The Chicken Gave it to Me. Anne Fine

      Andrew laid it on Gemma’s desk. A cloud of farmyard dust puffed up in her face. The first thing she asked when she stopped sneezing was:

      ‘Where did you get that?’

      ‘The chicken gave it to me.’

      ‘What chicken? How could a chicken give it to you? It’s a book.’

      It was, too. A tiny little book. The cover was just a bit of old farm sack with edges that looked as if they had been – yes – pecked. And the writing was all thin and scratchy and – there’s no way round this – chickeny.

      ‘This is ridiculous! Chickens can’t write books. Chickens can’t read.’

      ‘The chicken gave it to me,’ Andrew repeated helplessly.

      ‘But how?’

      So Andrew told her how he’d been walking past the fence that ran round the farm sheds, and suddenly this chicken had leaped out in front of him in the narrow pathway.

      ‘Pounced on me, really.’

      ‘Don’t be silly, Andrew. Chickens don’t pounce.’

      ‘This one did,’ Andrew said stubbornly. ‘It fluttered and squawked and made the most tremendous fuss. I was quite frightened. And it kept pushing this book at me with its scabby little foot – just pushing the book towards me whichever way I stepped. The chicken was absolutely determined I should take it.’

      Gemma sat back in her desk and stared. She stared at Andrew as if she’d never even seen him before, as if they hadn’t been sharing a desk for weeks and weeks, borrowing each other’s rubbers, getting on one another’s nerves, telling each other secrets. She thought she knew him well. Had he gone mad?

      ‘Have you gone mad?’

      Andrew leaned closer and hissed rather fiercely in her ear.

      ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I didn’t choose to do this, you know. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t get out of bed this morning and fling back the curtains and say to myself, “Heigh-ho! What a great day to walk to school down the path by the farm sheds, minding my own business, and get attacked by some ferocious hen who has decided I am the one to read his wonderful book –”’

      ‘Her wonderful book,’ interrupted Gemma. ‘Hens aren’t him. They’re all her. That’s how they get to lay eggs.’

      Andrew chose to ignore this.

      ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s what happened. Believe me or don’t believe me. I don’t care. I’m simply telling you that this chicken stood there making a giant fuss and kicking up a storm until I reached down to pick up her dusty little book. Then she calmed down and strolled off.’

      ‘Not strolled, Andrew,’ Gemma said. ‘Chickens don’t stroll. She may have strutted off. Or even –’

      But Andrew had shoved his round little face right up close to Gemma’s, and he was hissing again.

      ‘Gemma! This is important. Don’t you see?’

      And, all at once, Gemma believed him. Maybe she’d gone mad too. She didn’t know. But she didn’t think Andrew was making it up, and she didn’t think Andrew was dreaming.

      The chicken gave it to him.

      She picked it up. More dust puffed out as, carefully, she stretched the sacking cover flat on her desk to read the scratchy chicken writing of the title.

      Opening it to the first page, she slid the book until it was exactly halfway between the two of them.

      Together they began to read.

      2

      The True Story of Harrowing Farm

      It was a wet and windy night, so wet you could slip and drown, so windy no one would hear your cries. Only a snake or a toad would choose to be away from shelter on such a night. And that is why only the snakes and the toads saw the gleaming green light pouring down

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