The Garden of Lost Secrets

by A. M. Howell

  Clara smiled. It was nice talking to Will about school – it made home seem not so far away. “Today was curious,” she whispered, picking up a piece of gravel and rolling it around in her palm. She told Will about the broken tapestry, the key to the locked room hidden behind the bed. Mrs Gilbert meeting Mr Gilbert near the hothouses, the wicker basket covered with a cloth.

  The water pipes ticked and hissed.

  “Mrs Gilbert had a basket?” Will asked.

  Clara nodded.

  “And she was near the hothouses?”

  Clara nodded again. A wave of dizziness washed over her. “What? You think she could be taking the fruit?”

  Will leaned forward. “It’s possible.”

  “No.” Clara picked up another piece of gravel and placed it next to the first in her palm. Like two people standing shoulder to shoulder. She brushed the gravel from her hands. “My aunt and uncle are devoted to their jobs. They would never steal.”

  “There are food shortages. A sugar tax. People will pay good money for sweet things,” Will whispered.

  Clara thought about this. The Gilberts’ cottage was musty and dusty and they clearly did not have a lot of money, but there was always plenty of food on the table. Whatever Will thought, she did not for one second believe they were stealing from the Earl.

  Reaching into his pocket, Will pulled out his notebook. “After you left last night, I checked the hothouses. Made a list of the fruit which has gone missing.”

  Clara gasped. “But what if you had been caught?”

  Will gave Clara a grim smile. “I was careful.”

  Clara leaned over and looked at Will’s notebook, which was balanced on his knees. In the dim light she saw that, next to the list of missing fruit, he had drawn pictures of perfectly shaded peaches and three pineapples, the crowns twisting around the fruits, protecting them like vines. Next to them he had written Scarlet Brazilians.

  “Why does the Earl like pineapples?” Clara asked.

  “Status,” Will whispered. “Did you know some fruiterers take the crown of a home-grown pineapple and attach it to one that has come from another country?”

  “But why?”

  “To deceive the dinner guests – make them think it was grown in the hothouse of their host.”

  Clara gazed at the fruits. A small bead of affection for them was growing inside her – perhaps not as much affection as Will had for them, but affection all the same.

  “Pineapples used to be grown in horse manure to keep them warm. Imagine the smell.” Will held his nose and wiggled his eyebrows.

  Clara stifled a giggle. Will was like his brother Robert in some ways – the freckles which bounced on their cheeks, the way their noses crinkled – and in other ways not at all. When Robert spoke about fruit and vegetables, he was interested in how many people they would feed. But to Will, the fruits were so much more than that.

  A feeling was building inside her, like a stream welcoming meltwater from thawing mountains. The tightness in her shoulders which had been there since she had arrived at Gardener’s Cottage was sliding away. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the envelope; placed it on her lap.

  “What’s that?” Will whispered.

  Clara sucked in a lungful of warm air. “A letter,” she said. “One that doesn’t belong to me.”

  The War Office logo had smudged from the many times Clara had pressed it while trying to imagine what the words in the letter might say. “My brother Christopher. He is at the Front in France. At least… I think he is.”

  Will drew in a sharp breath.

  “I…took this from the post-boy. I wasn’t going to keep it, but then I was sent away, and Father and Mother left and it was too late. I was going to give it to Mrs Gilbert when I arrived. But…we don’t get on well and she would be very cross that I have kept it for so long.” Tears burned the back of Clara’s throat. She picked up the envelope and cradled it in her palms.

  “We received a pink telegram when Father died. It’s not one of those. It might not be bad news,” said Will quietly.

  “But it might,” Clara said in a small voice. “And I don’t think Father or Mother could bear that. Neither could I.” With a sigh, she slid the envelope back into her pocket. “If something has happened to Christopher and Father finds out, it might stop him from getting better. But Mrs Gilbert said my mother has written and I am to stay here longer. That must mean Father is worsening anyway.” Misery and confusion slumped Clara’s shoulders forward.

  Will shuffled a little closer to Clara. His arm nudged hers. “But they report war casualties and deaths in the newspapers. Surely your parents must already know if something has happened to your brother?”

  Clara shook her head. “Mother became obsessed with reading the casualty lists when Father was in France. Her hands would shake as she read through the names of all the men injured and dead.”

  Clara rested her head against the side of the bench, remembering the evening earlier that year when the newspaper had dropped from her mother’s hands to the rug like a sail. Mother had clapped a hand to her mouth as tears leaked from her eyes. Christopher had kneeled on the living-room rug, smoothed the paper across his lap, his wild eyes scanning the many names listed.

  “Your father is injured…not dead,” her mother had croaked. She and Clara and Christopher had formed a tight huddle on the floor, their arms twisted around one another in relief.

  Clara blinked the memory away. “When Christopher left, Father made Mother promise they would not read the casualty lists in the newspapers any more as it was too upsetting. They said any news would come by telegram or letter. It has, but they just don’t know that yet.”

  “You should open it,” Will said. “Go on – open it now. You can’t pretend you don’t have it. Look at the stamp, Clara. The War Office. It should be opened straight away and then you should tell Mrs Gilbert. What if Christopher is lying in a hospital somewhere all alone?”

  “But he would have doctors and nurses looking after him,” Clara whispered helplessly, trying to block out thoughts of her brother bandaged from head to toe and calling out for his family, who were nowhere to be seen. She twisted her hands together in her lap, remembering the sting of Mrs Gilbert’s hand against her cheek. She could not and would not give the letter to her aunt.

  The windows rattled gently in the wind. A scuffle on the gravel outside.

  “What was that?” whispered Will.

  Another scuffle.

  Clara’s breath caught in her throat.

  A scrabbling, sniffing noise just beyond the glass.

  “An animal – a rat maybe,” Will whispered. “On the hunt for some food.” He brought his hands to his cheeks and twitched his fingers like whiskers.

  Clara rolled her eyes, smiling. The weight of her secret felt a fraction lighter now that she had shared it. She focused on one of the pineapples sitting proudly in its planting bed, the thin crown of leaves, the quilted fruit. Will was right. She should open the envelope. She would open the envelope. But once she did, she knew that things would be different. And sitting there, in the warmth, listening to the drip-drip-drip of condensation, a new friend by her side, she wasn’t so sure she wanted things to change quite yet.

  Clara started awake. Will was nudging her in the side. A cold trail of drool was running down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and got up.

  “It will be dawn soon,” whispered Will, folding the blanket. “No one came to steal the fruit.”

  They crept out of the hothouse into early morning mist, which swirled over the gardens. There was a sudden sound of footsteps on the grass approaching them, boots sliding over the heavy dew.

  “Quick,” hissed Will, grabbing Clara’s arm and pulling her back down the steps. They cowered by the door as the footsteps grew nearer.

  Clara had the same feeling she used to get when playing hide-and-seek with Christopher. She would always cover her eyes in her hiding place, believing the act of doin
g so would make her more invisible. The feet were going to pass in front of the hothouse entrance. Clara squeezed her eyes shut.

  Stomp, stomp, stomp.

  Will nudged her in the side as the sound of the footsteps retreated.

  Clara flicked her eyes open.

  Will’s eyes were wide, excited.

  “Mrs Gilbert,” he whispered. “Where’s she going?”

  Clara stood and crept up two steps until she could see into the gardens. Mrs Gilbert was receding into the mist like a ghost, a basket swinging from her right arm like an unlit lantern. A bustle of thoughts zipped through Clara’s head. How peculiar. What was Mrs Gilbert doing up so early? And most importantly, what was inside that basket she was carrying?

  Will and Clara followed Mrs Gilbert into the woods at a distance, far enough away so they could not hear her footsteps and she could not hear theirs, but close enough that they could just see her through the mist. Sticky mud clung to Clara’s boots. She breathed in the perfume of moss soaked from the previous night’s rain, and damp rotting wood. They crept past gossamer spiderwebs hung with dew, trod over dusky copper-tinged leaves. Mrs Gilbert paused next to a bramble bush laden with ripe blackberries. She picked a handful of berries and ate them, tipping her face up to the near-bare boughs and the sky beyond.

  Will glanced at Clara where they were hiding behind the thick trunk of an oak tree, and raised his eyebrows. Clara raised hers in return. Mrs Gilbert seemed different, her tread even more purposeful than usual. Where was she going?

  They followed quietly until Mrs Gilbert paused again near two trees which had been felled. Will and Clara stole closer, sneaking behind the thickest of the tree trunks, using the mist to hide themselves. Clara’s heartbeat pulsed in her ears. If Mrs Gilbert walked back the way she had come, they were very likely to be discovered.

  Mrs Gilbert placed her basket on the leaf-strewn woodland floor, next to a flush of fungi that were sharp white against the browns and greens.

  A midge fussed around Clara’s face. She swatted it away, then curled her fingernails into the bark of the tree trunk she was pressed against.

  A noise then. The sound of snapping twigs, the rustle of leaves.

  The light was turning a soft pink through the mist. A moustached man in a green uniform emerged – a soldier.

  “Morning, Lizzy,” he said in a low voice. “I appreciate you coming out of your way. We start training early today.” He glanced at his watch as the mist ebbed and flowed around them. He cleared his throat. “There is talk we’ll be going to the Front in a few days.”

  Mrs Gilbert’s face fell. “Oh, Thomas.”

  The rough bark dug under Clara’s fingernails as her grip on the tree tightened. Mrs Gilbert knew this soldier well enough to call him by his first name.

  Thomas gave Mrs Gilbert a small, cracked smile. His eyes were brimming with regret. “Seems like it’s not meant to be then.” He picked up the basket, lifted the cloth and peered inside. “Thank you,” he said. “I just wish I could do something to…” Thomas suddenly bent over, his shoulders beginning to shake. He placed the basket on the ground and brought his hands to his face. A throaty sob burst from his lips. Then another. And another.

  Clara stared at Thomas, rashes of goosebumps springing up on her arms and the back of her neck. Soldiers did not cry. They were strong and brave. When her father had returned from the War, when Christopher had said goodbye to them all, his back straight and proud as he walked down the street, Clara had not seen even a smidgen of moisture in their eyes, just a grim resolve that they should make the best of a terrible situation.

  Mrs Gilbert took a step forward and placed a tentative arm across Thomas’s heaving shoulders.

  “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” he gulped.

  “I am the sorriest,” said Mrs Gilbert in a low voice. Her face was as pale as chalk through the swirling mist.

  “It is not your fault. I do not blame you. You know that,” Thomas said through hiccupping breaths.

  The lack of sleep, the stealthy walk through the woods, the crying soldier – it was all a little dizzying. Clara suddenly feared she might keel over, like she was a tree being felled herself. She took a whisper-quiet, steadying breath and glanced at Will, who was transfixed by the scene before them.

  Thomas straightened, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose noisily and roughly wiped his eyes and cheeks. The sounds echoed through the just-waking woods. A bird cawed in the trees high above their heads.

  Mrs Gilbert glanced behind her, in the direction she had come. “I must be getting back,” she said in a small voice.

  Clara gave Will an anxious look. He gestured for her to move around the tree trunk to hide them better from the path. Clara crept forwards, feeling the warmth of Will’s breath on the back of her neck as he followed close behind.

  “Of course you must,” Thomas replied.

  “If I don’t see you again, please take good care,” Mrs Gilbert said. Picking up her skirts, she flashed Thomas a sad smile and walked away. Thomas watched her until she was out of sight.

  Will’s forehead was bunched into tiny lines as they watched Thomas turn and disappear into the thinning mist. The sound of his boots cracking twigs drifted back to them.

  “Shall we?” Will whispered, looking after him.

  Clara bit her bottom lip. Mrs Gilbert was heading back to the cottage. What if she went up to the attic to check on Clara and found her missing?

  Be brave, Clara thought. She would just have to come up with an excuse for her absence, like an early-morning walk to watch the sun rise, or getting a head start on the apple-picking for the next hospital delivery. She nodded at Will and watched his face mirror how she felt inside – full of purpose, determined to crack this puzzle. She wondered if he was also feeling the deep seated unease which sat heavy as an iron bar in the pit of her stomach. What had caused the soldier to be so upset? And what was in the basket?

  Thomas kept a steady pace, and Clara’s legs began to ache as they followed. Soon he had pushed ahead out of sight and they were tracking him by sound alone. Clara longed to sit for a while and catch her breath. She longed even more for her bed. But they had to find out where the soldier was going.

  Suddenly she realized something was different. She paused. There was no thud of Thomas’s footsteps or the rustle of boots on leaves as he pushed his way through brambles. A bolt of terror clambered up her spine.

  “Oi…you there!” The voice startled a pheasant from the bushes. It whirled into the air, its wings beating against the leaves like a carpet brush. There was the crackle of branches. Was that the sound of a rifle safety lock?

  Will turned and threw a desperate glance at Clara. “Run,” he breathed.

  Clara swung round; the sound of Thomas’s heavy breaths rasped to her right.

  Will grabbed Clara’s hand as he belted past, dragging her through the undergrowth back the way they had come.

  Footsteps were gaining on them behind. Clara could still hear the soldier’s panting dog-like breaths.

  The mist was hiding them from Thomas. But it was also their enemy, causing them to swerve around tree trunks that appeared from nowhere, snag their clothes on branches, and trip over logs.

  “In here,” whispered Will breathlessly, dodging to the right. He pulled her down behind an upturned tree, its roots reaching into the air like witches’ fingers.

  Clara could see Will’s pulse hammering in his temple. He jammed his hands over his mouth and stifled a cough which made his eyes water.

  Thomas’s feet were still thundering through the undergrowth towards them.

  Hiding. She and Will were always hiding. From the thief. From Robert. Now from the soldier Mrs Gilbert was so friendly with.

  The sound of Thomas’s feet halted.

  Clara threw Will an anxious glance. He motioned for her to lie down alongside the fallen tree. There was just enough room to crawl into the gap between the curve of the tree and the soil. She moved her
body stealthily, mirroring Will as he slid into the narrow space. They lay head to toe, the soles of Will’s muddy upturned boots almost scraping Clara’s hair.

  A stick was swiping through the undergrowth. It swished and beat through the brambles, searching them out. A blackthorn bush rippled. Clara twisted her head to the left and saw large army boots walk past the fallen tree.

  She held her breath. Will was so motionless she wondered if he was still alive, until she saw his left foot twitch.

  The swishing stick grew fainter, until they could hear it no more. They continued to lie in the mud, barely moving, hardly breathing. Will’s boot eventually nudged Clara’s forehead. “It’s clear. Let’s go.”

  Clara rolled out from under the tree. Her apron was streaked with mud, the dress sleeve she had snagged on a branch was ripped. Will’s cheeks were imprinted with leaves, his hair standing in tufty spikes.

  “That was jolly close,” he said with a grimace, brushing the mud from his trousers. “What was that all about, do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” said Clara. “But it was rather terrible seeing that soldier cry.”

  “It was,” Will agreed. “What do you think was in the basket Mrs Gilbert gave him?” he asked, leaning against the fallen tree. He snapped a twig from a branch.

  “I’m not sure. Why?”

  He jabbed the tree with the stick, like it was a spear. “Mrs Gilbert – I think she is stealing the fruit. She’s giving it to the soldier.”

  Clara’s mouth felt full of cotton. “No, Will. It just doesn’t seem…right. Mrs Gilbert wouldn’t do that.”

  “So why is she creeping around, meeting him in the early morning when everyone else is asleep?” Will said.

  Clara scuffed at the leaves with her boots. Could Will be right? She hated to think anything so awful of her father’s sister, but Mrs Gilbert really hadn’t been very nice to her at all since she arrived. Maybe Clara just had to accept that Mrs Gilbert was a truly bad egg.