Ducksplosion

 

By tea time, the resourceful hens have constructed a list of ideas about what to do with all the eggs laid by Mrs Hare, and Mrs Hare has produced another five eggs to add to the not inconsiderable collection that is now stored in a large apple crate in the kitchen larder.

Mrs Miggins taps on the kitchen table to gain everyone's attention. ‘I shall read the list of collective ideas,’ she says, ‘and we shall discuss the merits and downsides of each in turn. By a process of elimination, we shall reach a triumphant conclusion and all will be well.’ 

‘Oooh,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, ‘Laetitia's gone into proper meeting mode. Go, Laetitia!’

‘I’m just being organised,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘If anyone else would like to take on the role of chair-hen, I am more than happy to step back and let them.’ And she glares around the table over the top of her spectacles in her best teacher-in-charge mode, daring anyone to challenge her.

‘Good!’ she says, as the other hens remain silent and Mrs Hare pops out another egg in fetching and various shades of green. ‘I shall continue. Idea number 1 – we eat them.’

‘Can I ask,’ says Mrs Slocombe, ‘are the eggs actual eggy eggs or are they chocolate eggs? Because if they are eggy eggs I can bake loads of stuff for the freezer, but if they are chocolate eggs then I think it inadvisable to try eating them all on the grounds of it being very unhealthy.’

‘I don’t mind giving it a go,’ says Mrs Poo, who has the constitution of an ox.

‘Do you know,’ says Mrs Hare, ‘I’ve actually no idea. It’s not occurred to me to try and hatch any of them. I'm too busy popping them out.’

‘Best crack one open and have a look, then,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Pass me a bowl someone.’

Mrs Slocombe (because when it comes to the kitchen, she is the official ‘someone’) hands Mrs Miggins a small cereal bowl and an egg selected at random from the apple crate.

‘Here we go!’ says Mrs Miggins, and she gives the egg (lilac with magenta dots) a sharp tap on the side of the bowl.

(The Lady Author likes to think that at this point in proceedings the dear Reader(s) is/are placing bets on the outcome. That’s a bit of Easter fun, isn’t it? What do you reckon? Eggy egg or chocolate egg?)

However, what emerges from the egg is neither eggy egg nor anything remotely chocolatey.

‘Quack!’ announces a bright little voice, as the duckling contents of the egg plops into the cereal bowl. The duckling gazes up at its liberator – Mrs Miggins – with unmistakable adoration.

‘Oh blimey,’ says Miggins. ‘I think it’s imprinted.’

‘Aaaaaaaahhhhh!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Look at the cute ikkle duckie wuckie! Congratulations, Laetitia, you're a duck mummy!’

‘Seriously?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Bring me another egg, please, Betty.’

Mrs Slocombe selects another egg – subtle shades of rose pink and glitter – and Mrs Miggins taps it on the side of the cereal bowl. Another duckling plops from the shell, gazes up at Mrs Miggins and duly falls in love.

‘Ladies,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘I think we have a problem.’

Mrs Poo counts the eggs in the apple crate. ‘Thirty-three,’ she announces. ‘And some of them are beginning to crack. I think there are more ducklings on the way.’

‘I suppose this solves our problem,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘We can look after them until they fledge and then release them onto the lake by the woods.’

‘Are you INSANE??’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘We can’t have thirty-five ducks running loose on the Manor grounds…’

‘Thirty six,’ says Mrs Hare, popping out another egg (black and white checkerboard).  ‘Soz…’

‘…have you any idea the mess that ducks make??’ continues Mrs Miggins. ‘They aren’t tidy creatures like us hens, you know. We’ll be skidding around on a sea of duck poo slime before you can say, ‘Is it Christmas already? Goodness, where did the time go?’

‘Ahem,’ says Mrs Hare.

‘Sorry,’ says Miggins. ‘I know you are of duck heritage, but am I right or am I not?’

‘Well, yes,’ says Mrs Hare. ‘You are correct on the mucky duck theory. But ducks are also very good at clearing up slugs and keeping the grass trimmed.’

Mrs Miggins slumps back in her chair. Her two duckling children scramble out of the cereal bowl and climb onto her chest where they nibble at her feathers, gaze adoringly at her with bright, unblinking eyes and snuggle into her neck for a cuddle.

‘Oh dear,’ sighs Mrs Miggins.

From the pantry comes the sound of cracking eggs shells and more peeping…