The Secret Hen House Theatre (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Lunch Queue

On Monday night Hannah buried herself in the bedclothes and stuffed cotton wool in her ears. She tried to fill her mind with poems she knew by heart, so there would be no space left in it to hear the heartbreaking moos from the prison truck. But every poem she knew was about land and animals and they just made her feel worse.

The cattle lorry was three tiers high. The men drove the cows up the steep ramps, cramming them into a prison of slats and steel. Once they were all loaded and the doors were slammed shut, they would be hurtled hundreds of miles away to a massive dairy farm in Lincolnshire. Hannah couldn’t bear to think of it. Their huge bewildered eyes, their cries of pain when they lost their balance and fell against each other as the lorry swayed and bumped up the motorway.

And when they stumbled off the lorry in Lincolnshire, frightened and confused, who would be caring for them? There weren’t many farmers like Dad any more. His cows went on to that lorry as animals with names. But they would come off it as
units of production.

When Hannah dragged herself out of bed on Tuesday morning she felt as if she’d run an overnight marathon.

And it was the first day of the summer term.

“Why isn’t Daddy having breakfast with us?” asked Sam, looking up from his cereal bowl.

“I don’t know,” said Hannah. “I’ll go and call him.”

The farmyard was eerily quiet. The pig-shed door was closed and the chickens were still shut up.

Hannah crossed the yard to the milking parlour.

The sliding door was open. Her father stood in the silent parlour with his back to her, facing the blackboard where the cows’ names were chalked up. He held a cloth in his hand.

As she watched, he started to rub out the names of his cows.

He did it very slowly, as if his arm was stiff and heavy. Daisy, Buttercup, Clover, Chocolate, Primrose, Lily; one by one the names disappeared.

When he had finished he didn’t turn round. He just stood there, facing the blank empty board, the cloth dangling from his hand.

“Dad?” said Hannah. Her throat was so dry that her voice came out croaky.

He didn’t move.

She tried again. “Dad?”

This time he turned round. When Hannah saw his face it felt like somebody had punched her in the stomach.

His eyes were swimming with tears.

Hannah hadn’t seen him cry since the day her mother died.

For a minute, he stared at her blankly. Then he cleared his throat. “What do you want?” he said. He sounded irritated.

“Nothing,” she mumbled. “Breakfast’s ready.” And with feet like lead she trudged back to the house.

The school dining hall stank of spaghetti bolognese. Hannah and Lottie leaned against the gloss-blue walls, edging along silently as the queue inched forward. All Hannah could think of were the cries of distress from the cows in the lorry and her father turning to her with his eyes full of tears.

Jack was showing off to a group of hangers-on a few places ahead of her. Behind the Year Eights, Miranda and Emily were gazing up at Jack like devoted puppies. Strangely, Danny wasn’t with him. And they hadn’t sat together in assembly either. Hannah remembered them arguing outside the antique shop. Had they fallen out?

Normally Jack’s presence so close to her would have sent Hannah into a flurry of self-consciousness. But today she didn’t care if her hair was frizzy. She didn’t care whether he was looking at her or not. She wouldn’t even have cared if there was a spot the size of Mount Vesuvius glowing on her chin.

“Hey, Roberts!”

Hannah didn’t look up.

“Hey, Roberts! What’s up? Forget to wash the
mud out of your ears?”

“Leave her alone, Jack,” warned Lottie.

Jack ignored her. “Sorry your theatre didn’t win the prize. Did the sheep forget their lines?”

Miranda giggled. Hannah stared from Jack to Miranda and back again, her face blazing. Of course. Miranda would have told Jack all about the prize-giving. They would have been sniggering about it all morning.

“Well, they did come second,” said Priya. “That’s pretty good actually. There were loads of entries.”

Hannah shot her a look of surprised gratitude. But Jack was still talking. “Or was it the cows who let you down? Did Ermintrude refuse to put her frock on?”

Miranda giggled again.

“It’s true,” said Jack. “Old Farmer Roberts really does give his cows names. They’re all chalked up in his milking shed. He probably tucks them up in bed at night too.”

And then, just like that, it happened.

Hannah looked at Jack and it was like she was seeing him for the first time.

Not a witty romantic hero. Not a rebel with a heart of gold.

Just a pathetic thirteen-year-old coward who set people’s barns on fire and ran away.

“Isn’t that right, Roberts?” said Jack. “Does he sing them lullabies too?” He started warbling in a high falsetto. “Goodnight, my darling Buttercup, cow of my dreams. Sleep tight, my dearest Ermintrude—”

A volcano erupted inside Hannah.

Without knowing what she was doing, she swung back her arm and punched Jack square on the chin, sending him crashing into the wall. His startled face flashed before her eyes, and then the next punch landed on his left cheek and he roared in indignation and pain.

With a strength she never knew she had, Hannah pinned him to the wall by his shoulders. “You evil piece of scum! How
dare
you? How dare you insult my dad like that after you destroyed his barn? How dare you burn our barn down and run away, you horrible stinking coward! How dare you destroy our theatre, you and your pathetic friend! You’re vile and evil and sick and you’ve ruined our lives. I hate you!”

Jack stared at her, open-mouthed. As Hannah paused for breath and loosened her grip, he lurched forward as if to make a dash for it.

“Don’t you dare!” shouted Hannah. She jammed her knee into his crotch.

He let out a howl and doubled up. Hannah shoved him back against the wall, cheeks and eyes blazing.

“Trying to run away? Of course you are. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You destroy things and then you run away because you can’t face up to what you’ve done. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you?” She was screaming into his face now. “You’ve destroyed my family and you’ve destroyed our farm. Is that what you wanted? Is it? Are you happy now? Was it fun? Was it a laugh?”

Still pinning Jack to the wall, she wheeled round to face Miranda, frozen in shock.

“Why aren’t you laughing, Miranda? Don’t you think it’s really funny? Isn’t it great that my dad’s going to lose his farm? Isn’t that really, really hilarious?”

Firm hands grasped her shoulders and an adult voice said, “Hannah, Hannah, stop. Stop it right now. Let go of Jack.”

The words hit Hannah like a nail punctures a tyre. She started to crumple. She allowed the teacher to prise her hands from Jack’s shoulders. She was surprised at how tight her grip had been – her fingers actually ached.

As she was led out of the room and her surroundings began to swim back into focus, she suddenly realised that the entire dining hall was silent.

Every single pair of eyes was staring at her.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Head's Office

Mr Collins leaned forward in his chair and frowned across the desk at Hannah. She looked down at her lap. She wondered if the Head even knew who she was.

She had never been in his office before. It was cold and sparse, painted a greyish-blue colour. There were bookcases filled with folders and dull-looking documents, and three grey metal filing cabinets. A cork board on the wall was covered with laminated notices pinned to it at precisely spaced intervals. Mr Collins's desk was completely bare.

“I gather from Miss Haywood,” he said eventually, “that you were involved in a serious incident in the dining hall this lunchtime.” He spoke in exactly the same way as he did in assembly, as if he were weighing up each word carefully before he uttered it.

Hannah didn't know whether she was supposed to reply. She nodded. It felt like it wasn't really her in that chair at all. Everything that was her had been sucked out and all that was left was a great big blob of nothing. It was as if she were watching a film of all this happening to somebody else. Nothing Mr
Collins could say or do could hurt her now. After all, she wouldn't even be at this school soon.

But then the Head's secretary poked her head around the door and said, “Mr Roberts is here.”

Dad? He's called Dad into school? Hannah's stomach turned over.

So she did have some feelings left then.

She gripped the sides of her chair and fixed her eyes on the floor as her father walked in. She couldn't even bear to imagine the next few minutes.

“Thank you for coming in so quickly, Mr Roberts,” said the Head. “Please, take a seat.”

He gestured to the one other free chair. It was uncomfortably close to Hannah's. Hannah caught a whiff of pig manure as Dad sat down, scattering wisps of straw on to the grey carpet.

“I am sorry to inform you,” began the Head, “that your daughter was involved in a serious incident this lunchtime in which she physically assaulted another student.”

Hannah could feel her father's impatience as he shuffled in his hard little chair. “What do you mean by ‘physically assaulted'?”

The Head paused for an irritatingly long moment. It was as if he found it a real effort to come out with the unadorned truth.

“I am afraid,” he said eventually, “that your daughter hit another student.”

“Who?” demanded Dad.

Mr Collins cleared his throat. “I don't think that is relevant to the issue.”

“Of course it's relevant,” Dad scoffed. He turned to Hannah. “Who did you hit?”

Hannah glanced from the Head to Dad and back again before replying, “Jack Adamson.”

“You hit Jack Adamson?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

Hannah could have sworn she saw a flicker of amusement cross her father's face.

“Apparently, Hannah, you accused this boy of vandalising a theatre on your farm,” said Mr Collins.

Oh, no, no, no! Why oh why had she gone and told the
entire school
that she had a theatre on her farm? How stupid could she be?

“He did
what
?” said Dad.

“Let's not jump to conclusions, Mr Roberts,” said the Head. “I was not intending to use any names until the facts had been established. I have since been informed by another student that in fact the boy Hannah attacked was not involved in the vandalism at all; that in fact the vandalism was committed by a completely separate person.”

“
What?
” said Hannah. “Who? Who told you that?”

Mr Collins frowned at her. “Hannah, as I just said, I am not going to jump to conclusions or reveal any names until I have thoroughly investigated this matter. I shall be interviewing all the relevant people in the course of the afternoon. I just need to confirm with you whether your theatre was indeed vandalised.”

The sound of Mr Collins even mentioning her theatre was hideous. Her beloved secret theatre, dragged out in public and trampled to ruins.

“Hannah, I need to know the truth.”

Hannah took a breath. “Yes. It was vandalised.”

“And what exactly was done to it?”

Hannah squirmed. This was torture. “The costumes were slashed, the make-up was ruined, the jewellery was broken, the scenery was graffitied, the props were ripped.”

Dad's face blazed with fury. “They did all that to your theatre? Why on earth didn't you call the police?”

Hannah stared at him. Why
hadn't
they called the police? The idea had never occurred to her. “I don't know,” she said. “I suppose we just wanted to get it all ready in time for the competition.”

He looked at her as though she was mad. “What was so important about the competition, for goodness' sake?”

Hannah met his eyes. Why not tell him? It would make no difference to anything now.

“There was five hundred pounds prize money. If we won, we were going to give it to the farm. To pay the rent. But we didn't win, and now the cows have gone.”

He just stared at her. Was he angry? Shocked? Confused? She couldn't tell.

Mr Collins cleared his throat. “Well, I don't think we need all the details now. As I said, I shall be interviewing the relevant people to get to the bottom
of this matter. I need to know, though, if you know who was really responsible for the vandalism.”

“No,” said Hannah.

“You have no idea?”

“No.” It was bad enough that she had publicly accused Jack – and probably falsely, it seemed now. She wasn't about to start making any other accusations. She had said quite enough for one day.

“I see. Well, what we need to focus on now then is the appropriate punishment for your behaviour at lunchtime. And then I shall ask your father to take you home for the rest of the day.”

Dad kept his eyes fixed on the road as he drove her home. His profile, when she dared to glance at it, revealed nothing.

“Well, now you know everything,” said Hannah. “But don't worry, we won't be doing any more plays.”

Her father shot her a single sharp glance before turning his eyes back to the road. “Don't be stupid, girl,” he said. “You're not going to let those idiots defeat you, are you?”

Hannah stared at him, open-mouthed.

Was he saying they could keep their theatre?

She was petrified to ask in case that wasn't what he'd meant. But she had to know.

With every muscle tensed, she said, “Do you mean we can keep the theatre?”

He kept his eyes on the road ahead and took his time before replying. “I just said, don't let a couple
of halfwits dictate what you do.”

Hannah stared at him for a long moment, letting this extraordinary change of attitude sink in. A surge of joy, like you get on the first warm day after a long winter, bubbled up inside her.

They could keep their theatre! They could do another play!

And then she remembered.

In a few months' time the theatre, along with the rest of the farm, would no longer exist.