‘Haha!’ I say. ‘Egbert because it sounds like “eggs”!’
‘Eh?’ says Uncle Tony, and I decide not to press it any further. Also, I thought chickens were all girls. I would not want to be a girl called Egbert. Things are hard enough.
Collecting eggs is not as easy as it sounds though. You have to be gentle with the chickens. You have to smile at them, and apologize, but still be rather firm. And you have to do it quickly. You lift up the hen, say, ‘Thank you for the eggs,’ pop them in the basket and move on before they ask too many questions.
‘So what’s your story then?’ says Tony. ‘What do you kids do?’
I thought he meant for a living, so I say, ‘I’m currently unemployed, unless you count professional schoolgirl.’
‘For fun I mean. What makes you laugh? Knock Down Ginger? Marbles?’
Marbles? What year did he think this was? And Knock Down Ginger is where you knock on people’s doors and run away. Also known as Ding Dong Ditch. I’m pretty sure people are jailed for that.
‘Well, Teddy likes aeroplanes and no, I don’t really like marbles.’
‘What kids don’t like marbles?’ he replies.
‘Marbles are a bit chaotic,’ I say. ‘I find it stressful that they just go everywhere. I prefer more controlled world-building like in Roblox or Minecraft and so on.’
‘Don’t sound like you get out much.’
I smile because, although this is meant as an insult, he’s right. It’s nice to be out here. Doing something. Fetching eggs with a breeze on my face. Being kind to chickens. There are literally zero chickens in my house.
‘You’re a natural farmhand,’ Uncle Tony says. ‘But you don’t get it from your dad.’
I look up and see Dad is slipping around in all the muck and mud, using his shovel to try and keep his balance, like one of those gondoliers you see on Newsround when they do a thing about Italy. That big pig didn’t like what Dad was doing at all.
‘How old are you?’ says Teddy, suddenly.
I know it might not seem like much to you, but this was quite brave for Teddy. I was proud of him.
‘How old am I?’ says Uncle Tony. ‘How old do you think I am?’
Teddy stares at him, then says, ‘Fifteen?’
‘I’ll be eighty next month,’ says Uncle Tony.
‘Are you having a party?’ says Teddy.
‘No,’ says Uncle Tony.
I feel a bit sorry for Uncle Tony then. I mean, everyone should have a party with their friends on their birthday. Although I don’t even know what you’d do for an eightieth birthday party. You probably don’t go to a trampoline park or whatever.
‘What do you do with all these eggs?’ I ask.
‘Pop ’em in boxes,’ he says. ‘Along with a cauliflower, a few potatoes, some carrots and onions. Bottle of milk. Maybe some flowers from the meadow if I’ve time.’
‘And then what?’
‘Drop ’em round the old folks’ houses,’ he says. ‘Them that can’t get it for themselves.’
‘Don’t you sell any of it?’
That’s when Uncle Tony shakes his head and looks off into the distance, like how they do in films. A bit melancholy (word of the month in February).
‘I’ve got fields full of food, but farm’s coming to an end, I think,’ he says. ‘My knees are shot. There’s no one around to help pick the veg any more or sort out the chickens or the cows. People want it all online anyway, not from little farms like mine. They get it all from the supermarkets with their vans. So best I just give this stuff to people who need it. Problem is, there’s so much of it and it’ll be wasted.’
Just then there was an almighty YELL. Dad was running away from that massive pig. Dad had opened up the gate to the pig houses and it had seen its chance.
Dad was headed straight for the pond, screaming and yelling, with a giant thundering pig squealing right behind him.
We all just sort of ignored it.
‘Your dad said you’re on your way to see your gran,’ says Uncle Tony.
‘We don’t see her much and with all this going on we thought we’d better… see her,’ I explain.
‘You ever wonder why you don’t see her much?’ he says, like he knows something.
I frown at him because how can he know more than me about my family?
‘Well,’ I say, ‘she lives miles away. And my mum and dad are busy with work. And we have Skype so it’s fine.’
‘Then it’s fine,’ says Uncle Tony, but something about the way he says it makes me think he doesn’t really think that at all.
‘So, Uncle Tony,’ says Dad, shivering, as we stand outside our car. ‘Is there any chance I could have a quick shower before we head off?’
Dad still has bits of old reeds and pond dirt in his hair. I bet if you checked his pockets you’d find a fish in one of them.
‘Shower?’ says Tony. ‘Don’t have one. Don’t believe in them. What’s wrong with you? You just had a swim in the pond!’
He makes it sound like Dad had a choice.
‘Here’s your petrol,’ says Tony, handing over a big red canister. ‘Don’t have much but it should get you most of the way there.’
Then he points at a box he’s already laid on the bonnet of the car. ‘And some milk and vegetables for when you get there.’
‘Thanks for letting us stay, Uncle Tony,’ says Mum.
‘One more thing,’ says Uncle Tony. ‘Your map.’
Dad looks delighted he’s going to get a map at last. But his face falls when he sees what Uncle Tony is holding out to him.
‘Did you not have a proper map?’ says Dad.
‘What’s wrong with this one?’ says Uncle Tony, frowning. ‘I drew it myself.’
Dad looks at the scrappy paper and the thin lines drawn in biro.
‘It’s got “Here Be Dragons” written on it as we approach the A12.’
‘Kept it exciting,’
