Return to the Secret Garden

by Holly Webb

  She had seen the male robin several times that afternoon, darting importantly over the wall, trailing worms almost as long as he was. The robins’ first brood had hatched out weeks before, and flown the nest, but Jack had told her that there might be two lots of eggs, or even three. The robin was feeding his wife and his second clutch of children now – they had hatched just days before that afternoon of hide and seek. Now they must be fully feathered, almost as big as their parents. It was no wonder the robin looked harassed. Emmie watched him longingly, wishing she could swoop into the secret garden as easily as he could.

  Jack still hadn’t spoken to her since she’d gone to his room a week before. He hadn’t come back to lessons, and Miss Rose hadn’t said anything about it to his mother. Emmie didn’t know what he was doing – she saw him in the distance occasionally, vanishing round the corner of a passageway, or slipping behind a door. She’d tried running after him, but he always seemed to be just too far ahead. He knew the house well enough to disappear behind a tapestry, or slide behind a suit of armour, so that she’d never find him. He was determined to be left alone.

  Emmie turned round, and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, and feeling the sun-warmed brick against her back. She could see leaves dancing behind her eyelids, glowing in the sun, and splashed with bright petals. She ached with longing, deep inside. It hurt to be so close.

  Emmie’s breath caught in a little surprised noise. She hadn’t heard Lucy padding along the flagged path towards her. The cat wove lovingly around Emmie’s boots, purring. Emmie picked her up, and she dug her claws in and out of the sleeve of Emmie’s cardigan, her eyes closed to blissful slits. Then she abruptly wriggled on to Emmie’s shoulder, and sprang up on to the top of the wall. She scrabbled a little as she reached the top, and then glared triumphantly down at Emmie.

  “Oh, Lucy…” Emmie sighed. “Not you too. It isn’t fair.”

  The black cat padded smugly along the top of the wall for a few steps, and then stopped, her tail twitching slowly from side to side, and her green gaze fixed.

  Emmie watched her, suddenly anxious. What had she seen? It was probably just a butterfly. Lucy loved to chase them, sitting up on her haunches and batting at them with her long black paws. “Don’t eat it…” Emmie whispered. She had eaten one yesterday, such a pretty one – the soft blue wings had looked so strange sticking out of Lucy’s furry mouth. And the cat hadn’t even liked it much, she’d spat most of it back out.

  “Oh no…” Emmie stepped back and stretched up on tiptoe, trying to see over the wall, to see what Lucy was seeing. But the wall was too high – she could only glimpse the tops of the trees. “No, you can’t…”

  Lucy wasn’t listening to her. She was creeping along the top of the wall, her tail swishing.

  The robin was perched in the tree on the other side of the wall. He was pecking at the bark – it looked like there was an insect creeping about in the tiny cracks. He dragged it out triumphantly, and fluttered away – and Lucy leaped down after him, on the other side of the wall.

  “Lucy!” Emmie hissed. “Lucy, come back! You mustn’t! You can’t chase him, he’s got babies…” Then she grimaced to herself. Lucy wasn’t stupid. She would sneak across the grass, following the robin to the nest, and she would see that there were more of these soft, delicious, fluttery things. With the last clutch, Jack and Emmie had shooed her away – Jack had even found several beetles one morning, and put them down in a line in front of Lucy as a distraction. But there was no one to watch out for the robins now.

  The little cat was all on her own in the garden, hunting.

  “She’ll eat them,” Emmie moaned, scratching at the wall with her fingers, as if she could climb it too. “Lucy, come back…”

  It was no good. She whirled round, and raced through the rows of beans and tomatoes towards the path, and the ivy, and the door to the garden.

  Even knowing that it wasn’t allowed, this time the brass handle didn’t feel cold. The metal was warm and welcoming and buttery-soft under her fingers. She twisted it eagerly, so eagerly she almost fell into the garden. As she dashed out on to the grass, searching anxiously for Lucy, she could feel something tight inside her easing away. The rustling, twittering quiet seemed to seep in under her skin.

  Lucy was stalking across the grass towards the tangled corner where so many birds had nested. She seemed to consider each paw before she placed it down, and her shoulders were a little hunched, ready to spring.

  Emmie ran after her, and Lucy glanced round, startled by the heavy footsteps.

  “No! Shoo!” Emmie flapped her hands at the cat, and Lucy dodged her irritably, still intent on her hunting.

  Then the robin fluttered out of the dense thicket with a sharp, stuttering trill, and Lucy turned away, sitting down in the grass as if she’d never meant anything. She even swiped one paw across her muzzle, licking at it, and then looking at Emmie sideways, as if to say she’d only been washing. Nothing else.

  Emmie smiled lovingly at her. She knew that Lucy would be straight back to the robin’s nest as soon as she thought Emmie wasn’t looking. Perhaps she should warn Mr Sowerby? But he was still hardly talking to anyone – he didn’t do much more than growl instructions when she asked him for garden jobs. Though he had patted her shoulder the day before, when she’d shown him the trug full of peas that she had picked. He hadn’t said anything, but she was almost sure that he was sorry he’d shouted at her – or at least regretful. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell her so.

  She crouched down, scooping Lucy into her arms. They would go and watch the fish in the lily pond, she knew Lucy couldn’t catch those. She sighed, and looked round at the roses, pouring down the walls in blazing fountains of pink and red and white – she couldn’t stay. She knew it. The longer she stayed now, the harder it would be to tear herself away.

  As she walked back across the lawn, she heard the footsteps, quick and light – someone in the kitchen garden? Emmie whirled round, scanning the trees. She had played hide and seek in here so many times – why couldn’t she see anywhere to hide now? The handle was turning, she could hear that funny little squeak it made. Emmie stepped back, and another step, and another, and the door opened.

  Mrs Craven came in with a basket, and secateurs in her hand. She had a straw hat on, shading her eyes, and Emmie was standing so frozen-still that at first she didn’t notice the girl. Mrs Craven almost walked into her, and then stopped short, gasping and white-faced, as though she were truly frightened.

  That was what Lieutenant Craven’s death had done to her, Emmie realized, full of guilt. It was as if her skin had been stripped away. When that piece of yellow paper had ripped her life apart, she had lost all her protection, all her padding. Now everything hurt.

  Mrs Craven simply stared at her, and Emmie couldn’t think what to say. She had missed the garden so much while she was exiled from it that she could understand how much Jack’s mother needed to be there. She needed that calm sense of everything growing and flowering and just going on. Looking at her now, Emmie almost agreed that the garden should be hers – almost.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice was a squeak of nerves, and Lucy hissed crossly, suddenly clutched too tight.

  Mrs Craven shook her head. Either she simply couldn’t bring herself to speak, she was too angry, or she was saying it didn’t matter. Emmie couldn’t tell.

  “It was because of Lucy, I know I’m not supposed to be here, I stayed away even though I didn’t want to. Really, I did! Please don’t be upset…” Her voice trailed away. What a stupid thing to say.

  The green door crashed open again, and Mr Sowerby lurched through it, too fast and angry to balance himself properly. He almost fell, and Mrs Craven grabbed his arm.

  “What did I tell thee?” he roared at Emmie, and Lucy twisted and shot out of Emmie’s arms, her ears flat against her narrow skull. She stalked away behind a stand
of lilies, and watched them all resentfully. “Stay away, I said!”

  “I did!” Emmie yelled back, suddenly angry. “I did, for days and days! Even when I could have gone in without anyone seeing me, I stayed away.”

  “Don’t shout at her,” Mrs Craven murmured, but the gardener was too angry to listen.

  “So what are tha’ doing here, then? Ungrateful, disobedient wench that th’art!”

  “I’m not ungrateful!” Emmie screamed, clenching her fists. “I love it! How can you say I’m ungrateful? You don’t know how I feel inside! You tore me out of my place!” She glared at him, and then at Mrs Craven, breathing fast, and trying to think what she had meant. The words had come into her mouth without her thinking them first. “Yes. You did, twice. You dragged us all here, and I suppose that’s fair because none of us liked the Home much and we had to be evacuated somewhere, so why not here? But it was different from everything, and I hated it, and I didn’t have Lucy. It was only the garden that made it almost all right. Then I loved it, and I shouldn’t have done. And you tore me away again.”

  Mrs Craven was staring at her still, but the white, set look had changed to a sort of puzzled fascination. As if she were trying to recognize something.

  “She puts me in mind of thee,” Mr Sowerby muttered to her, rubbing one hand over the scarred side of his face. “A long time ago. Before all this.” He passed his hand over his face again, as if he could rub the scars away. “Mean-tempered.”

  “I’m not…” Emmie said, her voice quivering. It hurt more because it was almost true – she had been. She was still, sometimes. But not like she had been before. Was she? Wasn’t she better? The old Emmie would never have fussed over Ruby and her fish – or made such an effort to comfort Jack.

  “I was mean-tempered because I was lonely, even if I didn’t know it,” Mrs Craven broke in quietly. “Emmie was lonely too. Colin – Lieutenant Craven, I mean… He did something special, bringing your little cat back to you.”

  Emmie eyed her worriedly, hoping that she wasn’t about to cry. Her voice had shaken slightly as she spoke about him.

  “And I’ve seen you with Jack – considering how angry he was to have his home invaded by strangers, you must have put aside some of the meanness, at least. At any rate, there’s been something…”

  “It was the garden.” Emmie twisted her hands over, feeling uncomfortable with this praise. “But I haven’t seen Jack properly since … since his father… I did try. He didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to anyone,” his mother murmured. “I don’t think he can yet.”

  Emmie nodded, and then her eyes widened. She turned and darted across the grass, grabbing at Lucy. The black cat had slunk through the lilies while they were talking, making another stealthy attack on the robins’ nest. She retreated behind the statue, sulking.

  “I think I’ll have to shut her indoors,” Emmie said worriedly. “She’ll hate it. She was never an indoor cat. She even went out in the snow, and she hated it, but she just couldn’t stay inside all the time. I don’t know how to stop her. She never really noticed the first clutch hatching, she was too busy watching me and Jack, but now she knows they’re there.”

  Mr Sowerby frowned at her, drawing his one eyebrow down. “Was that why tha’ came in here? To stop th’ little cat?”

  Emmie nodded. “She was in the kitchen garden with me, and she saw the robin go over the wall. She followed him, and I could see it in her eyes, she was so excited. All he could think about was worms, and getting them to his babies. I don’t think birds are clever enough to understand they’re being hunted – or not to do anything about it, anyway. They haven’t a hope.”

  “And that was the first time you’ve been in the garden since Mr Sowerby told you to leave me in peace?” Mrs Craven asked slowly, as if she was trying to understand.

  “Yes.” Emmie folded her arms and glared. “I did what he said. I thought about not doing it though. I almost went in, a few times.”

  Mrs Craven actually laughed. A short chuckle, nothing more, but Mr Sowerby looked over at her in relieved surprise. “I stole this garden, Emmie, did you know? It was locked up; no one was supposed to go in it. I can’t really complain if you do the same, can I?”

  “You stole the garden?” Emmie stared at her, and shook her head, not understanding. There was a hole in the story, and she couldn’t quite draw it all back together. “You?” she murmured. “It was you? The girl who found the key? It was your secret garden?” Before it was mine, she wanted to say. “Then – you’re Mary Lennox?”

  Mrs Craven – Mary Craven – smiled at her and nodded. “Did Miss Sowerby tell you the story?”

  Now would be the time to confess about the diaries, but Emmie wasn’t sure what to say. She was still trying to piece everything together, to fill in the hole. The angry little girl from the diary – Emmie had never been able to think of her grown up, but of course she would be. She had stayed at Misselthwaite.

  Emmie took in a sharp breath, and caught Mrs Craven’s sleeve. “Colin! You said that it was Colin who brought Lucy back to me. You meant Lieutenant Craven. He was Colin…” Emmie’s voice faltered away, and she felt her eyes sting. It couldn’t be right. Colin was the boy the garden had brought back to life. Surely the magic hadn’t healed him for this? Just to die?

  Mary pressed one hand over her eyes for a moment, and then nodded at Emmie. “He said he was going to live for ever,” she murmured. “We grew out of believing that the garden was full of magic, of course. But I think I still believed that he would…”

  “It were a cruel waste,” Mr Sowerby muttered. “Sit down, Miss Mary.” He took her arm, and limped across to one of the stone benches, murmuring to her as if she were a wounded bird.

  Emmie watched them, fascinated. Mary. And Dickon. Dickon Sowerby – Mary had even mentioned the name in her diary. The animal-charmer. She felt as though she should have realized before. But how could she have seen the strong, cheerful boy that everyone on the moor had loved in this growling man?

  “I shouldn’t have shut you out of the garden,” Mary said, beckoning to her. “I’m sorry, Emmie, I didn’t know.” She took Emmie by the hand, pulling her gently to sit on the bench. Then she cupped her hand around Emmie’s cheek and studied her face. “Look at you. The magic was still there. I should have seen that.”

  “So … I can come back?” Emmie whispered hopefully, looking up at her.

  Dickon grunted. “If tha’rt here, tha’ can work. There’s weeds among th’ lilies. And watch that little beggar of a cat.” But he patted her shoulder, and then gripped it, tight, and she knew that he meant it to be sorry.

  “That robin Lucy was chasing must be the great-great-grandson of my robin,” Mary said, looking dreamily around the garden. “He was so proud of himself, and his beautiful red feathers. He was my first friend here. The first person I actually wanted to like me.”

  Emmie glanced at her in surprise, recognizing the idea. “For me that was Lucy.” Then she looked properly at Mary, seeing the soft, remembering look in her eyes. Mary had almost forgotten that she was there. “I’d better go. Miss Rose said about keeping an eye on Ruby…” Emmie murmured. She got up, and backed away slowly, chirruping to Lucy, who padded ungraciously from behind the statue of the foolish-looking girl.

  At the door, Emmie turned to look back. Dickon was crouched close by the robins’ nest, watching, and Mary was standing on the grass by the rose tree that she had destroyed. She and Colin and Dickon had planted it together, so long ago. There were a few flowers on it, the buds that she had left behind now opened out. Emmie flinched for a second as Mary reached out to one of the pink-tinged flowers, thinking that she meant to tear it off. But all she did was run her fingers over the petals, and she was almost smiling.

  Looking after Ruby had been made up as an excuse on the spot, but Emmie thought she might as well
go and see if Ruby was by the lily pond. The fish would distract Lucy from robins. But as she hurried down the steps, she realized that the hunched up figure by the water was Jack, not Ruby.

  He sprang up at the sound of her footsteps, heavy in the still-too-big wellingtons, and Emmie stood to the side of the steps to let him go. She had given up chasing him, but she wanted to sit by the water and think about what had just happened. Why should she be the one to run away?

  Jack stopped at the bottom of the steps, looking up at her. He had the model Hurricane that David had sent him for Christmas in his hands – he almost always did. Emmie thought he carried it around with him like a talisman. She wondered if he pretended to himself that it was David’s plane. Something deep inside Jack prayed that the fragile metal shell thousands of feet up would be protected if its tiny model was safe. The plane was wooden, made by one of the other pilots in the squadron. David had written that he’d asked the man to build the plane for Jack, and paint it with the same camouflage pattern as David’s own. The paint was rubbing away now, from so much holding, the sharp lines of the brown and khaki paint smoothing into each other.

  “They won’t let him come home.”

  Emmie gaped at him. It had been days and days since he’d spoken to her, she had simply assumed that he would shove past her with a furious glare, as he had before. She was so surprised that for a moment she thought he was talking about his father, and she didn’t know what to say. Then she saw the way he was cradling the plane.

  “Your brother?”

  “Mmm. He was hoping to get compassionate leave.” His shoulders stiffened and hunched up. “Because of Dad.”

  “Oh…” She looked at him cautiously, wondering if he was still in that state where if someone was nice to him he would cry, and hate them for it. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Mmm. What was your nightmare about?”