Welcome to Silver Street Farm (5 page)

Almost as soon as the pink dawn light touched the tops of the trees at the edge of the park, people began to arrive. Sergeant Short wasn’t the least bit surprised. He knew his city, and he knew when something big was going to happen.

At six-thirty he asked Julie to heat some water for tea, then he woke the children, who had spent the night curled up in a nest of hay bales under their silver “tent” with the ducklings and the poodle-lambs.

Meera opened her eyes. She saw the treetops, the blue sky, and Sergeant Short’s big, beaming face looking down at her.

“Time to meet your supporters,” he said. “Told you it wasn’t over till the fat policeman sings.”

Meera sat up and rubbed her eyes, then she rubbed them again. This
had
to be a dream. She nudged Gemma and kicked Karl in the leg — harder than she’d meant to out of sheer astonishment.

Beyond the crash barriers, hundreds and hundreds of people of all ages, shapes, and sizes stood quietly waiting. Many carried homemade banners saying
SILVER STREET FARM
and
WE WANT A FARM NOT A PARKING GARAGE
, or simply showing pictures of farm animals.

“We’ve done it!” exclaimed Karl. “We’ve gotten the whole city behind us!”

“If we arrive at Silver Street Station with this crowd,” said Gemma, “
nothing’s
going to be demolished!”

Meera climbed onto the hay bales and called out, “Good morning, everybody!” to the crowd.

“Good morning!” they called back. And, as if Meera’s “good morning” had flipped a switch, the whole park suddenly seemed to wake up. Everyone began to talk at once. People worked on their banners, drank from thermoses, ate sandwiches, and jumped up and down to warm up in the chilly early morning air.

More and more people began to arrive: Auntie Nat, with a thermos of hot chocolate and homemade rolls to dip in it (“So exciting,” she said. “My Karl and his friends all celebrities now, eh?”); Meera’s mom and dad and her three little brothers, with a banner attached to the stroller saying
SILVER STREET CITY FARM
in letters made of aluminum foil; Lee and his friends, dressed up as animals (three chickens, one sheep, and something that might have been a zebra or a tiger or possibly just a striped caterpillar).

Finally, Gemma’s dad turned up with his accordian and started singing “Silver Street’s a City Farm” to the tune of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” Lots of people joined in, so Gemma couldn’t be embarrassed.

Then Sergeant Short spoke to the crowd through the megaphone.

“Citizens of Lonchester,” he began, so sternly that everyone immediately became very quiet. “It is the duty of the Lonchester Police Force to uphold the law. So I must ask you now to leave the park.”

There were a few cries of “Shame!” but the Sergeant held up his hand for silence. “However, if you wish to make your way to Silver Street Station, I will be obliged to provide a full police escort to make sure that nobody gets into any trouble.”

Only Meera was close enough to see the twinkle in Sergeant Short’s eye as he spoke, but the crowd understood anyway.

And that was how Meera, Karl, and Gemma led a procession of ducklings, sheep-poodles, goats, chickens, and cheering Lonchester citizens across the city to Silver Street Station, with twenty police officers as a guard of honor.

The protesters sang at the top of their voices, all the way from the park.

“Silver Street’s a city farm

Ee-i, ee-i, oh!

And on that farm we’ll have some sheep

Ee-i, ee-i, oh!”

Gemma’s dad’s accordian was joined by Mr. Khan’s trombone, a pair of cymbals, and some sleigh bells that were being shaken very enthusiastically by the oldest of Meera’s little brothers. Even some of the police officers were humming along.

All the people standing outside the gates of Silver Street must have heard them coming for
ages
because the man from the city council, the backhoe drivers, and a whole lot of other people wearing hard hats and fluorescent vests were just standing and staring, frozen to the spot, as the procession came down the street.

The protesters finished the last verse in four-part harmony:

“Silver Street’s a city farm

Ee-i, eeeeeee-iiiiiii, ooooooohhhh!”

Mr. Khan added a lovely little trombone solo right at the end, as they all stopped just inches from the workers and the man from the city council in his gray suit.

For a moment, nobody said anything, apart from the lambs who said, “baaaaa,” as it was time for another bottle feeding, and the goats who said, “meeeeeh!” because they were fed up with Meera pulling on their leashes, and the ducklings who “peep-peeped” from inside Gemma’s T-shirt.

Then, the man from the city council — who was, Karl noticed, already turning red again — cleared his throat. “If you think that all of this
nonsense,
” he said, waving his hand at all the people and their banners, “is going to have the
slightest
effect on the council’s decision, then think again!” He shoved an official-looking document under Meera’s nose. “This demolition notice gives me the right to flatten this ruin
right now
!” he said, adding under his breath with what could only be described as a snarl, “and there’s nothing you kids and your
stupid, mindless, ridiculous
protest can do about it!”

“Ah, Councilor Newberry!” said Sashi, popping up out of the crowd with Stewy and his camera at her side. She pushed a microphone under the councilor’s nose. “We’ve got your comments on tape,” she said, smiling innocently. “So I was just wondering if you were officially describing all these good people as ridiculous and stupid and — what was it — mindless?”

“Were you?” demanded the crowd.

“I represent many small businesses in the city,” said Mr. Khan, “and I’m sure we wouldn’t want to be called
stupid
.”

“Noooo!” booed the crowd.

“A city farm is a great community project,” said Meera’s mother. “It’s very far from mindless or ridiculous.”

“That’s right!” cheered the crowd.

“In fact,” Meera said, “it might be a good idea for you to tear up that demolition notice right now.”

“Yes,” Gemma added. “And let all these people help us build our very first city farm!”

Councilor Newberry turned as pale as he’d been red. He dropped the piece of paper and opened the locked gates without another word.

Silver Street Station’s new future rushed in, and one very happy ex–guard dog ran out, delighted to see his three friends once again.

By the end of the day, the old station was transformed. Roofs were patched, windows had new glass, and there was even running water and electricity in the old stationmaster’s office. The lambs had a stall to sleep in and a fenced yard where they could frolick about. The old signal box had been made into a chicken coop, with perches and a nest box to lay eggs in. The goats had been given a rather overgrown enclosure between the old railway tracks and were already doing a good job of eating some of the bigger bushes. Several supermarket carts had been pulled from the canal, but the ducklings hadn’t taken a swim. They were too busy being chased about by their new foster mom, a hen named Mavis, who was so motherly that she didn’t notice her new children were ducks, not chickens.

It had been an incredible day. But there was one more incredible thing in store. She stepped out of a rickety little camper van, with a sheepdog following right behind her, and marched straight up to the children, who were stacking hay bales outside the lambs’ stall in the old waiting room.

“I’m Flora,” the girl said in a broad Scottish accent, “and I’m going to manage your farm.” Her mouth was set in straight line, and her bright blue eyes blazed with determination.

“Um . . .” said Meera. “I thought
we’d
manage the farm.”

“You can’t,” Flora said simply, pushing her wild curly black hair out of her eyes. “There’s got to be somebody here twenty-four seven. And you’ll be back in school in a week or two. What then? No, no, you definitely need me.”

“But where will you live?” Karl asked.

“In my van, of course!” said Flora, as if Karl were two years old.

“We can’t pay you. . . .” said Gemma.

“Och, don’t worry about that. I’ve money of my own, I don’t need anyone else’s.”

The children looked at one another and smiled.

“Good,” said Flora, smiling back. “That’s settled then! Oh, there’s just one more thing,” she added. “It’s my dog here, Flinty. She’s lousy with sheep, but she’s a first-class chicken herder. Is that OK with you?”

“Fine!” said Karl, laughing.

“Perfect!” said Gemma.

“Flora,” said Meera, “I think a sheepdog that herds chickens is going to fit right in.”

Welcome to Silver Street Farm!