The Secret Garden

by Linda Chapman

  Once there was a girl called Mary Lennox, she thought dreamily. She was invited to a grand ball, and when she was there, she danced and danced and everyone thought she was beautiful. She whisked a feather boa from one of the dummies, sending the rest of the scarves and stoles tumbling to the floor, and then danced over to the chest of drawers and pulled open the heavy drawers one by one, finding folded lace, the softest leather gloves, tortoiseshell hair combs, and finally a drawer of jewelry boxes. Opening one, she took out a string of pearls and put them on. She smiled at herself in the looking glass.

  But then a familiar cry of pain made her remember exactly where she was. Colin! Mrs. Medlock must be in his room, forcing him to have more of the medicine he hated.

  Mary shrugged off the dress and boa, and leaving them on the floor with the rest of the clothes, she hurried back into the first room and listened at the door. As she did so, she put her hand to her neck. She still had the pearls! She pulled them off and dropped them into the pocket of her dressing gown. She’d put them back later. Colin’s screams had turned to sobs now, and she could hear Mrs. Medlock leaving. As her footsteps echoed away down the stairs, Mary pushed the door open, intending to go to Colin, but just then, a sound on the landing made her hesitate.

  She peeped out. Her uncle was walking quickly toward Colin’s room from the other end of the corridor. He arrived at Colin’s door and stopped. His hand reached for the door, but then he pulled it back, his face a mass of conflicting emotions.

  Why isn’t he going in? thought Mary in astonishment. She knew that if she had been in pain and her father still alive, he would have rushed to her side.

  Taking a deep breath, her uncle ran his hand through his hair, then turned and walked slowly back the way he had come.

  At that moment, Mary hated her uncle with a passion. Why hadn’t he gone in and comforted Colin? Colin’s mother might have loved him, but his father obviously didn’t.

  With her uncle and Mrs. Medlock out and about in the corridors, Mary didn’t dare risk going into Colin’s room again. Instead, she hurried back to her own bedroom. So much had happened that day—Jemima being caught in the trap, finding the garden and the hidden room with all those clothes and photographs, Colin telling her he was going to die. Mary thought about the photograph of her mother and aunt holding hands with two young children. Could it possibly have been her and Colin in the photo? But no. Colin had said he’d never been able to walk, and the girl couldn’t have been her because she’d never been to England. So who were those children?

  When Mary fell asleep, images filled her head—flashes of the secret garden, the dog, the robin . . . She was running through the flower beds. The weeds had gone, and they were now filled with enormous bright flowers . . . and as she burst through them, she was suddenly in India again. Daddy was chasing her, pretending to be a monster, and she was giggling with delight. . . . Now she was sitting on the veranda. She had an exercise book on her knee, and it was filled with writing. The door opened, and through it she could see her mother lying on a daybed. Their eyes met, and Mary felt a surge of hope. Maybe this time Mother would see her?

  “I have written a story, Mother!” she called, going to the door. “Can I read it to you?”

  “No, Mary. Not now. Please go away,” her mother said wearily. “I need peace and quiet.”

  “But, Mother, I wrote it for you. . . .”

  Her mother motioned to a servant in the room, and the door was shut in Mary’s face.

  She hates me, Mary thought, two tears escaping and spilling down her cheeks.

  “Mary?” It was her father. He jumped up onto the veranda and saw her tears. “Oh, monkey,” he said, wiping them away with his thumb. “Did you want to see Mother?” Mary nodded and he sighed. “She . . . she can’t see you at the moment. She’s sad.”

  “But I could try and make her happy, Daddy,” said Mary.

  He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m afraid that’s not going to work, monkey. Seeing you makes her feel worse. Try not to take it to heart.”

  Mary didn’t understand. Why would the sight of her make her mother feel worse?

  “Your mother is sick,” her father went on sadly. “So sick.”

  Mary scowled. “I wish she’d just get on and die and leave us all alone!”

  “Mary, you mustn’t speak like that!” her father said sharply. “Now be a good girl and run along. I need to go to work.”

  Mary had held in her tears. She would be a good girl like her father asked because, if she wasn’t, well, maybe Daddy would start shutting doors on her and stop loving her too.

  Mary woke to the sound of Martha cleaning out the grate in the fireplace. “Morning, miss,” she said, giving Mary a friendly smile as Mary sat up in bed.

  “Good morning, Martha,” said Mary. She watched the maid work for a moment. “Martha? Have you worked here long?”

  “Ever since I were twelve, miss. I started here as a scullery maid. Things were very different back in them days. There were scullery maids and parlor maids, footmen, a butler, stable boys.” She shook her head. “They were different times, miss.”

  “Before the war,” said Mary.

  “And before the mistress died,” said Martha quietly. “It’s hard to believe now, but this house was once filled with light, laughter, happiness.”

  “What was my aunt, Grace, like?” Mary asked curiously.

  Martha looked surprised. “Didn’t your mother talk of her at all?”

  “No. She never talked about England. Not that I can remember anyway,” said Mary.

  “Maybe it pained her too much,” said Martha with a sigh. “She and the mistress, thick as thieves they were. The crying that happened when it was announced that your father was going to be sent to India. . . .” She shook her head. “I’ll never forget it. I don’t know how your mother coped to lose the mistress when she died. It must have half killed her.” She stood up. “Do you need anything else, miss?”

  “No,” said Mary, seeing that her porridge was on the table. She smiled. “I can manage now, Martha. Thank you.”

  Looking surprised but pleased, Martha left. Mary got herself clothed, choosing a dress that had no buttons at the back, then she sat down to eat her porridge. She thought about everything that Martha had said. She’d never realized her mother and Aunt Grace had been so close. It must have been terribly hard for her mother to leave England. Even more terrible must have been the news that Aunt Grace had died.

  The dream she’d had the night before came back into Mary’s head. She knew it wasn’t just a dream—it was a memory too. She could remember waiting on the veranda and the unhappiness that had surged through her when the door had been shut in her face. But for the first time, she wondered if maybe her mother had been unhappy too—grieving for her sister who had died. Thinking that made Mary feel a little differently about her mother.

  Mary was still pondering it when she went outside. She’d managed to get some more Spam sandwiches from Cook, and she headed into the gardens. As she walked down a path, she heard a crack behind her. Her heart thumped. Was someone following her?

  She slipped behind a huge oak tree and found a space underneath a cavernous rhododendron bush. Hiding under its branches, she watched as Mrs. Medlock came past, looking suspiciously left and right.

  Oh, thought Mary with a slight smile, so Mrs. Medlock is on my trail and thinks she is clever enough to spy on me, does she? Well, we shall see about that!

  12

  Dickon

  Mary waited until Mrs. Medlock came back along the path, looking cranky as she retraced her steps. Once she had vanished from sight, Mary emerged from the bush and continued on her way, calling for Jemima.

  The dog didn’t appear, but Mary caught sight of a figure in the mist. It was Martha’s brother, Dickon. Anger surged through her. She was sure he was the one who was responsible for setting the trap—for injuring Jemima!

  “Dickon? Stop!” she said, marching toward him.

 
; Dickon started to step away.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Mary cried. “Unless you want me to instruct your sister to box your ears. . . .”

  Dickon stopped. “Martha wouldn’t do that. She loves me plenty more than you.”

  “And would she still love you if she knew you’d been setting traps and poaching?” Mary demanded furiously.

  Dickon marched toward her indignantly, and she saw there was a white stoat poking its head out of the top pocket of his green jacket. “Poaching? I were not. I’ve never set a trap in me life!”

  “You have,” said Mary but with less certainty. “You must have done. You set a trap on the moors. My dog, Jemima, found it.”

  “Jemima?” Dickon raised his eyebrows. “If you’re meaning the brown dog that hangs around these grounds, I’m not sure it’ll be too fond of that name, seeing as it’s a boy.”

  “A boy?” echoed Mary in astonishment. “Jemima’s a boy dog?”

  Dickon nodded.

  “Oh.” Mary chewed her lip for a moment. Whether Jemima was a boy or a girl didn’t seem so important right then. She—or he—was hurt and it seemed that Dickon hadn’t been responsible for the trap. “Well, that doesn’t matter. Not really. What’s important is that he’s hurt.”

  “Hurt?” Dickon’s voice changed in an instant. “Where is he? Can you take me to him?”

  “I could.” Mary gave him a wary look. “But why should I trust you?”

  “I know how to make him better,” said Dickon simply. “Trust that.”

  Mary met his dark brown eyes and saw the honesty there. “Very well, but if I’m going to show you, I need you to agree to keep a secret.”

  Dickon nodded and spat on his hand. “On me honor I’ll keep it,” he said gravely and held his hand out.

  Mary was puzzled. “Why have you just spat on yourself?”

  Dickon looked surprised. “You spit too,” he explained. “Then we shake. Then we’re bonded. But if you’re too much of a fine lady . . .”

  Mary tossed her head. “I am no lady, sir!” she declared. She spat on her hand and shook his firmly. She gave him an impish grin, and he grinned back.

  “Now, where’s this dog?”

  Mary took Dickon to the wall. “We have to climb over here,” she said. “We can use the branches of this tree.” She pulled herself up.

  Dickon followed her, and as they reached the top, a look of delight crossed his face as he gazed at the secret garden spread out on the other side.

  Mary’s heart swelled with happiness at being able to share her find. “This is my secret,” she said, “and you are to keep it. You’re just here to help Jem—the dog.”

  Dickon nodded, and they climbed down, using the creepers. Mary was careful to hang on tight to the leaves so she didn’t fall like the day before. When she reached the bottom, she raced away with a whoop. “This way!”

  Dickon followed her. They charged through the trees together until they burst into a clearing, and Mary stopped to grab a breath.

  “Look at this place,” said Dickon, turning around in delight. “There’s a badger’s sett.” He pointed to a bank with a large hole in it. “And when the spring comes there’ll be rabbits and squirrels, hedgehogs, stoats, and voles. Foxes too!”

  His eyes shone, and Mary loved seeing the excitement on his face. She couldn’t wait to show him the rest of the garden, but first she had to find the dog.

  “Jemima!” she called. She gave Dickon a slightly rueful look. “I suppose I’ll have to change his name.”

  “Let’s get him mended first,” said Dickon.

  “Jemima!” Mary called again. She sat down and took a piece of Spam out of one of her sandwiches and threw it on the ground.

  There was a sudden rustle, and the dog appeared on three legs from a nearby bush. He grabbed the Spam and looked warily at Dickon.

  “Hello, fella,” said Dickon.

  Mary took out some more Spam, and the dog limped toward her.

  “How did you get here? Owner not come back from the war?” Dickon said softly.

  The dog stared at him, still wary.

  “I’ll do you no harm,” said Dickon. He glanced at Mary. “Can you get him to come to you?”

  She waved the Spam, and the dog approached her. As he passed Dickon, he grabbed him and turned him upside down.

  “What are you doing?” Mary gasped as the dog howled. “Let go of him!”

  “Shush now.” Dickon started to whisper in the dog’s ear. Mary couldn’t hear what he said, but the dog slowly relaxed and Dickon investigated the wounded leg. As he touched it with careful fingers, the dog whimpered softly.

  “You tricked me!” hissed Mary angrily.

  The dog whined.

  Dickon’s eyes met Mary’s. “He trusts you. Will you hold his head?”

  Mary crept closer and stroked the dog. “How is he?” she said. “How’s his leg?”

  “Nothing broken, but it’s going rotten and if we don’t see to it he’ll lose his leg—and, chances are, his life,” said Dickon, checking the wound again.

  “What can you do?” said Mary anxiously.

  “Is there running water near here?”

  “Yes, there’s a stream,” said Mary. “If I can remember how to find it.” As she looked around doubtfully, the trees seemed to part slightly and the sun shone down, lighting up a path. Mary blinked. Had that really just happened?

  Yes, she thought with absolute certainty. This garden is magic.

  “It’s this way,” she said, pointing down the path. “I’m sure.”

  The path took them all the way through the trees to the clearing with the stream. Dickon strode toward the glittering, running water with the dog in his arms. Shrugging off his bag, he knelt on the bank, and holding the dog near the water, he washed out the wound. The dog whimpered, but seemed to sense that the boy was helping him and didn’t try to escape.

  “There,” said Dickon at last.

  Mary had been watching, fascinated.

  “In me bag, you’ll find a cloth. A knife too. Cut the cloth into pieces so I can bind this up and keep the muck out. Quickly now.”

  For a moment, Mary bristled at being bossed around, but then she told herself not to be silly. Dickon was only trying to help, and he knew more than she did about animals and their wounds. She hurried to his bag and found the sheathed knife and the cloth. It was wrapped around a hunk of rough brown bread and crumbly cheese. She put the food on the grass beside his bag.

  “I’ve never used a knife like this before,” she said, pulling it from its sheath.

  “Then go careful with it,” said Dickon. “Or I’ll be fixing you up too.”

  Frowning with concentration, Mary cut the cloth into strips and handed them to him. “That’s really good, that,” said Dickon, looking impressed.

  Mary felt a warm glow spread through her. She watched as he wound the strips around the dog’s leg, bandaging up the nasty wound. When it was finished, the dog licked Dickon’s hands and chin gratefully. Dickon chuckled.

  “Feel better does it, sir? Now that’s enough with you thanking me,” he said, gently pushing the dog away. “Let’s see you walk, lad.”

  The dog hobbled a step and then tried to run, but collapsed in the grass with a howl.

  “Dickon! You haven’t fixed anything! You’ve made it worse!” cried Mary. She jumped up to go to the dog, but Dickon held her back.

  “No. Wait, lass.”

  The grass shivered, and as they watched, it seemed to grow around the still form of the dog, wrapping him up, covering him like a protective green blanket. The dog fell asleep.

  “Just give it time,” Dickon said softly. “Both of you. We’ve done all we can for now.”

  Mary gazed at the dog. “We’re hoping the garden will magic him well?” she said softly.

  Dickon nodded. “Come the morning, we’ll have an answer.” He looked grave. “Let’s hope it’s the one we want.”

  “The garden will help,” Mary said fi
rmly.

  “We’ll see,” said Dickon.

  Getting to his feet, he fetched his bread and cheese. “Now, no point in letting this go to waste,” he said. “Do you want some?”

  “I have my own sandwiches,” said Mary, opening the bag. “I get them from Cook and share them with Jem—the dog.”

  She took out the sandwiches, and she and Dickon ate in a companionable silence as the grass rustled in the breeze and the sunlight sparkled on the stream.

  13

  The Hidden Room

  That night, Mary returned to Colin’s room, wondering what mood she would find him in. To her relief, he seemed happy to see her. “Sit,” he said rather grandly, pointing to the end of his bed. “Now I want to know more about this magic garden.”

  Mary didn’t need any more encouragement. She had explored some more with Dickon that afternoon, and she had so much she wanted to tell Colin. “I will, but then you must spit and promise not to breathe a word to anyone. It really is the most wonderful place!” Her eyes shone.

  “There are hundreds of trees and plants, the moss glows and there are strange plants that look like giant umbrellas.” Her words came faster as she tried to convey the magic of the garden.

  “There’s an ancient temple that looks as if it’s grown up out of the ground, with a lake inside, and a path lined with statues, and a stream that can heal wounds. There are animals there too, most sleeping under the ground still until spring comes, and there are birds. A robin who reveals secrets and a dog who is master of it all!”

  “That last bit sounds like rot, but is there really a lake in a temple?” Colin asked eagerly.

  “Well, maybe you wouldn’t call it a lake,” Mary said. “More a pond. But there is a stream and I believe it can heal. Now you promised to spit,” she reminded him.

  Colin shifted in his bed. He spoke awkwardly as if he didn’t like admitting he didn’t know something. “Mary, you . . . you may need to educate me in how to spit.”

  Mary laughed and spat on her hand and held it out.