McCalliog And His Hens

“This story’s all about ducks,” said Barclay. 

“That’s right,” I said.”  That’s my specialty, duck stories. I’m famed for it.” 

“But the title’s ‘McCalliog and his hens’. I was expecting a story about hens.” 

“I know, but I don’t really do hen stories. I thought you could, you know, change the word ‘duck’ to ‘hen'. It should be straightforward.” 

“I’m not sure that would work.  Take the opening paragraph.” 

I read the opening of the story. 

“I’ve got blue Swedish if you’re interested,” McCalliog said to me the first time I met him.  His first words to me in fact. 

“I’m not really into that sort of thing,” I said.  

“You don’t like eggs?” he said, surprised. 

“Eggs?” I said, equally surprised. 

“Blue Swedish duck eggs. They’re the finest.  Perfect for the eggy bread dip.” 

“You see the difficulty,” Barclay said.  “There isn’t a blue Swedish hen.” 

“There are lots of hen breeds though. What about the Plymouth Rock chicken.” 

“It doesn’t quite ...” 

The story continued, sod Barclay’s objections.  

McCalliog bred ducks.  The village was constantly echoing with the sound of all varieties of quacking. 

“Do ducks quacks echo?” said Barclay. 

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’re changing them to hens anyway.” 

The story continued. 

A few days later I passed McCalliog’s house, and was surprised to see a new business had moved in next door to him, ‘McGinty’s Duck Shoots’.  I could see McCalliog in a shouting match with a red-bearded  Irishman, clearly McGinty. 

“We don’t shoot domestic ducks,” McGinty was shouting, “Just wild ducks. Your ducks are safe.” 

“My ducks are not caged in, they come and go as they please, they play in the woods, they go anywhere they please, they’re free agents. There’s nothing to stop your crazy killers shooting them.” 

“Well, that’s your own fault if you don’t lock them up. This is a dangerous world, every freedom comes with its own existential risk.” 

That evening McCalliog held a conference with his fowl menagerie in the duck barn.  Late into the night I heard the sound of quacking, occasionally interspersed with McCalliog’s voice.  

The first McGinty duck shoot was that weekend, and on Friday cars started arriving.  I happened to be passing, and saw a portly middle-aged man clamber out of his jeep, only to be bombarded by a flock of low-flying ducks. 

McGinty came streaming out of the house. “Keep your ducks under control,” he shouted. “I’m a legitimate business.  I pay my taxes.” 

“It’s nothing to do with me,” McCalliog shouted back, “My ducks have free will, they duck-bomb whoever they like, it's no business of mine.” 

“We’ll get our revenge this weekend,” McGinty said to the man. “We’ll shoot ducks morning, noon and night, and then feast on them for tea.” 

That night, McGinty and his guests were kept awake all night by constant quacking outside their windows. The quacking was occasionally interrupted by the sound of gunfire, as McGinty and his guests tried to fight back, but in the darkness they had no chance of hitting their targets. 

That morning McGinty's hunters staggered out of bed, in a state of sleepless disarray. McGinty was in the kitchen making toast and other breakfast offerings. He opened the fridge door, to find the butter and bacon covered in feathers. He stormed round to McCalliog’s house.  “You keep out of my house,” he shouted through the letter box.  

McCalliog, wearing a dressing gown and slippers, opened the door. 

“Can I help you?” he said. 

“You broke into my house,” McGinty shouted. 

“No I didn’t,” he said.  

“You left feathers in the butter dish.” 

“I didn’t leave any feathers, it must have been my ducks.” 

“Oh, so your ducks broke into the house and opened the fridge door.” 

“They’re clever ducks. They don’t answer to me. If you don’t lock your fridge at night you're just asking ducks to raid it.” 

“Well, I’ll show your clever ducks if I see them today, I'll say hello to them with a barrel of shot. And if I catch you breaking into my house I’ll shoot you as well.” 

“Are you done?” said McCalliog. “My ducks are quacking for their morning feed.” 

After an angry breakfast all round (the hunters all had to eat margarine with their toast, much to their distaste), they grabbed their guns, climbed into their cars and set off towards the hunting grounds. 

However, just a few metres down the road, the procession of cars each in turn spluttered to a halt.   

After much shouting, the cause was discovered – duck eggs in the exhaust pipes. 

The duck eggs were removed, and the cars continued. However, they didn’t progress far, before they all ground to a halt again. 

“What’s the problem?” McGinty shouted out from the window of his jeep to the first car. 

“Ducks,” shouted back the hunter. 

“Ducks?” repeated McGinty. 

“Yes, ducks waddling along the road. I can’t pass them.” 

“Just run them down,” McGinty shouted.  “We’re here to hunt ducks aren’t we.” 

“To hunt them, yes, not run them down. I’m here for the sport, the challenge, shooting gives the ducks a sporting chance.” 

“Well shoot them then.” 

But the guns were all locked away safely in the trunks of the cars, so the parade was delayed, and chugged along at duck-waddle speed.  

“You ducks have run out of luck,” McGinty shouted, when they finally arrived at the shoot-site.  

The hunters spread out, alert for the slightest rustle or quack, however they heard nothing.  Hours passed, and there was neither sight nor sound of a single duck. McGinty was getting frustrated.  “It’s that damned McCalliog,” he shouted. “He’s tipped off the ducks, they’re all in hiding.” 

However, as he spoke, there was a quack nearby. McGinty turned and crept towards it, however, as he advanced, a quack came from another direction, he turned and crept towards that, but then a quack came to his left.  Ignoring the other hunters, ignoring everything, he followed quack after quack, there was no sight of a single duck, but he blundered on. Soon he given up creeping, trying to sneak up, he ran at full pelt towards each and every quack, but never so much as a feathery arse did he see. 

Quack, quack, quack, the sounds came from every direction, McGinty was running wildly.  The hunting party would tell the police that he had become a crazed man, remote from all sense and reason. 

And in this wild, crazed state, he ran, and ran, and ran, and ran over the edge of the clifftop, and crashed onto the rocks below.  

xxx 

“It’s difficult,” said Barclay. 

“What’s difficult?” I said. 

“To make the story about hens. After all, it’s all about duck shoots, and there’s no such thing about hen shoots.” 

“Not my concern,” I said. “You’re the editor, it’s your job to make it work. I’m off, I’ve got another story to write.”