A Hen in the Wardrobe Read online

  This book is dedicated to Ardjouna Bouchareb, and to her son – who found a hen in the wardrobe, left a sheep in our kitchen and helped me find ‘the best of all possible worlds’.

  A Hen in the Wardrobe copyright © Frances Lincoln Limited 2012

  Text and illustrations copyright © Wendy Meddour 2012

  The right of Wendy Meddour to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 (United Kingdom).

  First published in Great Britain and in the USA in 2012 by

  Frances Lincoln Children’s Books, 4 Torriano Mews,

  Torriano Avenue, London NW5 2RZ

  www.franceslincoln.com

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-84780-225-5

  eISBN 978-1-78101-074-7

  Illustrated with line and wash

  Set in Charis SIL

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  in December 2011

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  Contents

  A Bump in the Night

  Wake Up!

  A Moonlit Meeting

  Looking for Bugs

  Stuck up a Tree

  On Dr Slight’s Couch

  Leaving Cinnamon Grove

  A Flying Tortoise

  The Town that Never Slept

  The Thing in the Woods

  Hamza’s Dare

  Out of Puff

  The Spider’s Prophecy

  Sugar in the Soup

  A Sheep in the Kitchen

  Under the Stars

  A Trip to see the Wise-Man

  The City of a Thousand Domes

  Buried in the Desert

  What a whiff!

  Sighs and Sadness

  Snakes in the Jungle

  Ramzi’s Midnight Plan

  Sweet Dreams?

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A Bump in the Night

  All was quiet in Cinnamon Grove. The little cluster of grey terraced houses huddled together beneath the moonlight. Birds tucked their heads under their wings, flowers closed their petals and children snuggled into their duvets like caterpillars in cocoons. Only the brook that gurgled along the bottom of the gardens interrupted the sleepy silence. Everything was drifting into the deep hush of night.

  Suddenly there was a CRASH at Number Thirty-two! An upstairs light came on, a door swung open and a man in blue-and-white stripy pyjamas hurtled across the landing. He burst into a bedroom at the top of the stairs and opened the doors of a big white wardrobe. Then, with one swift jerk, he stuck his head inside!

  “What’s up, Dad?” shouted Ramzi, throwing aside his bedcovers.

  “Where’s it gone?” whispered Dad. He twisted his neck first to the left, then to the right.

  “Where’s what gone, Dad?” Ramzi asked nervously.

  But Dad stared straight through Ramzi. His eyes were watery and distant, his dark hair ruffled and unkempt. He stroked his beard and thrust his head back inside the wardrobe. Then he started hurling clothes into the air!

  “Stop it, Dad!” cried Ramzi. “You’re acting really strange.” He ducked to avoid a shower of socks.

  “I will find it!” said Dad.

  “Find what?” asked Ramzi, clutching his knees tightly to his chest.

  “Here, chicky-chick. Come on, my little hen. I know you’re in there.” Suddenly Dad crawled inside the wardrobe and shut the doors. There was a scratching noise. Then everything went quiet.

  Ramzi rubbed his eyes and looked around the room. Clothes were scattered everywhere. He waited. Nothing happened. Ramzi tiptoed across the room and gently opened the wardrobe doors. Dad was sitting cross-legged in the corner, blinking like a startled rabbit.

  “Dad, what are you doing?” asked Ramzi.

  “Where am I?” whispered Dad.

  “You’re in my wardrobe, Dad! In my bedroom!”

  “Huh? Is that you, Ramzi? What time is it? Where’s your mother?”

  Ramzi looked at the clock. “It’s really late, Dad. Mum will be back next week. But can you get out of my wardrobe? This is completely, totally weird.”

  Dad staggered to his feet, scratched his head and looked around.

  “But… I don’t… understand…” he stammered.

  “It’s all right, Dad. Come on,” said Ramzi gently.

  Dad slumped against Ramzi’s shoulders and they stumbled back across the landing. Then Ramzi tucked Dad into bed, kissed him lightly on the forehead and turned off the light.

  Wake Up!

  Next morning, the sun flickered in the sky like a big yellow dandelion. The birds had sung their dawn chorus and flown off on the breeze. The milkman had delivered the milk and gone home for a cup of tea. The postman had finished his round and was doing a crossword in his van. But at Number Thirty-two, the day had not begun. Ramzi and his dad were still fast asleep.

  “Dingaling, Dingaling,” went the doorbell.

  Dad jumped out of bed, splashed his face with water, hopped into his trousers and threw a crisp white shirt on his back. Then he flew down the stairs and opened the door.

  An immaculate-looking woman wearing bright pink glasses and matching lipstick stood outside.

  “Good morning, Miss Blunt. Can I help you?” puffed Dad.

  “It’s Miss Sharp, actually,” snapped the lady. Her voice was thin and wiry. “And I’m afraid this is not a social call. Mr Ramadan – do you realise that this is the third time Ramzi has been late for school this week? It’s really not good enough, you know.”

  Dad frowned. Then he took a deep breath and looked at the sky. “The sun is shining and the birds are singing. Yes – this is the best of all possible worlds,” he sighed.

  Miss Sharp screwed her lips together. Mr Ramadan had such a curious way of talking. She peered round his shoulders and looked inside. Shoes were scattered in the hall and there was no sign of Ramzi or Mrs Ramadan!

  “If Ramzi is not in school by ten o’clock this morning,” she said, wagging her finger, “then I will report you to…”

  Suddenly Ramzi appeared in the doorway. His skin shone in the sunlight as he rubbed his eyes sleepily.

  “Morning, Miss,” he grinned.

  Miss Sharp gasped! Ramzi’s usually neat brown curls stuck up in all directions and his school shirt looked like a crumpled sheet.

  “R...R...Ramzi!” she stammered. “Wh…wh…where’s your mother?”

  “Oh, she’s not here, Miss. She’s gone to learn about buildings and stuff,” said Ramzi cheerfully.

  Dad puffed out his chest and smiled proudly. “My wife is training to be an architect, Miss Sharp. Currently, she’s studying Domes of the East.” His hands fluttered in the air as he spoke.

  “I see,” said Miss Sharp slowly. “Well, in that case, Mr Ramadan, can you please make sure that Ramzi gets to school on time!” She tapped her watch fiercely. Then, turning on her pointy pink heels, she tottered up the path and out of sight.

  “What a dreadful woman!” muttered Dad.

  “Dad! You can’t say that!” giggled Ramzi.

  Dad smiled and looked down at his son. “Arggghhhhhh!” he yelled, leaping backwards.

  Ramzi jumped. “What? What’s up now?”

&nb
sp; “Your uniform! Your hair! Your… you’re such a mess!” cried Dad.

  “But it’s not my fault, Dad. It was you that messed up all my clothes last night.”

  Dad looked blank.

  “You know… when you were looking for that hen.”

  “A hen? What hen?”

  “The hen in my wardrobe.”

  “Ramzi, you must always tell the truth,” said Dad, wiggling his finger at the ceiling. “Remember, the Creator sees all!”

  “I know, Dad. I completely am telling the truth! Last night, you were looking for a hen in my wardrobe. Remember?”

  There was a pause. Dad’s butter-beige cheeks turned grey.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Ramzi nodded.

  “A hen, you say?” Dad slumped on to the bottom stair and put his head in his hands. “Ramzi,” he began slowly, “is this the first time you’ve noticed me doing… strange things in the night?”

  “Ermm. Well, no, errrmm… not really the absolutely first time, Dad.”

  Dad looked at Ramzi through the splayed fingers of one hand. “I think you’d better tell me everything, son,” he whispered.

  Ramzi slowly remembered the previous nights. “Well, two nights ago you were chasing frogs in the pantry… And on the night Mum left, I found you in the bath…”

  “Stop!” cried Dad.

  There was silence. A car passed by the house, its engine rattling like a faulty washing machine. The fridge hummed loudly in the kitchen.

  At last Dad spoke. “Come here, little warrior. I must’ve frightened you.” He swept Ramzi into his big arms and squeezed him tight.

  “It’s OK, Dad! Really, I’m fine,” spluttered Ramzi.

  Dad ruffled Ramzi’s hair and sighed a deep sigh. Then he looked at his watch. “Oh! It’s nearly ten o’clock! Quick, we must get you to school.”

  Minutes later, they were driving along in the car. An espresso cup teetered on the edge of the dashboard and Ramzi was swigging from a carton of milk.

  “One thing, Ramzi,” said Dad, clunking into fourth gear. “What did I say I was doing in the bath?”

  “Ermm, something about ‘sailing to the moon,’” answered Ramzi.

  “Oh, no,” groaned Dad, “I’m afraid it’s all starting again!”

  A Moonlit Meeting

  By the time the school bell rang for lunch, Ramzi was tired and fed-up. He slouched over to a tree that grew in a forgotten corner of the playground and slumped down against its bark. Then he closed his eyes. Red and orange shadows danced under his eyelids as the sunlight shone through the leaves.

  He was mid-yawn when a tiny little girl came skipping over. It was Shaima Stalk. Ramzi kept his eyes tightly shut and pretended to be asleep.

  “Ahem!” coughed Shaima.

  Ramzi ignored her.

  “AHEM!” she tried again.

  Ramzi opened one eye. “What do you want?” he asked. He didn’t usually talk to girls.

  “Well, I couldn’t help but notice that you’re not playing football.”

  “So?” grunted Ramzi.

  “Well, it’s just that you always play football.”

  “Yeh – well, I don’t actually want to.”

  “Exactly!” said Shaima, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. “And that’s how I know.”

  “Know what?” asked Ramzi.

  “Know that something or someone has been waking you up in the night.” She looked like a detective on the trail of a new case.

  “What else do you know, Smartypants?” asked Ramzi.

  Shaima grinned. “I know that Benjamin Butley’s got nits… Miss Sharp wears a wig… Headmaster Gripe keeps his teeth in a drawer…”

  Ramzi sniggered.

  “And Ramzi Ramadan’s missing his mum.”

  “That’s completely not true!” shouted Ramzi. “I am not missing my mum!” His face crinkled into a scowl.

  Shaima twisted some daisies around her fingertips and looked the other way. “But I’m right about the other stuff, aren’t I?” A perfectly symmetrical cube of daisies dangled from her hand.

  “Wow! How did you do that?” exclaimed Ramzi.

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” She tossed it aside. “Look, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But it’s something to do with your dad, isn’t it?”

  Ramzi’s mouth dropped open. “Wow!” he said again. This girl was different. She was interesting.

  Shaima’s eyes twinkled. She loved being right.

  “If you tell me what’s up, I promise not to tell anyone,” she whispered.

  Ramzi tugged at the grass. “All right then,” he said. “But it’s totally, dead secret.”

  Shaima nodded until her plaits shook.

  Ramzi took a deep breath and began. “Since Mum’s been away, my dad’s been acting really weird…” He scanned the playground to check no one was listening. “The first time it happened, he was chasing frogs in the pantry. Then he tried to sail to the moon in the bath. And last night…”

  Shaima leant closer to listen.

  “Last night,” whispered Ramzi, “he was looking for a hen in my wardrobe!”

  Shaima’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve read all about this!” she cried. “It must be a case of somnambulism.”

  Ramzi stared at her blankly.

  “What I mean is,” Shaima whispered, “your dad’s a somnambulist.”

  “No, he’s not, actually,” said Ramzi. “He’s a web designer. I thought you said you were always right?”

  Shaima sighed. It wasn’t easy being a child genius! “No, silly, you don’t understand. A somnambulist is a sleepwalker. Your dad’s a sleepwalker. He walks in his sleep!”

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Ramzi. “He runs and talks and throws things about.”

  “Yeah – sleepwalkers do that too. But I’ve never seen one in action. It must be thrilling!”

  “You wouldn’t say that if it was your dad,” snapped Ramzi.

  Shaima blushed. She knew Ramzi was right. Her dad got the giggles whenever he ate chocolate and it was so embarrassing. They sat in silence and watched the other children race across the playground.

  “I know,” said Shaima at last. “Let’s watch your dad tonight and check he really is sleepwalking. Then, when we’re sure, we’ll find him a special doctor.”

  “What? A sleepwalking doctor?” Ramzi raised an eyebrow.

  “Why not?” said Shaima. “You get doctors for everything. My Nanna’s got one who just looks at her feet.”

  “Yuck!” laughed Ramzi, making a face. “OK then. Meet me in my back garden at 11 o’clock tonight.”

  “Awesome,” said Shaima. She picked up her skipping rope and hop-scotched at high speed across the playground.

  “But I haven’t even told you where I live yet,” yelled Ramzi.

  “It’s OK,” called Shaima, “I already know!”

  Ramzi lent back against the bark, closed his eyes and smiled. Perhaps tomorrow he would get a good night’s sleep?

  Looking for Bugs

  The moon hung over Cinnamon Grove – a twinkling lantern in the night. Underneath its glow, something scurried across the road and disappeared into the shadows. An owl flung its heavy wings across the sky, spindly-legged spiders wove their silver traps and Shaima waited in the darkness.

  It had been easy to sneak out of the house. Shaima’s dad was working late at The Spice Pot. Her big brother was boarding at Greystone’s Academy for the Bright and Gifted. Her little brother was fast asleep upstairs and Nanna Stalk and Mrs Stalk were watching the news. The drone of the television echoed through the walls, so no one heard when Shaima tiptoed out of the front door.

  She was wearing a dark-green hooded anorak and a pair of black school pumps. The anorak was far too long and hung round her ankles like a tent. Feeling her way in the darkness, she skulked along the pavement in the shadows.

  There were still no lights on at Number Thirty-two. So Shaima opened the gate, crept into the back garden and hid amon
gst the trailing wisteria. Then she took a torch out of her pocket and waited.

  Dddrrrrring! The alarm clock rattled under the pillow. Ramzi’s arm shot out from the covers and switched on the globe nightlight. Blue and green patterns danced across the map-covered wall. Ramzi jumped out of bed, threw on a sweater, grabbed a torch and padded across the landing. Dad’s bedroom door was ajar. Ramzi peered in.

  Chooaah…ssshhh…chooaah…ssshhh! Dad was snoring softly. Ramzi slipped across the room and opened the curtains. Then he sneaked back to the landing and tiptoed quietly downstairs.

  When he reached the kitchen, he switched on his torch. As the circle of white light flickered around the room, he felt like a thief in the night.

  Sounds of the sleeping house echoed in his ears.

  “Clunk,” went the boiler.

  “Tick, tick, tick,” went the clock.

  “Hummmm,” went the fridge.

  Ramzi tiptoed through the conservatory and turned the key in the door. Outside on the patio, night air brushed against his skin. It made him think of ghost trains and candy floss and camping trips.

  “Psssssst!” A noise came out from the shadows.

  Ramzi stared into the darkness. At first he couldn’t see a thing. But slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the garden became visible. It looked magical under the soft moonlight; the trees were a deep indigo and snail trails flickered like tinsel across the lawn.

  “Psssssst! Ramzi! Over here!” called Shaima.

  “Coming – over and out,” whispered Ramzi. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d said “over and out” but it felt good. Ramzi tripped across the thick, wet grass, pretending he was an explorer searching for undiscovered lands.

  Suddenly Shaima appeared from the depths of the undergrowth. Her hood was knotted tightly under her chin and her pointy little spectacled face poked out. “What took you so long?” she hissed.

  Ramzi giggled. “You look like a big green slug.”

  “I’m camouflaged!” snapped Shaima.

  “Oh – yeh,” said Ramzi. “That’s what I meant. I mean, you look really good. I mean, slugs are completely camouflaged, anyway.”

  Shaima stuck out her bottom lip and sulked.