Flying the Coop by Ilsa Evans Read Free Book Online Page B

Chris had noticed the increase in backgroundnoise as soon as she left the house and, of course, she had realised what was making this background noise. However, it still gave her a bit of a thrill to actually see the chooks, even at a distance. And there seemed to be quite a lot of them, too. Clustering around the gate and looking very much as if they were chatting with Grace, they were all a white-flecked chestnut-brown colour, with snowy white tail feathers, red fleshy combs and brownish-yellow feet. But to Chris’s surprise, the sound they made was nothing like the raucous cackling she had expected. Instead, it was more like listening to a television with constant interference creating a muted backdrop to the real action. A sort of sociable chattering resonance that brought to mind a dozen low-level, gossipy conversations going on all at once, with lots of interruptions but no one person raising their voice louder than anybody else. And, as she listened, Chris realised that this soft background chook chatter just seemed to fit the whole rustic serenity of the countryside.
    She smiled, without even quite realising it, and then watched as Grace abandoned her attempts at poultry communication and instead headed with Frank along the hedge towards the barn, which was also desperately in need of a lick of paint. Or two. While waiting for them to return, Chris left the veranda and wandered down a well-worn dirt path to the chook enclosure. A few curious hens dashed over to the gate and stood blinking at her as she approached. Chris nodded cordially and made a few experimental clucking noises. The chooks seemed to enjoy this, their level of noise immediately increasing as about a dozen others ran over to see what was going on. They crowded the gate, each jostling for position as they chattered at her nonstop.
    â€˜Sorry. No spreichen de chook.’ Chris smiled at them apologetically and then lifted her gaze to examine the areabeyond the welcoming committee. And the smile slowly slid off her face as her mouth dropped open in shock. Because her easy assumption of one pen, one herd of chooks, was totally, utterly erroneous. Instead, stretching past this initial chookyard, were many, many more, each with their own dilapidated corrugated iron shed, each with their own huge dirt patch, and each with their own gregarious gathering of poultry. Thousands and thousands of chickens. Nor did the enclosures appear to be in any semblance of order, like a neat row all in a line. Instead, they were scattered over the property as far as Chris could see, as if some giant hand had tossed them onto the landscape in a godly game of knucklebones.
    Raising both hands to clutch the metal mesh of the gate, Chris systematically tracked her gaze across the entirety of the farm beyond the hedge. And knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was out of her depth. Steadily accumulating thoughts of ‘what if?’ – fostered by the peacefulness, the cheerful chooks, and memories of a dream once shared – vanished as her stomach clenched with the full realisation of how unrealistic she’d been. Garth had been right – again. Overcome with a sudden sadness that surprised her in its intensity and almost, but not quite, brought tears to her eyes, Chris turned her back on the maze of enclosures, with their free-ranging occupants, and walked slowly back across the yard and up onto the veranda. Then she continued around the corner by the office until, even if she turned, she would no longer be able to see the hedge, and the gate, and the poultry.
    Once there, she resolutely pushed the whole chook bit of the farm out of her head. So what if she’d been a fool? Nothing was ever a waste if you learnt something along the way – even if what you learnt was that you were a fool. And that was that. Mentally, Chris washed her hands of the whole thing and leant against the weatherboards between the louvrewindows of the office and a set of