Flying the Coop (30 page)

By the time Chris reached Fielders Real Estate, Frank, Jeff and Belinda were nowhere in sight. After sending a brief glare
in the direction of the plate-glass window, she headed down the alleyway and into the ladies at the end. Which was even smaller than she had feared. There was a tiny, yellow-tiled room with a washbasin and an even tinier toilet cubicle running along one wall. Chris had to turn sideways in order to close the door behind her. Once inside, she unhooked her basket, slid it underneath the basin and then eyed the cubicle door doubtfully. But the growing pressure on her bladder told her that something had to be done. And done fairly soon, otherwise that chicken suit was going to get a whole lot more embarrassing.

Chris tried going in front-ways first, but this meant that her entire tail section was still jutting out the door when she reached the far wall. So she tried backwards, and then sideways, with matching lack of success. Finally, with her legs now crossed and making the process even more awkward, she tried a combination of backwards, sidewards and frontwards that got her inside the cubicle and facing the toilet. Flushed with success and exertion, she closed the cubicle door and locked it securely.

With her prize now in sight, Chris kicked off her feet and then removed the headpiece and plonked it down on the floor. Next she started trying to get the bodysuit off but this proved considerably more difficult as the press-studs were all down the back and the wingtips were not particularly conducive to fine hand coordination. Chris banged and smashed her way around in the cubicle, bouncing off each of the walls in turn as she tried to free herself, finally ripping the costume off with a show of strength rather than finesse. Her car keys, which had been nestled inside her bra, shot out of their hiding place and hit the tiled floor with a loud chink.

‘Are you all right in there, dear?'

Chris stopped, the bodysuit halfway down her legs, and
stared at the door. The voice had been hesitant, concerned and rather elderly. Knowing her luck it was probably the little old lady she had flattened earlier that morning.

‘Ah – yes, thanks! Just fine!'

‘That's a relief! I thought you might be ill.'

‘No, not ill,' called Chris, stepping out of the bodysuit and looking with disgust at the roll of flesh jutting over the top of the orange tights. ‘Just a bit clumsy.'

‘Then will you be much longer, dear?'

‘Afraid so. I'm, um, not well.'

‘But I thought you just said –'

‘Must be something I ate.' Chris rolled the tights down with relief and waddled backwards towards the toilet. ‘Store-bought eggs, that's what it was! Should have got free-range, then I'd be fine.'

‘Really?'The voice sounded rather doubtful.

‘Yes, everyone knows that,' called Chris confidently. ‘You can't go wrong with free-range. Especially Isa Brown hen eggs. From
Beggs Eggs
.'

‘I'll keep that in mind. Um, perhaps I'll come back later.'

‘You do that.' Chris waited till she heard the toilet door open and close before she completed her undressing and then allowed herself the luxury of collapsing onto the seat. She sighed happily.

Two blissful minutes later, Chris slid her car keys back into her cleavage and reluctantly started the process of re-dressing herself. But as soon as she awkwardly pulled the body suit back into place, she realised that there was no way she was going to be able to do up the press-studs at the back. This morning she had had Jenny to perform that task. Now she had nothing but a gaping back and a limited wingspan. After thinking desperately for a minute or so, Chris decided her best course of action was to dress herself as best she could and then
hang around until someone else needed to go. And then ask them if they could kindly do her up.

With this solution in mind, Chris slipped her feet back into the yellow claws and then pulled the headpiece back over her head, immediately losing all her peripheral vision. She pulled the door open and performed her backwards, sidewards and frontwards trick in reverse, arriving at the washbasin rather breathless but relatively intact. She flicked on the tap with one wingtip and then realised that her hands were covered so flicked it back off again with a sigh. Anyway, germs were the least of her worries at the moment.

Chris pushed her tail feathers to one side and slid her back down the wall until she was squatting. Then she commenced the wait. To pass time, she let herself imagine Frank being hit by a Mack truck. With her at the wheel. Or maybe she could invite him out to the farm and lock him in a compound with Ergo. And Dot. Chris smiled slowly to herself and put one hand out to pull the wicker basket closer. But it wasn't there.

Startled, she glanced all around the floor – but it still wasn't there. Chris shot to her feet and stared at the now empty gap under the sink. Someone had stolen her basket. With the rest of the eggs and about fifty-odd flyers. And the only person that it could have been was that elderly lady who had sounded so concerned about her welfare.

Just as Chris was mentally herding the elderly thief into the Ergo compound with Frank and Dot, the outer door opened and a small pigtailed girl with a lollipop stuck firmly in her mouth came through, humming happily to herself. The humming stopped dead when she caught sight of Chris and she froze, her mouth dropping open and the lollipop rolling slowly forwards, out, and onto the floor with a soggy plop. As if this had broken her trance, the little girl suddenly blinked and then, before Chris even had a chance to utter something
reassuring, she back-pedalled through the door and started yelling for her mother. Chris followed quickly.

‘Mummy!
Mummy
!'

By the time Chris had manoeuvred herself through the door and plodded up the alleyway, the girl was already at the other end, shrieking excitedly at her mother: ‘Mummy! There's a 'normous fluffy chicken in the toilet!'

‘What have I told you about making things up, Taylor?'

‘I'm
not
making it up!'

Chris exited the alleyway and paused right behind the girl's mother, who was bending over her daughter with a hand on either shoulder.

‘You've gone too far this time, Taylor. I've had enough.'

‘But it's right
behind
you!'

‘No more TV. And no more movies either. I don't care
what
your father says.'

‘Excuse me?' Chris tapped the woman on her shoulder.

‘Yes?' Taylor's mother turned politely and then, in a gesture that made her look remarkably like her daughter, her mouth dropped open to form a round O as she stared at Chris bug-eyed.

‘I wonder if you would be so kind as to do me up?' Chris gestured to the back of her costume.

‘Ah – sure.'

‘Thanks so much.' Chris swung around and was rewarded by the sound of the press-studs being fastened. When the last one had been snapped into place, she turned again. ‘Much appreciated. Really.'

‘My pleasure,' replied Taylor's mother numbly as her daughter leapt up and down happily beside her.

‘What'd I tell you, Mummy? Hey? What'd I tell you?'

‘I don't suppose you saw a little old lady with a basket of eggs go past, did you?' asked Chris. ‘She may have been using a walking-frame.'

‘Ah – no. No, I didn't.'

‘Did she steal your eggs?' asked Taylor, her eyes huge.

‘As a matter of fact she did.' Chris patted the girl on the head with one wing and then, lifting her feet carefully, flip-flopped off down the pavement. As she walked, it occurred to her that without eggs and without flyers there wasn't a whole lot she could accomplish now. This thought brought a smile to her face and, pausing momentarily, she pulled off the orange feet so that she could walk more quickly. Because she was going home.

Chris opened the front door and padded tiredly down the passage, her claws dangling from one hand and her headpiece from the other. Her feet hurt from walking the streets, her thighs hurt from lifting her feet, her arms hurt from lugging the basket, her eyes hurt from trying to peer through the head-piece, her chest hurt because, owing to the size of her posterior, it had been wedged against the steering wheel for the entire trip home, and her head hurt simply because being dressed in a chicken suit was the sort of thing that guaranteed a super-sized headache. And, on top of all that, she was sweaty, sticky, smelly and starving.

There was a delicious smell coming from the kitchen so she dragged herself in that direction, soon noting that the chef on this occasion was Jenny, who was stirring something in the electric frypan. Dropping the car keys, claws and headpiece onto the floor, Chris adjusted her behind and sank into a kitchen chair with a groan.

‘You're back early,' commented Jenny, looking at her critically.

‘I was robbed,' snapped Chris. ‘The basket with the flyers and all. Besides, you try walking the streets dressed like a damn chicken and see how long you last!'

‘You mean someone
stole
them?' Jenny ignored the latter part of Chris's statement. ‘Who'd do that?'

‘This little old – anyway, that's not important. The point is they're gone.'

‘But I don't get it.' Jenny stopped stirring. ‘Do you mean you were
attacked
?'

‘No. I wasn't there. Can we change the subject?'

‘Where the hell were you then?'

‘God, Jenny!' Chris glowered at her. ‘You're like a damn terrier! If you must know, I went to the toilet and left them near the sink. Then while I was breaking my neck trying to get out of this bloody outfit, somebody came in and pinched the basket. Okay?'

Jenny suddenly started laughing. ‘I can just see you –'

‘Yes, I know. I was there.'

‘Well, I suppose that's what you get when you put all your eggs in one basket.'

‘You're so damn witty.' Chris pulled out the chair opposite and propped her feet up on it. ‘And before you ask why I'm still wearing this
thing
if I hate it so much – it's only because I'll need your help to get out of it again. But for now, if you have the least affection for me, you'll put the kettle on and make me a cup of coffee before I pass out.'

‘No problem.' Jenny, still grinning, lit the gas on the stove and placed the kettle over it. ‘Do you want something to eat too?'

‘Yes. Anything. Whatever you're cooking there smells nice.'

‘No, this is for tea. It's going to be lasagne. I
was
going to do steak but you don't seem to have a meat tenderiser. Anyway, I'll make you a ham and salad sandwich for now. How's that sound?'

‘Heavenly.' Chris put a wing on the table and propped up her head. ‘But I thought Lauren was helping you with tea?'

‘She can do the salad. For now, she's busy earning me twenty bucks.'

‘What?'

‘She spent the morning with Zoe.' Jenny smiled smugly. ‘They're out in the barn now, I think.'

‘You're kidding.' Chris digested this piece of news. ‘Do you mean my kids are still here? I thought Garth would have collected them by now.'

‘No, but I'll grab them now if that's okay.' Garth came through the doorway and then stopped short, staring at Chris. ‘What the
hell
are you wearing?'

‘Where'd you come from?' asked Chris, ignoring the question. ‘I didn't hear the front door.'

‘It was open.' Garth glanced curiously at Jenny and then picked up the headpiece and examined it. ‘So we just came straight through.'

‘We?'

‘Me too,' said Cynthia, materialising behind Garth's right shoulder and beaming down at Chris. ‘Love your outfit, Christin. Very, um . . . white.'

‘That's what I was going for,' replied Chris tiredly.

‘Aren't you going to say hello to me, Garth?' asked Jenny, raising her eyebrows at him. ‘I know it's been a few years, but still . . .'

‘My god!' Garth dropped the headpiece and enveloped Jenny in a hug. ‘Jenny Parker! I didn't recognise you!'

Jenny, grinning, removed herself from the embrace. ‘Are you saying I've aged?'

‘No, no, of course not.' Garth stood back and examined her. ‘In fact, I'd say you're looking better than ever! How the hell are you? And what brings you to this neck of the woods? And . . .' Garth paused as he glanced around. ‘Where's the old man?'

‘Long story,' Chris interjected, getting to her feet and straightening her tights. ‘And why don't I go get the kids while you introduce Jen to Cynthia?'

‘What? Sure!' Garth, who seemed to have forgotten his beloved's presence, whipped around and took in the fact that she did not look terribly pleased. He started some clumsy introductions while Chris, smiling happily to herself, pulled on a pair of gumboots on the veranda and then headed towards the barn.

As she plodded past the old hen's enclosure, she was surprised to see her son sitting in the dirt inside the fence with his back to her. Chris went up to the gate and, resting a wing against the mesh, peered through. What had, only this morning, been a relatively smooth expanse of dirt was now an elaborate network of roads and intersections. There was even a bridge that had been built out of a curved piece of old tyre. The roads went around the hencoop, under the ramp, and stretched out to each of the four corners of the enclosure. The chooks, obviously unaware of even the rudiments of road courtesy, were running across the intersections and pecking at the bridge and being totally ignored by Michael, who sat in the middle sorting out matchbox cars. Even from the back Chris could tell that he was absolutely filthy.

‘Michael!' Chris was rewarded by the boy jumping a good three inches in the air before he whipped around to face her with a guilty – and putrid – face. ‘Time to go. Your father's here.' Let Garth worry about the less than pristine state of his son.

Chris left the gate and went over to the barn, entering through the side door and blinking in the semi-light until her eyes adjusted. She could hear voices coming from the loft so she plodded over to the ladder, standing at the bottom and opening her mouth to call Zoe's name.