Return to the Secret Garden

by Holly Webb

  At last she let out a sharp, frightened gasp, and wrenched the handle round. The door creaked a little, and caught, and then opened inwards. Emmie ducked right beneath the trails of ivy and stepped into the secret garden.

  A rush of scent and twittering and early morning wet grass wrapped around her.

  Mary’s description of the garden, wild and overgrown and winter-grey, was still strong in her mind, so what struck her all at once was the brightness and the scent of roses. They had not been dead, after all… They still poured themselves from tree to tree in great trailing curtains, and there seemed to be flowers all around her.

  Emmie closed the green door and leaned against it, staring around. The garden looked to be about the same size as the kitchen gardens – perhaps it had been built as one, originally, before it was made into a rose garden? But instead of neatly edged beds, full of late lettuces, there were trees all around the walls, apples and peaches and plums, with just enough of each still on the branches for Emmie to see what they were. Between the trees there was a lawn, but this wasn’t a smooth carpet of green, like the terrace that ran down to the fish pond. Instead the grass was broken up here and there with clusters of tall evergreen bushes, each one like a frame for a carved stone seat, or a statue, or a huge urn spilling over with flowers.

  She wandered breathlessly under the arches, reaching up every so often to touch a rose, laughing as they shed their petals on her face and shoulders. The summer had been long, and hot, and many of the roses had finished flowering already, with just the odd late blossom left here and there, but Emmie would have found it hard to believe that there could be more flowers. She seemed to be wrapped up in them, roses overhead, and spilling out of the flower beds a great mass of lilies, so strongly scented that she could almost see the perfume in the air.

  The early morning sun was brighter now, warming her through the skimpy sleeves of her cardigan. Emmie smiled to herself, and began to whirl around, spinning like a top, lifting her chin and closing her eyes, so she saw only a rich orange sunglow under the lids. The scents of the garden swirled around her and she spun on until she staggered, dizzy and giggling. Then she slowed down, stepping gently from foot to foot as she twirled, listening to the hum of bees, and the tiny birds twittering in amongst the creepers.

  The garden couldn’t be a secret now, Emmie realized, as she stopped to lean dizzily against a great tree: a tree that had no leaves of its own, but was so wrapped in climbing roses that it seemed more alive than ever. Mary had described a garden that had been abandoned. Now the grass had been trimmed, and although the roses still scrambled wildly everywhere, they had been shaped around the trees and statues. Even though the door had been hidden, it was no longer locked.

  “She let other people in,” Emmie whispered to herself regretfully. She had so wanted it to be her secret too. She could have hidden herself away.

  But she could still come here, she decided. It was only hers now, so early in the morning. There would be other times too. And if someone came, it wasn’t as if there was nowhere to hide. Emmie smiled to herself, riffling the petals of a fat, crimson-purple rose. The petals were layered together so tightly that even her small fingers wouldn’t slip between them.

  It wasn’t a secret garden any more – but it could still be her garden full of secrets.

  Over the next few days, Emmie went to the garden whenever she could, prowling around and looking at the statues, and the flowers. Sometimes she pinched away the dying flowers on the roses – not because she knew it was the right thing to do, but because she didn’t like the faded colours, and the way the browned flowers smelled so sickly sweet. She piled up the dead flowers in a corner behind one of the statues, so they didn’t show.

  The robin watched her, often perching in the trees above her head and twittering, she thought with approval. “You like me being here, don’t you?” she said to him once, hurrying past with an old basket full of rose heads. She had found the basket behind one of the glasshouses, and she’d brought a little pair of sewing scissors too, that she’d found abandoned in the schoolroom. They were good for snipping away the flowers, and no one missed them. The real garden tools were all locked away in the sheds.

  The robin came closer to her every day – once, he even sat on the basket. She was almost sure that he had his home in an overgrown corner of the garden. There was a tiny statue of a boy playing a flute, almost hidden by creepers, their leaves orange and golden now that autumn was coming. In the spring, it would be the perfect place for a nest.

  On the days she’d been in the garden, Emmie came back to the house for breakfast in a hurry, forgetful of the time and with petals in her hair, and somehow the garden made it easier to put up with Arthur’s smirking face or Ruby whining for help with her buttons. She went back there in her head, wandering among the lilies and roses, or stretching out on the sun-warmed stone of the seats. Then she would surprise Ruby by twirling her around and hugging her once the dress was all buttoned up.

  Often Emmie just sat, curled up under the great dead tree. She leaned against the seamed bark, gazing round and imagining it all as Mary had seen it, dark and dead in winter. How long would she and the others be here? No one had said. Would she see the garden in winter too? Emmie was still reading the diary, but being out in the gardens so much made her tired, and she never managed to puzzle her way through much of the ornate handwriting before she fell asleep.

  Walking about the garden and admiring the flowers made her wonder what all their names were, and if there was someone she could ask. She would have liked to talk to the gardener with the false leg, Mr Sowerby, but even though she saw him again in the kitchen gardens, she didn’t go up to him. How could she explain what she wanted to know, and why? What if he realized what she was doing, and told her that garden was private, and she mustn’t go in there again? She still would, but it would take the shine off her secret. Besides, Emmie’s stomach squirmed when she thought of the way she had looked at his face. She didn’t know how to say she hadn’t meant to grimace. Or that she’d only meant it for a fraction of a second. She wasn’t sure that there was a proper way to say that.

  The garden felt more like it belonged to her every day, with every fallen leaf she gathered up. Emmie hated the thought that one morning she might walk in, and find someone else already there. For the first few mornings, she peered fearfully around the door, trying to hear if there were voices, or if one of the gardeners was whistling inside. But no one seemed to know about the garden, even though she occasionally saw that more deadheading had been done than she could have managed, that the heavy-headed lilies had been carefully tied up with twine, the leaves falling from the apple trees had been raked away. The garden was loved, but no one ever seemed to go in it. No one except Emmie, sneaking in like a thief.

  Until the golden, sunny afternoon when she sauntered out after they’d had lessons, and saw Mrs Craven walking down the long path by the brick wall, with a letter in her hand.

  Emmie knew where she was going – she knew, but she had to watch anyway, biting her lip, wishing and wishing that it wasn’t going to happen. But it did. Almost without looking, Mrs Craven put out her hand to sweep the ivy away, and then slipped in through the green door. She left it standing open, as if she didn’t care whether the garden were secret or not. Emmie stood on the path by the lilac tree, watching and waiting, her fists clenched, and her teeth bared like an angry little cat. She stood there for half an hour, hating. When she heard footsteps in the garden, she pressed herself back against the wall behind the lilac, and tried not to snarl as Mrs Craven sauntered by in a trail of some sweet, flowery perfume. It made Emmie want to cough.

  As soon as Mrs Craven had disappeared round the corner of the path, Emmie sneaked back in. She expected that somehow the garden would look different – that she would be able to see the way it had been spoiled. But the roses were blooming just the same.

  Emmie lay down on
the grass behind a veil of small pink roses. Mrs Craven had been sitting on a bench in one of the alcoves, and most of the time she had had her eyes closed – Emmie had looked. She hadn’t picked any flowers, or even walked around. But still the secret garden felt different, as though it had woken up from a dream, or Emmie had. Misselthwaite was Mrs Craven’s house, and her husband’s, and David and Jack’s. Not one part of it was Emmie’s. It never had been.

  “I shouldn’t ever have pretended it was my garden…” she whispered to herself, pressing her face into the crook of her elbow. She had – in her head she had moved one of the statues that she didn’t like. She had imagined planting a great drift of purple daisies in and out of the white lilies, and building a little summerhouse with its walls all made of roses and the sweet honeysuckle she’d seen, clambering up a sunny patch of wall by the green door.

  She had pictured herself curled up in a chair, a wicker chair like the ones that stood on the terrace in front of the grand rooms of the house, covered in cushions. Golden honey-smelling flowers grew over her head, thrumming with bees. Lucy had been stretched out asleep on her lap, a safe, contented Lucy who belonged, like she did. They had been happy.

  And now it was all gone. Lucy had never even been in the garden. Lucy was probably destroyed, like that boy had said. She didn’t even have a cat curled up with her on a rusty old fire escape any more, let alone in a house made of flowers. It was all a silly, empty daydream. Emmie wailed, forgetting to be quiet, and secret. It didn’t matter anyway. The garden was broken. The secret was gone.

  She wept, tears streaming down her cheeks and trickling into the grass.

  “Lass. Lass. Look at me.”

  Emmie rolled over, gasping, as someone caught her arm. She hadn’t even heard him coming.

  “Whatever’s the matter?”

  It was the gardener, Mr Sowerby, looking down at her with the unscarred side of his face pink and worried.

  Emmie wanted to howl again, and run – but she couldn’t. If she did that, he might think it was because she was frightened of him, and she wasn’t, she just desperately wished that everyone would leave her alone. She pulled away from him, and huddled over, curled into a ball with her face hidden in her knees.

  “Did someone hurt thee?”

  Emmie managed to shake her head, as much as she could curled up. “Go away,” she sobbed. “Leave me alone.”

  He was silent for a while – so silent that she almost wondered if he’d gone. But when she looked up, he had settled himself uncomfortably on a little white bench under the rose arch. He was rubbing his leg as though it hurt.

  “Isn’t that a false leg?” Emmie asked, shakily. “It can’t be hurting. You can’t even feel if you rub it.”

  “Tell that to th’ leg,” he muttered. “Now, what’s making thee take on so?” Then his gaze sharpened, and he stopped massaging his leg and leaned forward to look at her properly. “Is it you? Been deadheading the roses?”

  Emmie dropped her head again. “Wasn’t it right? They were brown. I wanted to make room for the others, the little ones that were just opening out.”

  He chuckled, such a surprising noise that Emmie looked up and stared at him. He had bright blue eyes, she noticed, now that she was looking past the scars. Sky-blue eyes, and dark red hair curling out from under his cap.

  “Tha’s been doing a grand job of it, lass. Don’t tha’ worry.”

  “I didn’t know where to put the brown bits,” Emmie admitted. “I hid them behind the statue over there. That one of the girl with the silly smile.” Then she sighed, rubbing her hands across her sore eyes. Now even that secret was gone.

  He nodded, and then leaned back against the bench, drawing a piece of wood and a knife from his pocket. He opened the knife out, and began to shave tiny flecks of wood away, shaping something. He didn’t talk to Emmie, but he must have sensed her edging closer to the bench.

  “What is it?” she asked at last. She couldn’t quite see – the carving was tiny.

  He opened up his hand and showed her, and Emmie laughed. The robin was peeking out at her, head on one side, tail-feathers practically twitching.

  “It’s the robin – the one who lives in this garden, isn’t it?” She reached out one finger, wanting to stroke it, and then looked up at him, pleadingly. “If I was to tell you what she looked like, do you think you could make a cat? I’d do more helping in the garden, whatever you wanted. You’d just have to show me, I promise I’d do it.”

  “A cat, is it?”

  “Maybe only a kitten. I don’t think she ever had enough food to grow much.”

  “Like thee, then.”

  Emmie sighed. “I’m fatter now. I gave some of my food to Lucy. That’s my cat’s name. I didn’t mind.” Her voice shook. “She’d love it here. They keep giving us milk. I’d smuggle it out to her. And the porridge, it’s nicer here.”

  “A real little cat, this is then?” He was frowning now, and Emmie nodded. She thought he was cross.

  “I never wanted to leave her! I had her all ready to go in a basket; I wanted to bring her with us, away from the bombs, but Miss Dearlove said she was disgusting, and she wasn’t, she was a love. She was all mine.”

  Suddenly she couldn’t bear his eyes on her, and she stumbled up, grabbing at the bench, meaning to run away. But he caught at her hand. “Stay. Tell me about tha’ little cat.”

  His voice was so gentle and coaxing that Emmie paused, half-ready to run, like a little wild thing. His hand was rough from working in the garden, but he wasn’t holding her tight. If she’d pulled hard, she could easily have got away. But she didn’t. She stayed, like the robin, who’d perched on the gardener’s shoulder.

  “Tell us about her…” He patted the bench, and Emmie settled in the corner, drawing up her knees.

  “She’s black,” Emmie began. Then she closed her eyes, trying to make a picture of Lucy in her head. It was getting harder and harder to see her. “Black all over, and quite thin. Arthur and Joey said she was skinny,” she added, and her scowl came back, just for a moment, drawing two deep lines above her nose. Then she sighed, and her face smoothed out again. “Even her whiskers are black. The only colour’s her eyes, and they’re yellowy-green. They shine. They even glow, sometimes, when it’s dark on the fire escape.”

  “That’s where thee found her, then?”

  “It’s my place,” Emmie explained. “No one goes there except for me.” She shivered, and opened her eyes to look at him. “No one’s in that house now at all. It’s empty. I don’t know when we’ll go back.”

  “Does tha’ miss it?”

  Emmie shook her head. “No. I – I like it here…” She said it slowly, as if she were only just working it out for herself. “I love this garden especially,” she added. “I thought it was a secret.”

  She was looking out across the garden, so she didn’t see him glance up, his eyes widening.

  “A secret?” His voice was wistful, and he glanced up at the covering of roses, and then the neatly cut grass, as if he was seeing something different.

  “No one else came. Like the fire escape, only better. Much better.” Emmie sighed. “Except that I didn’t have Lucy. I don’t even know where she is.” She wriggled up, and put her hand on his knee. “Do you know the boy who lives here? Jack?”

  He nodded.

  “He said that cats in London are being destroyed. Because there won’t be enough food.” Her voice wobbled. “Lucy doesn’t eat much. I gave her a bit, and I think Mrs Evans in the kitchen did too. Mostly she took stuff out of bins.” She hesitated, not wanting to ask, in case he told her the truth. But then she remembered how the robin had perched on his shoulder, and trusted him. This man understood about creatures, she thought. “Do you think she’s still there? What if someone…” She couldn’t say it.

  “Cats is clever,” he murmured. “And they likes their
own place. She knows where to hide herself away, doesn’t she?”

  Emmie nodded, remembering the way that Lucy had appeared on the fire escape, almost out of nowhere. “But there’s no one to feed her.”

  “She’ll get by. Is that why tha’ were crying? Worrying about th’ little cat?”

  “I could remember her properly here. I planted a house for her…” She looked round at him, suspiciously, in case he were laughing. But he was watching her, his face grave, and remembering.

  “Tha’ reminds me of another little lass,” he said, stretching out his leg as though it ached.

  Emmie eyed him curiously, wanting to ask who he meant, but even though he was gazing out across the garden, she didn’t think he could see glowing hips of the roses, shining against the clipped yew hedges. It was as though he had forgotten she was there. She watched him silently, seeing his mouth twist in a remembering smile.

  Then at last the gardener sighed, and glanced down at her and slapped his knees. “I better get on. Only came in here after I heard thee wailing. Be of good faith, lass. Tha’ cat will be waiting for thee, when tha’ goes back.” He stood up, limping back to the barrow he’d left on the path, and Emmie watched him go. He hadn’t his crutch today; his leg must be feeling better.

  She turned back sharply as something rustled behind her. Was it the robin again? She peered at the bushes, hoping to see his black eyes glittering among the leaves. But instead, there was a boy, guiltily half-stooping behind the great dead tree.

  “You!” Emmie sprang up. “What are you doing? Were you listening? Were you spying on me? Have you been there all this time?”

  Jack had looked almost apologetic, when she first saw him, but now he straightened up, and marched out from behind the tree with a haughty expression. “Yes. And I wasn’t spying. This is my garden. This is my house. I can go anywhere I like.”