Christmas this year was a relatively quiet affair. There was just the two of us and of course our new lodger - Henrietta the hen. Henrietta came to us after we gave Mrs Pearlun a lift home with a basket of bantam chickens that escaped in my little car. We found Henrietta hiding in Mildred's old leg plaster and Mrs P asked us to look after her until she found the time to come and collect her.
I am quite sure that there are thousands of "Henrietta" hens in the World, each dearly loved by her owner who values the little brown eggs that pop out at regular intervals. Our dear, brown bantam hen is no different - except that she chose Christmas Day and Mildred's lunch as her time to perform. But I get ahead of myself. When we got her home Henrietta made it clear that far from being the great outdoor bird that her sisters all are, she much preferred to be inside. Christmas Eve was very cold here with the remnants of snow which had fallen heavily across much of England over the previous two days. Henrietta had settled herself in front of the kitchen fire and seemed most reluctant to move. However, I am sure that you will be aware dear reader that chickens are, how shall I put it, unreliable, when it comes to their toiletting behaviour. Not for them the quiet withdrawal to the "little girls room" and the judicious application of toilet paper. No. The average bantam likes to drop her droppings absolutely where she wishes and without a by your leave to her fellow residents of her home. I.e. Mildred and me! I will put up with so much. A spider web in the corner of the room. A little dust on the bookcases. But Chicken droppings never! Stern words were had between Mildred and myself about Henrietta's living arrangements. Mildred had really taken to Henrietta - she named her - and the little bantam had taken to being wherever Mildred was. I made clear that chicken droppings in the kitchen or anywhere else inside would not do at all. Mildred descended into what I shall politely called a bit of a grump. She sunk down deep into her chair and idly kicked her plaster cast, which had been propped up against the door like an off-white Christmas stocking waiting in the forlorn hope that Santa might fill it, over towards the kitchen hearth. The cast skidded to a halt beside Henrietta who lifted herself up and hopped into it. The moment was what Archimedes might have called "Eureka". Here was the perfect home for Henrietta. I pulled the cast wider open and she settled in beautifully. I was so pleased that Mildred received an unexpected big wet kiss from me as I congratulated her on a brilliant idea. Henrietta seems to know that if she has an urge she can shuffle down to the other end of the cast, the leg end, and do her stuff before moving back up to the foot end and sticking her head out of the hole recently vacated by Mildred's foot. Mildred has also used her knitting skills to provide a little nest for henrietta out of some very pale yellow wool. A little Eastery for Christmas perhaps, but she does look very snug.
So taken with her new arrangement was Henrietta that when we went downstairs on Christmas morning we found her contentedly clucking away and clearly keen that I should get the fire underway. Mildred and I are of an age where we no longer feel up to attending the Midnight Mass at church. Instead we like to go to the 10 o'clock communion service as it tends to be, for us at at least, a moment of peace in a generally busy day. Christmas as we know it is largely a 19th century invention and we English like to comfort ourselves with nostalgic flashes of simpler times when old Scrooge became reformed, tables groaned with good things and warming punches were liberally ladled to warm revellers as they called upon their friends. The reality is much less prosaic unfortunately but Mildred and I find that an hour or so in the company of the few village folk that attend the church gives a glimpse of how our Victorian forebears perhaps wished that Christmas might be celebrated.
Our prayers completed we walked the short distance to Lady Dent-Uhre's cottage, the family's grand house having been demolished for the new housing estate some years ago, where Lord Parshul liberally plied us with mulled wine and dry sherry. The vicar came up to Mildred and enquired after her ankle "not got your ice skates today I hope" he laughed. Not a terribly funny joke really, but as the poor man had briefly had my friend draped around his neck before she fell and damaged herself we felt obliged to laugh gently. The sermon had been about the opportunity that new birth brings to us. One of the Vicar's better homilies I thought although I suspect that he receives them mail order from some professional sermon writer somewhere. He is a pleasant man, but that's about all that I can say about him. His wife keeps him on a very short chain and he is not allowed to spend too long anywhere out of her sight. Especially when he visits the houses of unmarried or widowed ladies. He must pay these visits of course, but it is often remarked upon how often in village as small as ours she is to be seen waiting in the pastoral car outside houses whilst he carries out his duties within. She is his driver and guard and she makes her presence felt most forcibly.
We arrived home just in time. We had beef this year and there was just time to rest the meat whilst the Yorkshire puddings finished and the vegetables boiled. We sat down, I carved as that it one of MY functions, and we began our meals. We congratulated each other on our respective elements of the meal - "Your Yorkshires are really excellent this year" I said, my mouth full of crispy, battery loveliness. "The meat's just how I like it too" came an equally glowing response. Henrietta had been sitting in her place before the fire but now decided that she wanted to see what the fuss was about. Suddenly she appeared before us at the end of the table. Her head was cocked to one side as she caught the glint of the reflection of the light in Mildred's knife. I tried to shoo her away back onto the floor but that simply alarmed her and did a small jump and ruffled her feathers. A few loose feathers gently wafted down and one fell into the gravy boat. "Ruined" I squeaked. "Get her off the table Mildred". She rather ineffectually wafted her knife in the chicken's direction. All this did was to cause Henrietta to leap into the air again. But this time she landed on Mildred's head! She rapidly settled herself and sat watching to see what we would do next. "She's alright there" Mildred muttered through a mouthfull of lunch. So that was where we left her. I confess to feeling a little put out by being watched by a chicken whilst I ate my lunch. Mildred carried on as if nothing had happened. Henrietta clung on even though her host made no allowances for the fact that she was perched about five feet four inches off the ground on a head that constantly moved and chattered away. I do so wish that I had take a photograph because the combination of bird and friend really was most comical.
Eventually, having ploughed through plum pudding, mince pies and coffee we pushed back our chairs and relaxed. We both wore the contented looks of the well fed and as the daylight faded we rested our eyes for a few minutes beside our oh so cosy fire. Another Christmas lunch completed. We were content with the World and all was well in our lives.
Mildred had drifted off to the land of nod for a while and was awoken by Henrietta making little squawking noises and turning around on her head. She put her hand up to comfort and steady the bird when I heard her exclaim delightedly "Look Mavis. An egg"! I too was contemplating life. In fact I was reliving our visit to the Dent-Uhres and just how dishy Lord P is. In my dreams I am afraid. Do all women have these thoughts or just we poor doomed to be forever spinsters? However I was startled by Mildred's call and then started to laugh as she removed right from the crown of her head the sweetest little brown jewel and held it in the palm of her hand for me to examine. Henrietta was now on the floor again and strutting around very self-importantly. Mildred and I were giggling like school girls as we admired every inch of this little miracle. Our first egg from out first chicken - even if in fact she isn't "ours" but on loan. We decided to keep it until Boxing Day in the hope that Henrietta might leave us another one and then we could have boiled eggs for breakfast. In the event we actually had the eggs at tea time as Henrietta didn't oblige again until after lunch on the 26th. They were quite the most delicious eggs that we had ever tasted and I do hope that Mrs P does not wish to reclaim her chicken too soon. In fact I would be quite happy if she were to forget to collect her at all.
I will leave us there for now. There are more tales to tell and I am afraid that I have not had time to mention the Knitting Club's assistance in helping Ted Hayseed's new piglets keep warm. His old sow has for some quite inexplicable reason suddenly given birth to three little piggies. All runts really, but Ted wants to keep them, but it is a cold time of the year and they need to be kept warm. Pigs in pyjamas are such a funny sight. Please remind me to tell you about them. For now my friends, have a very Happy New Year and may next year bring you all the love and luck in the World.
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