The Hidden Garden
a retelling of The Secret Garden
edited by Jane Mouttet
Chapter 7 – The Key
Two days after her strange discovery, Mary woke up to a brilliant change in the weather. As soon as she opened her eyes, she sat up in bed and called out to Martha, “Look at the moor! Look at the moor!”
The rain had stopped, and the wind blew away the misty gray clouds during the night. Now, the sky was a dazzling deep blue, clear and bright like nothing Mary had ever seen. In India, the skies had always been hot and blazing, but this sky was cool, almost sparkling like the surface of a peaceful lake. Small, fluffy white clouds floated high above, and the moor was a soft, gentle blue instead of the dark, gloomy colors Mary had never seen.
“Aye, the storm’s gone for now,” Martha said with a cheerful grin. “This time of year, it does that—blows away in a night like it never meant to stay. Springtime’s coming, but it’s still far off.”
“I thought it always rained or was dark here in England,” Mary said, surprised by the sudden change.
“Eh, no! Not at all!” Martha replied, sitting on her heels among her cleaning brushes. “When the sun shines here, it’s beautiful! Yorkshire’s the sunniest place on earth when it wants to be. You wait till spring finally comes. The moor’ll be full of gold gorse flowers, purple heather, butterflies, and bees humming. You’ll love it, I promise.”
Mary stared out the window longingly. The blue sky and the open moor called to her. “Do you think I could ever go out to the moor?” she asked wistfully.
Martha gave her a curious look. “You never used those legs of yours, have you? It’s a five-mile walk to our cottage across the moor. You’ll have to get stronger to manage that.”
“I’d like to see your cottage,” Mary said quietly.
Martha thought momentarily, her eyes twinkling as she polished the fireplace grate. “I’ll ask my mother about it. She always finds a way to do things. I’m going home today; it’s my day off. Maybe she’ll have an idea.”
“I like your mother,” Mary said, even though she had never met her.
Martha smiled warmly. “Aye, you would. She’s good-natured, always smiling, and full of sense. You’d like her, even if you’d never met her.”
“I think I’d like Dickon, too,” Mary added, feeling shy.
“Well, if the birds and foxes like him, I’d say you would, too!” Martha said with a chuckle. She paused, then gave Mary a thoughtful look. “I wonder what Dickon would think o’ you?”
“He wouldn’t like me,” Mary said sadly. “Nobody does.”
Martha tilted her head and asked, “How do you like yourself?”
Mary was startled by the question. She thought about it momentarily before answering, “I don’t like myself much. I never thought about it before.”
Martha grinned. “My mother once asked me the same thing when I was in a bad mood. It made me think straight, real quick. Sometimes, the person who needs changing most is yourself.”
After breakfast, Martha left to visit her family, and Mary felt lonelier than usual. To cheer herself up, she went outside to the garden. The fresh air and sunshine felt wonderful, so she ran around the fountain ten times, counting each lap. When she finished, she was out of breath but felt lighter and more energetic. The whole garden seemed different in the sunlight, with the deep blue sky overhead and the sun’s warm glow.
She wandered into the kitchen garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working with two other gardeners. The nice weather improved his mood because he spoke to her as soon as she arrived.
“Spring’s coming, lass. Can you smell it?” he asked, his spade digging into the earth.
Mary sniffed the air and nodded. “I smell something fresh and nice.”
“That’s the good, rich earth,” Ben replied. “It’s waking up and getting ready to grow things. You’ll see—soon there’ll be green spikes poking out of the ground.”
“What kind of flowers will they be?” Mary asked, curious.
“Crocuses, snowdrops, daffydowndillys,” Ben said. “You ever seen them?”
“No, I don’t think so. In India, everything grows so fast after the rains,” Mary replied.
Ben chuckled. “Well, things here don’t grow overnight. You’ll have to wait and watch. They’ll poke up bit by bit.”
“I’ll watch them closely,” Mary promised.
Just then, Mary heard the familiar flutter of wings and looked up to see the robin flying toward her. He landed near her feet, hopping about with his head tilted, as if he remembered her.
“Do you think he remembers me?” she asked Ben.
“Remembers you? Of course he does!” Ben said, gruffly but kindly. “He knows every cabbage stump in the garden and every person, too. He’s watching you closely.”
Mary laughed, delighted. The robin hopped around her, pretending to peck at the soil, and Mary felt like he was playing a little game with her. He was so bold and beautiful, with his red breast puffed out proudly, that Mary couldn’t help but talk to him.
“You do remember me! You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen!” she said, smiling.
The robin chirped and fluttered his wings, as if showing off. He let Mary get closer to him than ever before, and she spoke to him in a soft, coaxing voice, almost forgetting that she had ever been a sour, contrary girl.
As she watched him hop around, she noticed something odd on the ground—a patch of freshly turned earth. The robin landed near it, pecking at the soil, and Mary saw something metallic sticking out of the dirt. Curious, she knelt down and brushed away the soil with her fingers.
What she uncovered was an old, rusty key.
Mary picked it up and stared at it, her heart racing. The key looked ancient, as if it had been buried for years.
“Could this be…?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She held the key tightly in her hand, her mind spinning excitedly.
“Maybe… just maybe… it’s the key to the secret garden!”
Chapter 8 – The Robin’s help
Mary stood staring at the old key in her hand for a long time, turning it over and over. She had never been one to ask permission or consult anyone about what she did. All she could think of now was the possibility that this key might open the mysterious locked garden. The idea of stepping into a place shut away for so many years filled her with curiosity. What had happened to the rose bushes? What had the garden become in all that time? She imagined it to be different from any other garden she had seen, perhaps overgrown and wild.
The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea of discovering the garden for herself. She could go there every day, close the door behind her, and no one would ever know where she was. They would all believe the key was still buried, and the door still locked. The thought of this secret world pleased her greatly.
Living in such a big house with closed doors and no one to amuse her had made her imagination start working, and the fresh air of the moor was stirring her thoughts as much as her body. She was beginning to feel different from how she had been in India—less sulky and more curious. She didn’t understand why, but she liked the change.
She put the key in her pocket and walked by the long, ivy-covered wall. She looked at the thick green ivy with more interest than ever. No matter how carefully she searched, there was nothing to be seen but shiny leaves. She felt a wave of frustration. It seemed ridiculous to have the key and not be able to find the door. She decided to carry the key with her every day, just in case she found the door.
The next morning, Martha returned from her visit home, looking bright and cheerful. She told Mary all about her family, the fresh baking, and how much fun they had around the fire in the evening. Mary listened closely, and when Martha mentioned her brother Dickon and how he loved the moor, Mary’s interest grew even more.
“I’ve never seen a place like your moor,” Mary said.
“It’s a bit far for you to walk yet, but you’d love it,” Martha said. “If Dickon saw you on the moor, he’d teach you all about the wild things.”
The conversation turned to Martha’s family again, and Mary found herself wanting to know more about them.
“They wanted to hear all about you,” Martha said with a smile. “They’ve never heard about elephants, tigers, or India, so I told them as much as I knew.”
Mary paused, thinking for a moment. “I could tell you more about India before your next day out. Then you’ll have more stories to share.”
Martha’s eyes lit up. “Would you really? They’d love that!”
Mary nodded, feeling pleased with the idea of sharing her stories.
Later that day, Martha surprised Mary with a skipping rope with bright red and blue handles.
“It’s a present from my mother,” Martha said. “She bought it from a peddler with her own twopence. She said it’d do thee good, skipping outside.”
Mary had never seen a skipping rope before, and Martha had to show her how to use it. Mary watched as Martha skipped around the room, counting as she went. Soon, Mary tried it herself, laughing as she struggled to keep the rhythm.
Martha encouraged her. “You just need practice. Soon you will be skipping like me.”
With her skipping rope in hand, Mary spent the rest of the day outside, skipping in the fresh air. She skipped around the fountain, down the paths, and even into the kitchen garden, where she saw Ben Weatherstaff talking to his robin.
“Look at you,” Ben said, noticing the red color in her cheeks. “You’ve got a bit of spring in your step now.”
Mary felt proud of her efforts and kept skipping. Every time she grew tired, she rested momentarily and then started again. She made her way to her special walk along the ivy-covered wall, deciding to see how far she could skip along its length.
She was about halfway down when she had to stop to catch her breath. As she stood there, smiling, she noticed the robin perched on a branch of ivy above her. He chirped brightly, as if encouraging her to keep going.
“You showed me where the key was,” she told him playfully. “Now show me the door.”
The robin fluttered his wings and flew from one branch to another, his cheerful song filling the air. Mary felt a rush of happiness just watching him. Then, something magical happened. A gust of wind swept through the walk, stronger than the others, and as the wind blew, it pushed aside a thick curtain of ivy.
Mary gasped. Beneath the ivy, she saw something she hadn’t noticed before—a round, iron knob, covered by leaves. Her heart raced excitedly as she reached out and pulled the ivy aside. Her hands touched something cold and hard—the knob of a door!
She felt her heart pounding as she uncovered more of the door, her fingers trembling with excitement. The robin hopped nearby, chirping as if cheering her on.
“This must be it,” she whispered, barely able to contain her excitement.
She pulled the key from her pocket, her hands shaking slightly as she fit it into the lock. It was old and rusty, but she managed to turn it with a little effort. The door creaked, but slowly, it began to open.
Mary took a deep breath and looked behind her. There was no one around. No one ever came here.
She pushed the door open wider and slipped inside. As the door closed behind her, she stood still, her back against the door, her breath coming fast.
She had done it.
Mary Lennox was standing inside the hidden garden.
Miss previous chapters of The Hidden Garden? You can read them here.
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