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

In the hall the grandfather clock was striking seven. It was two hours since Mary had expected to have her tea, and she was very hungry. She had been on her hands and knees, peering through the keyhole of her bedroom door for nearly two hours now, but no-one had passed to bring food or to allow her out to eat it, and it was pitch dark in the corridor. Miss Crichton had threatened her with nothing but bread and broth to eat, but even that had not arrived. Why had nobody come?

Mary felt a rising panic. Once before she had been left alone, and nobody had come. She had waited alone in the silent bungalow under the pulsing heat of the Indian sun. Her parents were dead, her Ayah too, and all the servants who weren’t sick with the cholera had run away. There was nobody left to come. What if it had happened again? What if Mrs Medlock, and Martha, and Colin, and Dickon and everyone, even Miss Crichton, had fallen sick and there was nobody left? What if her uncle was never coming home? She did not want to be the one left behind ever again.

Eventually she heard footsteps in the corridor outside. Someone was lighting the lamps, one by one, starting at the far end near the stairs. It was hard to see who, but as the light grew with each new lamp she could make out a long black dress and a white cap. 

‘Martha?’ she called through the keyhole. ‘Martha, is that you?’

‘I’m not supposed to talk to you, Miss,’ Martha whispered as she lit the lamp nearest to Mary’s door. 

‘I have had nothing to eat, Martha,’ Mary said. ‘Have I been forgotten?’

‘Nay, Miss Mary. You’re being punished for sauciness. Miss Crichton has said that you can wait for your supper and maybe you will behave better tomorrow.’

‘And Colin?’

‘He’s to wait too.’ Martha moved to the other side of the corridor, lifting her taper to the lamp and adjusting the shade. 

‘This isn’t what Uncle wanted. I wish I could write him a letter and explain, but how would I post it without her knowing? Unless I gave the letter to you next time you go home to visit your family. Then would you ask someone to post it for me in the village? If I can find some money? You will help, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will,’ Martha said. ‘If Dickon can’t do it I’ll ask my friend Bob … I mean, Mr. Strong. He’ll help me, I know he will. I don’t think what that woman’s doing to Master Colin is right. He was so ill, and he should be –’ She broke off from what she was saying as footsteps could be heard in the corridor, short, sharp steps marching along. Mary couldn’t see through the keyhole who it was, until the steps were almost at her door. It was Miss Crichton, with a look of fury on her face and a small wooden tray in her hands.

‘What are you doing, girl?’ she said to Martha.

‘Lighting the lamps, Miss Crichton,’ Martha replied, bobbing a curtsey and turning so that Mary could see her face through the keyhole. She was chewing at her bottom lip and her voice quavered.

‘You were talking to someone. I suppose you weren’t talking to the gas lamps?’ Miss Crichton said, sarcastically. ‘Or are you a half-wit?’

‘No, Miss Crichton,’ Martha whispered.

‘Then I can only assume that you have gone against my orders and you were talking to the girl.’

‘I … I …’

Mary spoke up from behind the door. ‘I was telling her that she should obey my orders in my uncle’s house. Martha was simply telling me that she couldn’t do what I asked because she has to do what you say.’ She was desperate to help her friend.

‘And what did you ask her?’ Miss Crichton spoke to the door as if she could see right through it to where Mary crouched behind it.

‘I was asking Martha why I could not be let out and why no-one had come.’

‘And what did Martha say?’

‘She said it was your orders,’ Mary said, which was not entirely untrue.

‘Well, Martha Sowerby, for your disobedience in talking to her you shall be turned away with no references.’

‘Please, Miss! It’s nearly Christmas and my family need my wages. There are still three children at home.’

‘Well, it isn’t my fault your mother is improvident enough to have more children than she can afford,’ said Miss Crichton with a sniff.

‘No! You can’t! It was my fault, not Martha’s!’ Mary protested. 

‘Oh, it was, was it? Then you shall be punished too. I was bringing you a nice, nourishing supper of cabbage broth and brown bread, but I see that I shall have to reconsider.’ She put the tray down on the table beside Mary’s door and the smell of the broth through the keyhole was enough to make Mary’s stomach growl with hunger, even though she detested cabbages and brown bread too. ‘You, girl, go and pack up your things and be out of this house by nightfall. And as for you,’ she said to Mary, ‘I’ll deal with you tomorrow.’

By Liz Taylorson