The Hidden Garden
a retelling of The Secret Garden
edited by Jane Mouttet
Chapter 9 – A Magical Place
The hidden garden was the most mysterious and magical place Mary Lennox had ever seen. The tall walls around it were covered with tangled, leafless stems of climbing roses. Though the garden was still in the grips of winter, Mary could tell they were roses because she had seen many in India. The ground was brown with grass that had dried up for the cold season, and there were bushes everywhere that looked like rose bushes, but she wasn’t sure if they were still alive. There were other trees too, and what made the garden seem so strange and magical was that the climbing roses had woven themselves all over them, creating hanging tendrils like long curtains. The roses had connected from tree to tree, making bridges of vines that swayed gently in the breeze. Even though the branches were bare and no roses blooming, Mary felt like she had entered a place full of quiet wonder.
“How quiet it is!” she whispered to herself. “It’s so still.”
She stood listening to the silence. Even the robin, who had flown to the top of a tree, seemed part of the quiet. He wasn’t moving his wings, just sitting there, watching her.
“No wonder it’s quiet,” she whispered again. “I’m the first person to speak here in ten years.”
Feeling like she had stepped into a dream, Mary moved further into the garden, her steps soft on the grass. She didn’t want to make any noise, as if she might wake something sleeping, so she was glad the grass muffled her footsteps. Walking under one of the arches formed by the tree branches, she gazed up at the long, thin strands of vines that hung down like curtains.
“I wonder if all these plants are dead,” she thought. “I hope they’re not. I wish this garden wasn’t dead.”
If Ben Weatherstaff were there, he would have been able to tell her if the branches were alive or not, but Mary didn’t know how to tell. All she could see were brown, bare branches, with no sign of a single leaf or bud. But she was here, inside the hidden garden, and she could return anytime. That thought filled her with happiness.
The sun shone brightly within the high walls, and the sky above seemed bluer and softer than it did on the moor. The robin flew down from his perch and started hopping around, chirping busily, as if he were showing her around. Everything in the garden felt strange and quiet, but Mary felt excited and curious instead of lonely. What worried her was the thought that the roses might be dead, but if plants were still alive, they might bloom again when spring came. Her idea that the garden could come alive with flowers and roses was wonderful.
Her skipping rope was hanging over her arm, and after walking around for a while, she decided to skip around the garden. There were grass paths here and there, and in the corners of the garden, she found little alcoves with stone seats or tall flower urns covered in moss.
As she neared one of these alcoves, she stopped skipping. There was an old flower bed, and she spotted something sticking out of the dark soil. She bent down to look closely and saw tiny, pale green points pushing through the earth.
“Yes, these must be the first signs of spring flowers!” she whispered. “They could be crocuses or snowdrops.”
She knelt down to smell the fresh, damp earth, and a wave of happiness washed over her. Maybe there were more of these little shoots in other parts of the garden, so she decided to explore the whole garden to find out.
Instead of skipping, she strolled, searching the ground for more green shoots. She checked every corner, and by the time she finished, she had found many little sprouts. Her excitement grew as she discovered more signs of life.
“It’s not a dead garden after all!” she whispered, smiling. “Even if the roses are dead, other things are still alive.”
Mary didn’t know much about gardening, but she thought the grass and weeds growing around the new shoots might be smothering them. She found a sharp stick and carefully pulled the weeds and grass around the green points.
“Now they’ll have room to breathe,” she said, satisfied with her work.
She moved from one patch to another, clearing the weeds and giving the little plants more space. She enjoyed herself so much that she didn’t even notice how long she had been working. The exercise made her warm, so she took off her coat and hat, and soon she was smiling down at the tiny green shoots without realizing it.
The robin was very pleased with her efforts. He hopped around, chirping happily, as if approving of her work in his garden. He seemed to enjoy watching Mary clear the soil, probably because he knew that where there was digging, there were always worms to be found.
Mary worked until she realized it was time for her midday meal. She hurried back through the door in the wall, feeling both excited and tired from her morning’s work. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were bright, and she ate her dinner with such an appetite that Martha was amazed.
“Look at you!” Martha exclaimed. “Two pieces of meat and two helpings of rice pudding! Mother will be proud when I tell her the skipping rope has done wonders for you.”
Later, as she sat by the fire, Mary remembered a white, onion-like bulb she had dug up in the garden. She had put it back in the ground, but now she wanted to know what it was.
“Martha, what are those white roots that look like onions?” she asked.
“Those are bulbs,” Martha explained. “Spring flowers grow from them—snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils. Dickon knows all about flowers. He loves planting bulbs.”
A new idea began to form in Mary’s mind. If Dickon knew about gardening, maybe he could help her with her secret garden. She thought carefully about how to keep her secret safe.
“I wish I had a little spade,” she said thoughtfully. “I could dig in the garden and make it look nice again.”
Martha smiled. “Mother said the same thing—she said you should have your own little bit of garden to dig in. She said you’d be happy having a spade and some seeds.”
“How much would a spade cost?” Mary asked.
“At Thwaite village, they sell garden sets with a spade, a rake, and a fork for two shillings,” Martha said.
“I’ve got more than that in my purse!” Mary said excitedly.
Martha’s eyes lit up. “Then why don’t we write a letter to Dickon and ask him to buy the tools for you? He could pick out some flower seeds, too.”
Mary agreed, and they quickly wrote a letter to Dickon, asking him to buy the tools and seeds. Mary could hardly wait to start her hidden garden, and the thought of meeting Dickon excited her.
That night, as she sat by the fire, she thought about all the exciting things that had happened that day—the discovery of the hidden garden, the tiny green shoots, and the idea of having her own garden to care for.
It had been a day full of magic and secrets, and Mary couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
Chapter 10 – Dickon
The sun shone brightly over the hidden garden for nearly a whole week. That’s what Mary called it now—”The Hidden Garden.” She liked the name because it sounded magical, and she liked even more the idea that no one but her knew about it. She imagined herself hidden from the world inside this special place, like a princess in one of the fairy tales she had read. In some stories, people slept in hidden gardens for a hundred years, but Mary didn’t plan on sleeping—she was too busy waking up! Each day, she grew more energetic; she even enjoyed the wind now and could skip up to a hundred times without stopping.
In the hidden garden, things were beginning to happen. The bulbs she had cleared around were breathing better, soaking up the sunlight and the rain. The fresh air was working wonders on them, and they were starting to feel alive again, just like Mary herself.
Mary was a very determined little girl. Now that she had something important to focus on, she gave all her energy to the garden. She dug, weeded, and watched over the little green shoots with care. Every day, she discovered more tiny green tips pushing through the earth, which made her happier. She remembered how Martha had told her about the thousands of snowdrops in the park, and she began to imagine her garden bursting into bloom with just as many flowers. She daydreamed about what it would look like in full bloom, covered in flowers of every kind.
During this sunny week, she also got to know Ben Weatherstaff better. She started to surprise him by appearing beside him in the garden, almost like she was popping up from the ground. She tried to be as quiet as possible, fearing he would leave if he saw her coming. But Ben didn’t seem to mind her as much anymore. In fact, he seemed a little flattered that she liked to talk to him.
“You are like the robin,” he told her one morning when she snuck up on him. “I never know when I’ll see thee or which side tha’ll come from.”
“He’s friends with me now,” said Mary, referring to the robin.
“That’s just like him,” grumbled Ben. “Showing off to womenfolk. He’s full of pride, that bird, strutting about like he’s the king of the garden.”
Ben didn’t talk much, but sometimes he would say more than usual. One morning, as he stood resting on his spade, he looked Mary over.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
“I think it’s been about a month,” Mary replied.
“You’re starting to look a bit better,” he said. “You’re fatter, and not as yellow as when you first came here. When I first saw you, I thought you looked like a plucked crow.”
Mary wasn’t vain, and she wasn’t offended since she never cared much about her looks. “I know I’m fatter,” she said. “My stockings are getting tighter. They used to be all wrinkled.”
“There’s the robin, Ben Weatherstaff,” Mary added, noticing their little friend hopping around.
The robin was indeed there, and he looked very proud of himself. He hopped closer and closer, tilting his head as if he were trying to charm them. Ben pretended to be unimpressed.
“There you are,” Ben said to the bird. “Showing off like always, trying to make us think you’re the finest robin in all of Missel Moor.”
But the robin seemed determined to win them over, hopping closer and singing a little song.
Ben couldn’t help but be amused. “You do know how to get at a chap,” he muttered. “You’re a clever little thing.”
Mary smiled as she watched Ben’s tough exterior soften. She felt brave enough to ask him a question she had been thinking about for a while.
“Do you have a garden of your own?” she asked.
“No. I’m a bachelor and lodge with Martin at the gate,” he replied.
“If you did have a garden,” Mary continued, “what would you plant?”
“Cabbages, taters, onions,” he grunted.
“But what if you wanted a flower garden?” she pressed on.
“Bulbs and sweet-smellin’ things,” he said, “but mostly roses.”
Mary’s eyes lit up. “Do you like roses?” she asked eagerly.
Ben nodded. “A young lady I worked for once loved roses. Taught me to love them too. I’ve seen her kiss them; she loved them that much.”
“Where is she now?” Mary asked, curious.
“Heaven,” Ben replied gruffly.
Mary was excited now. “What happened to her roses? Did they die?”
“Some did,” Ben admitted. “But I worked on them a bit every year, so some lived. They’re wild now, but some will bloom come spring.”
“How can you tell if a rose is dead or alive?” Mary asked.
Ben scratched his head. “Wait till spring. If there are little brown lumps on the branches, they’ll start to swell. That’s how you know they’ll live.”
Mary’s heart leaped. Maybe her roses would live after all! She stayed with Ben longer, asking him question after question, and he didn’t seem to mind. When she finally left, she realized she liked him despite his gruffness.
Later that day, Mary decided to take her skipping rope and explore the path around the garden. As she skipped along, she heard a strange, soft whistling. Curious, she followed the sound and found herself in a little wood.
A boy was playing on a homemade wooden pipe under a tree. He was about twelve, with a freckled face, curly reddish hair, and bright blue eyes. Surrounding him were animals—a squirrel perched on a tree trunk, a pheasant peeking out from the bushes, and rabbits sitting nearby. It was as if the animals were listening to his music.
Mary stared, her breath caught in her throat.
The boy noticed her and held up his hand. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “You’ll scare them off.”
He stood up slowly, and the animals gently retreated but didn’t seem frightened.
“I’m Dickon,” he said with a smile. “I know who you are, you must be Miss Mary.”
Mary felt a little shy but managed to ask, “Did you get Martha’s letter?”
“Aye, that’s why I came,” he said, holding a small package. “I brought the garden tools. And I brought some seeds too. Poppies, larkspur, and mignonette.”
They sat together on a log and looked at the seeds. Mary felt her heart warm to this boy who seemed to be friends with all the creatures of the moor.
When the robin appeared, Dickon whistled to it, and the bird chirped back as if they were conversing.
“He likes you,” Dickon said, grinning. “He wouldn’t come near if he didn’t.”
Mary felt a burst of happiness. “Do you think so? Do you really think he likes me?”
“Aye,” said Dickon. “He’s taken you on.”
As they sat talking about flowers and birds, Mary realized she had found a new friend in Dickon. But there was one thing she hadn’t told him yet—the biggest secret of all.
Finally, she couldn’t keep it inside any longer. “Dickon,” she said quietly, “I’ve stolen a garden. It’s a secret, and no one knows about it but me.”
Dickon’s eyes grew wide, but he didn’t look upset. He just nodded and said, “Show me.”
Mary led him to the ivy-covered door, feeling both excitement and fear. She pushed open the door and stepped into the secret garden.
“It’s this,” she said, waving her hand. “It’s a hidden garden, and I’m the only one who wants it to be alive.”
Dickon stood still, looking around the hidden, magical place.
“Eh,” he whispered, “it’s like being in a dream.”
From that moment, Mary knew that she and Dickon would share the secret of the garden and, together, bring it back to life.
Miss previous chapters of The Hidden Garden? You can read them here.
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