Day Three: Three French Hens

At 6:40 a.m., the doorbell rang with the authority of a police raid. The partridge, asleep on the router like a dragon on a hoard of warm LEDs, detonated into the hallway. One of the pigeons cooed in the bathtub as if to say, we warned you about mornings. Jane rolled over and tugged the duvet over her head.

“Please tell me,” she murmured, voice muffled, “that this is croissants and not additional fowl.”

Stephen sat up with a guilty-heroic expression he recognised too late. “It… could be both.”

On the landing stood a courier in a scarf so artful it felt insulting. He held a crate stencilled with little tricolour flags and the words Les Vraies Poules, Authentiquement Françaises.

“Sign,” the courier said, accent unplaceably European. He eyed Stephen’s pyjama bottoms with the disappointed politeness of a maître d’ telling you the kitchen has closed. Behind him, the great neutral sky of December pretended to be innocent.

Stephen balanced the crate on his knee to sign. The hens clucked with a cultivated disdain. Through slats, he saw the glint of eyes like polished coffee beans and the tuck-and-rustle of feathers that somehow looked expensive. A smell of straw and garlic drifted out. Of course: French hens.

Jane appeared with her dressing gown tied like a statement. She stood in the hallway, hair caught into a loose knot, and looked at the crate the way you look at an email with six bullet points and a “quick favour.” Her sketchbook was under one arm — she’d fallen asleep drawing last night, the corner of a half-finished fox in mittens peeking from the page.

“Bonjour,” Stephen said weakly to the slats, as if this would smooth anything.

The hens fell silent in the way of people waiting to be underwhelmed.

They installed the crate beside the pear tree because the corner already felt agricultural. Aphids moved like polite commuters along the leaves; the partridge eyed the crate with nationalist fury. From the bathroom, a wet, resigned flap suggested one of the pigeons had attempted to unionise.

Stephen lifted the lid. Three hens stepped out with the coordinated assurance of a girl group disembarking from a private jet. Each wore—absurdly, perfectly—a tiny ribbon at the ankle like a passport stamp: bleu, blanc, rouge. Their plumage was glossy as if it had been conditioned. They surveyed the bungalow with the calm authority of visiting dignitaries, then began to cluck in clean, elegant syllables.

“Évidemment,” clucked one, gaze passing over the partridge and stopping on the pear tree as if it were an unfortunate haircut.

“Bon,” said another, in a tone that meant the opposite.

The third tilted her head toward Jane. “C’est qui?” The who-ness had teeth.

“I’m Jane,” she said, because there were limits to how many realities she could reject before breakfast.

The hen regarded her with the forgiving attention of a good therapist. “Enchantée,” she clucked, and immediately pecked at the hem of Jane’s dressing gown as if to adjust it to a better silhouette.

Stephen’s schoolboy French, which had previously been deployed exclusively for menus and croissants, leapfrogged into action. “Je… suis Stephen,” he said, producing the French of a tourist who had once seen a poster for Marseille. “Bienvenue chez—nous.”

The hens exchanged a glance heavy enough to be furniture. “Il essaie,” one murmured.

Jane’s eyebrow lifted. “They’re… speaking French.”

“French hens,” Stephen said, like this was the one part of reality that checked out.

“They only speak French?” Jane asked, already knowing.

“According to the listing,” Stephen said. He produced another crumpled receipt from his back pocket like a magician unveiling a rabbit he couldn’t control. Trois poules françaises (véritables). Livrées avec carnet de santé. A stamped box read: Nourries au grain artisanal. Everything about the typeface felt superior.

The hens set about exploring the bungalow with narrow, professional focus. One hopped onto the coffee table and then, with measured disgust, off again. Another confronted the partridge, who responded with the sonic equivalent of smashing a plate; the hen snapped back in a crisp triple-time that made the partridge reconsider its career. The third stood by the window and clucked about the light.

“Elle dit,” Stephen translated, noodling for confidence, “que la lumière est… meh.”

Jane pinched the bridge of her nose. “I am not learning a new language to negotiate with poultry.”

He brightened. “Duolingo?”

“Absolutely not.”

Roo wandered in then, ears flopping, intrigued by the hens’ perfume of straw and arrogance. She paused, assessed the scene, and promptly flopped onto her back in the centre of the rug — Roo was on her back, tail thudding like a slow applause. The hens gave her a single, unimpressed glance and moved on.

Jane leaned against the counter, watching, sketchbook now open. Her pencil traced loose outlines of the hens — the ridiculous ribbons, the offended posture, the one who’d glared at the pear tree like it was provincial. “They’re actually quite pretty,” she said. “In a bossy aunt at Christmas kind of way.”

“Are you drawing them?” Stephen asked.

“I might as well,” she said. “They’re sitting models with opinions.”

At noon, Jane put on shoes and declared an intention to leave the bungalow for twenty minutes of non-avian air. “Need anything?” she asked.

“Respect, grain, calm,” he said. “And a new sofa cover.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “Back soon.”

The front door opened. Jane returned with a paper bag and cheeks pink from real weather. “I failed to find calm,” she announced, “but I obtained grain.” She produced a sack of something labeled in a font that implied a farmer with opinions.

The hens clustered with something like gratitude. “Enfin,” they said, like a choir.

“Respect?” Stephen asked gently.

Jane kissed his forehead. “Work in progress.”

They ate sandwiches standing up, because the sofa was a crime scene. The hens pecked grain with an efficiency that felt like grace. The partridge, faced with the peer pressure of competence, calmed to a background simmer. From the bathroom came a cooing that suggested the pigeons had discovered the emotional benefits of bath acoustics.

After lunch, Jane downloaded Duolingo despite herself. The owl, implacable, asked her to translate les chats lisent. “The cats read,” she said, and snorted. “Do they.”

One of the hens hopped into her lap as if to demonstrate the plausibility of anything.

“Tu es belle,” Jane murmured, surprised by her own gentleness. The hen preened, as if she knew.

Stephen watched them, a peculiar ache expanding behind his ribs, the kind that felt like hope’s sibling. The bungalow was still ridiculous, the plan still doomed, the future still a spreadsheet with mysterious red cells. But Jane was here with a chicken in her lap, learning a sentence she didn’t need, and somehow the room felt less like a problem to solve and more like a place that held them both.

“Calm,” he said softly, testing the word like a piece that might fit.

The hen closed her eyes. The partridge, for once, had nothing to say. Roo sighed happily by the radiator. Outside, the sky considered the idea of snow and thought better of it. In the pear tree, an aphid paused mid-commute, as if even insects could concede an intermission.

“Merry Day Three,” Jane said.

“Joyeux,” Stephen answered, and meant it.