The Chicken Gave It To Me

by Anne Fine

  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. Mmmmmmmmmm! 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!’

  11

  ‘No fear!’

  ‘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.

  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.

  12

  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. No
t 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?

  13

  Been done before

  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.

  14

  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.’

  I turned to the cameras. I told them all the story of my life. I told them about the dreadful sheds, and who was in them now. I pointed out that it didn’t even make sense.

  ‘Why not?’ my host demanded. ‘After all, everyone has to eat.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But, you see, you’re not just stuffed in the cages. While you’re in the cages, you’re stuffed! Stuffed with food.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ he demanded.

  ‘What’s wrong with that,’ I told him and frillions of others, ‘is that if you’re going to be eaten (and it doesn’t matter what you are – pig, chicken, calf, it’s all the same) you have to grow. And to grow, you have to eat. In fact, you have to eat loads and loads to grow big enough for anyone to want to bother to eat you. So whoever ends up with you on their plate could just have eaten your food in the first place.’

  ‘And what’s your food?’

  ‘Cereal stuffs and vegetables.’

  He made a face.

  ‘Boring old cereal stuffs and vegetables!’

  I ignored him.

  ‘And then they could have invited a whole crowd of other hungry people to join them. Because if you’re going to be eaten you have to eat practically ten whole fields full of corn and stuff to make as much good food out of yourself as there was in just one of those fields to begin with.’

  ‘Really?’ my little green host said, stifling a yawn. ‘I wonder how many of my viewers knew that.’

  He turned to the camera.

  ‘Hello, out there!’ he said. ‘Calling all hungry viewers! It looks as if the chicken’s Message is as follows. Gang up with nine others. Pounce on one meat-eater. Force the meat-eater to eat fields instead. And all your problems will be over.’

  And he fell off his green sofa, laughing.

  I never thought my Mission would be easy. Indifference. Danger. Ridicule. Chickens of History must face them all. I could have sulked. I could have pushed the microphone aside with my wing and strutted off the set in disgust. I could have wept.

  But no.

  I kept my head and my dignity.

  ‘I see I’m not getting my Message over too well,’ I told my little green host. ‘So allow me to offer your viewers something more on their wavelength. I’ll show them how I don’t glow in the dark.’

  The green glint in his eyes said:

  ‘Now that’s a bit more like it, Chicken. That might just save this wash-out show.’

  His soft honey voice said:

  ‘That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, Viewers?’

  I fluttered down from the sofa and spread my wings.

  The studio lights dimmed.

  ‘Now I need total darkness, please.’

  Suddenly there was total darkness.

  In it, I silently, sadly, crept away.

  15

  In front of frillions

  ‘Poor, poor chicken.’

  ‘How awful!’

  ‘Oh, how she must have felt.’

  ‘On television, too.’

  ‘In front of frillions.’

  ‘Well, at least she tried.’

  ‘Poor, poor chicken.’

  16

  Chicken Celebrity

  I woke up famous.

  I didn’t know it, of course. (I’d roosted quietly somewhere behind Broadcasting Orb.) But it seems all night the phones had been ringing. (‘Play it again!’ ‘Action replay!’) No one could work out how the trick had been done. No one could believe their eyes. A chicken who really didn’t glow in the dark? Not one bit? (‘Oh, please show that one more time.’ ‘Action replay!’)

  I lost count of my media appearances. I was on The Late Show. I was on The News. And Your Planet Tonight. And Good Morning, Green People! Since I was invited on to everything, I soon made it a rule that I had to be g
iven five minutes for my Mission of Mercy, my Message to the planet, before I wouldn’t glow in the dark.

  And I quickly learned what makes good television. After all, the last thing I wanted was for all the little green frillions to rush off to make tea, or visit the lavatory, while I was doing my chat bit.

  So I invented lots of little rhymes, to keep the viewers’ attention.

  ‘If you don’t know how to treat ’em,

  Then you shouldn’t really eat ’em,’

  I might tell my delighted audience. Or:

  ‘If they’re cramped in a cage,

  It should put you in a rage.’

  You could always tell when the interviewer had a secret soft spot for a nice Sunday roast.

  ‘Surely they must be happy in the cages, or they wouldn’t put on weight,’ she would try to argue.

  ‘Nonsense!’ I’d say, flapping my wings. ‘Look at me! I was miserable. And I got bigger. I even laid eggs! If you have nothing to do all day but eat, then you eat. And if you’re forced to sit on your bum because no one wants you running around getting thinner, then you get nice and plump. Doesn’t mean that you’re happy.’

  I’d wink at the camera.

  ‘If you can’t see them playing,

  Then you shouldn’t be paying!’

  I chanted.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt them, though, does it?’ she’d insist.

  ‘Cutting all your beautiful green hair off wouldn’t hurt you,’ I’d point out. ‘It would still make you very unhappy, if you wanted to keep it.’

  Another wink at the camera, in case the audience was flagging.

  ‘My chat show hostess needs her hair.

  Chickens and people need fresh air!’

  You could tell that my little green interviewer was getting impatient with me now. She wanted to get on to the not-glowing-in-the-dark bit.