of the stage.
“There!” said Hannah, standing out in the auditorium to admire the effect. “Our proscenium arch. We’ll have wings behind the side walls for our exits and entrances – we’ll make them the same way as we did the proscenium – then hang a backcloth at the back, and then, between the front walls – swish!” With a grand sweep of her hands, she mimed a pair of curtains opening.
Lottie frowned. “Where are we going to get curtains?”
Hannah paused, her hands still in mid-air. “Hmm. Has your mum got some old ones somewhere?”
“Definitely not. She doesn’t keep anything old. It’s a miracle I haven’t ever been bagged up for the wheelie bin in one of her clear-outs. Don’t you have any old ones?”
“All ours are old,” said Hannah. “But they’re all torn. And they’re all still on the windows.”
Then she stared at Lottie. “Oh, but—”
“What?”
Hannah clapped her hands. “What about the sitting-room ones? They’re not torn. And they’re red and silky. They’d look amazing.”
Lottie stared at her. “You have got to be joking.”
“No one will notice. Nobody ever goes in there.”
“Hannah, you can’t take your dad’s curtains. That’s stealing.”
“It’s not stealing, it’s just borrowing. We’ll put them back for Christmas; that’s the only time the room’s used. He’ll never know.”
“They would look amazing,” said Lottie, looking at the bare proscenium arch.
“Exactly.”
“What if he finds out, though? He’d kill us.”
“He’d only kill me. And he’ll never find out.”
The sitting room had two wide windows, each hung with crimson curtains.
“Which pair shall we take?” whispered Lottie.
“These ones,” said Hannah. “They’re not so faded.”
She dragged a carved mahogany chair dotted with woodworm holes over to the furthest window and climbed on to the torn velvet seat.
A shrivelled holly branch sat on top of the curtain rail. When Hannah’s mother was alive, the whole room sparkled at Christmas. There was always a huge tree covered in lights and an enormous log fire that crackled and shot sparks up the chimney. Candles burned on the mantelpiece and silver tinsel glittered on the picture rail. Her father cut downgreat swathes of ivy and holly branches to drape over the gilt picture frames.
He still decorated the house with greenery and they still made a show of having a happy Christmas. But everybody knew it wasn’t the same.
Lottie folded each curtain carefully as Hannah handed it to her. Then they carried them through the silent house and into the yard.
“Oh, no!” said Hannah. Tess, her father’s springer spaniel, was bounding towards her, tail waving like a windmill. “Dad must be around.”
As she was speaking, her father strode around the corner from the milking parlour.
“Quick! Hide them!” hissed Lottie.
Hannah looked around frantically. A dented wheelbarrow, coated with dried-up pig dung, stood outside the garden gate.
“In there!”
They threw the curtains into the wheelbarrow. Hannah pulled her coat off and flung it on top of them.
“Look casual,” she muttered. “We’ve been cleaning out the guinea pigs, OK?”
They strolled through the yard, trundling the barrow in front of them. Dad passed them and turned up the path towards the pigsties without a glance.
“Phew,” mouthed Hannah.
“Oh, no – look.”
Hannah looked up towards the farm track. The farm’s one working gate was bolted shut across thetrack. Sitting on the gate, grinning triumphantly, were Jo and Sam. In front of the gate sprawled Jasper, a sheep so fat that he looked like a giant snowball. Jo had looked after him since he was orphaned at two days old, and now he followed her everywhere. He even had his own pet, a half-grown duck called Lucy, who spent her days riding around on Jasper’s back. She was there now, tucked into her vast woolly nest.
“Uh-oh,” said Hannah. “What are they up to?”
Jo and Sam
“There!” said Hannah, standing out in the auditorium to admire the effect. “Our proscenium arch. We’ll have wings behind the side walls for our exits and entrances – we’ll make them the same way as we did the proscenium – then hang a backcloth at the back, and then, between the front walls – swish!” With a grand sweep of her hands, she mimed a pair of curtains opening.
Lottie frowned. “Where are we going to get curtains?”
Hannah paused, her hands still in mid-air. “Hmm. Has your mum got some old ones somewhere?”
“Definitely not. She doesn’t keep anything old. It’s a miracle I haven’t ever been bagged up for the wheelie bin in one of her clear-outs. Don’t you have any old ones?”
“All ours are old,” said Hannah. “But they’re all torn. And they’re all still on the windows.”
Then she stared at Lottie. “Oh, but—”
“What?”
Hannah clapped her hands. “What about the sitting-room ones? They’re not torn. And they’re red and silky. They’d look amazing.”
Lottie stared at her. “You have got to be joking.”
“No one will notice. Nobody ever goes in there.”
“Hannah, you can’t take your dad’s curtains. That’s stealing.”
“It’s not stealing, it’s just borrowing. We’ll put them back for Christmas; that’s the only time the room’s used. He’ll never know.”
“They would look amazing,” said Lottie, looking at the bare proscenium arch.
“Exactly.”
“What if he finds out, though? He’d kill us.”
“He’d only kill me. And he’ll never find out.”
The sitting room had two wide windows, each hung with crimson curtains.
“Which pair shall we take?” whispered Lottie.
“These ones,” said Hannah. “They’re not so faded.”
She dragged a carved mahogany chair dotted with woodworm holes over to the furthest window and climbed on to the torn velvet seat.
A shrivelled holly branch sat on top of the curtain rail. When Hannah’s mother was alive, the whole room sparkled at Christmas. There was always a huge tree covered in lights and an enormous log fire that crackled and shot sparks up the chimney. Candles burned on the mantelpiece and silver tinsel glittered on the picture rail. Her father cut downgreat swathes of ivy and holly branches to drape over the gilt picture frames.
He still decorated the house with greenery and they still made a show of having a happy Christmas. But everybody knew it wasn’t the same.
Lottie folded each curtain carefully as Hannah handed it to her. Then they carried them through the silent house and into the yard.
“Oh, no!” said Hannah. Tess, her father’s springer spaniel, was bounding towards her, tail waving like a windmill. “Dad must be around.”
As she was speaking, her father strode around the corner from the milking parlour.
“Quick! Hide them!” hissed Lottie.
Hannah looked around frantically. A dented wheelbarrow, coated with dried-up pig dung, stood outside the garden gate.
“In there!”
They threw the curtains into the wheelbarrow. Hannah pulled her coat off and flung it on top of them.
“Look casual,” she muttered. “We’ve been cleaning out the guinea pigs, OK?”
They strolled through the yard, trundling the barrow in front of them. Dad passed them and turned up the path towards the pigsties without a glance.
“Phew,” mouthed Hannah.
“Oh, no – look.”
Hannah looked up towards the farm track. The farm’s one working gate was bolted shut across thetrack. Sitting on the gate, grinning triumphantly, were Jo and Sam. In front of the gate sprawled Jasper, a sheep so fat that he looked like a giant snowball. Jo had looked after him since he was orphaned at two days old, and now he followed her everywhere. He even had his own pet, a half-grown duck called Lucy, who spent her days riding around on Jasper’s back. She was there now, tucked into her vast woolly nest.
“Uh-oh,” said Hannah. “What are they up to?”
Jo and Sam
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