Oscar and the Cockerel.

The Sunday School Outing.

Frank Newman's Hairline.

Grannie Comes to Visit.                              

 

 

                 OSCAR THE COCKEREL

 

        My father, on visiting the local market in Abergavenny, decided to buy some more chickens.  He bought some laying hens and a big colourful cockerel.  On his return to the farm, he released all the hens and the cockerel into the yard, where the rest of the old hens were scratching around for the odd titbit.

 

        My mother watched as dad gave them their freedom.  They flew around squawking and clucking but our attention was brought to this magnificent cockerel, who was actually parading around his new territory.  Lifiting his feet high, covering every inch of his new domain, and clearly portraying he was indeed king of his harem.  'Look,' my father said to mum as they watched, 'I said to myself when I bought that bird he was a good one. My mother agreed the eggs would increase with him.

 

        The cockerel as if knowing he was being discussed, marshalled his harem into shape.  In the months that was to follow dad new he had never said a truer word.  As that wiley old bird became established not only was he a fine looking specimen but he could also fight very well.   Indeed, as the other cockerels found out very quickly, when they challenged him and came off second best in the skirmishes.  Here  was a master of all he surveyed and his ever faithful, ever willing harem followed him loyally, ready to perform on his command.  My father on watching him one evening, said that the cockerel reminded him of a man he had once known, who had two different wives in two different villages.  You would often see dad leaning on the gate watching that cockerel, as if he was trying to learn something from him.

 

        Us kids christened the cockerel Oscar, as everything had a name on our farm.  Now the saying goes "as proud as a peacock", there was no peacock prouder than Oscar.  Showing off, he would fly up on the gatepost, thrust out his chest and give a bloodcurdling crow.  His bright red comb,  with yellow, white and blue black feathers, he looked like a prize bird strutting his stuff.  Mum said her hens had never laid as well as they were now and the wild cats that roamed around kept a wide berth of him.

 

        Oscar's praises were being sung highly by both my parents but we soon discovered that Oscar had a darker side to him.  He started attacking us children, especially if we were not facing him at the time.  His first attack was on Diane, my sister, she came in crying to our mother with scratch marks on her legs.  She had been playing when she felt this thud in her back and Oscar hit her to the ground and jumped all over her.  When her tears were dry dad chuckled and said,' he will not harm the kids Brenda, it's a one off I expect, they must face up to him.'  But face him or nor Oscar continued his attacks on us kids.

 

        Oscar would stalk us children, making dummy runs if we were facing him, but as soon as our backs were turned, he came into the attack as the real "McCoy."  Still dad sang his praises, that is, until the morning my mum could be heard shouting for my father, from the vicinity of the coalhouse.  On investigation it seemed the cockerel had my mum trapped in there and was parading up and down outside the door, daring her to come out.  We children stood at dad's side laughing as my father called to me mum, 'show him you are not afraid Brenda; come on out, show him who is the boss, he'll soon back off then. ' My mum, red with embarrassment at being caught out this way , faced him, and whopped him across the head with the fire shovel which she had been holding.  Dead silence for a second as we all stood, mouths wide open, watching as Oscar rose in the air, up, up he went, then doing a couple of backward flips he descended, landing with a flop at my mum's feet, where he lay deadly still.  'Jesus,' said my father in a hushed voice, 'Brenda I believe you have killed him,' but my mum was already heading for the safety of her kitchen.  As Oscar began twitching and slowly coming round, he managed to get to his feet taking two steps sideways and half a dozen forwards.  He staggered around trying hard to regain his dignity.  My mum said, 'that will teach him to attack me and the

kids.' 

 

        Far from doing that it made Oscar a lot worse, now he had a grudge against us all.  The next victim Oscar chose was our old postman, who spent all day walking the mountain, delivering mail to outlying places like ours.  The postman usually turned up about midday.  He had a bad limp and a withered arm but he was a lovely old man and did his job well.  On entering our yard he always kept  one eye open wide for signs of Oscar.  

         I had seen the cockerel hiding behind the dung heap earlier and as the poor postman limped by Oscar went in for the attack.  Dad, alterted by the postman's cries, drove Oscar off with the yard brush but our postman was very shook up.  Mum made him a nice cup of tea, laced with brandy, while dad apologised every few seconds.  'It wont happen  again, I promise,' said dad, when the postman seemed to have got his breath back.  'I'll nail a box on the farm gate for the mail, then  you will not have to come into the yard.'  The postman said, 'thanks, as that is the only way you will get any mail from now on'.  Then with as much dignity as he could muster, limped off.  Dad breathed a sigh of relief and my mum said, 'it will take a while for him to get over that Bill.'  But still darker clouds were already looming.

 

        As the saying goes, "there is one born every minute," and the next sucker for Oscar was already on the horizon.  He appeared one morning as the South Wales electricity man, negotiating the price of putting electrticity into the farm.  A price fixed, work commenced with the erection of poles up the track to the farm house.  Several men were employed to wire the house and out buildings.  Modern science was at last approaching us.

 

        It was a warm summer afternoon when the workmen decided to take their lunch break up on the tump.  They sat eating and talking between themselves as Oscar chose his next victim.  He was a short, thick set man, wearing a cap, who went by the name of Norman.  Norman was enjoying his sandwich as us children spotted Oscar ruffling his feathers, which we knew were battle signals and a prelude to attack command.  Norman

settled deeper in the hillside, enjoying his lunch.  Oscar lined him up for the major assault.  Running, Oscar gained take off a couple of feet from Norman's head, passing over in a flyby, taking Norman's cap and the skin on his bald head in his talons.  Us kids doubled up laughing, as Norman did the conga in fine step up and down the bank, as Oscar did his stuff.  Norman was singing some song in a foreign tongue but with a

soprano voice.  Poor man was in shock, so mum said.  It was no surprise that work slowed down as the men tried to do their work with one eye open for enemy attacks.

 

        My mum now said that Oscar was living on borrowed time.  Whether he knew that or not we did not know but already he was scouting for his next victim, who appeared as Harold the porter from the local railway station.  Harold was a tall gangling youth who thought he was Elvis.  In his duties as station porter he had to visit the farm to see if it was our cows that were straying onto the line.  Having been thanked for putting himself out to come and tell us he turned to depart.  A fatal mistake that, as our Oscar was leading his harem across the yard and poor Harold had presented his back to him.  Off Oscar went in hot pursuit of the enemy and met up with Harold across a five bar gate.  Harold, trying to balance on top of the gate with one arm, fruitlessly tried to beat off Oscar with the other.  The man's cries were pitiful as he yelled to my dad, 'help me, your bastard bird is attacking me.'  Dad put in his appearance just as Harold lost his balance and went head first into our dung heap.  Oscar was straight in for the kill, as Harold, picking himself up, proceeded to put as much space between him and the cockerel.  Watching, my mother said to my father, 'do you know Bill, that Harold does a lot of singing in the village hall in his spare time, they say he has a good voice.'  'I don't know about that,' said dad, 'but that is the fastest hundred yards sprint I have seen for a long time.' 

 

         Oscar's days were now drawing to a close and battle stations between my parents were being fought on the chances of his survival.  Poor old Oscar signed his own death warrant when he decided to attack dad, especially since dad was carrying a bale of hay on his shoulders at the time.

 

        We breathed a sigh of relief the day dad wrung his neck, but when mum dished him up for dinner, us children took one look and none of us would eat him.  Looking at him nestling on the meat dish, with a crown of roast potatoes around him, my dad said, 'Brenda, that was a good bird and an excellent yard watch dog.'  Mum had to agree.

 

        Oscar was slowly forgotten as time went by, and we continued our struggle with nature, on our hill top farm.