“What if Elsa had drowned because of what I didn’t do?” Clara had whispered tearfully.
Mother’s soft, familiar laugh had drifted up the stairs. It wrapped around Clara’s body like silk.
Father had looped an arm around Clara’s shoulder and kissed her twice on the head. He smelled of pipe smoke and the ginger pudding Mother had made for tea. Clara had closed her eyes and let her body relax into his side. “Sometimes pretending to be brave is enough,” he had said wearily. “Something we must all try hard at while there’s a war on, especially now that I’ve enlisted in the army and may soon be going away.”
Long after the sun had said goodbye for another day and her parents had retired to bed, Clara thought about what her father had said. She twisted the words this way and that way, but they still did not make sense. For she hadn’t pretended to be brave when Elsa had fallen into the well. She hadn’t pretended anything at all. She turned over in her head the discussions her mother and father had most evenings after tea, about whether her mother should take a job at the local munitions factory. Her father said it was perilous work. Aside from the risks of poisoning (or turning yellow from exposure to the chemicals), there were also terrible tales of factory explosions and high death tolls. But her mother shrugged those issues aside, and said she was determined to do her bit until the day peace was declared, if that day ever came. Her mother was brave. Her father had said so. It was only Clara who was not brave.
The darkness of the gardens enveloped Clara like velvet. There was no blue moon. No rat-a-tat of rifles firing in the woods or startled birds cawing overhead tonight. The gardens were silent and still, as if they were watching Clara, waiting to see what she would do next. She thought of Father’s advice. Sometimes pretending to be brave is enough. She took a deep breath of soft garden air, her feet treading quietly on the grassy paths past the sleeping tumbledown scarecrows, past the orchard of fruit trees…
Then a noise, the scuff of a boot on a paving slab to her right.
She paused, tilted her head and listened.
Another scuffle. The creak of a door. Clara crouched beside the hothouse where she now found herself, imagining herself as small as the tiniest of her matryoshka dolls. She glanced behind her. She was in the middle of the gardens now, hidden from anyone who might be watching from the cottage, hidden from the fruit trees where some of the men liked to sit with their backs to the trunks, having an evening smoke.
The skin on Clara’s shoulders tightened.
There was the sound of footsteps running lightly across grass.
Clara strained her ears until she could hear them no more. Standing up, she quickly walked the length of the hothouse until she came to the spot where she had seen the boy before. But there was no blanket laid out on the grass, no boy with a cap pulled low over his face. She skirted around the old tree stump, then paused, her breath hitching in her throat. There, in the centre of the stump was a single perfect mandarin, one green waxy leaf clinging to its short stalk. Clara stared into the dark. Heard the hoot of an owl. A fleeting smell drifted under her nose, something like pipe smoke. She bent down and picked the fruit up, cradled it in her palms, gave it a sniff. It reminded her of Christmas, of laughter and games around the fire. This fruit didn’t belong on a mossy tree stump. So why had it been left there? And by whom?
A burst of raindrops tapped on the glass of the nearby hothouse like fingernails as Clara peered into the gloom. Had it been left for someone else? Perhaps she should look after it, for surely it would get spoilt sitting here in the rain. Picking up the mandarin, she put it in her pocket, then wiped her cheeks. She glanced back in the direction of the cottage and her bedroom window. She would be soaked by the time she had run across the grass. She imagined Mrs Gilbert’s sour face at the sight of Clara’s sodden hair, her damp skirts and apron.
Clara darted down the steps to the hothouse which stood a short distance behind the one she had been in before, her fingers lingering on the brass doorknob. The door was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, she tentatively stepped inside, breathing in the sweet warmth. The sound of the rain was thunderous as her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark shapes in front of her. It was not at all like the pineapple hothouse. This was like being in an orchard covered by a crystal cloak. Larger trees were trained to lengths of wooden trellis that were attached to posts between the glass panes. Clara reached up and touched a globe of fruit dangling from a branch. It was soft and furry. A peach. Smaller trees in cauldron-sized pots were scattered along the gravel planting beds, heavy with waxy lemons, mandarins and limes. She smiled as the glass panes rattled and hummed in the rain.
“Hello, lime tree,” she whispered, holding a glossy leaf between her finger and thumb.
“Hello,” whispered a voice ahead of her.
Clara’s skin flashed hot and cold at the same time. Someone was inside the hothouse. She was being watched.
She peered into the darkness and saw the dim outline of a person half-hidden behind one of the larger peach trees. The figure stepped out from behind the branches.
Clara automatically took a step backwards, and then another towards the door.
“Hello,” whispered the voice again.
Perhaps it was finally the boy she had been searching for… But with this thought, Clara’s boot heel clipped something, which fell over with a metallic clatter. Stumbling, she tripped backwards into one of the smaller trees and landed on the concrete floor with a thump. Oh cripes, she thought, as the person walked towards her. Caught again in the Earl’s hothouses. She dragged in a breath and looked up at the figure, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Golly. Are you alright?” It was a boy. The Boy.
“I’m fine,” whispered Clara, even though her head was aching, and her palms were scuffed and gritty from her fall.
The boy was holding out a hand to her. Even in the dull light, Clara could see that it was a dirty hand, nails blackened as if they had been dipped in a pot of ink.
Ignoring him, she pushed herself up and examined her own pockmarked hands.
The boy bent down to the scattering of soil, a few leaves and two small limes that had been dislodged by Clara’s fall. He scooped the limes into his hand, his forehead crinkling.
“Is…is the tree damaged?” Clara whispered. Just a minute before she had been saying hello to the lovely tree and now it was broken.
“It will live,” the boy whispered back. “I’m sorry. It was my fault, startling you like that.” Without warning he clapped a hand to his mouth and smothered a rasping cough.
“No, I shouldn’t have been in here. It was raining and I just came in for a second to shelter.” Words bubbled from Clara’s mouth like a stream racing downhill.
The boy flashed her a quick smile as he placed the fallen limes next to the pot the tree was growing in. He coughed again, smothering the sound with the crook of his arm. Then after he had swept up the soil with his hands and tipped it back into the pot, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook. Flipping it open, he carefully slipped the fallen leaves inside. How very odd, thought Clara. As he returned the book to his pocket, something fell to the ground.
Clara bent over and picked it up. It was a long, thin leaf which had been folded like a concertina. She handed it to him.
“It’s from a pineapple plant,” said the boy. “I draw them – the plants and leaves, I mean. It’s what I do, when I’m not stoking the boiler to heat these hothouses.” He pushed the folded leaf into his pocket.
Clara remembered what Robert had said and squinted at the boy’s hair, but it was hidden under his cap. “So…you’re the hall boy? You work at the Big House?”
The boy let out a small laugh. It was bright, like silver. “No. Not quite. I’m just Will.”
Clara smiled. “Oh. Hello, ‘just Will’. I’m Clara.”
Will held out his hand again. “Nice to meet you,” he said, giving her a funny half-bow, which made Clara want to giggle. This time she reache
d out and shook his hand. His grasp was firm and warm and stung her grazed palms, but she found she did not mind one bit.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the mandarin she had found on the tree stump. “I found this in the gardens.”
Will took a step closer and peered at it. “That’s curious. I found a mandarin by the lake the other night, near the reeds.”
“That is curious,” said Clara, wrinkling her nose. “What should I do with it?”
Will shrugged. “Eat it. Someone must have dropped it.”
Clara pushed the mandarin back into her pocket and gave him a quick smile. “You said you stoke the boiler. Is it in here?” she asked, looking around.
“No. It’s underground, behind the Earl’s summer house,” Will replied.
Clara remembered the way Will had disappeared into thin air as she was watching him from her bedroom window. An underground room. Maybe that explained it.
The dull rat-tat-tat-tat of rifle fire echoed off the glass walls of the hothouse, making Clara jump. She folded her arms against her pounding heart.
“It’s just the Regiment,” Will said. “You’ll hear them practising every night. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Clara very much doubted she would ever get used to the sound of rifles being fired night after night. The thought of the Regiment roaming the Earl’s woods and fields in the dark made her shiver with unease. But Will was right. She must try and get used it, even if it did remind her of things she would rather forget.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to do me a tremendous favour,” Will said, taking off his cap and holding it in his hands. A lock of wavy dark hair rolled into his left eye. He pushed it behind his ear.
“My…a…friend got me this job. You see, the thing is, my mother and father are gone and I have nowhere else to go.” Will jammed his cap back on his head. It was so low now that Clara could barely see his eyes. Maybe that was the point.
“My goodness. How terribly sad,” Clara replied. She pushed a hand into her pocket and felt the tip of the envelope there, where she always kept it. “When you say they are gone…”
Will’s lips pressed together in a string-thin line. “Mother died when I was a baby. Father died on the Front a month ago.”
Clara swallowed the peach-sized lump which had jumped into her throat. Her father had damaged lungs, but at least he had returned home. She thought of all those other men who were giving up their lives for their country, leaving behind loved ones whose lives would be tumbled upside down and inside out by the horror of it all.
“I stoke the boilers day and night and must keep out of sight. My friend says the Earl – and Mr Gilbert the head gardener – mustn’t find out about me,” Will said quietly. “Are you any good at keeping secrets?”
Clara gave him a small smile. “Actually, I think I am rather good at that.”
Will gave her a nod as if he had expected nothing less. He gulped back another cough, his shoulders shaking with the effort.
“You should be careful though. I saw you from my window,” Clara said. “And that cough…sounds awful.”
“I know you saw me,” Will said simply. “The boiler’s been making odd noises. I went to check the thermometers in the hothouses. You were watching from Gardener’s Cottage.” It was a statement, not a question. “And my cough is rather beastly. It’s just…dusty in the boiler house, is all.”
The patter of the rain was lessening.
“I should go,” Clara said uneasily. “The Gilberts are my aunt and uncle. They might be wondering where I am.”
The hard line of Will’s jaw seemed to suggest that he knew exactly who Mr and Mrs Gilbert were and was under no illusion about whether they would have noticed if Clara was snugly tucked up in her bed or not.
“I am staying with them because my father is ill. He and my mother are in Devon, so he can convalesce,” Clara said. “But so far, it’s not quite the visit I thought it would be.”
Will nodded as if he understood. Clara wondered if he had heard Mrs Gilbert’s shrieks through the open window as Clara had grabbed a fistful of her hair.
“Do you think…maybe…you’ll visit the gardens again…at night?” Will asked quietly, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
Clara took a deep, warm breath. “Yes,” she said, her lungs feeling fuller than they had for a very long while. “I think I just might.”
“You could come to the boiler house, after the Gilberts are asleep,” said Will, giving her a shy smile. “It would be nice to have someone to talk to.”
A tiny thrill shivered across Clara’s shoulders. She must take extra care not to get caught by the Gilberts. If her aunt found out about her night-time visits to the gardens, she was sure to feel the wrath of her temper, and that was something to be avoided at all costs.
Clara rubbed the tiredness from her eyes as she sat at the breakfast table the next morning. She had only been staying with the Gilberts for six days, but so much had happened the previous day (and night) it felt like for ever. Mrs Gilbert had left a pot of porridge warming on the small stove before heading to the Big House for another day of housekeeping.
Mr Gilbert took a glass jar of honey from the shelf. The honeycomb glistened, jewel-like, in the shaft of sun hitting the table. The golden sweetness dripped from the wooden spoon into his milky porridge.
“Read there was another Zeppelin attack on the Norfolk coast,” he said gruffly, glancing at his open newspaper.
His voice startled the tiredness from Clara’s eyes.
“Two killed and some badly injured. This war is getting too close for comfort.” He gave her a sidelong glance.
Clara’s porridge stuck in her throat. She coughed, took a sip of her warm milk. Before they had stopped getting a regular newspaper at home, Clara had used to scour it for images of Zeppelins, those huge pencil-shaped floating machines with the capacity to drop bombs from their gondolas and blow entire houses to smithereens. The thought made her skin shudder and prickle in equal parts. Were the Germans really going to send hundreds of those flying machines to obliterate England?
The previous year, her cousins, who lived in the London borough of Shoreditch, had witnessed the bombing of the Empire Music Hall while a performance was taking place. The whole family had been so frightened that they had left their terraced house and moved to Cornwall. Wasn’t Norfolk mostly open fields, like Cornwall and Devon? Maybe the Zeppelins would be heading for the south coast too – where her cousins were living and where Mother and Father were staying. An image of her father’s cone of chips splattered on the seafront sprang into her head. Sickness washed over her. She placed her cup down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Mr Gilbert’s forehead bunched under his dishevelled hair. He gave her a tentative smile and leaned forwards, placing his hands flat on the table. “Now look, Clara. The thing is—” He was interrupted by a firm rap at the door. It squeaked open, and cool air hurtled down the hallway.
“Mr Gilbert? Are you in?” asked a voice which Clara recognized.
Mr Gilbert tore his eyes away from Clara, sighed and pushed his chair back.
Clara stared out of the kitchen window. It was smeared and grimy with dirt. On the draining board were cloths and a bucket – presumably for Clara to start cleaning with. Clara thought about the cobwebs Mr Gilbert’s hair had picked up when she had first arrived; the bumped skirting boards, the peeling wallpaper and crumbling plaster. Mrs Gilbert was a housekeeper, yet from her own house you would never guess that was her profession.
“Pineapples,” Clara heard Robert say in the hall. Clara’s thoughts stilled.
“How many?” Mr Gilbert said. His voice was high, tinged with panic.
“Three of them,” Robert said. “Some peaches have been stolen too.”
Clara thought about the fruits she had knocked from the tree the night before. The lime leaves Will had pressed between the pages of his notebook. The mandarin she had fou
nd on the tree stump and the one Will had seen in the reeds near the lake.
There was a lengthy pause.
Clara quietly pushed her chair back and crept to the kitchen door, placing her ear to the wood.
“Does anyone else know about this?” Mr Gilbert asked swiftly.
“No.”
“Good. Keep it that way. If it is someone from the estate doing the thieving, we don’t want them to know we are on to them.”
“It wouldn’t be anyone from here,” Robert said.
Clara peeped around the edge of the door. Robert’s face was flushed.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Mr Gilbert, rubbing his chin.
“What about the Rifles Regiment?” Robert said. “Them and all sorts are wandering the estate day and night. Shall I go and visit them?”
“No,” said Mr Gilbert firmly – a little too firmly, Clara thought. “Keep your ears and eyes open though, lad. If you see anything suspicious, let me know.”
“Yes, Mr Gilbert,” Robert said, pushing his shoulders back. “You can trust me, Sir.” Robert’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, like a frog trying to leap from a lily pad.
“I know I can.” Mr Gilbert paused, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets. “I also know you feel badly that you can’t enlist next year when you’re eighteen.”
The colour in Robert’s cheeks deepened. “I do, Sir. I feel very badly indeed. Seeing all those lads go off to fight. It makes me feel…a little useless.”
“I know it,” Mr Gilbert said softly. “But you need to concentrate on the gardens. They need you, as do I. There is much to be done.” Mr Gilbert cleared his throat. “Right, come on. I want to see the results of this thieving for myself. I’ll fetch my jacket.” He walked back down the hall towards the kitchen.
Clara spun around and picked up the bucket and rags.
Mr Gilbert brushed past Clara as if she was invisible, spooned a final mouthful of porridge into his mouth, picked up his jacket from the back of his chair and left. “When the Earl finds out about this, there’ll be hell to pay,” she heard him mutter as he stomped down the hall.
The Garden of Lost Secrets Page 4
