by Julia Green
What now?
I’m going to make a den, Tilly thought. A secret place where I can come whenever I want to, and no one can find me.
Where would be a good place for a den? There was the deep bramble thicket, where something had already burrowed a way through, close to the ground, making a tunnel. It looked dry and secret, except that the something might still be living in there. And possibly it was a tunnel to get to somewhere else—a sort of animal road.
Tilly thought some more. She liked sitting here, right under this tree. It felt safe and quiet and hidden. This was a perfect place. If she dragged some big branches over and leaned them against the trunk, she could weave other stuff like dry grass and twigs in between the branches. She could decorate the inside with moss and have a log for a table and a smaller one for a chair. It would be good to have a doorway that could be opened and shut. The tree would shelter her, with its big, spreading branches like arms. Tilly could see it all clearly in her mind.
She started to explore the garden, looking for things for her den. She went farther than she’d been before. The garden was huge. There were woods at one end. But there was no sign of a house or a girl.
Under the trees, along a crumbling stone wall, she found lots of dead branches. She shoved and dragged them back to the tree. Some of the logs were too weak and they broke into useless small pieces, but soon she had enough to start piling them up into a wigwam leaning against the tree, to make a base for the walls. She gathered handfuls of dry grass to begin weaving through, in and out, over and under. It took a long time. Her hands were cold. She crept inside her den and sat in the middle, arms hugging her knees, and looked out through the doorway.
The garden was rustling and stirring, as if the night-time creatures were waking up.
In her den, Tilly felt safe. Keep out! she said fiercely in her head. This is my den!
Mine too! Little Fox said.
Tilly stroked his furry head against her cheek. He felt cold. “Time to go back,” she whispered to Little Fox. She held him tight in her hand as she squeezed through the door gap and walked past the old lavender hedge, back along the path they’d made before, when they first explored the long grass. This time, the crickets were silent. A blackbird flew away, calling its warning cry: spink spink! It was completely dark now.
Through the wooden gate, across the path, back through the metal gate, and onto the lawn went Tilly and Little Fox. Tilly’s boots left prints in the damp grass. The lights from the house windows shone out, casting pale gold squares over the garden. Dad had forgotten to close the curtains. Tilly crossed the squares like stepping stones, all the way back to the kitchen.
Tilly pulled off her boots and hung up her coat.
Tap tap tap came the sound from Dad’s study. Tilly padded upstairs. She went from room to room, pulling the curtains tight, keeping in the light.
Mom’s door was ajar. Tilly crept in.
Mom was listening to the radio. She turned and smiled at Tilly. “You’re freezing!” She kissed Tilly’s cheek. “What have you been doing?”
“Exploring outside,” Tilly said. She put Little Fox down on the bed.
“Ah,” Mom said. She sighed. “I can’t wait till I’m up and about, and everything can go back to normal.” She smiled at Tilly. “Well, not quite normal, perhaps!” She reached out her hand to stroke Little Fox. “He’s getting a bit threadbare. And he’s all muddy and damp!”
“I took him out to the garden with me,” Tilly said.
“It’s a beautiful garden. It will be even better in the spring,” Mom said. “You can invite some friends over to play in it with you when it’s warmer.”
Tilly didn’t tell her that she didn’t have any friends to invite. Not yet.
She didn’t tell her about the other garden, either. The secret one.
The tap tap tapping stopped. Dad came to the bedroom door. “Want to help me cook supper, Tilly?”
Tilly left Little Fox to dry out on Mom’s bed. She went downstairs with Dad, to make pasta sauce. She was getting good at cooking. She could do pancakes and pasta and French toast now.
Chapter 8
It was Sunday bedtime. Tilly pulled back the curtain to look outside. The moon was rising: a big, full, golden saucer in the blue-black sky. She turned off the lamp next to her bed so she could see outside better. The garden seemed to be extra still, waiting for something to happen.
Tilly climbed back into bed and curled up under the white blanket, one hand on Little Fox. She thought about her den in the secret garden. The way the moonlight would make shadow patterns on the dead leaves.
Imagine! Little Fox whispered in her ear. Imagine being there now.
The moon had moved high up in the sky. The clouds had cleared, and now the sky was scattered with stars. The night garden was full of sounds. An owl hooted. Something scurried through dry leaves under a bush. In her white fleece robe, Tilly moved like a ghost across the grass, under the tree, between the bushes, and through the gate. Across the grassy path she went, through the wooden door into the secret garden. Her feet left hardly a trace on the moonlit grass. The wind barely moved her long hair, loose around her shoulders.
And there, right in front of her, was the fox.
The fox she’d seen before, through her bedroom window.
She stopped short; the fox stopped too. They stared at each other, girl and fox.
The fox looked deep into her eyes.
The fox’s eyes were a deep gold color, like the jewels on Granny’s necklace made from real amber. A tingle went down Tilly’s spine. She took a small step forward. The fox turned, lifted one padded paw, and started to walk again. It stopped, looked over its shoulder, as if it was waiting for Tilly to follow.
Everything looked different in the nighttime garden. The moonlight made every blade of grass, every edge of twig and leaf shine silver.
Tilly followed the fox. It padded softly through the long, silver grass, along the path Tilly had made, toward the tree and the den. It stopped. It turned around. Its ears were pricked up high, its eyes glinting in the moonlight. Its breath made misty puffs in the cold air. Tilly was so close up she could see the way its sides went in and out as it breathed. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth, panting.
Something soft whooshed past Tilly and made her jump. She turned; a white owl glided over the garden.
The owl swooped down, and there was a shrill shriek and the owl took off again, something small and furry in its claws.
Tilly shivered.
When she turned back, the fox had gone.
She stared at her den. She went closer to see better.
Threaded in and out of the dried old grass she’d used to cover the wigwam of branches was a string of dark red rose hips, like beads on a necklace.
Tilly pulled one of the rose hips out and crushed it in her hand. Inside were yellow seeds and a kind of fluff that made her skin itch. She looked around, in case someone was watching her. But there was no one there. It was an odd feeling, that someone else had been here and found her den, and put the rose hips there. Who would do such a thing?
The girl, of course!
The girl who sang that old-fashioned song…
Tilly crawled inside the den, and sat down with her back against the tree trunk and hugged her knees. Her feet felt the rough texture of the leaves and the peaty soil where leaves had rotted down to make earth. She sat there for ages. Perhaps, if she waited long enough, the girl would come back…
What was that?
For a brief second, she thought she heard something: a woman’s voice, faint, calling a name.
Tilly peered into the dark garden. The voice seemed to be carried on the wind, from a long way off. Tilly crept forward to listen.
All she heard now were the rustlings and stirrings of a creature rummagin
g through dead leaves, and then a moth fluttering close to her ear, ruffling the still air with its fast-beating wings.
She must have imagined it. The sound was probably just in her head, the way a tune you’ve heard gets stuck sometimes and plays on, over and over, whether you like it or not.
Something else rustled. Tilly held her breath and watched.
The fox was back. She could see him now, standing still, his dark red-brown fur tinged with silver, his breath making puffs of smoke on the frosty air.
The fox turned, looked at her, and started walking slowly through the long grass.
“Wait,” Tilly said. “Where are you going?” She shivered, suddenly afraid. She was cold all over, cold to her very bones. Instantly, she knew she must get back inside, into the house. What was she thinking, coming out into the garden in the middle of the night, all alone, in the cold, with bare feet and only a bathrobe?
She started to run.
Chapter 9
Tilly woke up. She was in her bed, snuggled under the white blanket. Her feet were toasty-warm; just the tip of her nose felt cold. The bedroom was already light. She reached across for the little alarm clock on the bedside table. Not quite time to get up. But it was Monday, and that meant it was a school morning. The thought brought with it the feeling in her belly that came every school morning, these days, like eels squirming around.
Automatically, her hand reached out for Little Fox for comfort. But he wasn’t under her pillow or tucked under the blanket next to her as usual. Perhaps he’d fallen out of bed? Tilly looked down, she felt around with her hand under the bed, but he wasn’t there either. She tried to remember going to sleep last night, but instead other memories started to flood her mind.
Pad pad pad…Dad’s footsteps came along the landing.
“Time to get up for school, Tilly.” He padded into the bathroom and shut the door.
Tilly lay in bed listening to the sound of water swooshing in the bathroom. The bedroom radiator clunked and clinked as water gurgled along the pipes. Even if she waited longer, it would still be cold in the bedroom. It never warmed up properly.
She climbed out of bed. She touched her dressing gown, hanging neatly on the back of the door; was that a tiny yellow seed, caught on a thread on the sleeve?
Tilly slowly got dressed in her school clothes. She went to see if Mom was awake.
The door was slightly ajar. Tilly peeped around. Mom was lying on her side, eyes shut, breathing deeply. Tilly watched for a moment; the mound of Mom’s body under the white blanket, the way it moved slightly up and down in time with her steady breathing. A strand of Mom’s hair had escaped and lay on the pillow in a dark curl like a question mark.
“Go and wash your hands and face, Tilly.” Dad touched her head lightly as he came past her into the bedroom…He smelled of toothpaste. “Then come downstairs for breakfast. Let Mom sleep a little longer.”
Mom didn’t do anything but sleep, it seemed to Tilly. How much sleep could one person possibly need? And why wasn’t she getting any better? Instead, she just seemed to be getting worse.
In the kitchen, Tilly nibbled a corner of toast and honey. Dad was in a rush, making her sandwiches for lunch, brushing her school shoes, making coffee for himself. Tilly swung her legs while she thought about Mom, back and forth. “She’s never going to get better, is she?” Tilly whispered, but so softly that Dad didn’t hear.
“Coat, bag, books,” Dad said. “Got everything? Time to go.”
Tilly slid off the stool and went to get her coat from the hook in the hall. She picked up her bag and put in her lunch box. Dad opened the front door, and a swirl of wind whipped a trail of dry, dead leaves into the house.
“Hold tight,” Dad said. “We’re going to get blown all the way to school today.” They set off, Tilly half running, half skipping to keep up with his big strides.
Dad left her at the playground gate. It looked like such a long way to the classroom door, like crossing acres of wasteland, with all sorts of dangers to get past.
Harriet, Simone, and Lucy were standing in a huddle near the jungle gym. They stopped talking to watch her run past. She kept on running until she was at the classroom door and nearly bumped into her teacher.
“Hold on, Tilly!” Mrs. Almond said. “Don’t worry; you’re not late. The bell hasn’t rung yet.”
Tilly hung up her coat and put her lunch box on the cart. The classroom felt warm compared to outside. She walked over to the reading corner to choose a book to read. She searched the shelves and then through the box on the floor, which had the books too big to fit on the shelves. She found a book with a picture of a fox on the cover, but the inside looked boring; just a list of facts.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” Mrs. Almond asked Tilly.
Tilly shook her head. She took a book called Arctic Spring and sat on the bean bag, slowly turning the pages. The pictures were beautiful. There was one page with an Arctic fox whose fur changed from brown or gray to snowy white when winter came.
After attendance, Mrs. Almond told the class about a visitor who was coming to the school after break. “She’s a writer,” Mrs. Almond said. “Like Tilly’s father, only she writes children’s books.” Mrs. Almond smiled at Tilly.
Tilly saw the way Lucy looked at Harriet. Harriet whispered something to Simone.
The eels in Tilly’s stomach squirmed some more. She felt sick.
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, it cut out all the sounds too. It was just Tilly, all by herself, in the dark. And then she saw something else, just a movement to begin with, and a shadow that became a shape, and the shape was an animal, moving into view: a fox. The fox looked straight at Tilly, and then trotted on, bold as anything.
Tilly opened her eyes. The fox had gone, but the feeling inside her had changed. Suddenly brave, she stared right back at Lucy and Harriet and Simone. They stopped whispering. One by one, they each went back to reading their books.
It was recess. Tilly dreaded going out to the playground. She took a long time to put on her coat, lingered at the restroom on the way out. If only she still had Ally with her. They’d always been together at her old school.
The three girls from her class were sitting together, huddled tightly on the bench under the tree, whispering and laughing. They watched her come out of the door.
Tilly took a deep breath, stood still, closed her eyes. She tried to imagine the fox. She waited.
The fox nosed its way around the side of the building, past the trash cans and the caretaker’s shed, and this time he was white as snow, like the Arctic fox in the picture. His eyes were bright and he lifted each foot up carefully, deliberately. He bared his teeth and she saw they were razor sharp.
Someone pushed into Tilly from behind. Startled, she opened her eyes. Two boys from kindergarten were already racing off. They hadn’t meant to hurt her, it was just that she was standing in the way of their chasing each other and they weren’t looking where they were going.
Tilly looked at the girls on the bench under the tree. Lucy had shifted along a little, away from the others. Harriet and Simone were swinging their legs, as if they were bored. Tilly walked slowly past them, and they didn’t seem to notice her. They didn’t giggle or whisper or say anything.
She went to watch the jump rope game at the other side of the playground. The custodian was holding one end of the rope, and Mrs. Almond turned the other. The rope swished down on the playground in a rhythm. A line of boys and girls took turns to jump.
Mrs. Almond smiled at her. “Do you want to join in, Tilly?”
Tilly shook her head. She was fine just watching for now. She knew the rhyme they were chanting from her old school.
The writer who came into the classroom after break had very short gray hair and big silver earrings. She looked like so
meone’s granny until she laughed, and then she looked just like a little girl, Tilly thought. She read them a funny story about a girl and then she said they could each make up their own story, about anything they wanted.
Only Tilly couldn’t think what to write. When she closed her eyes, for a second the fox was there, watching her. It was the real red-brown fox this time, not the snowy Arctic one from the picture. Tilly didn’t want to write about the fox; he was private and special, just for her. She didn’t want to share him with anyone else.
Tilly opened her eyes. Everyone seemed to be busy, writing or drawing. She stared at her empty page. The writer lady smiled at Tilly. “It’s the hardest thing, starting off, isn’t it?” she said. “Just write any old words down on the blank page to begin with, and after a while, the story will arrive. You just have to let it come when it’s ready. Like a shy animal.”
Tilly’s story was so shy it wanted to stay hidden in the forest where no one could see it. She thought about a forest for a while. She imagined a little bird, a wren with a pointed-up tail, hidden in a prickly tree. Then she imagined a cat. In her mind, the cat was fat and getting fatter. It was much too fat to catch the bird. All it wanted to do all day was sleep. The cat stared at her with its round golden eyes and droopy white whiskers. It started to purr.
Mrs. Almond let them continue writing their stories after lunch, and they drew pictures to go with the words until it was time to go home.
Dad was waiting for her on the playground, on his own, away from the crowd of moms, who were mostly all talking and laughing together. Tilly walked slowly across to Dad.
“Did you have a nice day?” he said.
“We wrote stories,” Tilly said. “And Mrs. Almond let us carry on for the whole afternoon.”
“Sounds like my favorite sort of day!” Dad said. “Do you want to tell me about your story?”
