Christmas1945. We were still on rationing after WW2.
Santa's sack was not as full in those days immediately after the war.
My mother, resourceful soul that she was, kept hens at the bottom of our garden, in the village of Acomb, near York.
These hens provided eggs and, as Christmas approached, were being fattened for the special day.
It was going to be a difficult moment when dad pulled their necks.
Mother had developed a relationship with the two chosen for our dinner table. She called them by name and reserved the best scraps for them. They responded by following mother in the garden and by putting on weight; lots of it.
On the Sunday before Christmas our family parlour time was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps on the path outside.
The moment passed but next morning the ghastly truth was revealed. Mother's hens had been stolen.
My mother was a good, church going lady, but this abduction took her beyond the limits of her grace. She took off round the neighbourhood following a scanty trail of feathers and breathing unchristian threats against the kidnapper of "Speckles" and "Beauty". Fortunately for him he was never discovered.
A local farmer, hearing of the wicked deed provided a goose by way of replacement.
We all ate well that year, but for the subsequent ten years the fate of "Speckles" and " Beauty" was never a subject to be broached at our Christmas gathering.
Jubilate.
Ian
