The Chicken Gave It To Me (5 page)

‘Want to know something?' he said. (They clearly didn't, but he told them anyway.) ‘Your sort really make me sick! Even the chickens took it better than you do!'

(I still didn't care for his tone, if I'm truthful.)

Someone behind him started arguing again.

‘But it wasn't so bad for the chickens. They're not as
sensitive
as we are.'

The little green man's eyes widened.

‘That's a good one,' he said, almost admiringly. ‘Is that how you did it? Is that what you kept telling yourselves?' He
grinned from green ear to green ear. ‘
We
could try that one,' he said. ‘We're sending the spaceship back tonight, to fetch a few spices and a much bigger casserole dish. If anyone up there starts feeling sorry for you lot, I'll try that one on them.'

Tipping his head to one side, he waved his willowy green fingers and said in a very silly fashion:

‘Oh, don't you worry about those
people
. They're all right. I know they squawk and fuss and rattle the cage bars, trying to get out. But, honestly, they don't mind really. You see, they're not nearly as
sensitive
as we are!'

And then he fell about laughing.

Another time, I might have had a little private cackle at this joke. But not right that minute. You see, just then I'd come to a decision. Quite a brave decision for a chicken. I think I've mentioned that we lot
aren't really built for revenge. Well, if I'm honest, we're not a byword for courage, either. We're not daredevils. We're not desperadoes. The name ‘chicken' in fact (you may not know this) has almost come to mean ‘faint heart' or ‘a bit of a funker'.

No need to mince words. We chickens tend to have cold feet.

But call me chicken no longer! For I had decided on a plan so bold, so daring, so foolhardy, I frankly doubted if anyone, anywhere, would ever truly think of me as chicken again.

I'd stow away on the spaceship.

Yes! Yes! I'd fly a frillion miles, to outer space! Tell everyone on the planets exactly what was going on!

Surely, oh,
surely
, as soon as all the little green families out there heard about the horrible cages and learned what was happening, to feed
them
, they'd stick to
eating boring old breads, seeds, grains, beans, cheese, eggs, salads and vegetables.

And maybe the odd happy grub or two . . .

‘So
brave
. . .'

Gemma was bursting with admiration as she waited for Andrew to reach the bottom of the page.

He lifted his head, distracted.

‘Brave? Who?'

‘The chicken, of course! Who else?'

Andrew took a moment to answer. Then he said:

‘I don't know. It all seems very odd. I'm not sure if I believe it. I mean, here's this farm, almost next door to the school. We've lived here all our lives, and never heard anyone say a word about the place. Not once.'

‘So?'

‘So how can it be that bad? If it was
that bad, surely people would be
talking
about it.'

What he said bothered Gemma. Was he right? She stabbed her finger on the chicken's book, to get him reading again, so they could both turn over. But while he laboriously worked his way down the page of scratchy writing, she thought about what he'd said. And as soon as he reached the last line and looked up, she was sitting there ready to argue.

‘I'll tell you how. Because they don't notice what they do, just so long as they're the ones doing it!'

‘Who? Chickens?'

‘No. Adults, of course! Think about it. If we did some of the things they do, they would be horrified. Suppose some of us took horses and rode them so fast in a race over such high and dangerous fences that, every year, some of them crashed down on the
other side and broke their legs and had to be shot. They would go mad at us! They'd say our parents weren't looking after us properly. They'd take us into care.'

She was right.

‘They would, too.'

‘And suppose you were poking about at an animal as if it were just a toy, and you wanted to look at the clockwork inside it. You'd get in such trouble! You couldn't just put a white coat on, and say, “I only wanted to know what would happen if I did this, or that”. “
I'm curious
” isn't any better excuse for poking at things than “
I'm spiteful
”!'

‘No,' Andrew agreed with her. ‘Not if you're the one getting poked.'

Gemma took a deep breath.

‘I'll tell you something,' she said. ‘I don't think this chicken is just
brave
. I think this chicken is a
saint
.'

He tried to hide his smile, but it was too late. She had seen it.

‘No, really!' she insisted. ‘If I'd been treated this way by people, I'd be
glad
to see them stuffed in my old cage. I would! I wouldn't risk what was left of my life flying frillions of miles to try and save them.'

Her look was fierce.

‘I would let them
roast
!'

And before he could even begin to argue, she'd flipped the page over and carried on reading.

Green sky. Green earth. Green wind. Green sand.

Take my advice. Don't ever stow away in a spaceship. You'll have the worst time ever.

They go faster than light. The soothing hum of the engines keeps lulling you off into daydreams. And when you try and distract yourself by peering out of the porthole, all you can see is crazy glittering spirals of shooting stars, blazing fireballs, bright spinning planets and shimmering flares of comet tails.

I nearly
died
of boredom. Honestly. By the time we came down (or up, or in, or over – hard to tell which), I was almost ready to give myself up, and hope they were all still sick of eating chicken.

But the planet itself was wonderful. It was green. Green sky. Green earth. Green wind. Green sand. (We landed on the beach.) Not being green, I scuttled off as fast as I could, into the undergrowth. That was green too. So were the seeds and roots. So were the grubs. And just in case you never get the chance to eat a green grub, I'll tell you now, they are the
best
. Mmmmm
mmmmm
! Skin just a little bit crunchy, like a thin crust. And inside – so creamy and rich! Beak-smacking good!

And they're not very bright. I caught forty.

Then it was time to get on with the job.

I set off down the green road. I'd only
walked round a couple of bends before I came across a huge advertisement set up to catch the eye of anyone walking the same way as I was.

I stared in horror. I'd picked up enough of the language on the trip to know exactly what it said:

Above the sign was a picture of a farm, filled with happy people of all ages and sizes running around a sunny meadow,
laughing and eating ice creams. Under the picture was the slogan:

ALL OUR PEOPLE ARE
FARM-FRESH

I stood rooted to the spot. I was horrified. Farm-fresh, indeed! I'm not
daft
. I knew that anyone who arrived in time to be cooked for the grand opening on Friday had to come out of those horrid cramped cages.

Sunny meadows! Ice cream!

‘Ha!'

‘I beg your pardon?'

I must have cackled it aloud, because the little green man who was hurrying up behind me now said again:

‘I beg your pardon?'

It seemed as good a time as any to start on my mission of mercy.

‘This sign!' I said. ‘This advert for
“People In A Basket”. It's all
lies
. Terrible lies! These people don't frolic about in sunny meadows. They don't run around smiling and eating ice creams. It's not like that at all. I know the truth. I've been there, and seen it, and it isn't like that. These people are locked up in dark little cages. They don't get any fresh air. There's no daylight. These people –'

I broke off. The little green man was flapping his hands at me so frantically his fingers were rippling.

‘Don't tell me!' he said. ‘I don't want to hear about it. I don't want to know.'

He was laughing.

‘You'll spoil my dinner!'

‘I wouldn't mind being eaten.'

Gemma stared.

Andrew was gazing thoughtfully out of the window. Then he turned and said it again.

‘I've been thinking about it, and I honestly don't think I'd mind being eaten.'

She thought about it too. Maybe to help her along, and maybe just to amuse himself, he kept suggesting recipes.

‘Fried Gemma,' he said. ‘Gemma on toast. Curried Gemma. Sweet and sour Gemma slices. Gemma and chutney sandwich. Spaghetti Gemma.'

Now she was laughing, so he asked:

‘What do you think?'

She shook her head.

‘No fear!'

‘But why not?'

‘I'll show you why not.' Opening her desk, she pulled out one of her old workbooks. Andrew watched as she flicked steadily back through the pages till she reached a block graph they'd done the term before.