This is not a cool story for vegetarians. I myself was a vegetarian for a short time. However, even though I will never eat meat and here I include fish, again, an horrific action I took disqualifies me from the pure status of vegetarianism. I’ve given myself a ten year sentence for my crime. I’ll be twenty five by the time I can declare myself a bona fide vegetarian. Do I have regrets? Was it worth it? Would I do it again? Yes, yes, and yes again.
I read that after a traumatic event it’s advisable to tell the story to sympathetic ears at least eight times. As this is not a story I can tell to my friends, not least because of my recently acquired stutter, I am hoping that the act of writing it down will count for eight tellings. Maybe then I’ll have better sleep.
It began typically you might think, on a Monday. Monday mornings had always been a wrench for Mum and I. We’d be doing countless, interesting projects on our two acre block, reach Monday morning and it’d be ‘Oh no! Back to reality’. I love being with Mum, doing projects with Mum, gardening with Mum. Until a year and a half ago that is. That’s when everything changed. Until then I’d thought we were both blissfully happy being busy bees. Turns out I was wrong.
We’d grown most of our own fruit and veg all my life. Mum’s philosophy being that food should travel the least distance to get to the table. We rarely ate out of season. I’d never thought this was limiting until Trevor came to live with us a year and a half ago. Trevor is Mum’s new partner. Notice I don’t volunteer ‘my step father’ as a description.
Growing our own food has given me this awareness of, well, basically how tragic the global shopping concept is. In the early days when I bothered to speak to Trevor I explained;
‘See, French cheese travels more than halfway ‘round the world on a highly polluting jet. But we can make it better here.’
Guess what Trevor did? Bought French, Swiss and German cheeses by the bucket.
Although it was a project, Project Chooks, that led ultimately to my murderous act, I believe it was only a vehicle. I would have found some other way to rock our so called family’s boat. I had to. It needed it.
The idea for Project Chooks came at the tail end of the first weekend Mum and I had spent together in eighteen months. We were finishing off an awesome sandpit for my half sister, Caitlin. We’d had such a good time. It was the first project we’d done since Mum got pregnant. Caitlin’s now sixteen months old and staggering around on her two pins. Very cute. She loves digging and fully understands she mustn’t eat everything. Especially snails, dirt and worms. Obviously she puts stuff in her mouth. It’s developmental. She’s exploring, which Trevor doesn’t get even though Mum’s told him there’s research that proves germs are a plus for kids.
Caitlin is why Trevor moved in with us eighteen months ago. Up until then, ‘then’ being the one night stand Mum had after her end of year work party, it was just Mum and me. And our cats, Smiles and Ruffles. One minute there’s just us, next there’s Trevor, a few months later, Caitlin too! I hadn’t asked a lot of questions as Mum was unbelievably happy to be pregnant. Nor had I fully grasped the fact that our radically altered living situation was permanent. When I did and got to know Trevor, I went into shock. I’m still not completely over it. Also, I only reached a complete understanding of what a one night stand is when I turned sixteen six months ago and asked.
Back to the Monday. It was a tad more stressy than usual because as well as Mum and me getting ready for work and school respectively, Caitlin was banging on the door and screaming ‘Out! Out!’ to get to her new sand pit.
Trevor, not about to be torn from his paper a second before clocking on, that’s Trevor-Speak for when we leave and his time looking after Caitlin begins, groaned and huffed.
‘Caitlin, bubs’ comforted Mum as she rushed by to answer yet another phone call. ‘See. Wet stuff come down. That’s rain. Can’t go outside. Get all wet!’
‘Monday morning is such mayhem. You should prepare for work on a Sunday.’
Trevor’s perfected this sighing, depressed, pained voice. He complains about everything. Especially on weekday mornings. It’s like it’s a personal insult to him that Mum’s rushing around getting ready to go out and earn the money to keep him in the style to which, since he moved in with us, he’s become accustomed. You should have seen the unit he inhabited before he moved in with us. Sad. Very sad.
Mum works in Equal Opportunities. When she got pregnant with Caitlin she took a lower position, not as low as ‘not an ambitious bone in his body Trevor Marchant’. But in a media or other crisis, the department still acts like she’s running the joint.
On the way back from the phone, Mum ruffled Trevor’s hair and kissed his neck.
‘Another crisis averted by Sarah-Solve-Everything. We’ll be heading for the car any second now, darl’. Ready, Reb?’
I wasn’t but I could take a hint.
‘Sarah!’ said Trevor flapping his newspaper. ‘That metallic coffee breath smell! Either clean your teeth or keep your distance.’
Mum’s totally unaffected by Trevor’s insults. She laughs. I don’t. He’s vicious. I’d been wondering how long it would be before Mum’s supposed Equal Opportunities principles would kick in. She lectures me on equality between sexes, races, abilities. But on the personal front she really lets herself down.
Trevor's at his worst when Mum’s about to leave for work which makes me wonder how he really feels about being a stay at home dad. He’s into this man with a pram as a politically correct position. He raves on about it to anyone and everyone who’ll listen.
‘My life has become very particular, very domestic’ he goes. ‘I’ve designed a small, precious life for my daughter and I. That’s what a child needs. I’ve seen to it that my life has reduced. Like a good sauce.’
I’ve been tempted, at one of the twenty occasions I’ve heard him spill this bilge, to point out that as he didn’t have a life before, it’s no great sacrifice.
But my stutter, which started just before Mum gave birth to Caitlin, had meant I no longer say what I’m thinking. It’s been an interesting transition. A year or so ago I was a great talker. Very opinionated. Not afraid to voice my feelings. But that’s all changed. At first I was lost. But now I’ve made use of my affliction. I’ve become introspective. A keen observer. I’ve taken up shooting videos. What I like most though, is editing. I spend a lot of time at the computer editing on the screen. Manipulating and juxtaposing the images so as to have most impact. Editing is like the arguments and debates I used to have with Mum. Arranging the images is like arranging words and thoughts.
Mum disapproves of my new lifestyle. ‘What are you doing in there? It’s not healthy to be on your own day and night.’ I showed her what I was doing and she was quite impressed. It also kept her off my back for a while.
When Trevor first moved in he said he thought it only fair to let us know that if we were to live together successfully, then his domestic arrangements would need to be respected.
‘I like to rise at dawn, read my paper, drink a pot of tea. All before I see, hear or interact with another human being.’
‘That’s all very well when you’re living the bachelor life’ said Mum. ‘But it’s nigh on impossible when you’re part of a family.’
‘I must have quiet’ Trevor said.
As predicted, Caitlin turned out to be an early riser.
Trevor protested about his peace being disturbed every morning for a year. After Caitlin’s first birthday Mum must have had enough. She said, ‘Trevor. If you want time alone, stay up late.’
But like a true dinosaur, Trevor has been unable to adapt. He stays up late but goes on and on next morning about what a sacrifice family life is. On weekends he stays in bed until well after midday.
‘You should have built the sandpit under something. Or put a roof over it. The sand’ll be soaked!’
‘It’s got a t.t.t.tarp over it’ I said.
‘Who’s talking to you, R.r.r.r.rebecca’ teased Trevor for the millionth time.
‘Don’t Trevor!’ protested Mum.
‘Now you want to start another p.p.p.project!’ said Trevor.
He’d been waiting to get a dig in about Project Chooks ever since we’d been raving about it at dinner last night. I’d had such a good weekend. I was over the moon Mum wanted to do something else with me. She hadn’t asked Trevor what he thought about having chooks. It made him furious.
Mum grabbed Caitlin for a goodbye smooch and we all trouped out. As usual, our departure was accompanied by Trevor bleating on.
‘Another impractical, labour intensive, expensive scheme.’
‘Chickens?’
‘We need a thorough research period. Exhaustive discussions. A budget. Not a ‘we’re going to do it anyway so why bother’ type budget. A decent break for reflection….’
‘Research?’ Mum said. ‘Right,’ Mum turned over the engine. Trevor winced as usual.
‘Reb, we’ll go to the library on our way home tonight. Grab some chook books. See if we can’t convince Trev on board with a few designer chick pics.’
‘Tonight!’
‘Bye bye my poppet. Kiss for Mummy.’
‘But what about the tea’ said Trevor desperately.
‘You have a turn cooking.’ Mum closed her car door.
Trevor, horrified, knocked on my window. I wound it down.
‘But what will I make’ he asked.
‘Check the fridge. Be inventive. If not, go shopping.’
‘But you’ve got the car.’
‘Walk to the local deli.’
‘Shopping! But…’ Trevor’s panic was beginning to upset Caitlin. Personally I hadn’t had this much fun all weekend.
‘I’m looking after Caitlin.’
Trevor was so caught up he neglected to give the full daily lecture.
'Warm the car for longer, Sarah. Ninety eight per cent of engine damage occurs within the first five minutes of an engine starting. Listen, Sarah. That’s crunching. You’re crunching into reverse.’ etc.
Mum drew away waving into the rear view mirror. I had to stuff my hand in my mouth to stop my giggles. That is until I realised she was laughing too.
At the end of our street, just before we rounded the corner I turned and took a last look at Trevor holding onto Caitlin at the end of our drive. It was then I got a goose bumpy feeling. Project Chooks was momentous. It would change everything. Finally we had reached a fork. I had this profound feeling that Mum wasn’t going to have to keep taking everything Trevor slung anymore. And I was right.
Mum was seven months pregnant when Trevor moved in. A week after that I had cause to come home from school unexpectedly. I won’t go into detail, but suffice to say I don’t get it that badly every month. Thank goodness.
I found, or rather heard, Trevor in Mum’s bedroom having very loud sex with a woman who turned out, when I stumbled into her in the bathroom, to be Maria. He’d been going with Maria when Mum fell pregnant, apparently.
Trevor and Maria made it clear to me that if I breathed a word, Trevor would make my life a total nightmare.
I kept the knowledge to myself for a week. Trevor declared his innocence and maintained I was motivated by jealousy. I don’t regret telling Mum but that she chose not to believe me caused the first ever rift in our relationship. Although I say chose, I suspect she had to believe the Father of the child she was carrying.
Trevor was true to his word. He broke up my friendships by telling them all these criticisms I was supposed to have made about them. He burst into my room without knocking and made negative comments about my body. (I put a lock on the door.) He said that Mum already loved the new baby more than me cos I was conceived in a loveless union and that Mum had been lonely, bored and depressed living with me. Even though I didn’t believe all of what he said, it affected me.
I caught Trevor with Maria a week before Mum gave birth. I had nothing to lose so I told her. She threatened me with going to live with friends while she had Caitlin. That’s when I started to stutter.
Back to the week of Project Chooks. That afternoon Mum and I had fun at the library. We weren’t there long, Mum gets so desperate to see Caitlin but it was nice anyway. We got fish’n’chips on the way home. She made me stay in the car just in case Trevor had set a new record and had a meal on the table. She says I’m too hard on Trevor. That men are hard wired to do only one thing at a time. That he was doing a lovely job with Caitlin and that was the only important thing.
‘Oh G.g.g.g.od! Look at this one, M.m.m.um’ Me, Mum and an ecstatic Caitlin had been pouring over the chicken literature we’d got from the library ever since we’d polished off the chips.
We’d grabbed both practical and designer books. I’d really no idea how beautiful and varied chickens were.
‘L.l.l.ook at this. A G.g.g.golden Seabright.’
‘Sir John Seabright bred intensively for thirty years’ Mum read.
‘They’re g.g.g.gorgeous. Wings like lace’
‘Come and look, Trevor’ Mum called. ‘Stop sulking’
‘I’m not sulking. I fail to see the point of pouring over coffee table books. Focus on finding an economical, productive fowl. They’ll still cost. Domestic animals, Sarah, are a financial burden.’
‘Trevor! How did we manage without you?’
Very well, I thought. Mum went over to Trevor and did one of her smooch numbers. I made out I was looking at birds. But I couldn’t see. My eyes filled with tears. I was remembering our cats, Smiles and Ruffles, and Trevor’s war. When he moved in, he insisted the cats go outside. He was allergic to cat hair he said although I never saw any evidence. When Caitlin came home from the hospital he described what he said was an all too common occurrence.
‘Cats sit on babies faces and suffocate them.’
So he got his way. But Smiles and Ruffles had never been outside before, not on their own and never at night. We’d always been too worried about native animals. I woke that night to terrible screaming. Both cats had been attacked. We’ll never know by what. But they died as a result of horrific injuries. Mum maintains it’s her fault. She had a two day old baby and couldn’t think of a better solution. But I know who to blame.
By Wednesday night that week we had the chicken breed we wanted, the hen house designed and Mum was working up her chicken connections. We even had the new gay liaison officer at Mum’s work lined up to come and help build on the weekend. Me, Mum and Caitlin were very excited but Trevor was still vehemently opposed to the project. He’d refused to join in discussions or be part of the preparations. But rather than leave us to enjoy it, he made nasty comments under his breath.
After dinner Trevor went to bed before Caitlin had her bath. Later I heard Mum knocking at the spare room door. She pleaded for a goodnight kiss but he refused to even let her in.
I passed Mum on the way to the bathroom and it was obvious she’d been crying.
‘Are you OK, Mum’ I asked.
‘Fine. Night night, darling.’
‘I love you, Mum’ I told her. I know she loves me, despite what Trevor says, but I’d seen how happy she was in the first couple of months going with Trevor. He’d come over in the evenings, she’d cook our dinner then be all over him on the sofa. But by the time he moved in Mum was big with Caitlin. Trevor made all these comments about what he called Mum’s bovine form. It reminded him of his own Mother who he didn’t like. Mum’s new confidence in herself vanished and she’s never regained it.
Anyway, back to the week. To top it off, when we got home that Thursday, Trevor was ready with one of his lists. He’d done this before and Mum had always listened and in the face of his criticisms, abandoned the idea.
We’d barely got in the door before he started reading from a stack of paper. I knew, from what Mum had said in the car, that she’d had a rough day. If he’d have taken the time he would have noticed her shoulders were up by her ears. But he was so intent on reading, he didn’t even wait till she’d put her briefcase down.
‘One’ he read. ‘You want 3 birds, that’s $300 for basic set up. $5 per month per bird for wheat, that’s $180 per annum. That’s $480. We spend $5 per week on eggs, that’s $260 per annum’
'Stop right there.’
‘I’ve got ten points..,’
‘Listen' Mum hissed.
‘This took me all day, Sarah’ he protested. ‘At least have the decency to listen.’
'I don't give a shit about your list. We’re building a hen house this weekend.’
‘You don’t have the skills’ Trevor scoffed.
‘Rebecca’s out of her room again, not sitting staring at a computer screen! We're having chooks. End of story.'
Mum called Gordon, the chicken contact, to set up a time to go a pick up three Rhode Island Reds. The breed is reputed to be one of the best layers and is fairly docile. They look pretty, too. Trevor didn’t speak for the rest of that night.
I used to love Friday nights. On the way home this week Mum and I agreed it had been ages since we’d had so much fun together.
Building the chook shed goes down as my most divine learning curve. Alan from Mum’s work was so good looking plus he had great tools. Mum hung out with Caitlin nearby, watching. This encouraged us to work extra fast.
Trevor emerged midway through Saturday afternoon. You could see he was amazed by how much we’d done. But all he said was to Mum about Alan,
‘He’s not gay. They can’t build things like that’
‘He’s far too good looking to be straight’ said Mum.
Next day, just before noon we put the finishing touches to The Chook Palace, as Mum called it. We put shell grit and straw in the nesting boxes, sawdust on the floor, water and wheat in special new containers.
That evening we settled our three new fluffy red hens. They’re so busy. Much more fun than I’d thought they’d be. Caitlin learned the hard way how to give a chicken cuddle and when she refused to leave at dinner time we ate in the chook pen!
Trevor prowled outside, scowling.
‘What’s the big deal. They’re just chickens.’
‘Trevor, why not let us enjoy our simple pleasures’ Mum said coldly. I’d never heard her be cold before.
Trevor stalked into the house. Then paced up and down looking out of the bedroom window with his arms crossed.
On Wednesday I had to come home from school early again because of my intermittent monthly problem.
I had my CD player in my ears or I would have heard them immediately. All I wanted was to take a tablet and lie down in the dark. As I was about to drift off, I took out my ear phones. That’s when I first became aware of the grunting coming from next door.
‘Yes, yes, yes! YES!’ I recognised that chant as Trevor’s. I hadn’t heard it for a while but when he first moved in I’d heard it at least every night.
‘Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! OH GOD!’
A female’s voice crescendoed to an ear-splitting volume. Through my other wall I heard Caitlin start to cry. I struggled out of bed. Trevor was going into Caitlin’s room.
I opened Mum’s door. Maria was pulling on her skirt. She clearly didn’t give a shit that I was there.
Trevor came back in the room.
‘Maria came to check out our chooks’ he said.
Maria grinned and wiggled.
‘No, spunk. I came to see the little red rooster.’
With that she grabbed her handbag and made as if to do the same to Trevor’s private parts. But he had Caitlin and stepped back. She blew Trevor a kiss and was gone.
I shot into my own room. Slammed the door and locked it. A few seconds later there was a tap.
‘R.r.r.rebecca. You say anything and you’re t.t.t.t.toast.’
I don’t know how, but I went out like a light. I awoke to aromatic cooking smells and laughter. It was a few seconds before I registered the afternoon’s events.
In the family room, Mum was bouncing Caitlin on her knee. She looked radiant. Trevor was in the kitchen. Cooking and sipping red wine. He spotted me, grabbed the bottle and headed for the sofa where he got in between Mum and me.
‘What the occasion, Trev?’ Mum asked.
Infidelity, I thought.
‘Reb. Trevor says you had to come home from school early?’
‘Is that all he said’ I asked.
‘No. He apologised.’
‘What for?’ I looked at Trevor.
‘For being a total pain about our chooks. We left him out, apparently.’
Eyeing me, Trevor slipped down and sat close to Mum. He stroked her stockinged knee. Ran his hand up and under her work skirt till, giggling with embarrassment, she stopped him.
‘Now. What about this surprise’ said Mum.
‘Follow me’ Trevor skipped out to the garden.
He was at our chook shed. Arms wide as if he owned it. ‘There’ said Trevor with great aplomb. Strutting, cock-sure, shiny, was the hugest rooster I had ever seen. Then, right in front of us he pinned down a hen and despite her frantic resistance, penetrated her. We were all stunned into silence. Then the rooster jumped off, plumped his plumage and strutted about.
Outside the pen, Trevor echoed his movements.
‘Go, Rodney’ he screamed. Mum and Trevor hooted. Caitlin started to cry.
I marched into the hen house and picked up the victim. What happened next was such a flurry of feathers and squawking. Rodney flew at me, talons first. I was scratched deeply on my arm. I’d dropped the hen in the fracas and put my hands up to protect my face. Otherwise I’m sure he would have got me in the eye.
‘Reb’ Mum rushed to my side. ’Are you hurt?’
I could feel the blood wetting my shirt but I held my arm close to my body. I didn’t want them to see.
‘I’m f.f,fine’ I said.
I walked back to the house.
‘Trev’s making your favourite dinner’ called Mum. ‘He even rang me at work to find out what it is. He knows he’s been a very naughty boy.’
I stared as hatefully as I could at Trevor. But he just batted his eyes Mum’s way.
‘I’m n.n.not eating it.’ I headed for the door.
‘Why not?’
Trevor narrowed his eyes at me.
‘I’m a v.v.v.v.vegetarian.’
‘As of when?’ asked Mum.
‘I c.c.c.couldn’t kill a ch.ch.chicken’ I said. ‘It’s h.h.h.hypocritical to eat m.m.meat if you can’t k.k.k.k.kill it.’
‘Fair enough’ agreed Trevor.
‘But you love lamb korma’ said Mum. ‘Start tomorrow, Reb. Come on.’
‘Mum….’ I so wanted to tell her everything. ‘I’m going back to bed’
‘Sweetie! You’re still feeling poorly’ said Mum. ‘I’ll bring you a hottie.’
‘I’ll take it’ said Trevor. ‘You relax.’ He patted Mum’s bottom then did another mock cockerel strut.
Of course I locked my door and didn’t answer. ‘R.r.r.rebecca’ he whispered, ‘Zip your l.l.lip. Or else.’
That night there was a prolonged long session of ‘Yes! YES, JESUS!’ from next door. Nothing to match the decibels of that afternoon. But when I heard Mum sobbing it was clear they’d made up. I’d asked her about the sobbing. She told me she’d never felt passion as fierce as she felt when she did whatever she did with Trevor. She sobbed in ecstasy, apparently. She even said she hoped I’d feel like that one day too.
Even after it had gone quiet next door I couldn’t sleep. The gash on my arm was throbbing. It was about 2am when I wandered downstairs and heard Trevor’s urgent whispers into the phone.
‘Maria, my perfect peach. Of course I’ll see you tomorrow…’
I couldn’t bear to listen to anymore. Back in my room I paced. Eventually I came up with my plan. If it all went well, the lies and deceit would be over by the weekend.
Just before dawn Rodney started to crow. Trevor joined in with feverish panting. Then more sobbing from Mum. When she sang in the shower she sounded so happy I almost put my plan to bed.
But at breakfast, Trevor’s strutting adulation of Rodney confirmed my mission.
I snuck in the back way just before their rendezvous time and, from the vantage point of my bedroom window, waited till Maria’s sporty red car drew up, then set things in motion.
I’d planned my presentation for Friday night. I’m amazed I got it ready. But it just goes to show what you can do when you’re motivated.
I’d warned Mum and Trevor to get Caitlin to bed, expect a multi media feast of the senses and not to come into the family room. That meant I had access to both the kitchen, TV and video equipment.
I set us up behind the table with the screen on the sideboard. We would eat at the same time as watching my video.
I candle-lit the room. I told them it was for ambiance. But actually it was so we could see the images better. Home produced video doesn’t lend itself to the sharpest results.
We began with a chicken noodle soup so we could get chatting out of the way and allow full focus on the video with the main course.
There was nothing but praise for the soup. I had some and it was excellent. I had to suffer Trevor’s jibes about my short-lived v.v.v.vegetarianism. But I didn’t care.
I’d borrowed a massive silver plate with a deep oval lid for the main course of chicken with all the trimmings. I took off the lid with a flourish and simultaneously pressed ‘play’ on the remote control.
‘My God! That’s not a chicken! It’s more like a turkey. Oh! There’s our back yard’ said Mum about the video.
‘Our chookies! Now there’s Rebecca. How did you do that?’
‘Set the c.c.c.camera on a tripod and let it r.r.r.run’ I said.
‘Excellent ch.ch.ch.chicken. So fresh’ said Trevor, ripping into a leg, fat dripping down his chin. ‘Despite that fact that you cooked it, R.r.r.rebecca.’
‘Don’t tease’ said Mum, automatically. ‘There’s Rodney’ she exclaimed.
‘Doing his bit for us blokes. Go boy!’ said Trevor.
I’d fiddled the video speed up slightly and the sound I’d striped was manic screwball comedy music. It worked really well.
‘What’s that’ asked Mum.
We’d cut to a grainy, fleshy picture that gradually sharpened into focus.
But the mysterious image was short-lived. We were back with Rodney, flapping on top of a hen. In the candle light I could see confusion flickering on Mum’s face. Trevor had been too intent on his food, already on his second massive leg, to register much.
‘There’s our Reb.’ Mum sounded relieved as I waved to the camera and ran into the hen pen.
We had another quick moment of Rodney and his antics and another more obvious this time, fleshy picture. So clear that in a split second you knew you were watching a bottom going up and down, up and down.
‘Rebecca, what is this’ Mum squirmed. Should she be amused or not?
But we’re back watching me chasing Rodney. Kick boxing and karate chopping as I gain on him, catch him, hang him by his feet upside down and pull his neck till it breaks (that took far more effort than the manual implied). I’d edited crunching sounds like they have in Kung Fu movies. Even though I say so myself, it’s brilliantly ghoulish.
There’s no sound now from my audience. The stunned silence is interrupted by human grunting as we’re back at the flesh show. This time we’ve zoomed wide. We can see it’s Mum’s bedroom. Clearly it’s Trevor going like the clappers. Legs, the feet encased in red, high heeled shoes, gripped hard around his back.
I’d doubled the length of the ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ inter cut with Maria’s ‘Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! OH GOD!’ as it crescendoed. It added impact to draw the moment out.
‘Turn it off’ Trevor was yelling.
‘No! Leave it on’ screamed Mum.
‘Rebecca, give me the fucking remote. You little bitch!’
‘You bastard, Trevor! You bastard!’
The final image is of me, slowly lowering Rodney into a vat of bubbling water. (This softens the feathers for easier plucking. Again, way more difficult in reality than it looks in the manual.) The music from the movie ‘Misery’ runs over the top here. And I’m smiling into the camera. As if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.
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