Pecking order, p.2
Pecking Order, page 2
‘What an incredible system. The efficiency levels are staggering. And tell me, does Rubble cull the entire shed?’
‘He would if he could,’ said the farm owner smiling. ‘No, we try to change to contents of a shed over in two days. First day we cull the old birds.’ The farm owner twisted his cupped hands in opposite directions to imitate snapping a neck. ‘Rubble and a few people from the village do it. They load the carcasses onto lorries and next day the fresh birds arrive. Each lorry carries a few thousand chickens; each shed holds twenty-thousand birds. They’ll be loading up that other shed all day.’
The two men walked back down the steps and along the side of the shed. The lorry had now gone to fetch another load of birds and the space between the buildings was deserted. From the outside, the windowless exteriors could allow them to pass for any number of modern industrial buildings found throughout the country. Only a light build-up of feathers and dust on the protective grills of the extractor fans mounted on the structure’s two-hundred-metre-long walls gave any clue as to the unnatural purposes the building was being used for.
When they reached the spot where the lorry had been parked, the visitor’s step slowed. Looking down at the congealed blood and scattering of feathers in the sand, he said quietly, ‘I didn’t know that chickens could scream.’
The farmer looked nonplussed. ‘Any animal can scream if you hurt it enough. You should hear the noise a hare makes when the hounds get hold of it. Sounds just like a little girl. Even frogs can scream. Did you never, you know, play around with frogs when you were a lad?’
‘No I didn’t,’ the man said thoughtfully, still staring at the ground.
The farmer looked his visitor up and down, taking in the smooth suit and soft hands. ‘Come on then, let’s get a coffee,’ he said, leading the way.
They reached the office building at the end of the two sheds and the visitor looked up at the bulk bins towering above him. They had the appearance of two upside down bottles, permanently held in position by their metal frames. As if feeding a monstrous infant whose appetite could never be sated. The visitor looked back down and said, ‘Funny. A farm with no farm house.’
‘Eh?’ replied the owner. ‘No – but it’s not your average farm is it? It’s really a factory – the chickens are just part of my machinery. Let’s go up to my office and we can talk business.’
They went through another door, up some carpeted stairs and entered a large room. Immediately to their side was a group of humming monitors. The owner casually waved a hand at them as he walked past. ‘Ambient temperature, air ventilation, water allocation, food rations… I can control everything from up here. In fact, I prefer to keep out of the sheds as much as possible.’
Shelves ran along one wall, with boxes untidily strewn on the ground before them. The visitor paused to read the words on a couple of egg cartons. ‘Country fresh?’
‘Country fresh, fresh laid, farm fresh, country laid, you can call them anything you bloody want to so long as it doesn’t involve the words “barn” or “free range”. Those are just two samples you’re holding there, but we supply all the major supermarkets. They deliver the boxes and cartons ready-branded and we fill them up. Simple.’
At the end of the room was a wide desk with a computer and a rack of files. Screwed into the exposed breeze blocks of the wall behind was an enormous whiteboard with a graph depicting bird numbers and egg production by month.
Next to it was a poster with beautiful photographs of various breeds of chicken. The top of the poster read, ‘British Breeds of Poultry. Produced by Fancy Fowl Publications Limited. In association with Fred Hams.’
Eric examined the different images: a Speckled Sussex Female stood with its head up, black plumage peppered with dots of white; a Gold Penciled Hamburgh Male, with long inky feathers stretching along to a magnificent tale that was almost peacock-like in proportions; a marmalade-coloured Buff Orpington Female, shaped like a tea cosy with a head barely discernable from the body; a Duckwing OEG Female, its sinewy white body on two muscular, widely spaced legs. The man remembered the chicken darting agilely around the yard in a Rocky film, Sylvester Stallone unable to get any where near it. All the birds had proud, upright postures, feathers almost glowing with vitality. The visitor thought of the bedraggled, harried, miserable specimens trapped in the sheds and said, ‘Do you have different breeds of chicken in the other shed then?’
The owner glanced round to see what he was looking at. ‘Oh that,’ he said dismissively. ‘The wife got me that a couple of years ago. Said my office was too clinical. She doesn’t understand the realities of the industry, bless her. No, we only use Rhode Island Reds. Most productive chicken there is. It’ll lay an egg a day, week in, week out. In fact it’d probably use its dying breath to squeeze one more out. How do you take your coffee?’
‘Just black,’ his guest replied.
The owner passed him a cup and a small teacake wrapped in silver foil. The farmer quickly tore his one open, shoved the entire thing in his mouth and then threw the wrapping on the floor. Awkwardly, the visitor unwrapped his and took a small bite. Unsure what to do with the foil, he popped it in his pocket.
The farm owner had moved towards the window overlooking the canteen below. ‘I prefer to take my breaks up here at this time of year. It allows me to get in some quality bird-watching of my own.’ He laughed his abrasive laugh and pointed down at the tables. ‘Don’t worry: it’s mirrored on their side. They can’t see us.’
In fact they were visible to those below, but only as two ghostly shadows.
‘We get some right little crackers coming in here for their summer jobs I can tell you. Look at the jellies on that one. Hey,’ he pretended to address the girl directly below him, ‘do you like chicken love? Because you can suck my cock – that’s fowl!’
He barked up into the visitors space, who raised a finger to wipe a fleck of spittle he’d felt land on his eyebrow.
‘Ah, it tickles me that joke. I get quite a few summer workers, students mostly. A lot of girls to work in the egg packing room directly below us. Less clumsy than cack-handed lads.’
‘How many full-time staff members do you have then?’
‘Just Rubble – the system means that, more or less, we just leave the birds to it. Apart from him I’ve got a few part-timers, who come in to collect the eggs. Lets see…’ he raised a hand and his outstretched finger tapped the air. ‘One, two, three, four on that side table. Four in the packing room. Another three not on today. So all together a nice round dozen including Rubble.’
They looked down at the top of Rubble’s head. His hair was roughly shorn to a length that allowed you to see the bony angles of his skull. It seemed to sink directly onto a pair of sharply sloping shoulders with no neck in between. The other staff appeared to have coagulated away from him and into their own little groups: part time employees, a few female students together, a mix of young lads playing cards and watched by a girl who kept tossing back her hair. But Rubble sat alone, reading some kind of comic.
‘He seems an interesting character,’ commented the visitor.
‘Rubble? That’s one way of describing him.’
‘Isn’t he a bit old to be reading comics?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t read them. Just flicks through looking at the pictures.’
‘You mean he’s illiterate?’
‘More or less. He tried to get into the army a few times. It was his dream. But the application forms defeated him. He just about understands his pay slip, but I have to give him cash since he doesn’t even have a bank account.’
‘Unusual for this day and age.’
‘You’re telling me. I think he has a saving accounts in the post office in the village. He goes every Tuesday morning just before nine o’clock to get his precious comics.’
‘And you say that caravan is his permanent home?’
‘That’s right. No radio, no TV – apart from the security monitor. Hasn’t a clue about life beyond the farm. Sometimes the students ask him stuff – who’s Prime Minister? Which team won the Premiership? He hasn’t a clue.’
The visitor shook his head, ‘There’s nowt as queer as folk.’
‘Aye,’ agreed the farm owner. ‘So you think your management trainees could learn some things from how I run this place?’
The suited man turned to address the farm owner. ‘Absolutely – the efficiency levels you’ve achieved here could teach the industrial chiefs of tomorrow some valuable lessons in people management. As you know, the business world is a competitive place. Every employee has to pull his weight. And I believe the way you’ve married technology with production here is most interesting. It certainly provides some fascinating pointers.’
The farm owner had been nodding enthusiastically, but not really taking the speech in. ‘So what about numbers?’
‘Well the amount of seminars I run varies. But on average I’d look to bring around sixteen management trainees here, say four times a year.’
‘And how much do other companies charge for this sort of thing?’
‘Well I pay the Bourneville factory in Birmingham £20 per person and McVities in Manchester £18, to name just two.’
‘OK,’ said the farmer walking over to his desk and picking up a calculator. ‘How about, with free tea and coffee in the canteen, £15 a head for an afternoon workshop here?’
The visitor considered this for a moment. ‘That equates to around £1000 each year. It shouldn’t be a problem.’
The farm owner beamed, ‘Great – I’ll hold that quote for a month.’
He handed his guest a business card and waited for one to be offered back. But his visitor just said, ‘Well, I won’t take up anymore of your time.’
‘Do you have a business card I could take?’ asked the owner, a little tentatively.
The man made an act of patting the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Do you know, I’m always doing this. I’ve left them at my office. Can I send you one in the post?’
The farm owner raised his eyebrows. ‘How about a compliments slip or something like that?’
The visitor felt his neck grow a shade hotter. ‘Well normally I’ve got a stack of company brochures in the car – but it’s just been valeted, so everything’s in my office.’
Suddenly the rolls of the questioner and questioned were being reversed, and it was the visitor’s turn to feel interrogated.
‘I have to be careful,’ said the farm owner, his eyes narrowing. ‘For all I know you could be from the animal liberation – and I’ve just shown you round my business.’
‘Hardly,’ the taller man casually laughed, trying to sound relaxed. ‘You’ve no worries on that count, I can assure you.’ But he knew the situation had slipped irrevocably.
The farm owner’s next comment confirmed his fears, ‘Well, if you could send me written confirmation of our agreement along with a brochure or some other proof of your management consultancy, I would appreciate it. Then we can arrange dates for the first workshop.’
‘No problem, and thanks for the tour.’
They shook hands and the owner showed him back down the stairs and outside to his car. The visitor climbed into the black BMW and started the engine, trying to look entirely at ease in the unfamiliar vehicle.
‘I look forward to hearing from you,’ said the farm-owner.
The visitor put the car into gear, praying he didn’t stall it. The engine responded instantly to the light pressure of his foot, and the vehicle surged up the slope. The drive way climbed sharply, then curved to the left around a screen of pine trees. In seconds the sheds were invisible, sunk into the ground and hidden by the evergreen branches. Only the tops of the bulk bins showed above the trees.
A mixture of emotions washed over him. First, to his annoyance, was the feeling of pleasure that driving the car gave him. The cool, comfortable leather supporting his thin frame, the imperceptible sense of power beneath his hands and feet. He had to remind himself of the type of people who actually drove these vehicles; the pushy capitalist pigs, hogging the roads as if their choice of car made them superior to other drivers. He tossed the business card contemptuously onto the passenger seat, hooked a thin finger behind the knot of his tie and pulled it away from his throat.
The driveway reached the narrow country lane where a discreet sign read, ‘Embleton Farm. Private Property.’ He reached the head of the drive but before turning the car right towards the motorway, he hesitated.
How stupid to have believed that he could pull off such an outrageous plan. Desperation had pushed him, unprepared, into the attempt. In retrospect it seemed inevitable he would fail – having no business card to exchange was the type of elementary mistake someone unfamiliar with the business world was bound to make. He banged the heel of his hand angrily on the dashboard; the last chance of prolonging his university career had probably just escaped him.
Without a farm to take his students round, setting up a module on the ethics of modern-day food production would be impossible. His course options would remain focused solely on care of the elderly and, next term, the numbers of students in his lectures would, no doubt, drop again. This, he was painfully aware, left his department ever more vulnerable to closure when the expected budget cuts came.
He sat staring miserably into space, trying to imagine life if he lost his job as a lecturer. He found it impossible; after all, he’d devoted himself to it for almost twenty years. Now the department he’d so carefully built from nothing was slipping from his grasp. Unless, unless…
The idea - fully formed and complete - popped unbidden into his head, like a demon appearing in a dream. His immediate reaction was one of incredulity at how he could have thought such a thing. A bitter laugh almost burst from his lips. But the idea refused to go away. Stubbornly it squatted there, naked, obscene and motionless. Inviting him to examine it from every angle. Hardly wanting to, his mind’s eye began to do so. And he saw that it could just work. Telling himself that he wasn’t actually taking the idea seriously, Eric spun the wheel anti-clockwise and turned left towards the village.
Chapter 3
He glimpsed the occasional massive country house sat far back off the road, and wondered which was the farm owner’s. Not the one, he guessed, with a tray of apples and honesty box at the top of the drive; a small handwritten placard inviting passers-by to leave money for whatever fruit they took. Soon he reached an idyllic village green, having to slow down as a line of ducks waddled across the road, making their way to the pond in the middle of the grass. An elderly couple was sitting on a bench watching a group of children kicking a football about. Nestled around the edge of the green were two pubs, a restaurant, tearoom and a butcher’s. Directly opposite him was the village shop and post office with a traditional phone box at its corner. He parked, climbed out and walked up the stone ramp towards the shop’s entrance. Just before he reached it, the door opened with a jingling of a bell and an electric wheelchair bumped out. He had to step aside as the machine, driven by a sour-faced old woman, trundled past.
‘See you soon, Miss Strines,’ said the man holding open the door and staring with a pained smile at her rapidly receding back. There was no reply as the wheelchair set off along the pavement. The man’s eyes then shifted to the tall, thin stranger standing at the side of the ramp. ‘Afternoon,’ he said warmly, and waved him inside. The shopkeeper returned behind the post office counter and the visitor looked about. Lining the entire far wall were the newspapers, magazines and comics.
Before walking over to them he paused to examine the revolving stand of cards by the door. All were very traditional, embossed with balloons, shining with silver streamers or tastefully decorated with watercolours of landscapes. All possible family permutations and events seemed to be covered. A lovely baby girl! I’m 3. Happy 18th Birthday. Congratulations on your wedding. To my darling daughter. For a very special Grandson. You’re 60 years young. My deepest regrets for your loss. All of life, crammed into a few wire shelves.
He moved to the displays of produce in the middle of the room. Tiny jars of coffee, small boxes of teabags, packs of twelve Weetabix, half-pint cartons of long-life milk. Everything was aimed at people just popping out for one or two emergency items. He noted that the prices reflected this.
He sauntered over and picked up a copy of The Guardian. Whilst pretending to scan the headlines he checked the children’s section of the shelves, quickly identifying the small section of war comics he’d been told Rubble favoured. A part of him asked himself what on earth he thought he was doing as his hand slipped a few comics inside the newspaper. Covering any trace of his tracks right from the start. He went over to the till, and while waiting for the owner to reappear, examined the plastic pots grouped on the counter. They contained an assortment of the kind of sweets that only ever seem to be sold in little village shops. Two pence chews, single boiled sweets, traffic light lollipops and lengths of bootlace liquorice. The owner reappeared.
‘Just the paper, thanks,’ said Eric, holding out the correct amount of money.
‘That’s lovely,’ replied the man, dropping to coins into the open till.
He drove back into the city, and returned the BMW to the car-hire garage. At the side of the forecourt he unchained his ancient three-speed Raleigh from the railings. Then he put the rolled-up newspaper into the large satchel buckled onto a frame above the rear mudguard and cycled home.
He lived on a quiet cul-de-sac, each of the houses detached and with generous lawns at the front. He parked his bike in the narrow side alley separating his house from the next and walked round to the rear, noticing fresh cat faeces in the flowerbed at the side of his patio as he did so. Shaking his head, he unlocked the back door. The inside of his house was plain, the hall frugally decorated with a few faded prints of Lowry paintings. An autographed photo of Arthur Scargill in a simple frame. He entered a small study, three walls lined from skirting board to ceiling with row upon row of books. They seemed to lean inwards, making the room seem even smaller than it was.
