There was no sound outside, not even the noise of the birds, but from the light coming round the edges of the shutters it must be daylight already. They had slept for hours. Perhaps, back at Misselthwaite Manor, Miss Crichton and Miss Prosser had already discovered that they were missing. They would search the house first, no doubt, and find the note that Mary had left in her room. As soon as they read it they would assume that the two of them had gone to London to find Mr. Craven, and they would head straight for the railway station in pursuit. Meanwhile, Mary and Colin would be snug in their summer house, safe in the Secret Garden.

The first thing she had to do was to find some firewood and get a fire going in the fireplace. Colin would wake up to a blazing fire and he wouldn’t be so unhappy. She had watched Martha light a fire many times so she knew what to do, and she knew where there was a pile of logs that would be dry, under one of the trees, and that would be perfect for firewood. Once the fire was lit she could boil the kettle and make some toast to eat. It was strange. When she threw back her blanket she expected the cold air to take her breath away but it didn’t feel as cold as it had done last night and when she opened the door she realised why. Overnight, in silence, the snow had fallen, and a thick blanket of feathery whiteness lay over the Secret Garden. It had served as a kind of insulation to the old summer house, and it had transformed the garden from a dull, grey, dead place into a shining wonderland.

‘Colin! Wake up! It’s snowed!’ Mary couldn’t take her eyes off the garden. Last winter they had only had thin scatterings of snow, not a thick carpet like this, and she had never seen snow in India. This was … magic.

‘What?’ Colin peeped over the top of his blanket. 

‘It’s snowed! The trees look like they’re covered in blossom, and there are flowers of snow on every plant. You can’t see the mud, everything’s clean and white. I’ve never seen this much snow before, I didn’t know winter could be so enchanting.’

Colin came to stand beside her.

‘Well, if there’s snow that means only one thing,’ he said, and Mary expected him to grumble about the cold. ‘It means … snowball fight!’ He ran out into the garden and scooped up a handful of snow and flung it at Mary. It bounced of her woollen cap and fell to the ground. 

‘Well I … Colin Craven, take that!’ and she threw one back. The cold of the melting snowball dripping down her back shocked her, but Colin flung another one. They raced round the garden, pelting each other with snowballs and leaving trails of footprints all around the lawned area outside the summer house. The delighted shouts of the two children could be heard all over the garden, but the only person out and about in the garden this morning was old Ben Weatherstaff, and his hearing wasn’t what it used to be.

When they were tired of playing, Mary collected the wood, sheltered and dry beneath a tree, and lit the fire. She used some pointed sticks as toasting forks and heated the bread over the fire to make toast.

‘It’s a shame we don’t have butter for our toast, but we do have cheese – I could toast that too,’ Mary said, and they sat down to a hearty breakfast. No fine dinners could ever have tasted better than that simple toast and cheese in the garden. Mary filled the kettle with some water from the pump in the corner of the garden, and heated it to drink. She wished she’d thought to bring some tea leaves, one of the few Indian traditions of which she approved. There was only one mug in the summer house so they shared it. By now they were warmed through by laughter and exercise as much as by the fire and the food. 

The garden was quiet and they threw some crumbs out for the robin to share. He flew down and gratefully pecked at the crumbs, eating a few for himself and taking some back to his nest for his mate. He bobbed his head in gratitude before he flew away. Everything looked so different in the snow, so new and sparkling. Dickon was right, there was a kind of magic in winter that was utterly different to the spring magic that came after the cold. This wasn’t the magic of slow growth, this was the magic of sudden transformation. This was a winter magic of brightness at the darkest time of year, the magic of Christmas.

‘I don’t ever want to go back to the house,’ Mary said, as the robin came back to pick up the last few crumbs from their breakfast. ‘I wish we could stay here forever.’

By Liz Taylorson

Mary closed the door in the ivy with a gentle thud, and turned the key in the lock. There were only two keys to the Secret Garden. She had used one to open the door and now lock it behind her, and her uncle had the other one in his study and no-one except Mr Craven was allowed to touch things in his study. She let out a huge sigh of relief and her breath spiralled upwards towards the twinkling stars.

‘No-one can get in here without the key,’ she said to Colin, holding it out in front of her like a talisman.

‘They could get in with a big axe,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t like it. It’s cold and dark.’

‘It’s not dark. We have the moon, don’t we? Doesn’t it make the garden look magical? All the trees look like they’re touched with silver. See that rose there? One of the last roses of summer, and now the frost and the moonlight have turned it to spun glass. The garden is under a spell of ice, and so are we.’

‘Now you sound like Martha spinning one of her old tales,’ Colin said. 

They walked between two tall cypress trees which grew at the entrance to the rock garden. In summer it was filled with alpines: star-like flowers of ruby, sapphire and amber glinting from between the rocks and stones. Without the summer plants the rocks stood out like sentinels, guarding the path towards the summer house which stood in the far corner of the Secret Garden. In the summer they hardly ever went there, unless it rained, for who would want to be inside when there was so much to do outside? 

‘Here!’ said Mary, throwing open the door, and Colin looked around himself.

‘Seriously? Mary, what are you thinking? It’s like a … hovel. The walls and floor are nothing but bare stone, and the benches are too hard to sleep on. I’m not staying here, not for one minute! I’m going back to the house. I want to be warm, I want my feather bed and I want my supper.’

‘No! No, you can’t, not now. We’ll make it cosy in here, I promise. The magic will help us. We have everything we need, believe me, Colin. Lots of people live in places like this – and far worse – all the time. Think of those people in the books we read by Mr Dickens: Oliver Twist and Little Nell the Orphan. We have food, and a roof above our heads, and blankets and wood for a fire. They had none of that. This is an adventure – isn’t that what you wanted? This is your chance to be brave!’

‘I hadn’t imagined going on an adventure in winter,’ Colin said, looking around the summer house.

They had been there often in the summer. On rainy days they sometimes had amused themselves by making their dinners there, which meant that there were plates and cups, not to mention an old saucepan which Cook had let them borrow and they had forgotten to return, and a little kettle beside the empty fireplace. Mary had brought her two bundles; Martha’s filled with food and blankets, and her own with what she had brought from the Manor.

‘First, we need to light a candle. I’ve got one here, and some matches.’ A little flame was enough to light the summer house, and already the yellow glow of the candle made it look more homely. ‘If we close the shutters it will keep out the night. I’ll make up our beds.’

Colin tutted and grumbled, and he watched as she spread out the blankets on the benches, and used the old sack as a carpet. 

‘It feels warmer already, doesn’t it? In the morning we’ll hunt for firewood, and then we can have a fire and it will be so cosy in here. It might not be grand, but we’re safe. No-one will punish us for faults we don’t have and nobody will lock us in our rooms. We have bread and cheese from Martha and there are still some apples in the sheltered bits of the garden. That’s plenty – and it’s better than eating kedgeree in that awful dining room.’

‘I don’t like it here, Mary, it’s cold and dirty. I want to go home.’ Colin sat down on the bed, and his eyes were full of tears. 

‘Don’t give up, Colin. You need to be brave. Remember the Magic. Dickon said that there’s magic in winter too.’

‘The Magic won’t make me warm.’

‘Here. Take off your boots and get under the blankets. Keep your coat and hat on, they’ll help to keep you snug. There, is that better? Are you warmer now?’

Colin nodded, his head the only part of him visible under the heavy woollen blankets.

‘It itches,’ he insisted grumpily. 

‘Then I want you to imagine, really hard, and the Magic will come. Pretend that it’s summer, and outside the sun is shining and the garden is in full bloom. There are flowers everywhere, and the birds are singing. There’s a warm breeze blowing, and the blossom on the apple trees smells sweet. The robins have eggs in their nest, and Dickon’s fox is playing on the grass which is covered in daisies and buttercups …’ She let her voice trail away into silence. Colin was already asleep. She took off her boots and climbed under her own blankets, closed her eyes and believed as hard as she could in summer sunshine and flowers.

She, too, was soon asleep.

By Liz Taylorson

Even though they shared lessons still, Miss Crichton had decided that Mary and Colin were bad influences on each other, and they were made to sit at opposite sides of the schoolroom and forbidden from communicating. However, when Cook appeared to speak to Miss Crichton it gave Mary enough time to sneak a note to Colin outlining her plans.

Now it was dark, and Mary had made a second parcel of everything else she thought she might need and dropped it out of her window. It fell with a thud into the flowerbed and flattened some of the lavender. In the light of the half-moon she climbed down the ivy, then she ran along to Colin’s window and threw a handful of small pebbles to attract his attention. The window opened and Colin looked down at her.

‘There you are!’ he hissed crossly. ‘I read your note, and did everything you said in it. But you didn’t come. I thought you’d forgotten me. What shall I do with my bundle?

‘Drop it, and I’ll catch it.’ His enormous bundle only just fitted through the window and when he dropped it she staggered backwards under the weight.

‘What’s in there?’ she asked.

‘Treasure Island and a couple of other books,’ Colin admitted, and she could feel the corners through the blanket he had tied them in. Miss Crichton had relented and given him back his beloved Treasure Island when he managed to learn his first list of Latin verbs.

‘In my note I said only necessities!’

‘Books are necessary if we’re running away. I can’t leave them. And we might need them to occupy our minds on the journey to … where are we going?’

‘I’ll tell you when you’re safely down here and not before.’

‘How exactly do you expect me to get down?’ he said, imperiously. ‘Jump?’

‘Ssh! Not so loud. They’ll hear you. No, you don’t have to jump, you can use the ivy like a ladder. It’s easy, I’ve done it two or three times already.’

‘I’m not sure. It might not be safe. How do I know I won’t fall? Then I might hurt my back and end up a cripple after all.’

‘Would you rather stay up there with Miss Crichton and Miss Prosser for company?’ Mary said crossly, standing with her feet planted firmly apart and her hands on her hips. She hadn’t expected to have to persuade him to come with her. ‘Locked in your room, no proper food, tied to a chair to improve your posture?’

‘No.’

‘Then climb. You can do it.’

‘I suppose. You’re just a girl, if you can manage it then I can.’

He climbed down, clinging to each branch and huffing and puffing so loudly that Mary was afraid Miss Crichton would hear him, even from her room at the other side of the Manor. Eventually he stood beside her in the chilly darkness, blowing on his hands to warm them.

‘Didn’t you bring gloves?’ Mary said.

‘No. And I’m not going back for them, so don’t suggest it.’ He looked up at the ivy-covered wall as if it was Mount Everest. ‘Well? What’s your plan?’

Mary hoisted her small bundle onto her shoulder and began to walk away from the grey bulk of the Manor, keeping in the shadow of the box hedge rather than taking the more direct route across the lawn where they would have been easily visible in the silvery moonlight. Colin followed her as she picked up the big bundle she’d hidden under the wheelbarrow.

‘Are we going to take the train to London to find Father?’ he asked. Mary shook her head.

‘No. But I left a note so that’s where Miss Crichton will think we’ve gone. It’s too risky to go to London, and besides which we don’t have any money. I don’t think we can walk there all the way from Yorkshire.’

‘I suppose,’ said Colin, dragging his own bundle along the ground. ‘So where are we going?’

‘The Secret Garden!’ Mary said, with a thrill of pride.

‘The Secret Garden?’ Colin stopped stock still. ‘That’s a stupid idea! Only a girl would come up with that.’

‘Then you think of a better one.’ Mary marched ahead, determined to stick to her plan.

‘They’ll find us straight away!’ Colin whined, having to run to catch up with her when he realised she wasn’t going to stop.

‘Not if they think we’ve gone to London. They won’t even try to look for us,’ Mary said. ‘It’s only for three or four days. I gave Dickon a letter to post to your father which will bring him straight home, so all we have to do is hide there until he returns.’ Mary was quite pleased with herself for coming up with such an ingenious plan, but Colin wasn’t as impressed as she’d expected.

‘Well, where are we going to sleep, Miss Clever-Clogs? Up an apple tree?’

‘In the summer house. There’s a fireplace on the back wall, and two benches to sleep on. We’ll be warm as toast in there, and we can cook on the fire. There’s fresh water from the garden pump, and the robin will keep a look out for us. It’s perfect.’

‘It’s stupid. But I suppose it will have to do.’

By Liz Taylorson

‘Mercy me, where have you come from!’ Dickon exclaimed. ‘It’s not even dawn yet.’ Mary had been banging on the door of the Sowerby’s cottage for several minutes, until a bleary-eyed Dickon had come to answer it. The cottage was low, with white walls and a red tiled roof, but though it was small, every window was brightly curtained and the garden was neat and well-tended. It looked much more inviting than the grim, grey grandeur of Misselthwaite Manor. Mary thought that she could curl up and sleep comfortably under a patchwork quilt in one of the tiny bedrooms in the eaves of the cottage much more easily than in the great four poster at the Manor. But this was no time for thinking about sleep. She had to be back in time for breakfast – she had climbed down the ivy before dawn, and didn’t have long for her errand.

‘I was so sorry Martha was dismissed. She didn’t do anything wrong, you know, it was all Miss Crichton’s doing.’

‘I know. Martha told our mam all about it. It’s not right what that woman done to Martha – nor to you and Colin. Have you come all this way to ask after our Martha?’

‘Sort of. It’s important. I need you to help me. I must contact my uncle, urgently. I need to tell him about Miss Crichton. Martha said she would help and she said she’d take a letter for me but now she’s not at the hall, so I climbed out of my window and ran here to ask.’

‘Climbed out of your window? Well I never!’ Dickon said, his eyes warm with admiration. ‘Tha’s got some spirit, Miss Mary!’

‘Can you go to the Post Office in Thwaite village and post this letter for me? I have a shilling here, but I don’t know if it will be enough.’ She thrust the letter and the coin towards Dickon, who took them, a bemused expression on his face.

‘I’ll make sure it is,’ he said.

Mary had vowed that she would keep her secret to herself, but the warmth of Dickon’s tone tempted her to trust him. 

‘We’re going to run away,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘My uncle needs to know that Miss Crichton is treating Colin very badly. And the servants too. It’s not just Martha – now she has taken the keys from Mrs. Medlock. Whoever heard of a housekeeper without her keys?’

Dickon shook his head slowly. ‘And locking the pair of you in your rooms and half-starving you. It’s wrong. Ay, I’ll make sure your letter’s posted, don’t fret.’

‘You won’t tell anyone about the running away though, will you?’ Mary asked.

‘Nay. But don’t you be telling me no more about it. I can’t let slip what I don’t know, now, can I?’

Mary nodded.  There was the sound of a door opening inside the cottage, and Martha appeared at the door, wrapped in a warm shawl and carrying a bundle. Her eyes were red, and Mary thought she might have been crying.

‘It is you! I heard what you said. Mother’s still asleep, and we’d best keep it that way, for although she might feel sorry for you, she wouldn’t be able to help you run away, not in good conscience. But I can. Here.’ She thrust the bundle towards Mary.

‘What’s this?’ Mary said. The bundle was heavy, but not hard or awkward, and appeared to be wrapped in an old hessian sack.

‘Blankets. If th’art running away in the wilds of winter, tha’ll need to keep good and warm, you and Master Colin both. I don’t want to know where you’re going, but I do want to make sure that wherever you end up, you’re not going to be cold. Take these. And here,’ she turned back into the kitchen, coming back with a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese. ‘These are for you too.’

‘Won’t you get into terrible trouble?’

‘I’m in trouble enough already. Out of a job just before Christmas and no references, neither. But our mother won’t mind when she knows who they’re for – and why. We’ll post your letter and bring your uncle home, one way or another. You just hold on until he comes.’

‘Thank you. Both of you,’ Mary looked from one kind face to the other. ‘I wish I could stay longer. But I must get back before they notice that I’m gone.’

‘Good luck to you, Miss,’ called Dickon as Mary crept away into the dawn.

‘Thank you, Dickon!’ she replied, and then she ran back to Misselthwaite Manor as fast as she could, her bundle bumping on her back. She stowed it carefully under a wheelbarrow to protect it from the weather until she and Colin could pick it up after nightfall. That was the first part of her plan in place. She climbed nimbly back up the ivy and into her room, just as Miss Prosser’s footsteps could be heard in the corridor outside, coming to knock on her door to wake her.

By Liz Taylorson

By the time the first light of dawn crept around the curtains of her bedroom, Mary was almost sick with hunger and she would’ve eaten kedgeree without complaint. She crept to the window and looked out. Ben Weatherstaff was on his way to work, a broom over his shoulder, whistling a tune, but even though she waved and knocked on the window he didn’t look up and see her, a tiny figure in a huge expanse of grey stone walls and glittering windows. Old Ben didn’t hear as well as once he did. Was he going to tend to the Secret Garden? If only she could escape her bedroom, that was what she would want to do. Even her plan to write to her uncle had been spoilt – if Martha had been dismissed who could she ask to post a letter now? She and Colin were truly prisoners.

She heard the robin before she saw him; a sharp piping call from close by.

‘Robin? Is that you?’ She spoke as if the bird could hear her, and maybe he could. She looked all round and spotted him at last, perched on the ivy beside the window, singing away to her.  ‘It is you! I’m sorry, I can’t give you any crumbs to eat, for I have none myself,’ she told the little bird. ‘I can’t come to the garden with you. I wish I could, more than anything, but I’m locked in.’ 

He hopped onto the window ledge beside her and tapped on the glass, almost as if he wanted her to open the window and climb out to him.

Open the window … and climb out to him!

She could do it. The robin was right. The ivy around her window was old, and the branches were thick. They would easily take the weight of a thin scrap of a girl like her.  She could climb down and go to the Secret Garden, as long as she was back before anyone came to look for her. She should have a whole hour before the rest of the house was up and about. She opened the casement wide, and the cold wind almost took her breath away. A coat, she would need a coat! And shoes, too. Her green woollen coat would be the best one, she thought as she ran to her wardrobe and picked it out. It would make her harder to see. She found her old leather shoes, the ones upon which Miss Prosser had poured scorn. They might not suit a Christmas party but they were just right for a winter’s adventure. 

She stood at the window and looked down. It was a long way to fall … but there was a cushion of lavender bushes below her window, and, she told herself firmly, she wasn’t going to fall. She sat on the windowsill and swung her legs out of the window. Taking a deep breath, she reached one foot down until she found a sturdy branch. She put her full weight on it, and the branch held. She tried another one, a few inches lower down, and from then on it was just like descending a ladder – a green, leafy ladder with a few spiders for company, but a ladder nonetheless. She could do it! 

She reached the bottom without incident, and outside the house there was no-one to see her. Keeping to the hedge she ran towards the Secret Garden. There was the key, in its accustomed place behind the ivy, and she opened the door, closing it and locking it behind herself. If she was in the garden with the key, no-one else could get in, could they? She’d be safe there. 

She wandered beside the dark fountain pool, the water still and iced around the edges, and she followed the path up through the rock garden where the little alpine flowers grew in the summer. It was empty of colour now. Under the trees, the boughs dripped with the mizzling rain that was falling. It was lovely to be outside but there wasn’t much gardening to be done right now. It felt like the garden was settling down for a long winter sleep and spring would be a long time coming. She found one of the last apples still hanging on the branches of the espaliered trees around the wall, and even though it had a few worm holes she ate it thankfully.

In the corner of the garden was a little stone summerhouse. Inside there were two benches, one down each wall, and two shuttered windows. She flung open the shutters so that she could sit inside in the dry and look out at the rain-sodden garden. For a long while she sat in silence, just drinking in the freedom of being back in her beloved garden, without Miss Crichton or Miss Prosser. There was a tiny fireplace at the far end of the summerhouse where they sometimes lit a fire to boil a kettle or heat some soup for their lunch. Perhaps if she came again she could bring some coal and get a little fire going.

And that’s when she had the idea.

The ivy that clad the East Wing of Misselthwaite Manor also grew outside Colin’s room, and if she could climb out of the window, so could he. They could leave at night, when everyone believed they were asleep in their beds and they could hide away here. If the garden was locked, nobody would know they were there – nobody except perhaps old Ben, and he’d never betray them. Now she knew she could get out of her room, first thing tomorrow she could run to the Sowerby’s cottage with a letter to her uncle and ask them to post it in the village for her. She could be there and back before anybody missed her if she was awake early enough. Then as soon as he read the letter and heard what was going on in his absence, her uncle would come home.

She and Colin could live in the Secret Garden until he came.

By Liz Taylorson