Part One
Quick Author's Note: If you have not seen "Chicken Run," be aware that the climactic sequence of the movie is recounted and thoroughly spoiled in this chapter.
Jane Elizabeth Tweedy was ten years old, tall for her age, and thin as a rail, her straight, dark hair twisted into two tight pigtails that barely reached her shoulders. She lived in the city of York, in the small bedroom in the flat above Tweedy's Photographic Studio, where her father took pictures of people and her mother counted the money this brought in. She had been brought up in the photography studio, and thought it was the most wonderful place in the world. Mum said she should not have to work, or have any responsibilities, but Jane didn't consider anything in the shop to be "work." She loved watching and helping her parents as they went about their daily business, and her Dad had already promised to teach her everything he knew, and pass the studio on to her when he retired.
Jane knew that her parents had secrets. There was a piece of land, somewhere in the Dales, a farm that brought in a monthly income, some of which went into a savings account for her own education. She had asked Mum and Dad once if they could go there some time, because she had never seen a farm. "Absolutely not," Mum had said. "It's a bleak, vile, nasty place, Jane, and you should consider yourself fortunate if you never set foot on it."
"Oh, luv, now it was never that bad," said Jane's Dad, and he had told her, "Someday, when you're grown, sweetheart, you can live there if you like."
Jane said no, she wanted the photography shop, but she wouldn't mind seeing the farm, just once. Her parents would not answer any more questions about the place, not even what sort of animals had been kept there. The current tenants had been there for about five years; their name was Thorner, and Jane knew that only because they had come to see her parents on business once. Mum grew very stern and twitchy whenever the subject of the farm was broached, and Dad hemmed and hawed and said it was better left alone. Jane didn't understand why, but she loved her Mum and Dad, and let them have their way.
When she finally learned the history of the farm, it came about in a most unexpected way.
It was spring, and it had been a very busy day in the photography studio. So busy that it was nearly supper time before Mum realized that she hadn't made it to the grocer's, and there was nothing in the flat fit to eat.
"I can go," said Jane. "I can fix supper."
"No," said Mum, "no child of mine is going to fix her own supper. It's not your responsibility, Jane, and you shouldn't have to do it."
"But, you never let me do anything," protested Jane. "I want to help!"
"Give her a bit of money, Mrs. Tweedy," her father pleaded, "and let her go. It'll be a treat for her."
And so Jane, feeling grown up and important, had taken the money, and her mother's hastily scribbled grocery list, and walked down the street to Hudson's market. She filled her shopping basket with the things her mother wanted, then thought -- what would be something good and simple that she could fix for supper? She couldn't really cook; she had never taken an interest in the kitchen, and Mum wouldn't have let her do it, anyway. The store was full of various packaged goodies that could be popped in the oven with a minimum of fuss, and Jane began to look for something appealing. At last, a package caught her eye, and she picked it up. Yes, she thought, Mum and Dad would like this! And they would be so proud that she had cooked supper. Jane paid for her basket of groceries, and carried them home. Mum and Dad were still working in the shop, and she took her purchases upstairs and went to work on preparing dinner.
By the time they came upstairs, Jane was just taking dinner out of the oven. It smelled delicious, she thought, delighted with herself as she set the pan on the counter to cool.
"Mmm," said Mr. Tweedy, sniffing the air, "what smells so good?"
"I made dinner," Jane beamed. "All by myself. It's chicken pie..."
She had barely gotten the words out when Mrs. Tweedy let out an unearthly scream. Sticking up out of the top of the dustbin was the box, with that horrid woman's face on it, and the stolen slogan, and the legend "Mrs. Rushton's Chicken Pie."
"JANE ELIZABETH TWEEDY!" she shrieked in a terrible voice, snatching the pie box from the bin and waving it aloft. "What is the meaning of THIS!?"
Wide eyed with shock, Jane stammered, "I saw it in the store... It didn't cost much, Mum," she explained, assuming this was the problem.
"How DARE you! How dare you bring this -- this thing into my house!"
Still not understanding what she had done wrong, young Jane clutched her throat as her eyes filled with tears. And Mr. Tweedy did something his daughter could not remember ever having seen him do before: he raised his voice to his wife.
"DON'T YOU SPEAK TO OUR CHILD IN THAT WAY!" he roared at Mrs. Tweedy, with a fury he had never shown in all his years.
"LOOK AT THIS!" she shouted back at him, still waving the pie box. "Look at what she's brought into my house! I told you, I never wanted to see--"
"Jane didn't know!" he answered her. "How was she supposed to know about your silly feud with Vera Rushton?"
"Silly?!" Mrs. Tweedy gasped. "SILLY!?! Jane Tweedy," she turned on her daughter, "you throw that nasty rubbish in the bin NOW!" And she turned back to shout some more at her husband, who was glowering indignantly at her. "Vera Rushton stole MY ideas, and you think I'm silly for--"
CRASH!
Mr. and Mrs. Tweedy both jumped at the sound. The chicken pie had struck the wall above the dustbin and splattered everywhere. The pan was upsidedown on the floor, and gooey, gravy-coated chunks of chicken, crust, and vegetables were dripping down the wallpaper. Jane was standing by the counter, frozen in mid-sob. Eyes wide and mouth hanging open, she looked from the pie to her parents. Dad just looked startled, but Mum's eyes were twitching and she looked fit to be tied.
"Jane Tweedy..." she intoned, in a dark, deadly voice.
"I didn't do it!" Jane blurted.
"Don't lie to me, young lady!" her mother snapped. "That pie didn't just fly over there on its own."
"But..." Jane stammered, staring at the bin.
"It was an accident, Mrs. Tweedy," Jane's father stepped between them. "She was upset, she didn't mean to do it."
"I don't care. Jane Tweedy, you clean up that mess now. Then it's off to bed for you, with no supper. And don't you ever, ever bring home anything like that again!"
"There, Janie, it's all right," her Dad said gently, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. "I'll help you."
"Stay out of this, Mr. Tweedy," his wife snarled. "She made this mess, she can clean it up. You go down to the fish shop and bring us something decent to eat."
He looked at her, head ducked slightly, but his gaze was steady and he did not budge. Jane wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and snuffled quietly, "It's all right, Dad."
Still standing his ground, eyes fixed on his wife, Mr. Tweedy gently patted his daughter's shoulder and said, in a surprisingly even voice, "I'll need some money, then." He did not move until Mrs. Tweedy turned and walked out of the kitchen, then he followed her. Once they were out of Jane's sight, he did the unthinkable -- he laid hold of Mrs. Tweedy's arm. Not roughly, nowhere near it, but with a firmness entirely foreign to her long experience of him. She reacted by staring at him, her lingering anger struggling with her surprise.
In a low, firm voice, kept to a level that only she could hear, he said, "Don't you take this out on Jane. You can use me as you like; I'm accustomed to it, but don't you dare lay your hand on that little girl."
Melisha pulled away from him with a face full of shock, and hurt. "She's my daughter, as well, Mr. Tweedy, I'm not going to--" She choked at the implication, then sputtered in her own defense, "It won't kill her to clean up that mess she made, and she's not going to starve to death from missing one supper."
Jane cleaned up the pie all by herself, still battling her tears. She listened as her parents went downstairs, and did not see or hear any more of them. When she had finished, she went to her little bedroom, closed the door, and had a good hard cry on her bed. She still didn't understand what had happened.
A little while later, there was a tap at her door, it opened a crack, and her father peeped in. "Janie, it's your Dad," he whispered. "All right if I come in?"
"Yeah, Dad," she sniffled, sitting up.
Mr. Tweedy edged into the room, shutting the door behind him. He was carrying two bowls of ice cream. "Here you go, sweetheart," he handed one to her. "Thought this might make you feel better."
"Does Mum know about this?" she asked warily.
"She knows," he nodded. "She feels pretty foolish about what happened. Sent me all the way down the lane to get her some supper, then wouldn't eat it, she was that sorry. She loves you, Janie, you're her pride and joy, y'know that."
"Then why was she so angry?" Jane asked.
"Well, there's a good long story there," he sat down on the end of the bed. "Your Mum don't like to talk about it, but I reckon you ought to know." Mr. Tweedy took a taste of his ice cream and organized his thoughts. "That farm, in the Dales?" he began, and Jane nodded her understanding. "That's been in the Tweedy family forever. Your Mum and I lived there for ten years before we come to York, and bought the shop, and had you. We was egg farmers. That's what the Tweedys have always been, up to now. You didn't know that, did you?"
Mouth full of ice cream, Jane shook her head no.
"When we married, your Mum thought certain that we could make a fortune off that egg farm. But it's not so easy as that, Jane. We scraped along, but we never did get rich, and your Mum was none too happy. Then she saw this advert for a pie machine. Chickens go in, pies come out, you see?" He waited for his daughter to nod her understanding of this concept. "She worked up this whole scheme for Mrs. Tweedy's Chicken Pies, put up a big signboard with her picture on it and all. Only those chickens was plotting against us! I tried to warn her, but she never would believe me. You listen to me, Jane, for this may save your life one day: don't never turn your back on a chicken! They're dangerous beasts. Don't never trust ‘em! We had this one, this little ginger-coloured hen, she was the sneakingest one of all. She put a spanner in that pie machine, wrecked it good and proper. Thought I'd never get it sorted out, and your Mum all in a fret on account of she'd sunk all we had into this pie business of hers. We finally got that machine up and running, and I go to fetch her some chickens to make into pies, and Janie, I never would have believed it if I hadn'ta seen it with me own eyes -- When I raised up the roof of that hut, what do you suppose I saw?"
"What?" Jane breathed, hanging on his words.
"A whole pack of chickens a-hammerin' and a-sawin' and a-workin' away with my tools! They was up to summat, and before I could defend meself, that ginger one let out a squawk and jumped right in me face! Before I know what's happenin', I've got fifty or so chickens all over me, diggin' their claws into me, a-peckin' and a-flappin' and tryin' to kill me! I tried to fight ‘em off, Janie, but there was too many! They stuffed me cap in me mouth to keep me from callin' out for help, and they tied me up, head to toe, and shoved me under a hut. That ginger one," he shuddered, "stared me right in the face -- I'll never forget that cruel look in her eyes. And after they had me trussed up, you won't believe what they did next. They started pulling at those huts, turning ‘em upside down, and wrong side out, and I saw what all that working with me tools had been for. Those chickens had built themselves an aeroplane!"
"An aeroplane?" Jane marvelled, wide eyed.
"A great big chicken-shaped aeroplane, with big flapping wings. And every last one of those chickens got into that aeroplane, and started her rolling down the chicken yard. They was going to fly that thing over the fence and escape! That had been their treacherous plan all along! But they hadn't reckoned with Willard Tweedy," he puffed himself up. "I got meself out from under that hut, and went hopping over to where they had this sort of ramp set up, to get themselves over the fence, and I kicked that ramp down and stopped 'em!"
"Whew!" breathed Jane, gulping down a big spoonful of ice cream.
"But I didn't get out of the way in time, and they swung that aeroplane around and caught me in the head with the tail, and boom, down I went, out cold."
"What happened then?" demanded Jane.
"Well, I didn't see this part, you understand. Your Mum told me about it afterward, but she didn't like to talk about it. Don't you never ask her about it, you're like to put her in a fit. At any rate, she come out of the barn just then and seen those chickens trying to fly off, so she grabbed onto summat hanging off the back of that aeroplane, and up, up she went into the air with 'em! She climbed that rope with an axe in her teeth, bound and determined not to let those pies get away. But there was that ginger hen, again, coming down the rope to cut her loose. Your Mum didn't flinch, Jane, she gave it everything she had, but there's no man or woman alive who could stop that little ginger hen. Your Mum fell and fell, right into the barn, smack into that pie machine."
Jane gasped in alarm.
"She still has nightmares about that," Mr. Tweedy shook his head. "Got stuck in the gravy vat, and nearly drowned. She still wakes me up now and then, shaking and muttering about gravy. That pie machine blew itself to smithereens, took most of the barn with it. Your poor Mum... I thought I'd lost her for a minute. Well, after that, we both reckoned we'd had about enough of chickens to last a lifetime. And that's how we came to be here."
"What happened to the chickens?" asked Jane.
"Don't rightly know," her father answered her. "Although I did hear summat later about some wild chickens being seen at Dale Top. That's a sort of nature park, y'see, with a little island set off for the birds, not too far from the farm. S'pose that must have been them. You don't see a lot of wild chickens in Yorkshire."
Jane polished off her ice cream with a satisfied smile. "Thanks, Dad," she set aside her dish and reached over to hug him. "You always tell the best stories."
Mr. Tweedy looked at her with wide eyes. "That was no story, Jane! That's the truth, every word of it!"
Jane laughed at this, but his expression quickly sobered her. "Really, Dad?"
"The God's-honest truth, Janie, strike me dead if it's not."
She digested all this for a moment, then said, "So, that's why Mum doesn't like chicken pie?"
"Why she doesn't like Mrs. Rushton's chicken pie," Mr. Tweedy clarified. "Vera Rushton, that lady on the pie box? She was a neighbour of ours, back in the Dales. She and your Mum never did get on. And I don't blame your mother for not liking her; Vera Rushton was a right busybody, always putting on airs. Her chicken pies won all the prizes at the village fairs, and your Mum was that certain she was bribing the judges. I don't know about that, but I know your Mum could make as good a chicken pie as anyone in the county, and I do think those contests never were quite fair. Well, after we left the farm, we had to find someone to rent it, and the only ones interested were the Rushtons. Your Mum was none too happy about that, but she lived with it. Then we found out what those Rushtons were up to! Mrs. Rushton had started her own chicken pie business, and she'd stolen the slogan right off your Mum's signboard! You were too little to remember this, but your mother got into some trouble, fighting with Mr. Hudson at the market over selling those pies. You and I had to go bail her out of the gaol. When their lease was up, we turned ‘em off of the farm, but it didn't matter then, they sold out the pie business to some big company, and retired to the seashore. And that's why your Mum can't stand to hear of Vera Rushton."
Some time later, when Jane had curled herself under the covers and was just drifting to sleep, she had a vague sense of the bedroom door being eased open again. The shifting of the mattress beneath her as someone else sat down on it stirred her farther back to consciousness, and the caress of a gentle hand on her hair coaxed her fully awake. She knew before her eyes had opened the touch, and scent, and presence of her mother, and was not surprised to find her familiar shape silhouetted by the light in the hall.
"Mum?" she murmured, raising herself from the pillow. To her joy and relief, her mother reached out to her and drew Jane into her embrace.
"There, now, it's all right," Mum held her close, and Jane cuddled against her.
"Mum, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"I know, darling." Mrs. Tweedy hung on the edge of saying more, but couldn't get the words arranged to her satisfaction. The best she could do was to gently rub Jane's back, and stroke her hair, and rock her a bit, until finally, giving her daughter one last squeeze, she whispered, "Back in bed now."
Jane snuggled under the covers and smiled as her mother tucked the blankets around her. As she did so, Mrs. Tweedy remarked, not quite offhandedly, "If you want a chicken pie for supper some time, I'll teach you to make a proper one."
Jane knew that this was her Mother's way of apologizing, and said, "That's all right, Mum. I'm not all that keen on chicken, anyway." With a bit more thought, she added, "But, I wish you'd show me how you make pork chops. You're the best in the world at that; Dad says so, too."
"Well, there's nothing all that complicated to them," Mrs. Tweedy smiled modestly, and Jane knew she was forgiven. "Sleep tight, darling."
School was nearly out, and the summer holidays would be upon them soon. Jane was glad; she hated school. Oh, she didn't mind the studies; she was actually quite a little bookworm, and her marks were generally good. But the day-in, day-out of coping with her classmates was enough to try anyone's patience. Jane had inherited her Mother's long, skinny legs, and on top of that, she had had the misfortune to live in an era of fashion when skirts were short. That awful Susan Carter (who was to Jane what Vera Rushton was to her mother) had been calling her Jane Weedy for so many years, it was a wonder any of her schoolmates knew her real name. As if that weren't enough, Susan and her friends were always trying to get Jane in trouble.
A typical example involved one rainy morning, when the children were putting away their wet things in the cloak room. Jane had removed her black boots, and was looking for a space on the floor where she could set them.
"Eww, Jane Weedy," said Susan Carter, jostling against her, "don't put your smelly wellies near my things!"
Susan's friends, Kitty and Gail, picked up on this and giggled, "Smelly Wellies!" "Does Jane Weedy have Smelly Wellies?" "They smell like her big, flat feet," smirked Susan Carter, and she turned her back on Jane to take off her pretty, new, pink raincoat.
Muttering under her breath, Jane turned away to find another spot for her boots. All of a sudden, Susan let out a squeal. "EWWWWW!"
Jane looked over her shoulder. Susan was holding her raincoat. Mud had been splattered on the back of it, in the general shape of Jane's boot sole. Susan's friends wailed in unison, "MISS CREWE!"
The teacher hastened into the cloak room. "What's the matter, girls?"
Susan Carter pointed at Jane and sobbed, with great globs of tears rolling down her cheeks, "She ruined my coat!"
"Jane," sighed Miss Crewe, who was young and cloying, "that wasn't a nice thing to do, now, was it?"
"I didn't do anything!" Jane protested.
Kitty and Gail piped up, "Oh, yes, she did!" "She's lying, Miss Crewe!"
"I didn't touch her!" fumed Jane.
"Then perhaps you can tell me how else that nasty mess got all over poor Susan's coat," the teacher suggested.
"I don't know, she backed into me or something! She's always trying to get me in trouble!"
With a sad shake of her head, Miss Crewe said, with forced patience, "Jane, I've spoken to you before about blaming others for your own actions."
Jane stamped her foot and shouted, "I didn't DO anything! If I HAD touched her, she'd be wearing this boot on her ugly HEAD!"
Finally hitting the end of her rope, Miss Crewe screeched, "That is quite enough, young lady! I am going to have a talk with your parents!"
And so, Mr. & Mrs. Tweedy were called in for a conference with Miss Crewe. Melisha staunchly took her daughter's side, and said that, "Someone should teach that Carter girl some manners." Miss Crewe replied that Susan Carter was an exemplary student and a model of good behaviour, and she wondered if Jane didn't have, as she put it, "some issues."
"What do you mean, issues?" demanded Mrs. Tweedy.
"Well, there is the matter of her history essay..." hinted the teacher.
"What was wrong with that?" asked Mrs. Tweedy. "Jane worked very hard on that."
"Yes, clearly, she put a great deal of thought into it, and her spelling and grammar are above average, but," Miss Crewe winced, "I question whether ‘Henry VIII and His Six Wives: Why He Should Have Beheaded the Lot of Them' is an appropriate topic for her age group."
"This is disgraceful!" ranted Melisha Tweedy when they had gotten home. "Jane is completely unappreciated at that school! I'd give anything to send her somewhere else next year."
It was three days into the summer holidays when the letter came.
Mrs. Tweedy found it on her desk one afternoon in a pile of the usual bills and cheques. She wondered how it had gotten there, since it didn't even have a proper stamp on it. The envelope looked like some sort of elegant, antique parchment, and there was an old-fashioned wax seal on the back. The front was addressed, in an elaborate hand, to:
Miss Jane Tweedy
The Smallest Bedroom
The Flat Above Tweedy's Photographic Studio
York, England
Melisha Tweedy turned the envelope over a couple of times, looking for any other hint of where it had come from. The seal was very ornate, she noticed, but the details of it meant nothing to her. Finally, she went to the back stairs and called up them, "JANE!"
Jane was within earshot and came running to the top step. "Yes, Mum?"
"Come down here." When Jane had descended, Mrs. Tweedy held out the letter to her. "This came for you."
"What is it?" Jane took the envelope and examined it with the same puzzled look her mother still wore.
"I have no idea," said Mrs. Tweedy.
Jane opened the envelope with her thumb and took out the folded parchment. She read it over silently, her eyes widening as she did.
"What does it say?" asked her mother anxiously. Without a word, Jane handed it to her, and Melisha read for herself:
~~~~~~~~~~~
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmistress: Lucilla Peachum
(Order of Merlin, First Class,
Seventh Level Charms Specialist,
European Chair, International Council of Wizarding Educators,
Contributing Correspondent to Witch Weekly)
Dear Miss Tweedy,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Deputy Headmaster
~~~~~~~~~~~
Melisha Tweedy read this over twice. She and her daughter stared at each other with identical expressions on their so-similar faces. At last, out of nowhere, Jane's mother let out a squawk. "MISTER TWEEDY!"
Mr. Tweedy came running, alarmed by her tone. "Yes, luv!"
"Read that." Melisha shoved the letter into his hand and sat down in her chair.
Mr. Tweedy murmured his way through the document, as his eyes approached the same size as those of his wife and daughter. Finally, he asked, "What's it mean, luv?"
"Mean?" Mrs. Tweedy took the letter back and perused it again. "It means... Well, it's a school, obviously. A very important school, I think. It must be. And they want Jane." The shock was at last giving way to the first trace of a smile.
"But--" Mr. Tweedy stammered, "what's all this about witchcraft, and -- and owls? I know you wanted to put Jane in a different school, Mrs. Tweedy, but I didn't think you meant summat as different as this."
"I didn't put her anywhere, Mr. Tweedy. I've never heard of these people," said his wife. "The letter just came."
"But--" this was all too much for the poor Yorkshireman to grasp, "it couldn't just come. How'd they know about her?" He frowned thoughtfully. "It must be someone's idea of a joke."
"Who would joke about a thing like this?" Mrs. Tweedy demanded, waving the parchment.
"Well," Jane's lip curled, as she began to think more clearly, "I'd say Susan Carter, but she's not smart enough to make up something this creative."
"It can't be a joke," insisted Mrs. Tweedy, as if she would be sorely disappointed if it were.
"But--" Mr. Tweedy seemed unable to begin a sentence any other way. "What do we do about it? There's no telephone, or address, how do we even find this Bumble -- Grumble -- what's his name?"
At this juncture, they were interrupted by the jangle of the shop door, and Mr. Tweedy, still greatly flustered, went to see what was wanted.
"Um, good afternoon, sir," he addressed the young man who had come into the shop. The lad was in the dawn of his twenties, tall and lanky, with flaming red hair. He was staring, fascinated, at the portraits on the wall by the front counter.
"Amazing!" he breathed, waving his hand in front of a portrait of the infant Jane. "How do you manage to keep them so still?"
"I -- I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Tweedy, assuming in his confused state that he had not heard the young man correctly.
"Oh, sorry," the stranger tore himself away from the portraits and came toward him, hand outstretched. "You must be Mr. Tweedy. How do you do? My name is Arthur Weasley. I'm here about Jane."