Flashback
Spring 50
493 AV
Spring 50
493 AV
"Yvan," his mother, Fay, called from the kitchen of the cottage which subsequently happened to be the lounge, bedroom, and wash house too.
The boy opened his eyes and cringed to find his brother's foot an inch from his face; they had fast grown out of their top and tail arrangement, "morning again?" Yvan complained after giving Marcus as shove.
"Same time every day," Fay smiled, "come eat your breakfast, then you can make a start on those chores of yours."
Half asleep, the boy dragged himself from his bed and sat down at the table in his longs. Breakfast was a wooden bowl full of oats and enough goats milk to wet his tongue. He spooned it down hurriedly, watching his mother tend to the spring flowers she kept in small clay pots on the windowsill in the kitchen.
"I'm going riding today," Yvan mumbled.
"Don't speak with your mouth full," Fay warned, "it's not polite."
Yvan swallowed the last spoonful of oats and set his spoon down in the empty dish, "can I take the good saddle?"
"If you do all your chores," his mother agreed.
The boy dressed quickly and raced out the door before swiftly returning to collect his boots and the bucket of slops under the kitchen sink. There was nothing worse than the smell of rotten milk mixed with raw potato skins, and after lacing his boots up, Yvan carried the pig bucket out to the trough carefully.
For a boy of his build and stature, lifting the heavy scraps bucket was hard work, and making sure nothing got on his top, even harder still. Yvan heaved breathlessly as the bucket went up over the wooden rail of the fence and turned it over to make sure it was empty before setting it down at his feet. The boy climbed the fence to lean over and watch the pigs eat for a chime before galloping back to the house to fetch the chicken feed, which was a mix of stale oats and crushed corn kernels. To this concoction he added two and a half mugs of water, counting them out and using a line around the inside of the cup to measure it out exactly.
The chickens came running to the boy's call, though the rooster stood back trying to coax his hens away from the feed and immediate danger by pecking at the ground to make it seem as if he had found something more interesting. Yvas stared at the giant hooks on the bird's feet and watched him dance and shuffle his wings excitedly as one of his hens wandered over.
While the chickens were distracted, Yvan ran over to the hen house, jogging around the scattering of fruit trees just beyond the cottage. He counted out six eggs and plucked another fresh one from under a disgruntled hen, who pecked at his hand before running out of the hen house to call to her mate. With too many eggs and not enough hands to carry them in, Yvan closed the bottom of his shirt between his teeth and scooped the eggs up one by one into the makeshift pouch he had managed to create.
The boy opened his eyes and cringed to find his brother's foot an inch from his face; they had fast grown out of their top and tail arrangement, "morning again?" Yvan complained after giving Marcus as shove.
"Same time every day," Fay smiled, "come eat your breakfast, then you can make a start on those chores of yours."
Half asleep, the boy dragged himself from his bed and sat down at the table in his longs. Breakfast was a wooden bowl full of oats and enough goats milk to wet his tongue. He spooned it down hurriedly, watching his mother tend to the spring flowers she kept in small clay pots on the windowsill in the kitchen.
"I'm going riding today," Yvan mumbled.
"Don't speak with your mouth full," Fay warned, "it's not polite."
Yvan swallowed the last spoonful of oats and set his spoon down in the empty dish, "can I take the good saddle?"
"If you do all your chores," his mother agreed.
The boy dressed quickly and raced out the door before swiftly returning to collect his boots and the bucket of slops under the kitchen sink. There was nothing worse than the smell of rotten milk mixed with raw potato skins, and after lacing his boots up, Yvan carried the pig bucket out to the trough carefully.
For a boy of his build and stature, lifting the heavy scraps bucket was hard work, and making sure nothing got on his top, even harder still. Yvan heaved breathlessly as the bucket went up over the wooden rail of the fence and turned it over to make sure it was empty before setting it down at his feet. The boy climbed the fence to lean over and watch the pigs eat for a chime before galloping back to the house to fetch the chicken feed, which was a mix of stale oats and crushed corn kernels. To this concoction he added two and a half mugs of water, counting them out and using a line around the inside of the cup to measure it out exactly.
The chickens came running to the boy's call, though the rooster stood back trying to coax his hens away from the feed and immediate danger by pecking at the ground to make it seem as if he had found something more interesting. Yvas stared at the giant hooks on the bird's feet and watched him dance and shuffle his wings excitedly as one of his hens wandered over.
While the chickens were distracted, Yvan ran over to the hen house, jogging around the scattering of fruit trees just beyond the cottage. He counted out six eggs and plucked another fresh one from under a disgruntled hen, who pecked at his hand before running out of the hen house to call to her mate. With too many eggs and not enough hands to carry them in, Yvan closed the bottom of his shirt between his teeth and scooped the eggs up one by one into the makeshift pouch he had managed to create.
