Ours was a chicken-rearing house; my father cycled the 6 mile stretch from Horeswood to Campile railway station to collect them up from the six o’clock train.
He braved wind and rain on his sturdy bike knowing that the joy on his children’s faces when he carried 75 day-old chicks through the front door would more than make up for the soaking.
In our house of barely enough, the chicks brought tremendous excitement and delight to what would have otherwise been a dull day for the Doyles.
Alas, without warning disaster struck as a careless shoe clipped a plaster slab.
Space was made in the small, soon-to-be extended kitchen for the precious fowl as they huddled cosily around a kerosene stove, warm yellow bundles of soft exquisite down. Odd saucers with water scattered the floor and old newspapers put to good use collected their tiny droppings.
Seven strident, overly zealous children sent the chicks scurrying with a swish to the corners of the room. Alas, without warning disaster struck as a careless shoe clipped a plaster slab.
Watched in disbelief
Silence ensued as the children watched in disbelief as it toppled to the ground flattening a single baby chick in its wake. Little did my sister Kate, who developed a very special bond with the birds, think as she dressed to receive her first holy bread that a calamity would befall her special day.
Poor Kate sobbed uncontrollably at the sight of the flattened, lifeless chick. Pools of tears from bright blue eyes tumbled down on to a crisp, pristine satin dress, blobs of damp patches visibly seen as Kate’s eyes grew red from rubbing.
My mother’s soft spoken words of consolation fell on deaf ears as the sound of the church bell signalled a reminder that communion time was drawing closer.
My mother smiled with satisfaction as she collected them and lovingly baked for her hungry offspring
She applied Johnson’s baby talcum powder to Kate’s sobbing red eyes hoping to change the rosy hue back to its original colour.
Survived the calamity
In a flutter, not unlike the movement of chicks, my mother gathered her brood and crossed the narrow winding cement path to St Canices’s Cathedral. The Doyles survived the calamity as the day marched on and Kate’s palm was crossed again and again with half crowns.
Time eventually brought its healing; the soft, fluffy yellow chicks too soon became Rhode Island red hens and moved from their temporary home in the kitchen to the run at the bottom of the garden.
The well-fed hens produced a bountiful supply of warm fresh eggs. My mother smiled with satisfaction as she collected them and lovingly baked for her hungry offspring, the sweet, rich smell forever indicating a warm welcome in our chicken-rearing house.
