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Fiction Short Story

by Maureen Green

An Egg's an Egg

"The eggs are off!" Aunt Nell wailed. "Now we're stuck for the big bake."

Three women, two of my aunts and my mother, decked out in pinafores and sleeves rolled up to their elbows, grimaced at the greenish yellow slime that was the yolk.

"Rotorua," commented Aunt Betsy as she pinched her nostrils closed.

"Any coupons left?" my mother, Valma, asked. Her expression fell as my aunts shook their heads.

"Gull’s eggs," I said, "there's thousands of black-backed gulls nesting on the rock just off shore. What about their eggs?"

The women's mouths fell open. Aunt Nell's eyes widened then narrowed suspiciously. "Never used them before," she said.

My mum looked thoughtful. "Wild duck eggs make great sponges. We often used them when the boys brought them back from hunting. Gull’s eggs can't be much different. An egg is an egg."

"I suppose we could try them," said Aunt Betsy; the quiet one.

"We kids could gather some at low tide," I continued as I jumped up and down with the thought of the danger of the hunt.

"Do that then," Aunt Betsy said. "We'll give them a go, using just six for a start."

"Going egg hunting!" I shouted as I careered along the passageway and leaped from the top step onto the ground and barreled to the edge of the bank.

"What?" my cousins called.

"We're going egg hunting," I repeated and the cousins climbed from the beach and crowded around me.

"Me come too," lisped three-year old Jacob.

"Sorry, not this time, Jacob, you're too young."

Jacob's face fell. "Me come," he whimpered, beating his fists against my legs. "Me come!"

"No. It’s too dangerous. The gulls' beaks hurt if they hit you when they dive."

"I'm not going," said Naomi as she rolled up her sleeve. "I got attacked last time I went egg hunting. Look! I've still got the scars."

"Just we four older ones should go," Little Jim, the eldest of my cousins announced, "Adelaide, Matthew, Brian and I."

"What about me?" Dave growled.

"You're too short to wade across the channel, Dave, so you can't come."

Seven kids howled and the adults came running.

"What's going on now?" Aunt Nell shrilled as she stood on the back porch, hands on her hips, glowering in my direction. "Can't you kids even play without fighting?"

Cousin Janice, her face twisted into a mask of despair, pointed at me. "Mum," she gulped, tears rising, "She won't let me go egg hunting."

"You can watch from the shore," Little Jim, her older brother, said in placatory tones.

"That seems the best idea," Aunt Betsy said softly but firmly. "We don't want you getting hurt just before the big day."

My other aunts nodded agreement.

"It's not fair," Janice shrieked, "Adelaide always gets to go."

"She's more boy-like than you," Aunt Nell said, "you're  ... more ...  lady-like."

"Tomboy," Janice hissed between sobs as she stormed into the back and slammed the door shut.

As low tide approached, Little Jim, Brian, Matthew and I set off for the island, with the luckless seven in tow. Clad in swimsuits, long sleeved shirts, hats and each of us armed with a stout tea-tree stick, we waited for the right moment to wade across the channel. The gulls circled, ever watchful. They screeched guttural warning cries while the tide ebbed and we waited for the pipi beds to uncover.

"Six is all we want," I called as I started across the gap. As we neared the colony, hundreds of enraged black-backed gulls launched, in a white wave into the air.

"We're for it now! Keep your head down and mind your eyes," I yelled as the birds readied to dive-bomb towards our heads.

Weapons held high above our heads, we inched our way to land. Suddenly Brian yelled as a bird raked its feet through his hair. He crouched, stepped back and disappeared beneath the water. Moments later he surfaced. Spluttering, he flailed at the water as he floundered and tried to gain his footing as the racing current swept him towards the sea.

"Grab him!" Little Jim called. Fear sounded in his voice and his eyes fixed on Brian.

Matthew dived after him, "Watch it," he drawled in his pragmatic way, as he caught Matthew by the collar, righted him and dragged him to shore.

"Matthew, you and Brian beat off the birds while Little Jim and I grab the eggs," I called above the frenetic noise of the gulls.

Little Jim and I slowly inched our way up the rock face, checking nests for eggs. Some nests had fluffy puffed up chicks, their crops so full they toppled forward when they pecked at my hand. Other nests contained a clutch of eggs from which I took one, until I had four eggs carefully secured in a soft bag.

"Got four," I called, then, "Arrgh!" as a gull speared the hat from my head.

"Got three," Little Jim shouted back as I cringed behind a rocky outcrop eying the circling mass. I felt the blood trickle down my scalp, grabbed my hat and rammed it down to my ears.

"Let's get out of here," I called as I assessed my chances of retreating without further damage. The birds swirled above me readying for the next concerted attack. They circled against the sun as a group, then with military precision, peeled off one by one, plummeting towards us.

"Run for it," yelled Little Jim.

The gulls attacked like a rain of bullets from every quarter. Straining my body forward against the rip, heart beating wildly, and arms above my head, I surged across the channel. Matthew and Brian beat the air behind us with their sticks before making the crossing.

"Don't look up," I shouted to the group on the mainland, "keep your arms above your head and wave like mad."

"Me see," lisped Jacob.

"Not now, later," I snapped as I grabbed his hand and ran dragging him along, his feet barely touching the ground.

In a tight knot, protected by the waving sticks, we made our way along the shoreline to the river crossing below the back.

"Want to see," Jacob whimpered and plonked his behind on the ground and refused to move.

"Alright, but don't squeeze it—the egg will break."

I drew an egg from my deep pocket where it had been cushioned with cotton wool.

Jacob extended his podgy fingers. "Make a basket with your hands like this, I said,” demonstrating the action. As Jacob cradled the egg his eyes widened in delight and he stroked the white surface lovingly.

"Mine, mine egg," he blurted and shrank back when I extended my hand to retrieve it.

"We've collected seven," Little Jim said, "let him carry it."

Aunt Betsy was the first to greet us. Her eyebrows arched, as Little Jim and I handed over the eggs.

"Give aunt your egg, Jacob."

"No!—mine, mine, mine," he said, clutching it to his chest.

Aunt Betsy smiled and mouthed, let him be. "No casualties?" she asked as she eyed each of us.

"Touch and go for a while," I answered, "a little scratch, but we made it.”

Later. "Come try the cake," Aunt Nell called and eleven of us kids hurried into the kitchen. A smile of satisfaction spread over Aunt Nell's face as she regarded her handiwork. On the table sat a sponge cake—a whopping cake—thick, light yellow, risen high and fluffy.

"Three eggs and some syrup to deaden any taste of the sea," Aunt Nell stated. "Best looking sponge I've ever made."

"Let's see how it tastes?" suggested Aunt Betsy as she advanced on the cake with knife in hand. Deftly, she cut into the sponge and handed a piece all round.

"Here goes," said Valma, my mum, as she popped her slice into her mouth and then smiled broadly. "An egg's an egg—some better for making sponges—and these are every bit as good as duck eggs."

Aunt Betsy smiled. "Delicious—melts in your mouth."

"How many eggs will we need for the sponges for Great Gran's hundredth birthday celebration?" Aunt Nell inquired of the bakers.

"Let's see, fifty odd people, five sponges. Two dozen should do," replied Betsy.

My aunts all turned to Little Jim and I. "Are you two up to it?" Aunt Nell asked.

Little Jim and I looked at one another and a smile split our faces. "Next low tide, you think, Jimmy?" I asked. He nodded.


About the Author
After retiring, Maureen Green joined a writing group and embarked upon a new adventure—an adventure requiring far more discipline than she ever imagined. She now spends her time writing short stories, children’s works, novella and novels. Her work appears in magazines in the United Kingdom and America—in multimedia form in Australia and on websites in America.

Maureen Green’s time is split between Auckland and Whatuwhiwhi—an insular seaside community in the far north of New Zealand, where she carries out archaeological work for the Auckland Museum. She is a member of the exclusive Moa Hunter group—membership gained by important finds of this extinct, flightless New Zealand bird.