She put the skipping rope in the large front pocket of her dress and set off down the corridor. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she felt it was important to show Mrs. Medlock that she was not going to be ordered around.
A pale light came in through the stone windows, illuminating the bare boards on the floor and the paintings on the walls. Mary looked out of the windows to the back of the house, expecting to see landscaped gardens, but to her surprise she saw a sea of mud and ruts. It looked as if some of the soldiers who had used the house during the war had been camped out there.
Mary remembered what Mrs. Medlock had said—It’s not the house it was. . . .—and suddenly she felt sorry for the old place. It looked like it had once been loved, but now it was falling apart and neglected.
She continued on and reached a large open door. She peered inside and saw a room with a high ceiling, a polished wooden floor, and lots of bookshelves. It looked like it might once have been the library, but now it was stacked with chairs and tables and cases of stuffed animals. Mary shrank back into the shadows of the corridor as she saw her uncle and Mrs. Medlock standing by a pile of paintings at the far end of the room. They were in the middle of a heated discussion.
“It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Medlock,” Mary’s uncle was saying. “These are of no importance.”
“We can’t just leave them all piled up like this,” the housekeeper protested.
“Well, get rid of them, then. Throw them away. Burn them. I don’t care!”
“But, sir.” Mrs. Medlock picked up a portrait of a woman’s head. “What about this one?”
Mary saw a muscle jump in her uncle’s jaw. “Please,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t need to be reminded of her. She’s gone.”
Worried that he was about to leave the room and see her, Mary hurried on. She was desperate to feel fresh air on her face, to get out of the bleak, gloomy house where people were cranky and rude and peculiar. There was an avenue of trees to one side that led out onto the mist-covered moors, and she headed for it. The grass was overgrown, but the ground was flat. Mary pulled out her jump rope and began to skip along the path, counting her steps out loud.
She had just reached seventy-five and had emerged from the trees onto the moors, when she stopped. Through the swirling mist she could see a boy. He looked about a year older than her. He had dark curly hair and was carrying a lamb around his neck. She remembered what Martha had said. Maybe this boy was Martha’s brother—Dickon.
Mary started toward the boy. “Hello? Are you Martha’s brother?” But as she spoke, he turned and disappeared into the mist.
“Come back!” Mary commanded.
She started to run after him, but he’d vanished as if he’d never been there, and the mist was looking thicker than ever. “Stay inside when the mist is rolling on the moors,” Mary whispered to herself, remembering Mrs. Medlock’s words. With one last look, she turned and headed back toward the house.
By the time Mary reached the house, her stomach was grumbling. She had only eaten a little of the porridge that morning, and she felt very hungry. She went inside and managed to find the kitchen. The cook, Mrs. Pitcher, was busy chopping vegetables.
“It’s time for my luncheon, I believe,” Mary announced. “Now I would like—”
The cook interrupted her with a good-natured smile. “Doesn’t matter what you’d like, lass. You’ll get what you’re given in this house.”
Mary looked at her in frustration. “You know, I really don’t understand you people at all!”
The cook laughed but it wasn’t a mean laugh, and Mary watched as she set to work making sandwiches with thickly cut white bread, a scraping of butter, and some sort of pink meat. She wrapped them in parchment paper and handed them and an apple to Mary. “There you go. Now out of my kitchen. I have too many things to do to have a young ’un like you cluttering up the place.” She winked. “Some of us have work to do.”
Mary took the food outside and found a spot among the trees that was less muddy. She sat down on a fallen tree trunk and unwrapped the parchment paper. She lifted a slice of bread off the top sandwich. What was the strange, smooth pink meat inside? She’d never seen anything like it. She pulled one of the slices off the bread and sniffed it warily. Putting out her tongue, she licked it and reacted with disgust. It tasted terrible! Was it even real meat?
She threw it away, but it landed quite close to her feet. Peeling the other slice off, she flung it farther. It sailed through the air and ended up near one of the other trees. Mary nibbled at a slice of bread. That at least was fresh—and tasty. She took a bigger bite.
A rustle made Mary look around. The branches of a bush were moving as if something was pushing its way through. Mary shrank back as a dog appeared, nose first, then muzzle, then a shaggy brown body.
“No! Go on! Go away!” Mary exclaimed, waving at it with a shooing motion. Most of the dogs in India were strays, and they were often dangerous.
The dog ignored her and trotted over to the piece of meat that had landed near the bushes. It sniffed it. “No! That’s not for you!” Mary cried. The dog gobbled the meat up hungrily. “Now you’re fed, you can go,” said Mary, pulling her feet underneath her in case she had to jump up quickly. “Go on.”
But the dog had spotted the second slice of meat that lay closer to her. “Oh, no,” Mary said anxiously. “Don’t you dare! It’s far too near. I want you to go!”
She squealed as the dog leaped at the meat. Grabbing it in its jaws, it turned and raced away. Mary watched it go. It had seemed almost as afraid of her as she had been of it. And it had looked as hungry as she was feeling too.
Finishing her bread and apple, she went around the back of the house and spent the afternoon exploring the grounds. Away from where the soldiers had camped, there were trees and ferns, overgrown shrubberies and winding gravel paths. Her boots were soon caked with mud, and her clothes were damp. Every so often, she heard a faint rustle behind her. The feeling she was being followed prickled her, and eventually, glancing over her shoulder, she saw the dog again. “Of all the silly things,” she said, her face breaking into a smile as it looked at her with its pink tongue hanging out. “Are you following me?”
It wagged its tail.
“Mary!” Mrs. Medlock was ringing a bell and calling sharply through an open window in the house. Her voice carried across the grounds. “Mary! Where are you, child? Come here this instant!”
The dog vanished at the sound of Mrs. Medlock’s voice.
With a sigh, Mary went back to the house. Mrs. Medlock was looking cranky. “I’ve been hunting high and low for you,” she huffed. “In future, kindly remember your bath will be ready at five twenty-five p.m. and you will be expected to be in your room by then. Now upstairs with you.” She marched on ahead of Mary.
“Do you have a problem with wild dogs around here?” Mary asked curiously, running after her.
“Wild dogs!” snorted Mrs. Medlock. “Of course we don’t have a problem with wild dogs.”
As Mary walked into her room, the door was shut firmly behind her. After being outside in the fresh air, and having space and freedom to skip and explore, her room felt more like a prison than ever. Going over to the walls, she touched the birds on the faded wallpaper. She imagined them fluttering their wings and flying away, sweeping her off to a place far away.
A forgotten memory suddenly surfaced in her mind. A flock of birds swooping around the garden in India. She had been very little—about four years old—and she’d run up to them. They’d flown away of course, but for a moment they had been all around her in flashes of brilliant color. She’d laughed in delight, spinning around with her arms above her head, until she heard a bang. It had been her mother, her face tearstained, abruptly closing the shutters of her window, shutting out Mary and the sound of her laughter. Mary could remember the confusion she’d felt. Didn’t her mother like her to be happy?
Mary returned to the present. Her life in India was already
starting to feel like a very long time ago, but her memories of the way her mother had looked that day—and every other day that Mary could remember—no, she didn’t think those memories would ever fade.
6
Making Friends
That night, Mary was woken up by the same high-pitched wailing again. She listened, open-eyed in the dark. Was it the wind like Martha had said? Or was it a ghost of one of the soldiers who had died here? Remembering the fear she had felt the night before, she pulled the coverlet over her ears and stayed in bed.
When Mary woke in the morning, she sat up to see Martha kneeling beside her fireplace, arranging a layer of paper on the ashes. A tray with more porridge was on her table.
“Hello, Martha,” she said.
“Miss,” Martha said coldly.
Mary remembered the noises in the night. “Were you here when the soldiers were, Martha? Did you work in the hospital?”
Martha didn’t reply; she just kept laying the fire.
Mary realized that Martha was still upset with her. She wondered how she could get back the friendly Martha from the day before. Climbing out of bed, she knelt beside her. “Is there an order to how you put the fire together?” she asked.
“Yes, miss,” said Martha, not looking at her as she started to put coal on the layer of paper.
Mary picked up a piece of coal. Its black coating stained her fingers, and the dust dropped onto the rug.
“Oh, miss, please don’t!” exclaimed Martha, sounding exasperated. “You’ll spoil the rug and your dress, and it’ll be me who has to clean both.”
Mary sighed. Helping Martha didn’t seem to be making the maid any friendlier. She gave up, sat back on her heels, and changed the subject. “Martha. The noises I hear in the night—do dead soldiers haunt this house?”
For a second, Mary was sure she saw a look of alarm in the maid’s eyes. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you hear noises, then just turn over and go back to sleep. That’s the best thing to do.”
Mary was certain Martha knew more than she was admitting. She watched as Martha lit the fire in silence and then went to the door without saying another word.
Anger and unhappiness rushed through Mary at the thought of being left on her own again. “I didn’t ask to be here, you know!” she burst out angrily.
Martha looked back. “And Mr. Craven didn’t ask to take you in, but he did all the same,” she said calmly but firmly, and then she was gone, shutting the door behind her.
Mary stamped her foot. It seemed like the one person who might have talked to her in this dismal place now didn’t want to. She glared at the closed door, feeling lonelier than she had ever felt in her life.
Later that morning, Mary put on her outdoor boots, a new warm blue coat, and matching hat and paid another visit to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Pitcher,” she said to the cook, “you gave me sandwiches yesterday for my luncheon. I need the same meat in my sandwiches today.” She hesitated. “Please?” she added, remembering her manners.
Mrs. Pitcher gave her a surprised look and then nodded and took a loaf of bread from the counter.
“What is the meat you put inside the sandwiches?” Mary asked curiously, watching her.
“Spam,” said Mrs. Pitcher.
“Spam?” echoed Mary, trying out the unfamiliar word.
The cook chuckled. “Yes, Spam.” She quickly made the sandwiches. “Now go on, away with you,” she said, shooing her out of the kitchen.
Mary pushed the sandwiches into her leather bag and hurried outside. She had a plan! No one in the house seemed to want to be her friend, but she had a feeling that maybe there was someone—or something—in the garden who would. What she would really have liked to be doing was exploring the upper floor of the house and solving the mystery of the night cries. The strange look Martha had given her that morning when she had mentioned noises in the night had convinced her that something was being kept from her, and Mary was determined to find out what it was. But she didn’t dare risk exploring and Mrs. Medlock finding her. She wasn’t sure what the housekeeper would do if she found Mary “poking about,” but she didn’t want to find out.
I’ll wait until tonight, she thought. When everyone’s asleep.
In the meantime, she was going to concentrate on something else. She hurried to where she had eaten her lunch the day before. Feeling very daring, she unwrapped a sandwich and took out the Spam. She placed it in the exact same spot where she had thrown it before. Looking around hopefully, she retreated to the tree stump and sat down to wait. Where was the dog? She’d been sure it would be here, and even a dog as a friend would be better than nothing.
She waited and waited.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Please come.”
She heard a bark and saw that the shaggy brown dog was standing in the bushes. “There you are!” she said, smiling as it trotted out and gobbled the meat up, watching her all the time.
“Hello,” Mary said. She felt strange—she’d never talked to a dog before. But she decided that its eyes looked cleverer than those of many humans she had met. “What’s your name, then?”
The dog gave a short woof.
Mary felt a flicker of anxiety. “Are you diseased?” There were some dogs in India that had a nasty sickness called rabies. They barked and foamed at the mouth and bit people. But this dog didn’t look like it was dangerous. “Well?”
The dog barked again.
“You see, I’ve no idea if that means yes or no,” Mary told it. “Very well. I shall start with a simpler question—are you a girl dog or a boy dog?”
The dog whined hopefully and put its head to one side.
“Oh, no,” said Mary, realizing what it wanted. “I’m saving the other slice for later. We’ll have a play first. Do you think you would like that?”
The dog’s tail wagged a little. Mary smiled. “I think you are a girl dog,” she declared. “And I shall call you . . . Jemima! Come on, Jemima. Let’s play!” Mary started to run. The dog hesitated for a moment and then raced after her.
It was the first time Mary had run outside since she’d arrived at Misselthwaite. She charged across the muddy ground. The dog bounded behind her, veering to one side and then overtaking her, leading the way down twisting paths that curved through the trees. Mary raced after her, her breath coming in pants as she drew in deep lungfuls of fresh air. It was wonderful to have someone who wanted to be with her! Water and mud splashed up from the puddles, and for the first time in ages she felt properly alive. A laugh burst out of her. The dog barked, and she barked back. The dog danced around her, barking three times. Mary copied her, spinning around, her face lifted to the sky.
The dog bounded to the bottom of a very high wall that was almost completely hidden by a curtain of creepers and disappeared. Mary stopped in surprise and ran to where she had been. She spotted a small hole under the wall. The dog must have crawled through it. “Jemima?” she called.
Nothing happened. Mary felt a wave of disappointment at losing her friend. She was about to turn to go when suddenly the dog’s head reappeared. The dog barked as if she was encouraging Mary to follow.
“I can’t follow you through there, Jemima,” said Mary with a grin. “That hole’s much too small for me. Is this where you live, then?”
The dog whined.
Mary glanced up. The high wall had a thick covering of ivy on top and a tree growing beside it. What’s on the other side? she wondered. Maybe I could climb up and see. . . .
Just then, there was the sound of the bell ringing in the distance and Mrs. Medlock’s voice calling faintly, “Mary! Mary!”
Oh, bother, thought Mary crankily.
Mrs. Medlock’s shouts and bell ringing grew more insistent.
Mary sighed and looked at the dog. “Tomorrow,” she promised, putting the rest of the sandwich down on the ground for it to eat. “I’ll see you then, Jemima. Make sure you come.”
The dog barked, and Mary
smiled as she turned away. Her heart felt much lighter as she skipped back to the house. She’d made a friend at Misselthwaite at last.
7
Colin
Mary ran up the grand staircase, moving as quietly as she could, her cotton dressing gown flapping. The wind was blowing hard outside the house that night, and the moon was the only source of light. Mary’s heart was beating fast, but she had to solve the mystery of the wailing cry.
Reaching the second floor, she turned down a dark corridor with covered paintings and closed doors. As she padded along it, a gust of wind blew from a cracked window at the far end, and a dust sheet on a painting she was passing billowed up. Mary caught sight of the picture beneath and stopped in her tracks. It was a portrait of her mother! She held the dust sheet back and gazed at it, loss and guilt stabbing through her. Her mother looked about eighteen. She was sitting at a piano, smiling and happy, her dark hair falling in waves to her shoulders. Mary blinked. It felt wrong to see her mother like that. In all her memories, her mother was frowning and turning away.
She lifted the dust sheet on the next painting. It was another picture of her mother. This time she looked a few years older. She was sitting on a swing in a clearing, wearing a white dress, and there was another woman, the same age as her, in a blue dress. Something tugged at Mary’s mind. She almost felt as if she’d been to that clearing, but it looked like it was in England, so that was impossible.
Intrigued, she looked closely at the other woman. She was very similar to Mary’s mother, but slightly taller and her hair wasn’t brown but a dark chestnut-red like Mary’s. Mary knew it had to be her mother’s twin sister, Grace, her uncle’s dead wife. They hadn’t been identical twins, but they looked very much alike.
Leaving the paintings, Mary tiptoed on and turned into a carpeted corridor with a grand mural on the wall. There was a bedroom door opposite her, and it was open. Whose bedroom was it? Curiously, she crept closer. Her eyes widened as she saw a dark-haired boy, about her age, asleep in an ornate bed.
The Secret Garden Page 3
