Scene:  A farmhouse kitchen – modernised to town perceptions of what a farm kitchen should be like. Stone floors with rush mats, wooden chairs, wooden table, armchair by multi-fuel stove.

Lewis and Fiona are in their late fifties. They are sitting at the table eating supper.

LEWIS:    
Oh by the way there was a phone call this afternoon.

FIONA:   
Mm?

LEWIS:   
You were out in the stable, I expect that’s why you didn’t hear. I forgot to tell you.

FIONA:   
And? Lewis, sometimes you drive me mad. What phone call?

LEWIS:   
Sorry love. It wasn’t anything important, I don’t think, so it just slipped my mind. I was shelling the last of the runner beans.

FIONA:   
Broad beans.

LEWIS:   
What?

FIONA:   
Broad beans. You said we needed to clean up the runner beans tomorrow, remember?

LEWIS:   
Ah yes. I got them blanched and cooled, anyway. (with satisfaction) They’re all bagged up. Just want sealing and putting in the freezer.

FIONA:   
That’s good. There’ll still be room for the runner beans though, won’t there. So what was this phone call?

LEWIS:   
Oh the phone call. It was a bit of a puzzle, I didn’t quite know what to say, so I told them to ring back later when you came in. Something about chickens.

FIONA:  
Chickens?

LEWIS:   
Yes, hard feather or soft feather. And what breed. That sort of thing.

FIONA:        (pauses – puzzled!)
“Hard or soft feather?” What is that about? I’ve no idea why anybody would ring us about chickens. Were they buying or selling?

LEWIS:    (dubiously)
I think they were looking to buy chickens. Hens, anyway.

FIONA:   
I’m not selling any of them, not this year. They’re still laying quite well and the couple that went broody have reared a nice lot of chicks –

LEWIS:     (gloomily)
All cockerels. They won’t be laying any eggs, will they? Just squabbling and crowing and annoying the neighbours.

FIONA:   
I know they’re nearly all cockerels but if we pen them up once the weather gets bad, and feed them, they’ll be a decent size for eating by Christmas. (brightly) We can have a plucking day – like Tom and Barbara do with the turkeys and geese.

LEWIS:   
Oh! I don’t know how you can do that.

FIONA:   
What?

LEWIS:  
 Pull their necks and – you know – pluck them and gut them and that.

FIONA:    (brightly)
Do it quick, darling, and they don’t know what’s hit them.

LEWIS:   
Are you going to ask Tom to come and – despatch them?

FIONA:   
Wringing necks is just a knack, Lewis, it doesn’t need strength. But we could invite Tom and Barbara to come and help us and I’ll make lunch for us all. It would be a good excuse for a little party.

LEWIS:   
All that flapping. Feathers all over the hay in the shed. It’s a bit unnerving you know, Fee.

FIONA:    (amused)
Sometimes I think you aren’t cut out for this farming game.

LEWIS:   
Wee … eelll. We aren’t really farming, are we? A dog and a cat, ten sheep and a horse and a few hens wandering about the paddock. Retired. Dog and stick farmers, that’s what they call us, you know.

FIONA:   
No reason why we can’t do the job properly though, is there? No; we’ll take care of a couple of plump cockerels apiece – pluck them, clean them and pop them into the larder, and then lunch for four around the kitchen table.

LEWIS:   
Freezer.

FIONA:   
What?

LEWIS:   
Freezer, love. Put them into the freezer.

FIONA:   
Chickens need to hang for a while, darling. Just because the supermarkets neck them, pluck them and freeze them within 30 minutes doesn’t mean we have to. All those old slate slabs in the larder are there for a reason. It’ll be nice and chilly by December and the chickens can sit there for a week before we need to bag them and freeze them. They’ll have a lovely flavour. That’s what hanging is for. Developing the flavour and helping to tenderise the meat.

LEWIS:    (unconvinced).
Mm …  I can’t help feeling it’s a bit of a rough life being a male here on the farm. A few weeks strutting their stuff, then SQUAWK! And it’s all over.

FIONA:    (kissing him)
You are such a softie. At least our little cockerels will have had a nice time up till Christmas – ratching about and eating all the biddies and weeds in the yard.

LEWIS:    (laughs)
All right, you hardened farming wife. Enough of chickens. That was a lovely omelette. Thanks. Now – Let’s clear the plates and have some of that bramble pie.

SFX plates and cutlery; table being cleared and pie brought to table and cut and served. They eat.

FIONA:   
Thanks for putting those bags of coarse mix into the feed-chest for me.

LEWIS:   
The soft hearted townie has his uses, then?

FIONA:   
Never said you didn’t, Muscles.

LEWIS:    (eating)
That mare eats enough for two.

FIONA:   
She’s entitled.

LEWIS:   
Not by this day of the year, surely? The foal’s nearly as big as she is. He can’t be drinking all that much from her any more.

FIONA:   
That’s why she’s entitled, darling. She’s the one who’s made Freddie the size he is. Everything she eats, Maggie puts into him as milk. She’d make a tremendous dairy cow.

LEWIS:   
Right colour too. Black and white, I mean … Only the feathery feet wouldn’t suit, would they, somehow.

FIONA:   
No, I can’t quite see Tom and Barbara milking hairy legged Holsteins. What a mess on a muddy day in the milking parlour!

LEWIS:   
Some people do drink mare’s milk, though, don’t they?

FIONA:   
Do they?

LEWIS:   
Yes, I’m sure I’ve seen it marketed, or maybe I read about it in an article; it’s supposed to be less allergenic than cow’s milk.

FIONA:    (gently mocking)
What a big word for a Saturday teatime. But I suppose it’s not much different from selling goat’s milk.

LEWIS:    (defensively)
Yogurt started out as mare’s milk. At least I think so.

FIONA:   
I’ll believe you. But the amount that foal drank, even when Maggie was in full milk, you’d be lucky if he left you enough for a mug of tea.

LEWIS:   
I thought he was about weaned now?

FIONA:     (with mouth full)
Mmm. He is, pretty well. I mean he was born in April so he’s plenty old enough. Oh dear. You know, he’s such a sweetie, it’s just a pity he’s a colt. I’d have kept him if he’d been a filly. But I can’t keep an entire colt and I can’t face having him gelded.

LEWIS:   
Ha! Now who’s being a softie. Well the only answer is to advertise him in the paper, like you said.

FIONA:   
Yes, I mean No, we said we were going to put the advert in Horse and Hound. Not the paper.

LEWIS:    (apologetic)
Erm … well I looked at the rates in Nag’n’Dog and even for classified lineage they were horrendous.

FIONA:   
Oh Lewis! We won’t get a nibble locally for a piebald. Nothing worth having anyway. There’s a big market for coloured cobs, but that kind of money isn’t going to come from around here, not for a foal, anyway … Only the tinker boys and they’ll want to pay peanuts and sell him on … and we won’t make the price of … Oh! No, I told you, Horse and Hound. Next week or the week after when he’s properly weaned. I’ll get a good photograph. He’s leading nicely in that headcollar now. (SFX puts down spoon) Lewis? You aren’t saying much. Oh Lewis – You haven’t put the advert in already, have you?

LEWIS:   
We-elll … the thing is, Fiona …

FIONA:   
Tell me the worst.

LEWIS:   
I did it when I went into town for the feed.

FIONA:   
Oh Lewis! You might have told me! What if someone had telephoned … Lewis? What was that telephone call about?

LEWIS:   
Telephone call? Oh yes the telephone call. Chickens. It was about chickens.

FIONA:   
Hm. Oh well. (SFX chair scraping back across floor; Fiona getting and opening spectacle case, putting specs on nose) Let’s see the advert.

(SFX rustle of newspaper; Fiona sitting on armchair; and a pause; and another rustle of newspaper)

FIONA:   
Are you sure you put it in? for this weekend?

LEWIS:   
Yes, but I’m not sure the girl and I got it right. Between us, that is.

FIONA:   
I can’t see it. What do you mean, you’re not sure you got it right?

LEWIS:   
Well, she seemed to have difficulty hearing what I said – I had to repeat a lot of the words.

FIONA:   
Didn’t you give her a written copy?

LEWIS:   
Well I was going to, but I think I must have pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket when I was getting the feed. Anyway I couldn’t find it so I dictated it and she typed it into the computer.

FIONA:   
Did you pay for the ad?

LEWIS:  
Oh yes, and I’ve got a receipt somewhere. It’ll be in my jacket pocket. A dashed sight cheaper than Nag’n’Dog, I’ll tell you.

FIONA:   
Only it isn’t in, is it? It doesn’t matter, I’ll phone them on Monday and get a refund. It’s definitely not there. I’ve read right down the Horse section. Unless the silly girl put it under Cattle … (SFX rustle of newspaper) No … Gardening … Produce … Poultry … (very quietly) LEWIS.

LEWIS:   
Yes, Fee?

FIONA:   
I’ve found your advert. It says: (reading, slowly) “Large black-and-white coat fowl, plenty of feather.”

(the telephone starts to ring)