home / next page >> / << Previous page

Chapter Two - Page 2 of 4

Out in the bright sunlight the rusty coloured feather rose upward through the air, carried on the light breeze blowing between the two elongated buildings. It drifted along for a while and then gradually began to lose height. Finally it settled on the ground, just in front of a weathered pair of brogues. The leather creaked slightly as a thin, angular hand came down to pick it up.

‘Who,’ said the man, gently rolling the shaft of the feather between a skeletal finger and thumb, ‘is the man giving instructions?’
‘That’s Rubble,’ replied the farm owner. ‘I don’t need guard dogs or anything with Rubble living here. He’s my walking, talking Rottweiler.’ He spoke a little too fast, trying to impress.

‘Where did he get a name like that?’ Other hand running through a wiry beard that was shot through with flecks of grey.
‘Oh, it’s short for Roy Bull. Rubble just seems to fit him better somehow.’
‘And he lives here, on the farm?’
‘Yeah, in a caravan at the bottom of the lane down there.’ He pointed to the copse of beech trees, where an occasional glimpse of white showed between the gently shifting leaves. ‘He’s just a child really – in terms of IQ. But he certainly likes killing things – chickens, foxes, rats, mink. Even cats, some villagers believe. And if I hadn’t pulled him off the animal liberation woman last year, he’d have probably done her too.’
‘Animal liberation?’
‘Oh God yeah – they’re a bloody menace. It’s their fault we’ve got the mink problem around here – after they broke open the fur farm down the valley. They used the track last year to get on to the farm and firebomb one of my lorries. Rubble got the woman though, and they haven’t visited again. Even so, I now have security cameras on the driveway at the main entrance and at the top end of the sheds. They’re connected to three monitors in Rubble’s caravan, he keeps an eye on them and patrols the place at night, hoping some of them try and come back.’
‘A useful employee to have.’
‘Yup – security guard, chicken culler, carcass disposer. All the really grim stuff no one else wants to do. Saves me a fortune – not that he knows it.’ The man laughed harshly and extended a hand towards some steps. ‘Come on, I’ll show you how we produce 40,000 eggs every day.’

They climbed the metal stairway and the farm owner opened the metal at the top.
Immediately in front of them was another door, on the floor before it a tray holding a large foam doormat. The farm owner pointed at a thick plastic poster on the wall that read, Anti-contamination procedures in operation. He looked down at the tray. ‘That’s soaked in disinfectant. If salmonella or coccidiosis got in here it would sweep through the shed like wildfire.’ They both stepped onto the mat and then went through the next door.

The visitor was instantly struck by the combination of heat, smell and noise. Sounds of machinery and below that, a continual low rumble. He was reminded of being on holiday; alighting from the coolness of an aircraft and stepping into the unfamiliar temperatures and scents of a foreign land. In front of him was a row of four very narrow chipboard doors.

Along the end wall were stacks of cardboard egg trays, each one large enough to hold several dozen eggs. Propped against the wall next to them was a short handled shovel, the blade caked in a clay-like substance. Looking down at the layer of broken shells littering the floor the visitor realised that, as with most factories, the sheer volume of what was produced inside meant it became a worthless commodity to the employees.

‘I call this area the foyer,’ said the farm owner. ‘Each of these doors leads to an aisle, I’ll warn you now, they’re very narrow. Shall we go through for the main performance?’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and raised it to his face.

‘After you,’ said the visitor, holding one hand before him. The farmer opened one of the central doors and stepped through. Stooping down and taking a deep breath, the visitor followed. Behind the sound of the clanking conveyor belts at his side he could hear the massed brood of thousands and thousands of chickens. He looked at the cages rearing above his head on either side. Inside the cages nearest him, the birds tried to shrink back from the bars, but the presence of their cage-mates behind only allowed them to retreat a couple of centimetres. The low guttural sound coming from the backs of their throats became more agitated, and the visitor was reminded of the disapproving tones of old women gossiping.

The cages were stacked with an incredible density. Barely an inch was wasted between each tier and the bottom cages stopped about a half a foot above the concrete floor. Aware of the dust-covered bulb hanging just inches above his head, the visitor stepped forwards and the birds in the next cage shied away. Sensing their discomfort he felt obliged to move away from them too – but that just took him closer to other cages. Space was something the sheds had not been designed to offer.

With his handkerchief covering his nose and mouth, the farm owner raised his voice so he could be heard above the din. Pointing to the front of the cages he said, ‘This conveyor belt carries the food pellets. They’re shaped like grain so the birds can easily peck at them.’ He pointed to a shallow trough below it. ‘When they lay an egg, it rolls over the wire, out the gap and into here. There aren’t many eggs now because the collectors come round mid-morning.’
‘How much food do the birds eat?’

‘All they want. The conveyor belts turn at regular intervals. They never get fat, and if you underfeed them egg production goes down. In practice it’s about one hundred grams per bird, per day. Those bulk bins at the end of each shed? They hold a couple of tons of pellets – enough to keep the birds going for a few weeks.’
The visitor peered into the cage in front of him. The chickens inside certainly didn’t look fat; in fact they seemed the opposite. But perhaps that was due to their lack of feathers. Skinny exposed necks, pink and scabby backs partially covered by feathers that had been stripped of almost all their filaments. The spines that were left behind brought images to his mind of the narrow tree stumps jutting out of the ground in the desolated battlefields of World War One. He noticed most of their feet were gnarled and twisted, the claws overgrown and yellow.

‘Why are their feet like that?’ he asked.
‘Standing on the wire mesh,’ said the farm owner matter-of-factly. ‘It’s a problem you can’t avoid. If they don’t stand on wire where would all the shit go?’ He pointed to the manure deflector that formed a sloping roof over the cage immediately below. The visitor saw it was covered in a good inch of thick, gritty droppings. It was the same stuff coating the shovel in the foyer. If it got any higher the stinking layer would start poking through the cage floor of the birds above. ‘Remind me to tell Rubble to shift that lot,’ said the owner.
Bending down, the visitor looked along the tier and saw every deflector was similarly covered. He straightened up and, by standing on tiptoes, was just able to see into the bottom of the uppermost row of cages. Three birds were standing, one was lying motionless at the back. The visitor said, ‘I think there’s a dead bird in this cage.’
‘Probably,’ said the owner. He kicked a foot at the lowest tier of cages, causing the animals inside to scrabble back. Then he found a foothold and raised himself up to see inside. ‘Brittle bones,’ he declared. ‘Some birds develop the disease. Something to do with not being able to move. Their legs become paralysed, the other birds push it to the back and it starves to death.’
‘And who...’ said the visitor, pointing vaguely upwards.
‘Rubble clears them out, when he remembers. Let’s carry on, I can feel my chest seizing up.’

They walked down the aisle, the visitor privately astounded by the merciless system. As they passed one cage the farm owner stopped and pointed to the birds inside. Each one had a short, blunted beak. ‘Rubble’s trimmed them. Must have been pecking each other.’
‘How does he do that?’ asked the visitor.
‘A pair of what looks like gardening secateurs. He heats the blade up and nips off the last third.’

home/ next page >> / << Previous page