The Secret Hen House Theatre Read Online Free

look at the judge and Miss Francis. They were talking in low, intense tones.
    She should have written a prettier poem.
    She should never have mentioned dead lambs.
    Eventually, Miss Francis stood up and smiled. She thanked everyone for entering, and then she said, “It was very difficult to single out one poem among so many excellent entries, but our judge has chosen a winner.”
    Monica Rowse stood up, smiling her benevolent smile, and started on another speech. Hannah’s stomach twisted into knots.
    “And so,” she finished, “I am delighted to announce that the Walters Cup for Poetry is awarded to … Miranda Hathaway!”
    Of course.
    Miranda’s gang in the front row cheered.
    Lottie put her arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “Yours was miles better. That judge doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
    Sweet of Lottie to say that.
    But it didn’t make any difference.
    Maybe Dad was right after all. Maybe her writing was just a pointless waste of time.

Chapter Four
Homework
    Miss Francis walked over as they were stacking chairs.
    “That was a wonderful poem, Hannah.”
    Hannah stared at her.
    “I think the judge’s taste was perhaps a little more … conventional, shall we say, but I have to say that, for me, yours was the one that stood out.”
    Hannah stood there, trying to take this in. The Head of English liked her poem best?
    “Do you read a lot of poetry?” asked Miss Francis.
    Hannah’s eyes lit up. “Yes, loads. I love Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney. I love that they write about the countryside in a real way, you know? Not all fluffy bunnies and chicks and daffodils, but mud and blood and death. Not that the countryside’s always like that, obviously. But it’s a mixture – sometimes it’s beautiful and sometimes it’s ugly. And that’s the point, isn’t it? Spring wouldn’t be so beautiful if it didn’t come after winter.”
    She stopped. She was talking too much.
    But Miss Francis smiled at her. “Yes, absolutely. And I’d love to see more of your writing, if you’dlike to show it to me.”
    “See?” said Lottie as they left the hall. “I said it was really good, didn’t I?”
    Hannah was glowing. The Head of English liked her writing!
    She turned left towards their form room, but Lottie said, “We have to hand in our maths homework, remember?”
    Hannah’s hand shot to her mouth.
    “Didn’t you do it?”
    “I was going to do it last night, but the sheep got out again. Oh, no, Mr Nagra’s going to kill me. I promised I’d hand it in on time this week. He said he’d phone my dad if it was late again. Oh, I’m so dead.”
    “Just copy mine when we get to the classroom. It won’t take long.”
    Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, Lottie, thank you so much. You’re the best friend ever. You can copy mine next time.”
    “So,” said Lottie, “do you really think your dad will let us have the loft?”
    The wonderful vision of the theatre flooded into Hannah’s head again. “Why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t use it for anything.”
    “We need to ask him today, though. I’ve got to email the entry form to the festival people by tomorrow. And we have to put the name and address of our theatre on it.”
    Hannah skipped with delight. “Can you believe it? We’re going to enter the Linford Arts Festival!We’re going to have our own theatre!”
    “So can I come up after school? Will he be around?”
    Hannah stopped in her tracks and her eyes lit up. “Actually, that’s perfect. He’s taking the Field Marshall to a steam fair today.”
    “To sell it?”
    “No, don’t be silly. He’d never sell it. To show it. The point is, he loves the steam fair. He stands there all day showing off his Field Marshall and all these old blokes in tweeds come up and admire it and ask him questions about it. He goes every year and he’s always in a good mood when he gets back.”
    “Fantastic. So I’ll come up after school.”
    Lottie pushed open the door of their maths room. It