The fruits of the season by Leo Cullen
Published 23/12/2012 | 05:00
Darkness had fallen across the hills and valleys when the Dealer pulled into his yard in the Ford van. A heavy, slightly suffocating, smell was coming from the huddle of 40 silent turkeys trussed on the floor behind him. They had been sitting there, anchoring one another, light glinting from small eyes every time the headlights of a car passed. At the kitchen window, the Dealer's wife saw the van slump into the yard and called to the children at homework on the big table, "Help your father carry those turkeys down to the coal shed".
He came into the kitchen, walked over to the cooking range, his hands out for heat.
"You're grey in the face," she said. "Your dinner is in the oven. The children will get the turkeys into the coalhouse."