There were four hens, and they had names, and Freddie knew them.

There was Dot, who was small and white and went first through every door. There was Marigold, who was brown and fat and went last. There was Pepper, who was speckled, and who could not be trusted near shoelaces. And there was Mrs Clutterbuck, who was big and black and had never once done what she was told.

Until today it had always been Mum who fed them. This morning she had handed Freddie the bucket and said, “Go on, then.”

Just that.

Freddie walked down the garden with the bucket in both hands, slowly, so as not to spill it, and also so as to make it last.

The hens were lined up at the wire, all four, like people waiting for a bus. Dot at the front. Marigold at the back. Pepper watching his feet. Mrs Clutterbuck standing a little apart, with her head on one side, in a way that Freddie did not like.

“Morning,” he said.

The hens said nothing helpful.

The gate was the first job. It had a stiff hook, and you had to lift and push at the same time and keep one foot in the gap so nobody got out. Freddie lifted. He pushed. He put his foot in the gap.

Dot went straight through the gap, under his foot, and out.

“No,” said Freddie.

Dot stood on the grass and looked at him. She was not going anywhere. She just wanted him to know that she could.

He stepped in. Dot stepped in behind him, as if that had been the plan all along. He shut the gate and let out a breath.

Now the feeding.

Mum did it in a scatter, one long sweep, so everyone got some. Freddie tried. His scatter went in a lump, and the lump landed at Marigold’s feet, and Marigold looked at it, and looked at him, and then simply sat down on it.

“You’re meant to eat it,” said Freddie. “Not sit on it.”

Marigold sat.

Pepper had found his shoelace.

He did another scatter, wider, and this one went where it was supposed to, and Dot and Pepper went at it, heads down, tails up. Freddie stood in the middle of it all with a feeling in his chest that was somewhere between proud and outnumbered.

Then he looked for Mrs Clutterbuck.

She had not moved. She had not gone for the corn. She was looking at Freddie the way you might look at a small person with a job too big for them.

“There’s plenty,” said Freddie. “Look.”

He took a handful, walked over slowly, crouched down, and held it out.

Mrs Clutterbuck looked at his hand, and then at his face. She took one step towards him, and stopped.

Then, very carefully, as if doing him a great favour, she leaned forward and ate one piece of corn out of his palm.

One piece.

Then another.

Then she put her whole beak in and ate the lot, quickly, before anyone else could see, and shook her feathers, and walked off as if nothing had happened.

Freddie stayed crouched for a moment with his empty hand out. His palm tickled.

He walked back up the garden with the bucket, which was empty now and swung. Mum was at the door.

“Well?” she said.

“Dot got out,” said Freddie. “And went back in. Marigold sat on it. Pepper had my shoe. And Mrs Clutterbuck ate out of my hand.”

Mum looked at him.

“She’s never done that for me,” she said.

Freddie did not say anything. But he did the rest of the morning with a very straight back.

That night, in bed, he thought about the run with the light going, and the hens going in one by one. Dot first. Marigold last. And Mrs Clutterbuck after all of them, taking her time, standing in the doorway, looking out at the dark garden as if it belonged to her, which it did.

Then in. Then the door. Then the soft noises hens make when they settle, low, like a kettle a long way off.

Freddie closed his eyes. His palm still tickled, just a bit, where a hen had chosen to trust him.