razor clams
Bury themselves deep in the sand.
By midday Sara’s gone, and the house smells of toast and retreat.
Grandpa claps his hands like we’re about to set sail. “Right! We’re taking the chicken for a walk.”
I blink at him.
He’s already hobbling towards the back door. “Grab the leash.”
That makes Trent freeze mid-dishwasher-emptying. He shakes his head, then busies himself stacking plates, his gaze straying towards the pantry, to me, and quickly back to the dishwasher.
I glance between him and Grandpa. Both are making me frown. “What on earth’s going through your mind?”
Grandpa answers, “I’m going to be that eccentric old bugger people talk about fondly when I’ve carked it. You can be my handler.”
“I’d rather be the chicken.”
“You’re that already. I’ll walk you both.”
What did that mean?
I shake it off, and by the time I find the leash (a repurposed dog lead, faded pink, bejewelled clip), Grandpa’s coaxing thechicken from under the deck with bribes of cornflakes. Trent keeps pausing at the pantry.
“Coming?” I call to him.
He shakes his head without looking. “Sorry, Ika. Got some work to finish.”
I rock on my heels, hard. ThatIkawas defiant. Like there’s a message there. I swallow. “Ah, urgent paperwork. The noble coward’s excuse.” I pause. “To avoid chicken-walking.”
That earns me a quiet frown. I sigh and let him linger in it.
I turn to Grandpa. “Let’s start the poultry parade.”
The walk starts with dignity. Ends without it.
Grandpa sets a slow shuffle pace, cane in one hand, leash in the other, until his back twinges and I inherit the leash.
“Grandpa,” I hiss, “people are staring.”
“They’re jealous.”
“They’re debating whether to call the animal police.”
He beams. “Something to remember!”
The chicken struts, quite happy with this strange arrangement. Especially when her leash tangles with my legs.
I narrow eyes at her.
She narrows eyes at me.
Grandpa hums some Zeppelin to go with his shirt. I’m halfway between mortified and hysterical when the beach comes into view, and just when I’m ready to smuggle the chicken into my jacket and bus home, two of Grandpa’s daycare mates materialise.
Of course, he wants to pause there a minute to chinwag.
“Clara’s scared of anything with feathers. If you could...” Grandpa urges me further along the beach. I mutter, but he’s already deep in reminiscence. One concrete block of stairs and a stretch of sand away, the chicken jerks, flaps, and bolts. The leash yanks my fingers before slipping free.
