Go to work on an egg
Go to Work on an Egg
At five to nine on Monday morning, Mrs O’Meara caught the Crazymad Writer untying her clothesline. He dropped the last of the pegs into his top hat and put it back on.
“What are you doing with that?”
“Making reins.”
“For what?”
He stepped aside. Behind him stood an egg the size of a garden shed, lashed to a wooden cart.
Mrs O’Meara looked at it for a moment.
“Will you be bringing the pegs back?”
“Of course.”
“Right. What are you doing with the egg?”
“Going to work.”
“You work from home.”
“Usually. Mr Byrne wanted me at the bakery at half eight to write a notice for his window. I told him I was late because of traffic, so I thought I’d better go out and make some.”
He climbed onto the back of the cart and gave the reins a brisk shake. The cart stayed where it was.
Mrs O’Meara tucked her rolling pin under her arm. “Perhaps it’s waiting for you to say ‘giddy-up’.”
He said it.
Nothing happened.
He tried it in French.
On the other side of the cart, a hen pecked at a biscuit crumb wedged beneath the wooden chock. The chock shifted. The cart rolled forward an inch.
The Writer tipped his hat to Mrs O’Meara. “French,” he said, and disappeared round the bend.
Mrs O’Meara took the shortcut across the green to the bridge. She knew how much speed a thing could pick up on that hill. She’d lost a wheelbarrow on it in 1998 and still crossed the road whenever she saw one that looked like it.
For the first twenty yards, the Writer felt he’d made a valuable contribution to transport. The bell rang prettily. His scarf streamed behind him. Mr Keane the postman stepped into a gateway and gave him a wave.
At twenty-one yards, he discovered that both reins were tied to the egg.
“Left!” he cried.
The egg took this in good part and continued straight ahead.
His hat flew off as he rattled under the bridge. The hen, who’d kept pace with him all the way down, caught it neatly by the brim and ran on. Above them, Mrs O’Meara leaned over the parapet and waved her rolling pin.
“HE’S GONE OFF HIS YOKE THIS TIME!”
“Never mind the jokes!” the Writer shouted. “Where does this lane go?”
“It goes to the bakery!”
“Excellent!”
“Through the bakery, at the speed you’re doing!”
Mr Byrne was putting out his blackboard when he saw the Egg Express coming. He took one look at the Writer’s face and dragged a sack of flour into the lane.
The cart struck the sack and stopped. The Writer went on without it. He sailed through the open bakery door and landed, sitting upright, in the chair Mr Byrne had set out for him beside the counter.
A cloud of flour drifted in after him.
“Morning,” said Mr Byrne. “Traffic again?”
“Much lighter since the bridge. I lost my hat.”
Mr Byrne handed him a sheet of paper. The bakery was starting to serve breakfasts and he wanted something catchy for the window.
The Writer looked at the paper. He looked at the egg outside. He dipped his pen.
GO TO WORK ON AN EGG
Mr Byrne read it twice. “Will people think they’re getting a boiled egg?”
“They’ll think so until they see the queue.”
There was indeed a queue. Six villagers wanted a ride, two wanted their photograph taken, and Mr Keane wanted to know whether the cart could do his round without stopping at any of the houses with dogs.
Mrs O’Meara pushed to the front and held out her hand.
“The pegs,” she said.
The Writer searched one pocket, then the other.
Outside, the hen hopped up onto the cart wearing his hat. She gave a little shake. A dozen clothes pegs fell out.
Mrs O’Meara picked them up. “At least somebody on this contraption knows how to make a delivery.”
