The story continues a few months later.
A 50-60 year old man comes up to the lodge as we’re about to feed the chickens.
“Could I do that?” he asks. “Of course” I say, handing him the bowl of feed. Ten minutes later he hasn’t returned so I take a gentle stroll along the path to see where he’s gone. And there he is, sitting on the ground, sobbing his heart out.
“You OK?” I venture.
“I’m fine” he says. “They’re lovely aren’t they? The chickens.”
“Well, yes” I agree, “But why are you so upset?”
“I used to work with chickens. Must have been for about 12 years, I guess. Then I moved jobs.”
“Oh, really, what did you do?”
“I worked for Bernard Mathews turning chickens into pies. Hundreds of thousands of them. Week after week just taking them off a production line and killing them. Might have been a million for all I know. And you know what? I never, ever, picked one up and looked it in the eye. I never fed them or cared for them and I never put them down unless they were dead. Not even once. It just never occurred to me what they might really be like. And sitting here feeding them now I realised how lovely they are – and clever too.” We pause for him to catch his breath again.
“I’m going to buy some when I get home and try and make up for it all.”
There’s another silence, so I gave him a little hug.
He cheers up.
What else could I do?
