The Secret Hen House Theatre (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen

A Lift Home

Alone, Hannah felt the fears swirl into her head again. She pushed them away, crossed the road and trudged up the pavement to the bus shelter. A shadowy figure leaned against the far side of it.

Wait a minute…

Could it be…?

It was!

Her heart missed a beat. Jack Adamson! And she, Hannah Roberts, was about to be alone in a bus shelter with him!

Hannah was suddenly painfully aware of every single cell in her body. Her mouth felt dry. Her stomach fluttered like there was a family of sparrows trapped inside it. She didn’t know how to walk. What should she do with her hands? Should she look at him or not? Oh, no, had she brushed her hair after the match? She put a hand to her head, then instantly removed it. Act casual, she told herself.

Would he speak to her?

What would he say?

What if he ignored her?

Anything, any amount of teasing, was better than
being ignored.

Jack glanced up as she approached.

“All right?” he said.

Hannah’s heart leapt. He had spoken to her! Maybe they were about to have a conversation!

Be casual, she told herself sternly. Be nonchalant.

“All right?” she replied. He was more good-looking than ever in the dim light with his hands in his pockets. Not that she dared really look at him.

“Just had a guitar lesson. You?”

“Hockey match. Away, against Tidemills.”

“Oh, right. You win?”

“Yes, three–two.” She didn’t mention that Miranda Hathaway had scored the winning goal.

“Cool.”

Cool
. He’s being nice to me! And he smiled! I’m sure he smiled!

Silence.

That’s because it’s my turn. Say something! Make a witty remark! Keep the conversation going!

“So, are you getting the bus home?” she asked.

What a moronic thing to say. Of course he was getting the bus home. He got the bus home every single day. What sarcastic comment would he make now?

But he just said, “Yeah. You too?”

“No, my dad’s picking me up.”

Why had Jack asked her that? Had he hoped she was getting the bus? If she had been, would he have sat next to her? He must really like her if he wanted to sit next to her on the bus. She hoped that both the
bus and her dad would be a very long time coming.

But that seemed to be the end of the conversation. Jack said nothing. Why had she said her dad was picking her up? That made her sound like such a baby.

Jack reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a box of matches. He struck a match and looked at the flame as it flared up with a little hiss. The wind blew it out and he dropped it on the pavement.

Hannah looked at the matchbox in his hand. There was something scrawled in biro on the cardboard. A mobile number. And a name. Hannah strained her eyes to make it out.

Miranda.

Jack had Miranda’s name and number written on his matchbox. In Miranda’s handwriting.

Of course. He was going to Miranda’s dress rehearsal on Saturday, wasn’t he?

The silence thickened. Hannah fished desperately inside her paralysed brain for something to say. How many times had she dreamed of being alone with Jack? And now that she was, all she could do was stand there like an idiot.

She plucked nervously at the frayed strap of her canvas bag. It was slipping off her shoulder. She hoisted it back up. There was a loud ripping sound and the bag thudded on to the pavement.

“Oh, no!”

In nightmarish slow motion, the entire contents of her bag slithered on to the ground. Books, pens, calculator, scrunched-up tissues and crumpled sheets
of paper rolled all around her. She dropped to her knees, scrabbling to pick up her fountain pen before it fell off the kerb. Oh, wasn’t Jack going to love telling this story in the canteen: Roberts and her inability to do the simplest thing without looking like a halfwit.

And then the strangest thing happened. Jack moved across the bus shelter. His shoes were on the tarmac beside her. And then he knelt. Jack Adamson knelt on the ground, gathering books and stationery into his arms and ramming them back into the broken canvas bag.

“There you go.” He held out the bag so she could tip her meagre catch of pencils into it.

Hannah finally dared to lift her eyes from the pavement. And there he was, his face just centimetres from hers, her green eyes level with his brown ones. “Are you OK?” he asked awkwardly.

“Yes. Fine. Thank you.” She held his gaze for a second frozen in time, looking at his lovely face, framed by his curly hair and silhouetted by the yellow streetlight, and his strong hand, outstretched to help her up. And then, suddenly, she blurted out, “Do you want to come to our dress rehearsal next Sunday?”

What
?

What
had she just said?

“What?” said Jack.

The words tumbled out of her before she knew what was happening. It was like watching somebody else rush headlong into a pit in the dark. “Our theatre
group. We’re having a dress rehearsal for the Linford Arts Festival. You know, like Miranda’s. On the first weekend of the holidays. Sunday the fourteenth. Three o’clock. On my farm. In a hen house. I mean, it’s a theatre but it used to be a hen house. It’s in a little wood in North Meadow – the field on the right as you come up the track. I mean, you don’t have to or anything…”

Finally, her mouth seemed to have stopped spilling out words. She didn’t dare look at him.

Miraculously, though, he smiled. “Sure. Why not?”

Her heart soared. He really did like her!

Suddenly, a honk-honk like an angry goose pierced the air. No, not now! Not now! Go away!

Jack looked up.

“Isn’t that your dad?”

Hannah made herself look. There it was. Her father’s ancient, mud-encrusted Vauxhall Chevette, signalling to pull in at the bus shelter. But what was that on the … no, surely not.

Oh, my sweet lord, it really is. Please let this be a nightmare. Earth, please swallow me up. Right now. Oh, please don’t let Jack see it.
Please
.

“Flipping heck,” said Jack. “
What
is that thing on the roof of his car?”

“No way,” said Lottie. “You have
got
to be kidding.”

It was eight thirty on Tuesday morning and they were huddled against the hot-water pipes in the girls’ cloakroom.

“Oh, if only I were,” said Hannah. “Can you imagine it?”

“That is unbelievable. A dead duck. No way.”

“A massive dead Muscovy duck. Huge. Just sprawled across the roof of the car with its giant wings outstretched. I nearly died.”

“But why did he have it up there?”

“He said he’d found it in the yard – a fox had got it – and he’d slung it there to stop the dogs eating it, until he got a chance to bury it. And then he’d just forgotten all about it. I mean, what sort of person just
forgets
they have a dead duck on the roof of their car? It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire life. And that’s saying something. And it’s going to be all round the school by lunchtime.”

Hannah curled up and buried her head in her hands. Lottie hugged her.

Don’t be nice to me, thought Hannah. I haven’t told you everything. If you knew that I’d invited Jack Adamson to watch our non-existent dress rehearsal, you wouldn’t be comforting me right now. You’d be strangling me to death with your bare hands.

Chapter Fourteen

Secrets and Threats

Hannah sat on a wobbly milking stool in the auditorium and opened her notebook. “I hereby declare this meeting of the Secret Hen House Theatre open. Date: Sunday 7th March. Present: all members of the theatre.  

“Item one: Programme. To be produced by Miss Lottie Perfect, as agreed at the meeting of Saturday 6th March.”  

Lottie, perched on the udder-barrel on the other side of the circle, reached into her bag and took out a folded piece of straw-coloured paper.  

“Wow,” said Hannah. “That looks so professional.”  

“Cool,” agreed the Beans. They were sharing an upturned chicken crate and using Jasper, sprawled in front of them, as a giant woolly footstool.  

Martha glanced up briefly from her magazine, curled her top lip and said nothing.  

Lottie had drawn a border of brambles around the edge of the cover. Inside the border was typed:

The Secret Hen House Theatre Presents

By Her Majesty’s Appointment

Saturday 20th March

3.00 p.m.

In the bottom right-hand corner she had drawn a hen wearing dark glasses and carrying binoculars under one wing.

“Why does the hen have sunglasses and binoculars?” asked Sam.

“Because we’re the Secret Hen House Theatre. She’s a secret hen.”

The Beans giggled. Martha flipped over the page of her magazine with a vicious crack.

“And then inside,” said Lottie, opening the programme, “there’s the list of scenes and the cast list.” She started to read it out. “Cast, in order of appearance: Queen Matilda – Hannah Roberts; Lady’s maid – Lottie Perfect; Footman—”

“Oh, surprise, surprise, yours and Hannah’s names are first,” said Martha.

“They’re in order of appearance,” said Lottie through gritted teeth. “Like it says. I’ll do extra programmes for the dress rehearsal. Since apparently we’re now having a dress rehearsal. With an audience.”

She raised her eyebrows at Hannah. Hannah smiled innocently. It had taken a bit of persuasion, but she’d known Lottie would come round in the end. Hannah had just needed to convince her that a dress rehearsal would make the play more professional.
Professionalism mattered. To both of them.

There was one thing she hadn’t told Lottie, though.

One really quite major thing.

And that wasn’t very professional, was it?

“Who’s going to be in the audience?” asked Sam.

Hannah’s stomach churned. She couldn’t believe she’d invited Jack. It was
such
a crazy thing to have done that she could sometimes almost convince herself it hadn’t happened at all. Especially since Jack had never mentioned it since.

It was horrible, though, having a secret from Lottie. It gnawed away at Hannah’s conscience.

She couldn’t tell her, though, could she? Lottie would go crazy.

And anyway, there was no way Jack would actually come. Not after the dead duck fiasco.

“My mum’s coming,” said Lottie. “Don’t worry, my dad isn’t,” she added in response to Hannah’s look of alarm. Lottie’s parents were divorced and they didn’t always manage to be civil to each other in public. “And my mum’s going to bring your granny. And my auntie and uncle and cousins are coming.”

“But how,” asked Jo, “are all those people going to come here and park their cars and walk to the theatre without Dad finding out?”

“I’ve told them we’re keeping it a secret from your dad because we want to surprise him at the actual performance. They’re going to leave their cars at the end of the track and act like they’re just having a walk on the footpath. So as long as he’s not actually in this field, he won’t see anything suspicious.”

“And what if he
is
actually in this field, freak?” said Martha.

“Why isn’t Daddy coming?” asked Sam.

“Well,” Hannah said slowly, “Daddy didn’t want us to have a theatre, remember? So this is all a secret.”

“But Daddy would want to come and see our play. I want Daddy to come. It’s mean not to invite him.”

Hannah looked at Sam’s face. If only it were that simple.

“We can’t, Sammy. If he didn’t like it, he might make us stop it and then we wouldn’t be able to enter the competition and all our work would be ruined.”

Sam opened his mouth to reply.

“Right,” said Hannah quickly, turning back to her notebook. “Item two: Costumes. The members of the theatre spent a very successful afternoon buying fabric and make-up at the Scouts’ jumble sale on Saturday 6th March. Miss Lottie Perfect to report on progress with costume production.”

Lottie pulled some items from a plastic bag. “OK, this is what I did last night. I’ve made my own costumes first. Just because I know my own measurements,” she said pointedly to Martha. “So, this is for the maid.”

She held it up. The maid’s blouse had originally been a white school shirt. Lottie had chopped off the collar and cuffs and sewn on lacy ones instead, made from a net curtain. She had made a white apron from an old sheet and altered a long black skirt from the jumble sale.

“That’s great,” said Hannah.

The Beans looked impressed.

“Gross,” said Martha.

“I’m going to wear black trousers underneath, then all I have to do is whip off the skirt and apron, put on a black jacket and I’m Prince John. His costume’s very plain because he’s modest and hates show-offs – so it will contrast with Prince Rallentando’s, which will be really gaudy. I’m going to use that satin jacket we got yesterday and sew on loads of lace – actually, you can do that, Hannah; it’ll be quite simple.”

“It will have to be, if Hannah can manage it,” said Martha.

“Now, I’ll need you to try this one on, Martha.” Lottie reached into her bag and took out a costume. Hannah recognised some of the things they had found at the jumble sale. The bodice was the top half of a swirly brown and pink print dress. The sleeves were shiny orange curtain fabric and the long skirt was made from a flowery bedspread on to which Lottie had sewn several large green bows.

“Ugh!” said Martha. “That is disgusting!”

“It’s brilliant,” said Hannah. “Perfect for Esmeralda.”

“What do you mean, perfect for me?” snapped Martha. “Are you calling me ugly? Have you looked in a mirror lately? Do you know what your face looks like? Like a mouldy apple with a maggot sticking out of it for a nose.”

“She wasn’t calling you ugly,” said Lottie. “This dress is meant to be over the top. The whole point
is that the queen has terrible taste and she forces Esmeralda to wear it. The one she chooses herself will be really nice.”

“Where is it? Show me.”

“I haven’t finished it yet.”

“Well, it’d better not be skanky like this one. Or there’s no way I’m going to be in your poxy play. People might think I chose it.”

“On the notice board in the dressing room,” continued Lottie, “there’s a list of times for all members of the cast to report to me so that I can take their measurements.”

“Thank you, Lottie,” said Hannah. “Now, item three: Rehearsals. As you all know, the dress rehearsal is a week from today, so everybody should be off the book from now on.”

“Off the what?”

“Martha, I explained yesterday. It means no scripts. Everyone should have learned their lines. Right, let’s go from Esmeralda’s first entrance.”

“OK then, Jo, I need to do your measurements,” said Lottie, moving backstage.

“Ready, Martha?” said Hannah.

Martha ignored her.

“Martha!”

Martha kept her eyes on her magazine. “What?”

“We’re going from your entrance. You need to be in the wings, stage left.”

Martha sighed, picked up her script and dragged herself into the wings.

“I said stage
left
.”

“I am on the left.”

“No,
stage
left means left from the actors’ point of view, remember? So you need to be on the other side.”

Hannah positioned herself in a queenly manner on top of a pile of crates that was going to be her four-poster bed. “
Come in, Esmeralda, my dear,
” she said in her most regal voice.

Martha held the script up in front of her face and spoke her lines in a flat, halting monotone, like a five-year-old struggling with an Early Reader.

“You … wanted … to … see … me … Mama?”

“Why are you doing that?” asked Hannah.

Martha made her eyes wide and innocent. “Doing what?”

“Pretending you can’t read. Or act. When I know you can do both really well. And why are you still reading from your script when you’re meant to have learned your lines?”

“This isn’t school, you know! You’re not my teacher. I don’t have to do anything you say, so shut up.”

Hannah took another deep breath. “Let’s start again.” She changed her voice back to the queen’s.

“Come in, Esmeralda, my dear.”

“YouwantedtoseemeMama?”

“Martha!”

“What? You said it was too slow before. I was doing it faster.”

Hannah decided to carry on.

“In a year, on your sixteenth birthday, you will
be married to a prince, who, at this moment, my faithful servants are setting out to find.”

“But, Mama, Iwanttochoosemyhusbandbymyself.”

“Martha!! We’ve got one week! Will you just do it properly!”

Martha raised her eyebrows and drew herself up to her full height. “Are you being horrible to me? Because if you are, I’m just going to tell Dad all about your little secret. Is that what you want?”

Hannah looked at her. For the first time in her life, Martha held all the cards, and she was loving every minute of it.

“Let’s carry on, shall we?” said Hannah, making her voice as calm as she could. “
Silence, child! Before your beloved father died…
” Hannah paused and bowed her head. “
We both decided what would be best for you. You will obey me or you are disregarding his wishes. Do you understand, Esmeralda?
”

Martha looked at Hannah demurely, the picture of obedience. She moved her lips but no sound came out.

“That was your cue, Martha.”

“I said my line.”

“You didn’t say it, you mouthed it.”

“You don’t like my voice, so you don’t have to listen to it. Now you can’t complain it’s too fast or too slow.”

Hannah put her head in her hands. “Martha, what is
your
problem?”

“
My
problem! What is
your
problem?”

“What do you mean?” said Hannah.

“Isn’t it enough for you that you boss me around every minute of the day at home, without bossing me around in the stupid play too?”

“Oh, is
that
it?” Hannah stared at Martha. And suddenly a light flicked on in her head. “Martha, who’s the main character in Cinderella?”

“Cinderella, stupid.”

“Exactly. Not the bossy stepmother, even though she has more lines. And it’s the same in this play. Esmeralda is the main character. The play is her story, and in the end she gets the prince she wants, doesn’t she? She stands up to her mother – only she doesn’t do it by screaming and shouting. She’s cleverer than that. You’ve got the main part in this play. But, you know what, if you want to swap and play the queen instead, that’s fine. You’ll just have a lot more lines to learn and a really gaudy dress to wear.”

Martha stuck her chin out and looked away.

“Well? What’s it going to be, Martha? Beautiful princess or ugly old queen? It’s completely up to you.”