The Secret Hen House Theatre

by Helen Peters

  Dad looked at Jo for a moment. “That’s right,” he said. He turned to the agent. “Farmers have looked after this landscape –” Hannah followed his eyes across the meadows, the streams, the trees and the ponds – “for hundreds of years. And if we’re late with our rent, you’ll just get the bulldozers in and flatten the lot, is that what you’re saying?”

  The agent shifted his shoulders in his jacket. “I didn’t come here to argue with you, Mr Roberts. I was just giving you fair warning that rent cheques need to be sent on time in future. And that fire won’t help, I shouldn’t think. I hope you had the contents properly insured.”

  Hannah drew in her breath in a gasp.

  The thresher!

  The thresher that was going to pay the rent. The thresher that Dad hadn’t insured because he was going to sell it next week. The thresher that was now a pile of ash in the burned-out barn.

  Wide-eyed with horror, Hannah stared at Dad. But his face was impenetrable. “Just get off my farm,” he said.

  “With pleasure,” said the agent. “I’ve seen all I need to see. Goodbye, Mr Roberts.”

  He tucked the clipboard under his arm and sauntered towards his car. Hannah looked after his retreating back, boiling with impotent rage. But Jo whispered in Jasper’s ear, “Jasper, attack!”

  Jasper didn’t move.

  Jo whispered the command again, fierce determination in her voice.

  And Jasper put his head down and charged.

  He butted the agent squarely on the bottom. The man’s feet slid out from under him and he landed with a thud on the concrete, arms and legs flailing, a stream of high-pitched swear words pouring from his mouth. The children watched, open-mouthed and spellbound.

  The agent heaved himself to his feet. It hadn’t rained for a while, and the mud had turned to dust. His black suit was covered all over with a mixture of powdery clay, wisps of straw and squashed chicken dung. His face looked like a ripe plum about to burst. “That ruddy sheep! Running around like that! Ought to be locked up!”

  He pulled his car door open and bashed at his suit to beat the dust out.

  Jo’s golden curls with the sun behind them glowed like an angel’s halo. “I’m really sorry,” she said as the man plonked himself down into the driver’s seat. “I don’t know what got into him.”

  The agent slammed the door shut and revved the engine. Hannah let out a huge snort. And that was that. They bent double over the concrete and laughed and laughed and laughed. They had to hold on to each other to stay standing. Sam cheered with joy and danced up and down on the concrete.

  And then Hannah glanced at her father and did a double take.

  She nudged Jo. Dad’s eyes sparkled as he watched the agent’s retreating car. His lips were twitching. He saw the girls staring at him and he bent down and ruffled Jasper’s thick fleece. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Good boy.”

  He headed into the house. And as he clumped up the back stairs a sound that Hannah hadn’t heard for years floated out into the yard.

  Her father was laughing.

  It was a brief moment of triumph. But it was only a moment. And when it was over, Hannah was filled with an overwhelming need.

  As soon as she had put Sam to bed she would go to Lottie’s house. She had to see Lottie.

  Lottie lived in a Victorian cottage on the edge of the village, just as the fields stopped and the houses took over. Right from the front gate, the place was immaculate. The gate was freshly painted and swung silently on its hinges. The lawn was a perfect grass carpet.

  You had to take off your shoes the second you stepped inside the house. The gleaming floorboards were dotted with beautiful rugs and every wall was painted white. No speck of dust was allowed to settle on the polished antique furniture and there wasn’t a stray piece of paper in sight. Lottie’s mum hated clutter.

  Lottie led Hannah straight up to her perfectly organised bedroom. The sewing machine was out on her desk. “I was just finishing off Esmeralda’s Scene Three costume,” she said, folding the fabric on the floor into a tidy pile. “So what’s up? Is it about the fire? What’s happened? How’s your dad?”

  Hannah shook her head. “Awful. Everything’s awful. It’s been a hideous, hideous day.”

  Pacing the room, she told Lottie what the policewoman had said that morning. She told her about the agent’s visit and the threats he had made. She told her about the uninsured thresher, and how it meant that Dad’s next rent payment had turned into a pile of ashes in the burned-out barn.

  The only thing she didn’t mention was finding the matchbox.

  Lottie sat very still and listened. Then she said, “Has he got anything else to sell?”

  Hannah had asked herself this question on the walk to Lottie’s house. “I don’t think so. The Field Marshall and the thresher were the only vintage things he had that actually worked. He’s got other old stuff but it’s all rusty or broken. You know. You’ve seen it all lying around.”

  Lottie was looking at the floor. After a minute she said, “How about—” And stopped.

  Hannah looked at her curiously. It wasn’t like Lottie to be hesitant. “What?”

  Lottie met her eyes. “OK. I’ve been thinking for a while. The festival prize money’s five hundred pounds, isn’t it? And we’re going to make sure we win.”

  “Yes?”

  Lottie took a deep breath. “I think we should give your dad the money.”

  Hannah stared. “Give all our prize money to my dad?”

  “He needs it more than we do.”

  But what about the theatre? thought Hannah. What about the red velvet chairs for the auditorium? And the gold curtains? And a fund to buy props instead of making them from cardboard? And … and…

  “That is such a kind idea,” she said. “But he’d never accept it.”

  “We’ll call it rent. Rent for the theatre.”

  And another image flashed into Hannah’s head. The Secret Hen House Theatre Company presenting her father with a cheque for five hundred pounds.

  If they won that prize and paid the rent with it, Dad would have to see how important the theatre was, wouldn’t he?

  Lottie cut into her fantasy. “I mean, I know it wouldn’t pay the whole rent, but it would be a help, wouldn’t it? How much is the rent?”

  Hannah stared at her. How much was the rent?

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Well, do you know how much your dad’s rent is?”

  Lottie gave her a withering look. “They got divorced, remember? They spent about a year arguing over money. I practically know how much every brick in this house is worth.”

  Hannah winced. “Sorry.”

  “Anyway, those men who took the Field Marshall said it was worth a few grand, didn’t they? And your dad sold it to pay the rent. So that means the rent is a few thousand pounds.”

  “Thousands of pounds? Four times a year? How can anyone pay that much money?”

  “Well, he can’t, can he? Not any more. Because they doubled it.”

  Anger rose up in Hannah, and then a wave of despair pulled her down. “So five hundred pounds is nothing, is it?”

  “It’s not nothing. It’s a lot better than nothing.”

  Hannah rubbed her face with her hands, trying to push her brain into action. “If we could think of something else that might be worth another five hundred, then we’d have a thousand pounds to give him.”

  “Sell something, you mean? Behind his back?”

  A key turned in the lock downstairs. “Hello, darling! I’m home!”

  “Hi, Mum,” called Lottie. “Hannah’s here. We’re working.”

  “Hello, Hannah,” called Vanessa. “You’ve got fifteen minutes, girls, then your dinner will be ready, Charlotte.”

  “If it was something he wouldn’t notice was missing, maybe we could,” said Hannah.

  “But you said there’s nothing else that’s worth anything.”

  “I d
on’t know though, do I? How can we tell what’s valuable? I mean, maybe some of those old machines half buried in mud are actually worth something.”

  Lottie laughed. “The Antiques Roadshow.”

  “What?”

  “You know. People take their stuff to be valued. I’d love to see their faces if we dragged in one of your dad’s old ploughs.”

  “What sort of stuff do people take?”

  “Oh, you know, furniture, silver, stuff that’s been in their family—”

  Hannah drew in her breath. “Like candlesticks? Silver candlesticks?”

  “Yes, that kind of—” Lottie stopped and stared at Hannah. “But not – you’re not – you can’t sell your dad’s silver candlesticks. I mean, you wouldn’t do that, without telling him, would you? Would you?”

  Hannah paced the room. “They’re in the theatre already and he hasn’t missed them, has he? And anyway, they’re not my dad’s. They’re my mum’s.”

  “That’s even worse! And they are his now anyway. You can’t take them and sell them behind his back. That’s stealing. And—”

  “Funny sort of stealing, selling somebody’s candlesticks and giving the money straight back to them. Lottie, if it helps the farm, we have to do it.”

  And I have to help the farm, she thought. Because it’s my fault that the barn burned down. It’s my fault that Dad has nothing to pay the rent with.

  “But then your dad should sell them,” said Lottie. She was biting her nails now. “Not us. It’s his choice.”

  “He’d never sell them. My mum inherited them. They were her great-grandmother’s or something.”

  Lottie went white. “Then we definitely can’t sell them. Hannah, you’re mad. He’d go completely nuts. Especially how he is at the moment.”

  “Maybe they’re not worth anything anyway.”

  “No,” said Lottie hopefully.

  “How can we find out?”

  “Hannah, you can’t sell them.”

  “Fine. But we could find out if they might be worth something. Just for fun. Your mum’s into antiques, isn’t she? How do you find out if something’s valuable?”

  “You have to take it to a valuer,” said Lottie. “An antiques dealer or an auctioneer or something.”

  “Like Sotheby’s?” said Hannah.

  “What?”

  “You know. Where Miranda’s dad works.”

  “He doesn’t work there. He sells stuff there.”

  “Whatever. It’s an auctioneers’, isn’t it?”

  “But it’s in London. Are you planning to go to London with your dad’s candlesticks now?”

  Hannah growled with frustration. “Honestly, Lottie, you’re so difficult. Do you want the farm to be bulldozed? I’m just trying to think of things.”

  “All right. But I’m not an expert. I don’t know if Sotheby’s sells candlesticks.”

  Hannah sat down on the edge of Lottie’s desk chair. “Right. Budge up.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “They must have a website. I’m going to look it up.”

  Lottie sighed. “OK, fine. We’ll look it up. But get off my chair. I’m going to do it.”

  “That’s not fair! They’re my candlesticks.”

  “My computer. And you’re so slow we’d be here all night. We’ve only got five minutes.”

  “Oh, go on then, bossy boots. But at least let me sit next to you.” Lottie started tapping at the keyboard. “Go to ‘Departments and Services’,” said Hannah when the home page came up.

  There was a long list of departments. “‘English and European Silver and Vertu’,” said Lottie. “Your candlesticks are English, aren’t they?”

  “What’s vertu?” asked Hannah. She made a mental note to look it up when she got home.

  Lottie clicked on the department.

  Both girls drew in their breath.

  Because right under the title “English and European Silver and Vertu” was a single picture. It was of a set of silver candlesticks.

  “So they do sell candlesticks,” said Lottie.

  “Oh, my goodness, look at that!” Hannah pointed to a box on the other side of the screen. In it was a smaller version of the same picture. And underneath the picture, a description of the candlesticks and a price. It said 229,600GBP.

  They looked at each other, eyes wide. “Does that mean,” Hannah almost whispered, “that those candlesticks sold for two hundred and twenty nine thousand pounds?”

  Lottie was frowning at the screen. “It’s a set of six, and it says they’re royal. So—”

  Hannah was wriggling with excitement. “But even if ours sold for a third of that – and OK, they’re not royal, so take a bit off – that’s still, say, I don’t know, maybe … Lottie, they might be worth fifty thousand pounds!”

  “Mmm,” said Lottie. “I don’t know if it works like that.”

  “OK, but even if they were worth half of that – even if it was just a few thousand – Lottie, that’s amazing!” Hannah was bouncing up and down in her chair now.

  Lottie was clicking on links. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “Look, this is brilliant. We can get them valued free! We can fill in a valuation form online and email photos, and then they’ll send us an estimate of what they’re worth.”

  “Charlotte!” called her mother from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready.”

  “Coming!” called Lottie.

  Hannah was reading the screen greedily. “Send clear colour photographs, front and back… photographs of signatures, maker’s marks, and any areas of damage… Oh, my goodness, Lottie, we can do this! Can I borrow your camera? I’ll take the photos tomorrow morning. In the theatre, before the others come out. They look great on the stage with the painting behind them. Much better than they did in the sitting room in front of the peeling wallpaper.”

  “It says here they take four to six weeks to reply with a valuation,” said Lottie.

  “Well, that’s OK, I guess. He only just sold the Field Marshall to pay the rent – he must have a while until the next payment’s due. How long do you—”

  Footsteps sounded, running up the stairs. Lottie closed down the website.

  The bedroom door opened. “Come on, you two. Your dinner’s ready, Charlotte. How are you, Hannah? How’s your poor father today?”

  As Hannah put her coat on in the porch she reached into the pocket for her gloves, and her fingers brushed against Jack’s matchbox. Her stomach lurched.

  “And do you have any idea what caused the fire?” asked Vanessa.

  Hannah glanced up. Vanessa was holding her scarf out to her and looking straight into her eyes. Hannah felt her cheeks burning. Could Vanessa read minds?

  She took the scarf and busied herself with wrapping it around her neck.

  “No. Nobody knows. It’s a complete mystery.”

  Tuesday morning, nine thirty. Hannah flicked back through the photographs on the camera. They looked good. Really good.

  Her heart fluttered with excitement. Imagine the look on Dad’s face when she presented him with the biggest cheque he’d ever seen in his life! How happy he would be when all his problems were solved forever.

  She slipped the camera into her coat pocket and looked around the theatre. It was still exactly as they’d left it when the fire broke out. Lottie had brought all the costumes back but she’d clearly been in a state of shock, because she’d just dumped them in a heap on the queen’s bed. They stank of smoke.

  Hannah began the calming, satisfying work of putting the theatre in order. She smoothed out the creases in the costumes and hung them back on the rail. She replaced the jewellery in the middle drawer of the chest and the props on the props table. She opened up the Book at the Props page to check against her list that everything was present.

  The front-of-house door slid open and a shaft of morning sun fell across the floor. Once again, Hannah felt how wrong it was that the queen’s bedroom had a bare concrete floor.

  “Hannah?” said Lottie.
<
br />   Hannah looked up. Lottie sounded nervous.

  “Hannah, we’ve got a problem. A really big problem.”

  Hannah’s blood ran cold. Another problem?

  Lottie’s words tumbled out in a breathless torrent. “The judge just phoned to ask directions to the farm for Saturday and she sounded really nice but she wanted to know where to park and I couldn’t tell her to park at the end of the track and walk because if she walked all the way down the track and then saw there was loads of space to park in the yard she’d think we were really rude. And I couldn’t tell her it was a secret because what if it’s against the rules to have a secret theatre, so I said to park in the farmyard but what if your dad sees her and finds out?”

  Hannah stared at Lottie. Her mind was completely blank. What with everything else that was swirling around in there at the moment, the possibility of Dad discovering the theatre hadn’t even occurred to her. And she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  She swung round as the stage door was shoved open and the Beans burst in.

  “Whoa, that was close,” said Jo. “We’re going to have to be really careful. Dad and Adam are just down there feeding the pigs.”

  Adam was an agricultural student. He had done work experience on the farm last year, and he had enjoyed it so much that now he came up nearly every weekend to help Dad.

  “Shut the door, quick,” said Hannah.

  A giant ball of wool squeezed through the doorway.

  “Jo, I told you, no animals in the theatre this week. We’ve got to be professional.”

  “Jasper’s not an animal, he’s my friend,” said Jo, hugging his fat woolly neck.

  Lottie was checking the state of the costumes. “So what are we going to do about the judge?”

  “Jasper, get off the stage!” said Hannah. “Jo, get him off.”

  “What about the judge?” said Jo, throwing both arms round Jasper’s vast stomach and dragging him into the auditorium.

  Lottie explained the problem. When she had finished, Sam, who was sitting on the floor of the auditorium stroking Jasper, said, “I think we should invite Daddy. He’d like the play.”

  “Huh,” said Hannah.