The Garden of Lost Secrets

by Ann-Marie Howell

  “The Zeppelin – we need to get out of here, now!” She glanced again at the Zeppelin, which was closer now, turning the gaps of sky between the buildings into a hypnotic and shimmery silver. She dragged her eyes away, back towards Robert. Clara stepped towards him, held out a trembling hand and gestured for him to come with her. “I know what you did. I know you stole the fruits. But it will be okay. We can go and tell Mr Gilbert and…”

  Robert glanced at the parcel at his feet. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words did not have time to arrive.

  The whistling noise made Clara’s ears pop. The orange flash made stars dance in front of her eyes.

  Boom.

  Time seemed to pause, as if the world was a clock whose hands had been stopped. Clara was flung backwards; her outstretched arm whipped into her side with a heavy thump as she landed on the ground. Everything was spinning, and she did not know which way was up and which was down. A sharp spiral of pain wound along her right leg. Light flickered at the edges of her vision. Smoke. Fire.

  Everything was on fire. Thick dark smoke choked Clara’s lungs and stung her eyes. The pain in her calf worsened. She reached down, felt her ripped stocking. Her fingers came away sticky and warm. Blood. She pushed herself upright, the pain making her dizzy. She blinked and coughed, stared at the pile of smoking, dusty rubble where Robert had been standing a few moments before. A piece of red wood lay near her right leg. She suddenly felt as if she was floating above the streets and into the clouds with the Zeppelin. It was the door Robert had been knocking on. It had been splintered into sections, the wood scattered like matchsticks. Which meant Robert…

  Clara dragged in a breath of dust, gritted her teeth and rolled onto her knees. She had to find him, for Will’s sake. Whatever he had done, Robert was the only family Will had left.

  She crawled towards the rubble. “Robert,” she croaked.

  “Miss? Miss?” Wavering torches. Hands on her shoulders, helping her to her feet.

  “No,” she said, shrugging them off, wincing at a new burst of pain. “Robert,” she croaked again. “There was a man, standing at the door.”

  “Which door, Miss?” shouted a man, bending over so his ear was close to her mouth. She felt his breath on her cheek, caught a whiff of onions. Clara stared at the splintered red wood. There was no door. It had gone, just like Robert. She fell to the side, her breaths coming too sharp and too fast. It felt as if someone had ironed her lungs flat and no amount of air she dragged through her lips would fully inflate them. Pain exploded through her chest and she closed her eyes.

  Two men with bright torches were rooting through the rubble. “Is anyone alive?” they were yelling. “Shout if you’re trapped.”

  The onion-breath man had his arms around her and was lifting her to her feet again. Clara was too weak to resist. “Fetch a stretcher. She’s bleeding.”

  Poor girl, thought Clara numbly. How awful to be hurt like that. What terrible luck. Then with a jolt she realized he was talking about her.

  “Look,” shouted another voice.

  Clara summoned all of her strength and lifted her head. The smoke and dust were clearing. A man was standing in the debris holding something aloft. The beam of a torch swept across it. The thing being held was spiky and familiar and made Clara’s head and chest ache.

  “A pineapple!” shouted the man in amazement.

  “No,” panted Clara.

  “Won’t be long now, love. Get you to hospital nice and quick,” said the onion-breath man, cradling her in his arms. He smoothed her hair away from her cheeks, which were slick with sweat and tears.

  “The pineapple,” Clara said breathlessly, reaching out for it. She blinked the dust from her eyes and looked again for the man holding the fruit, but he had gone.

  The hand on Clara’s forehead was cool and pleasant. She felt rather hot and feverish and the sheets were scratchy against her skin.

  “The shrapnel cut was deep,” murmured a man’s voice. “She lost a lot of blood and she’ll have a tremendous scar, but she’ll recover well. We thought for a time she may have punctured a lung, but it was bruising to the ribs. She had a lucky escape.”

  A strange noise, a whimper, filtered into Clara’s ears.

  Her eyes flickered open.

  Mrs Gilbert was leaning over her, gently stroking her forehead. “Oh,” she whispered. She gave Clara a shaky smile. “You poor, poor girl. You gave us such a fright.”

  Clara turned her head. Mr Gilbert was sitting on the other side of the bed, his hands clasped together, almost as if he was praying. His eyes were bloodshot, his bird’s-nest hair even more dishevelled than usual.

  “Clara,” he said simply.

  The Zeppelin.

  The bomb.

  Robert.

  The pineapple.

  It all came flooding back like a tidal wave, knocking the little breath she had from her lungs. Clara turned her head to one side. Beds lined the room; crisp white sheets and hushed voices and the smell of something soapy and clean. She was in hospital.

  “Your mother is on her way,” Mrs Gilbert said softly. “She got the first train this morning. She’ll arrive this evening.”

  Clara’s throat felt thick, like she had swallowed a pot of glue. This evening? How long had she been asleep?

  “Robert,” she wheezed, looking at Mr Gilbert. “Kitty?” She placed a hand on her ribs, which felt tender, like the horse had been lying on them.

  Mr Gilbert’s face tightened. “Kitty is fine. The bombs gave her a fright and she ran off, taking the cart with her. One of the boys found her down by the meadows. She’s back at the stables. As for Robert…we don’t know where he is.”

  Clara tried to push herself upright. Mrs Gilbert supported her and patted the pillows into shape. She waited for a minute or two for Clara to catch her breath. “That’s it, nice and steady. Take deep breaths if you can,” she said, stroking Clara’s hair from her face. Mrs Gilbert’s overworked fingers were gentle, and the gesture made Clara’s ribs ache even more.

  She closed her eyes and felt herself slipping into a dream where careful hands were lifting her hair and fastening something cool around her neck. Except it wasn’t a dream. Her eyes jerked open and her fingers reached up to her throat. Mrs Gilbert’s gold chain sat there, the cross nestling in the hollow of her neck.

  Mrs Gilbert grasped Clara’s other hand between hers and rubbed warmth into her stiff fingers. “I want you to have this necklace. I hope it will…keep you safe.” Her lips tilted into a tiny smile.

  Clara gave her a weak smile in return, her fingers sliding over the gold worn smooth by her aunt’s touch. This was one of her aunt’s most precious possessions, had been with her in good times and bad. A sense of calm washed over Clara, like the palest of blue spring skies. She had a feeling she and her aunt could perhaps become friends in time.

  Mrs Gilbert cleared her throat and plumped up Clara’s pillows again (even though they really didn’t need any more plumping). Mr Gilbert’s eyes twinkled, and he patted Clara on the arm.

  There was so much to be thankful for. And yet… “Robert was there. Then he wasn’t,” Clara whispered. “The bomb…”

  Mrs Gilbert passed Clara a glass of water. She took a sip, letting the coolness soothe her sandpapery throat.

  Mr Gilbert pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. It was the paper Clara had taken from Robert’s jacket. A one-way passage to Brazil for a Mr Robert Wiltshire. Paid in full. The Royal Mail steamer was due to leave from Southampton the following week.

  “One of the nurses found this in your pocket when you were brought to the hospital. She knew Robert, because he had been bringing the vegetables here. She left a message at the Big House to say a young girl had been injured, thinking you might work there. We put two and two together and realized it must be you. It was lucky. We would not have known what had happened to you otherwise.”

  Luck. Was this luck? Clara tried to piece it together in her head. All the decisions she had
made had led her to this point. If she hadn’t taken the papers from Robert’s pocket, if she hadn’t decided to follow him, would things have been different?

  She took another sip of water and passed the glass to Mrs Gilbert. “There was a pineapple in the rubble.”

  Mrs Gilbert’s lips thinned. “That blessed fruit. It has a lot to answer for,” she said.

  “Robert stole the fruit,” Mr Gilbert said. “We know that now. The man who lived in the house which was bombed had been selling it on the black market. He’s confessed to everything. He wasn’t in at the time of the bombing – hadn’t expected Robert until the following day. Robert used the money to pay for his passage abroad.” Mr Gilbert paused. “Will wasn’t the thief. But you did a foolish thing, Clara, following Robert like that. Things could have turned out…a lot worse.”

  The knot of anxiety in Clara’s stomach loosened. “So Will is free?”

  Mrs Gilbert nodded.

  Clara slumped back on her pillows, grimacing at the wave of pain which racked her body. The truth had been uncovered. She and Will had been right about Robert. He had lied to everyone. But the relief and gratification at knowing they were right did not course through her in the way she’d thought it would. Poor Will. Robert was a thief and now he was missing. Will had no one else in the world and nowhere to go. What was going to happen to him now?

  Clara’s mother hugged Clara so tightly, it squashed the breath from her lungs. “Oh that hurts…enough,” Clara said weakly.

  Her mother pulled away. Her eyes were watery. “Whatever have you been up to?” she murmured, clasping Clara’s hands in hers. “Stolen fruit. A boy. A Zeppelin bomb. Shrapnel in your calf. Really, Clara, when I said have an adventure while staying with your aunt and uncle, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Father and Christopher – are they recovering?” Clara asked.

  Her mother squeezed Clara’s fingers. “They will be just fine. They will arrive next week.”

  Clara’s insides jiggled. “What? Here?”

  Clara’s mother smiled. “Your uncle has found us a house on the Estate. You will be in hospital for a while. It will mean we can visit every day until you are well enough to come home to Kent with us. It will also mean Father can spend some time with his sister. I think they will both like that.”

  Clara thought about Frank, the small boy who had never had the chance to grow up and meet his distant Kentish relatives. She thought of her father, who was struggling to get over his experiences of the War. Maybe talking together about the horribleness of the last few years would help her aunt and her father – for, as she had learned, it was far better to talk about things that were bothering you than keep them hidden deep inside where they could fester and grow like weeds.

  “I took a letter that came from the War Office. It was addressed to you and Father,” said Clara, pulling away from her mother’s grasp.

  Clara’s mother raised her eyebrows and sighed. “Elizabeth said. You just wanted to protect your father – and me.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “It seems this war has made all of us determined to protect each other, in one way or another.”

  Clara let the thought settle into a spot under her sore ribs. Her parents had been trying to protect her by sending her to stay with her aunt and uncle. Her brother was trying to protect their country. She had been trying to protect Will. Mrs Gilbert had been trying to protect the memories of her dead nephew Frank. But what about Robert? He had only been trying to protect himself – running away from his mistakes, his responsibilities, from Will, from the death of their father.

  Clara’s mother glanced at the door.

  Clara followed her gaze. “Will,” she breathed.

  Clara’s mother smiled and beckoned him forward. He was clutching his cap in his hands. His eyes were heavy and dull, as if he had not slept.

  “I will just…put these flowers in some water,” Clara’s mother said, picking up the sunshine-yellow dahlias she had brought and walking off to the nurses’ station. She glanced over her shoulder and gave Clara an encouraging smile.

  There was so much to be said, but where to start?

  Will stood at the edge of the bed. He kept glancing at Clara’s right leg, thick with creamy bandages.

  “Does it hurt much?” he asked.

  “A little,” Clara said, deciding that he didn’t need to know the whole truth.

  “I’m sorry,” Will said in a low voice.

  “What? You have nothing to be sorry for,” Clara replied croakily.

  Will shuffled from foot to foot.

  “Please sit, Will. You’re making me nervous.”

  Will perched on the wooden chair, placed his cap down and rubbed his hands on his knees.

  “I’m the one who should be sorry,” Clara said. “If I hadn’t followed Robert…maybe…”

  “No,” Will said firmly. “None of this is your doing. Robert made his own choices.”

  “I just wish they’d been the right ones,” said Clara miserably.

  Will nodded, looking at the floor. “There was only one steamer ticket. Robert wasn’t planning on taking me with him. I searched his room. I thought there must be another hidden somewhere.”

  A nurse arrived at the bed next to Clara’s and began to prepare the sheets, her confident hands smoothing and tucking them into place.

  “You did a brave thing,” Will said, his eyes meeting Clara’s for the first time. They seemed to be full of pain and hurt, but also a little of something else – relief. “I would still be locked up if you hadn’t pursued Robert.”

  Clara tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m not the brave one, Will. You are.”

  A flush stole up Will’s neck. He tugged at his collar.

  “There’s been no word from Robert, then? Mr Gilbert said…he was not found in the bomb blast,” said Clara.

  Will shook his head. “He didn’t return to the estate. He’s vanished.”

  “Why?” Clara asked.

  Will shrugged and leaned forward in his chair. “Same reason he stole the fruits, I think. He couldn’t cope when Father died. The responsibility…looking after me. He’s angry he can’t enlist because of his eye, not able to accept that was of his own doing. He wants to escape. Maybe he just needs a little time on his own. Maybe he will come back for me then?” Will glanced at Clara. Hope was burning brightly in his eyes.

  Could he be right? Would Robert return? If he did, he would face questioning by the police, probably time in prison. But surely the strength of love he had for Will would outweigh all of that? Clara hoped so. But then she remembered the first time she had met Robert in the hothouses, how he had spoken dreamily of faraway places, tropical beaches. How he had lied to her about his injured eye. How he had given Will the responsibility of burying their father’s things and left him to take the blame for the thieving. How he hadn’t paid Red the hall boy for covering for them. Robert wasn’t who Will thought he was. But that was for Will to come to terms with in his own time. And when he did, Clara was going to be right there to help him.

  “What will you do now?” Clara asked, gingerly pressing on her bandage.

  “The Gilberts have taken me in.”

  Clara looked at Will in surprise. “What? You’re staying at the cottage?”

  Will nodded. “In your attic room. You…don’t mind, do you?”

  Clara shook her head, then told him about her parents coming to stay on the Estate until she was well enough to go home. “I liked being in the attic. It made me feel…small…but at the same time part of something bigger, what with the way the room overlooked the gardens and the hothouses and all the busyness.”

  “Yes, you do get a good view of the hothouses,” said Will with a smile. “You never know what, or rather who, you might see from up there.”

  “Quite,” said Clara, raising her eyebrows and remembering the first time she had seen Will emerge from the hothouses in a halo of steam. Even though she was pleased for him, the thought of Will
living in her attic room made her feel slightly odd, like it was the end of something she was not quite ready for. She sank back onto her pillows and stared up at the bare (and very high) hospital ceiling. “I hope Mrs Gilbert doesn’t dust away the spiders between the attic beams,” Clara said. “I liked watching them build their webs.”

  “They’re still there,” said Will. “They’ve as much right to be there as me or you, and it’s nice to have their company.”

  Clara smiled. The attic room had been a safe place for her to stay, but it was Will’s turn to feel safe now.

  “Mr Gilbert has given me some work on the Estate,” Will said, his voice a little brighter.

  “In the hothouses?”

  “No,” Will said wistfully. “But maybe one day, if I work hard enough. He wanted to see my notebooks. Said I had some good ideas.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Clara, her smile broadening to ache her cheeks.

  Clara’s mother returned then with the vase of flowers. “I think that’s enough talking for one day.” She placed the vase on the table next to Clara’s bed. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She took a hastily wrapped brown-paper parcel from her bag and placed it on Clara’s lap. “It’s from the Earl.”

  Clara wrinkled her nose. “The Earl? Have you met him?”

  “Yes, he was in the gardens visiting the hothouses and…the tree stump.” Clara’s mother gave her a careful glance, implying that Mrs Gilbert had told her of the tragedy of young Frank. “The Earl is arranging for some men to dig out the stump. He’s asked the gardeners to grow soft fruits there – strawberries and raspberries. He really is a very nice man.”

  Yes, thought Clara. He really is. Mrs Gilbert would like that; a sweet-smelling and useful place she could go and remember Frank, rather than the horrid tree stump to remind her of that tragic day.

  Clara rested the Earl’s parcel on the bed and carefully pulled back the paper. There sat a single fat pineapple. Will drew in a breath. “A Scarlet Brazilian.”

  Clara picked it up and turned it over in her hands, the quilted prickles digging into her skin. It was heavy and ripe.