Edmund’s cock pressed forward. It was insistent, curious, keen. It strained against the silk halter in which it was encased. For a moment, Edmund wondered whether the delicate material was a match for the task it had been given.
It was a tradition in these parts for men to make silk restraints for their cocks, the fine needlework skills being passed from father to son, a rite of passage whenever a local boy turned 16.
“Thou now be a man,” the father would say. “Thou now want to sew a halter for thy cock.”
Young women, meanwhile, would learn the skill from their mothers, fashioning elegant and delicate coverings for whichever neighbourhood cock had caught their eye.
“I’ve made a halter for thy cock,” they might say in their blushing, girlish way, before presenting their beautifully made artefact to one of the local lads, who – blushing also – would stammer their thanks.
“It’s perfect!” they’d say. “You must have spent months thinking about nothing else but my cock.”
Why people in this small district of south-western NSW spoke in such thick Lancaster accents remains a mystery. But it was only one of the oddities of this valley – surrounded as it was by sheep and cattle farms, it had found its own calling in the business of chicken farming.
And here, in this chicken country, a good cock was the secret of success. Especially when combined with regular cock rotation.
Edmund’s own cock pulled again against its halter. “Cock-a-doodle-doo do,” it cried.
Its excitement on this fine morning was understandable. Today was the big day: the local District Show and its prestige event, the annual “Best Cock in Show”.
Edmund tightened the lead. Victory would be difficult. Edmund’s cock – he always called him “my little mate” – was not the biggest in the district. Nor did he have the most attractive of features.
His cock leaned to one side in a way that was off-putting. In cold weather, it shrank to a size of next to nothing. Sometimes, it was embarrassingly difficult to rouse.
And yet Edmund had his hopes. Was there a chance, given the right circumstances, this underrated cock could rise to the occasion? And – if pressed – could he keep it up?
Edmund affectionately pulled the halter aside and gave his “little mate” a gentle stroke. “Aye,” he said in his north country patois, “it’s not the cock in the fight; it’s the fight in the cock.”
Yet what would this day bring? The judge, after all, could chill the blood of the steeliest of competitors. Her name was Lady Helen Leadtrouser, and she was from Leadtrouser Hall – a forbidding ancestral pile on the north side of town.
A widow, though still young, she owned the richest land in the district – the fertile river flats perfect for growing chicken feed. It was a triangle of land, now sadly neglected. Since her husband’s death, Lady Helen had been unable to raise a single cock. And her fertile fields? it was now years since they’d last seen a good ploughing.
That’s what made today so important. If a cock caught her eye, might she not only award that cock “Best Cock in Show”, but might she also propose marriage to the man who possessed such an appealing cock?
Edmund caught himself dreaming. True, a glance from Lady Helen was enough to freeze his very marrow … but think of those river flats! If there was a way to bring together these two – his cock, her fertile field … well, that would be something.
It was then that Edmund and his “little mate” arrived at the showground. There were cocks as far as the eye could see – all straining against their silk halters.
Up in the members’ stand, Lady Helen looked imperious as she delivered her assessments to her shabbily dressed assistant.
Amid the noise, Edmund couldn’t hear what was being said, but Lady Helen’s hand gestures gave away her thoughts. “Too small” was one withering verdict. “Weirdly shaped head” was another. “Moulting, especially lower down” was a third.
It was then an earthquake hit the showground. Many died! What carnage! While some clawed their way to the surface, Lady Helen remained buried under the rubble. When the emergency services arrived, they tried to summon the assistance of the cocks to search through the site – but the bigger cocks were useless. The rubble was too tightly packed.
One rescue worker announced the problem to the crowd: “Lady Helen is buried in a deep crevice. But there are so many of these subterranean fissures. We don’t know into which hole poor Helen has fallen.”
Edmund’s “little mate” grew a little larger upon hearing the challenge. Unlike the larger cocks, he could slip through the rubble and – hopefully – locate Lady Helen.
And so he wriggled. And he searched. And he despaired. And then he searched again. Always his motto: “Thrust forward, and then thrust again.”
Then, after hours of effort, he managed to locate her. Lady Helen was saved.
She’d been saved by a cock – a small, underrated cock, that much is true, but a cock driven by a determination to finally get into Lady Helen’s hole.
As for Lady Helen, she was forever grateful. She recovered from the earthquake and quickly announced Edmund’s “little mate” as “Best Cock in Show”.
A minute later, she pledged marriage to the little mate’s delighted handler.
And that’s the story of how the district’s best cock – and its top triangle of bush – were finally able to, well, come together.
Digby Girth is a writer specialising in stories about the insemination of chickens, and he was awarded an honorary Doctor of Letters (honoris causa) by the University of the Northern Riverina in 2007 in recognition of his work. He has won many prizes, including “Best Story on Chicken Insemination” in the 2016 Tokyo Chicken Industry Awards – Australasia and the Pacific division – and a bronze medal for “Chicken Insemination Made Easy” in the Insemination Section of the American Awards for Books about Chickens (1982). For remaindered copies of his books – all of them considered “seminal’ – please contact his Australian agent Richard Glover.
