The Chicken Gave It To Me (6 page)

She spread the pages open.

‘See?'

He took a look.

‘So what's the problem?' he asked her.

‘What's the problem?' She shook her head at him as if he were an idiot. ‘The problem is obvious. I'm thinking I might end up in the pot a bit
early
.'

But Andrew couldn't see it.

‘Look,' he argued. ‘This graph says
seven
for a chicken, right? We had chicken last Sunday. I was with Dad when he bought it. He was looking for one that weighed exactly four pounds. The shop boy saw Dad peering at the labels, and told him, “They're all nice and young and tender, about seven weeks old”, and . . .'

Andrew's voice trailed away.

Gemma had lifted her finger from the workbook. Now he could see the last two words of the title.

The Natural Life Span of Animals in Years
.

‘Oh,' he said. ‘
Years
.' He had another think. Then he said to Gemma:

‘All right. I've changed my mind. I wouldn't mind being eaten, but only if it was a bit fairer.'

‘Fairer?'

‘You know,' he said. ‘Not just arranged so I was born, kept tidily out of sight till I had grown to a useful size that fits exactly on everybody's fridge shelf, then shoved neatly in a wrapper as if I wasn't really a living animal at all. As if it was just some sort of
factory
, and I was just –'

He paused.

‘As if you were just what?' Gemma asked him.

‘A
thing
. As if I were just a
thing
.'

‘You're right,' said Gemma. ‘I wouldn't mind then, either. If I'd had a reasonably good time, and it had lasted a fair while, I
wouldn't mind being eaten.'

They sat quietly for a while, thinking of interesting recipes for one another.

Then they went back to their reading.

Chicken of history

Fortune favours the feathery. What luck it was that the little green man hurrying along the road at my side turned out to be big in television.

I flapped along, trying to keep up. (I won't go on about my feet, but after my time in those cages I'm a
martyr
to footcurl.)

‘Half an hour,' he kept moaning. ‘Only half an hour! That's all the time I have left.'

I couldn't think what he meant. Was he ill? Surely not. He looked perfectly fit and green.

‘All the time left for what?' I asked.

‘To find a celebrity guest for tonight.' He glanced down at me. ‘Have you dropped out of the
sky
?' he asked. ‘You can't
have been here long, or you'd recognise me. I'm the host of a famous television chat show.' He started to walk even faster. ‘A chat show without a celebrity guest! I had a singer this morning. But she fell sick. I know she's not shamming because she keeps turning pink. Then I found this fellow who doesn't glow in the dark.'

He broke off and looked down at me again.

‘Can you
believe
it? It sounds incredible, doesn't it? But it's true. This fellow doesn't glow in the dark. Not one bit!'

‘Hard to believe,' I cackled politely, though I was out of breath from keeping up with him.

‘Isn't it? But he says he won't come on the show. Personally, I think he's chicken.'

I was a bit put out by this insensitivity.

‘Shame . . .' I said frostily.

The little green man caught my tone.
He glanced down. Then he looked again. Then he gave me a steady green-eyed stare.

The idea in his mind slowly dawned in mine.

Go on
, I willed him silently.
Go on! Invite me!
(My big chance!)

‘You wouldn't . . .' he began tentatively, rippling his fingers in his embarrassment. ‘You wouldn't be here doing something interesting, would you, by any chance? Something that might appeal to my viewers?'

I almost
crowed
.

‘
Everyone
watches,' he assured me anxiously. ‘Everyone on the whole planet. I tell you, at seven tonight there'll be frillions of them sitting on their sofas, all waiting to see who will be guest celebrity on my chat show.'

He leaned down, his eyes deep green pools of hope.

‘No chance you might . . . you could . . .?'

He shook his little green head, and hurried on.

‘No,' he said. ‘Silly of me to ask . . .'

I puffed out my chest. We Chickens of History must seize our moments where we may.

‘Little Green Man,' I declared. ‘You are in luck. I am the ideal guest for your chat show. Not only –' (and here I couldn't help ruffling up my feathers a little from sheer pride) – ‘not only do I not glow in the dark – no, not one bit! – but I am here on a Mission.'

‘A Mission? Really?'

‘A Mission of Mercy.'

‘Fancy that!'

‘I have a Message, in fact.'

His eyes gleamed. I could tell just from looking at the expression on his face that he thought that sounded good. I knew what was running through his little green mind. ‘Tonight, Viewers, I have as my celebrity guest someone very, very special: A Chicken on a Mission of Mercy. A Chicken with a Message.'

‘A Message for everyone on this planet,' I told him.

His eyes gleamed greener.

‘Now that is really something,' he breathed. ‘You don't glow in the dark, and you have a Message for everyone on the planet.'

‘And the Message is –'

He clamped his long green fingers round my beak.

‘No!' he cried. ‘Don't say it! Save it for the show, or you'll go stale!'

Go stale! Really! I flapped after him, shaking my head in amazement. They
might be superior, these little green men; but they obviously didn't know it all.

Go stale, indeed! What did he think I was? A loaf of
bread
?

It was Andrew who was caught poring over the book and told to put whatever he was reading back in his desk while he got on with his work.

For a while he slaved away at his project on water plants. But the chicken was on his mind, and in the end he whispered to Gemma:

‘What do you think the Message to the planet is?'

Gemma's eyes flashed. She was
certainly ready with an answer. He realised suddenly that this was what she'd been thinking about while she waited for him to reach the bottom of the page.

‘I hope,' she said fiercely, ‘I hope the chicken tells them that those poor things in the cages are living creatures, just like they are, and ought to be treated exactly the same!'

‘Not exactly the same, Gemma.'

She turned her fierce look on him.

‘Why not?'

He shrugged.

‘It might be silly. After all, we don't know anything about the little green people, do we? Maybe they stay awake and do arithmetic all night, so they'll feel nice and fresh in the morning. Maybe they like having their birthday parties in mud puddles. Maybe they enjoy having their faces slapped. It's a bit risky to tell them to
treat everyone exactly the same. I'd wait till I knew more about them.'

But Gemma wasn't put off.

‘There's no problem,' she told Andrew sternly. ‘They can treat them exactly the same. They can treat them
well
. They treat themselves well, don't they?'

‘But we don't know what that
means
!'

She was really impatient with him now, you could tell.

‘Oh, Andrew! Don't you see? It doesn't really matter what it means. Everyone's different. If you're a child, it probably means keeping you safe and happy, and making sure you go to school. If you're one of the little green people it probably means letting you sit on the sofa and watch your favourite chat show. And if you're a chicken, it means letting you outside in the fresh air to peck your own food, and giving you somewhere a bit
private and comfy to lay your eggs. That's all.'

Fair enough, thought Andrew. Sounds quite reasonable. Shouldn't be too difficult. Been done before. (That was quite obvious from
On the Farm
.)

And since they weren't being watched any longer, he slid the book the chicken gave him out of the desk, and together they carried on reading.

Chat show chicken

The lights! The cameras! The fanfare! The curving steps! (I had a little trouble with the steps.) Then the wing-shake! And the green velvet sofa!

‘Tonight, Viewers,' said my little green host proudly. ‘Tonight – a great treat! A Chicken with a Mission. Not only does she not glow in the dark – Don't go away! We'll be seeing that later! – but she is here with a Message.'

He turned to me.

‘Tell us the Message, Chicken.'