had told him once that holidays were the worst time to fall in love. ‘People act differently when they’re away from home, son. You can’t judge a lass by the way she is at the seaside.’

Norman wondered about that every time Elsie talked of marriage. Which was the real Elsie Cameron? The intense, nervy one who lived with her parents in London and hated her job? Or the carefree one who visited him in Sussex and played at being a wife? He knew she thought about sex almost as often as he did. Sometimes they came close to doing it.

He would pull her to him, clasping her buttocks and thrusting his hard penis against the folds of her skirt. There was always a second or two before she giggled and pushed him away.

‘Naughty boy!’ she’d say, wiggling her ring finger under his nose. ‘You’ll have to get down on your knees and propose to me, Norman. Promise to make me Mrs Thorne and I might think about it.’

‘As soon as I make ends meet.’

‘And when’s that going to be?’

‘I don’t know. I’m doing my best.’

‘That’s all you ever say. If you loved me as much as I love you, you’d sweep me in your arms and propose anyway. I don’t mind living in a hut.’

‘You would if it was every day, Elsie. It’s no holiday, believe me. If I can’t get a butcher to take my birds, I have to go house to house to sell the flaming things. And no one pays full price . . . not when they see how desperate I am to be rid of them. A dead hen doesn’t last long.’

There was no point bringing them home. The only place to hang dead birds was from the beam in his shed and they rotted quickly in the heat. On the two or three times that he’d tried it, he’d ended up burying the corpses in the field. No one wanted poultry that wasn’t fresh. Worse, the smell of death attracted foxes and rats.

There were no easy answers to his money problems. He’d been foolish to start the project without learning more about farming. But there was no going back now. He kept telling himself it would come right in the end. He’d been taught that God takes care of those who take care of themselves. And that hard work wins its own reward. But worry gnawed at his gut all the time.

What if it wasn’t true? What if God was teaching him a lesson in humility? How could he explain the waste of £100 to his father? How could he explain to Elsie that he might
never
be in a position to marry her?

He was always at his lowest in the hours before dawn. He lay awake, seeing himself in a trap of his own making. If he hadn’t met Elsie . . . if he hadn’t asked his father for money . . . if Elsie had been younger and less desperate to get married . . .

They became engaged on Christmas Day, 1922. Norman left the feeding of his birds to Mr Cosham and cycled back to London for the holiday. He told his father he was doing well enough to propose to Elsie Cameron.

Mr Thorne frowned at him. ‘Are you sure, son? The last I heard you were living in a wooden hut. Is that still the case?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you expecting a wife to live in it with you?’

‘We’re just getting engaged, Dad. The wedding won’t be for a while yet, and by then I’ll have found a place to rent.’

‘Mm. Whose idea was it? Yours or Miss Cameron’s?’

A stubborn look came over Norman’s face. ‘Mine.’

Mr Thorne didn’t believe him. ‘Will it make a difference if I refuse to give you my blessing? I quite see why Miss Cameron wants a husband – she’s nearly twenty-five – but you’re only twenty, lad. Much too young to start a family.’

‘We aren’t planning to have children straight away.’

‘
You
might not be, boy, but I’m sure Miss Cameron is.’

Norman gritted his teeth. ‘I’m not a boy any more, Dad, and her name’s Elsie. I wish you could see her the way I do. She’s sweet and kind and only wants what’s best for me.’

‘So do I, Norman.’

‘It doesn’t seem like it sometimes.’

Mr Thorne eyed him for a moment. ‘Has Elsie given you a hundred pounds?’

‘No.’

‘Then don’t accuse me of not caring.’

‘I’m not,’ said his son unhappily, ‘but life isn’t just about money, Dad.’

Mr Thorne shook his head. ‘It is when you sign up for something you can’t afford. There’s no time for love when the bailiffs come knocking on your door.’