Return to the Secret Garden
By Holly Webb
November 1, 2016
Hardcover, ISBN 9781492639091
Publisher: Sourcebooks Jabberwocky
Praise for Return to the Secret Garden
“What
a joy to return to the scene of a beloved children's classic... RETURN
TO THE SECRET GARDEN with Holly Webb and enjoy the wonder of childhood
and the magic of friendship in this sequel that is sure to warm the
hearts of young readers everywhere. This is an absolute literary
delight.”
– Pamela Klinger-Horn, Excelsior Bay Books (Excelsior, MN)
About the Book:
Return to the magic of Burnett’s classic tale with a brand-new character as she discovers a very secret garden.
It’s
1939, and the occupants of the Craven Home for Orphaned Children have
been evacuated to Misselthwaite Hall, a fancy manor in the English
countryside, to escape the Blitz. Emmie would hardly call the orphanage
“home,” but her heart breaks knowing that leaving Craven means leaving
her beloved cat, Lucy. Away from everything she’s ever known and trapped
in imposing Misselthwaite, Emmie finds herself more miserable than
ever.
But
soon she starts discovering the secrets of the house—a boy who cries in
the night, a diary written by a girl named Mary, and a garden. A very
secret garden…
BUY LINKS
Holly
Webb worked as an editor at Scholastic Books in the UK before she
became a full-time writer. She is the author of the popular Rose series.
Holly lives in Reading, England, with her family. Visit Holly at www.hollywebb.com.
Find the Author
One
The
children marched down the street in a long line of twos, and only one
of them looked back. The others didn’t turn because they didn’t need to.
There was nothing to look back for. Everything they owned was with
them—-a few clothes, a battered, shapeless stuffed toy here and there.
Each of them carried a paper bag and a gas mask, and that was all they
had.
Emmie
trailed, peering over her shoulder, so that Arthur, behind her, gave
her a shove to tell her to keep up. She kicked him swiftly and walked
backward instead, still trying to see.
But Lucy wasn’t there. It was stupid to expect that she would be anyway,
Emmie thought. Lucy hardly ever came out onto the street. She was shy,
and she hated loud noises. Emmie still stared though, hoping to see the
small, black cat peering after her around the corner of the tall house.
Lucy had probably fled out into the backyard, Emmie decided miserably.
She kicked Arthur again because he was smirking at her—-and because she
felt like it.
“Emmeline Hatton!”
Emmie
whipped around with a sigh. Of course Miss Dearlove hadn’t seen Arthur
giving her a push. She never did see. “Me, miss?” she asked innocently,
trying to look as though she didn’t know what was the matter.
The
matron glared at her. “No, the other Emmeline Hatton. Of course you!
You bad--tempered little girl, how dare you kick Arthur like that?”
“He
pushed me…” Emmie started to say, but Miss Dearlove didn’t bother to
listen. She grabbed Emmie by the arm and hauled her up to the front of
the line. She was a tiny lady, not actually much bigger than Emmie, but
Emmie didn’t dare pull away. She had known Miss Dearlove forever. The
matron was like a busy little clockwork train, wound up into a clicking
fuss of pure crossness. It was best not to get in her way—-but somehow
Emmie always did.
“You
can walk here with Miss Rose and the babies since you can’t be trusted
to behave like a ten--year--old. Why is it always you? And after your
ridiculous behavior this morning as well. As if we haven’t got enough to
worry about.” She glanced down at her watch. “Miss Rose, we need to
hurry. The station’s bound to be busy, and there isn’t that much time to
spare.” She scuttled down to the end of the line again with one last
growled “Behave!” to Emmie.
Miss
Rose was usually less bad--tempered than the matron, but even she eyed
Emmie and sighed. “Today of all days, Emmie? I would have thought you’d
have more sense.”
“He
shoved me,” Emmie muttered. She knew that wasn’t quite true, but she
wasn’t letting them have the last word. “It isn’t fair. Why do I always
get into trouble?” She walked down the street next to Miss Rose,
seething and muttering to herself. If she huffed and growled, she
wouldn’t cry, and she wasn’t going to give Arthur Banks the satisfaction
of that, however much Miss Rose frowned.
They
had been told the day before that they were leaving. Miss Dearlove had
stood up at the end of breakfast and explained that since war was
expected to be declared within a few days, the Craven Home for Orphaned
Children would be evacuated “somewhere safe.”
No
one knew what evacuation meant, except that it was vaguely connected
with the rows of brown boxes on the shelves in the schoolroom, which
contained the gas masks. Once a week for the last few months, they had
pulled the masks on and sat staring at each other, snout--nosed and
goggle--eyed. After the first few tries, Arthur had figured out how to
make a rude noise, a sort of farting snort around the rubber facepiece.
He did it every time now, and they all laughed. Even Miss Dearlove
didn’t sound that cross when she told him off.
But
Emmie had dreamed of those huge, round eyes almost every night since.
The glass lenses of the masks leaned over her, stooping down close and
staring. The gas masks were supposed to help them breathe, Miss Dearlove
said, but when Emmie thought of her mask, sealed away in its flimsy
cardboard box, she found her breath catching in her throat. Where was
this gas going to come from anyway? No one had said. Arthur and his
friend Joey said it would be dropped by planes, but all the gas that
Emmie knew about came in pipes to the kitchen for the stoves. She didn’t
see how it could be carried in a plane. If only someone would explain,
she thought bitterly, kicking at a crack in the pavement as they
marched on. Where were they going—-and why? What was happening? No one
told them anything. They didn’t need to know. They just got packed up
like their clothes and sent away…
“Look.” The little girl Emmie had been shoved next to tugged at her sleeve.
“What?” Emmie muttered, not looking.
“Over there.” Ruby pointed across the road. “See, Emmie, there! Do you think they’re being evacuated too?”
Emmie
turned and saw that they were passing a school, where a long column of
children was lining up on the playground. They were carrying an
assortment of battered cases and brown paper bags, and there were labels
tied onto their coats.
“I suppose so.”
“Just like us…” Ruby said thoughtfully. “I didn’t know everybody was.”
“We
have to get out of the cities—-in case of planes flying over,” Emmie
said vaguely. “All the children do.” That was what the boys had thought
anyway. They had been lurking around the matron’s sitting room,
listening to the news broadcasts, so Emmie supposed it was possible they
were right. The children on the playground did look a lot like them,
except that there were mothers huddling around them and even a few
fathers. They were pushing packets of sandwiches into children’s
pockets, hugging them, and running along beside them as the line of
children started to snake out onto the street. The children marched
away, following two older boys who had a banner with the school’s name
stitched onto it. Almost like a procession, Emmie thought.
Some
of the schoolchildren were crying, Emmie noticed. A lot of the smaller
ones were clinging to their mothers, pale faced and bewildered. They
didn’t seem to know what was happening either. But some of the others
looked happy, swinging their cases as if they were off on holiday.
Perhaps they were—-they might end up at the seaside.
Emmie
blinked thoughtfully. She was almost sure she’d never been out of
London. Until now, she hadn’t really thought about where they were
going. She’d been too worried about what they were leaving behind. Maybe
those two boys in the line with grins all over their faces were right.
It was an adventure…
But
almost all the mothers were brushing tears away quickly with the sides
of their hands so as not to be seen. Emmie shivered. She supposed the
children from the Home were lucky—-all the adults they knew were coming
with them. It didn’t make her feel lucky though. She tried to remember
the softness of Lucy’s head bumping against her fingers, the warmth of
her breath as the little cat nuzzled against her. But all she could hear
was Ruby, grumbling because she was tired and her shoes were too tight.
They
hadn’t gone all that far, but the streets were so much busier than the
quiet area around the Craven Home. Even Emmie felt tired, with so many
people pressing around her and the constant roar of cars and carts and
buses along the bustling street. On any other day, it would have been
fun to stand on one of those islands in the road and watch and wonder
where all these people were streaming off to. Today, Emmie wished she
was back sitting in the window of her dormitory, peering out at the
street to see the grocer’s van and a car every so often. She’d wished
for something to happen, something exciting, and now it had.
“We’re
almost there, Ruby,” Miss Rose said soothingly. “The station’s just
along the road there. Do you see? The clock tower and the name
underneath: King’s Cross.”
The station was huge, with two great, curving arched windows across the front, like tunnel mouths.
“London
and North Eastern Railway? Are we going northeast then, miss?” Emmie
demanded sharply, looking at the rest of the white letters along the
roof. But Miss Rose ignored her, starting to hurry the line of children
across the road. A policeman waved them over, holding up a line of buses
and smiling down at little Ruby clutching her faded bear.
There
were other lines of children converging on the station now. Hundreds of
them, marching along like little ants. More and more poured out of
buses, labeled, carrying parcels and bags and battered cases. Emmie had
never seen so many people her own age before. How many were going out of
London?
Miss
Rose slowed as she walked them past the scattering of shops around the
front of the great building and glanced around anxiously for Miss
Dearlove.
“What
is it?” Emmie asked. Miss Rose looked so suddenly uncertain. All the
staff at the Home had been brisk and decided about the move, brushing
away questions and urging the children to complete their meager packing.
Now for the first time, Emmie wondered if they were as confused and
worried as the children. Mrs. Evans, the cook, was clutching her big,
black handbag against her front like a shield.
“Nothing,
Emmie!” Miss Rose replied sharply. She was glancing back and forth
between the sandbags built up around the doorway and a flight of steps
down—-still with a sign to the Underground but blocked off with a great
pile of bits of broken stone. She glanced down at Emmie with a bright
smile that showed her teeth. “I just wasn’t quite sure which door we
were to take, that’s all. We must expect everything to look a little
different in wartime, mustn’t we?” she added in a comforting, singsong
voice as though Emmie had been the scared one.
Miss
Rose didn’t allow herself to be daunted by the huge space inside the
station or the milling crowd of children. She straightened her shoulders
and hurried them in, then started counting everybody again in case one
of the twenty orphans had disappeared on the way. Emmie didn’t think any
of them would have dared. Not with those planes coming—-and the gas.
She had thought about running away before—-on days when nothing happened
and no one spoke to her. But that had been before she found Lucy.
Miss
Dearlove marched over to a man in a station uniform. He frowned down at
his list and eventually pointed across to one of the farthest
platforms. Then he checked his watch and pointed again, flapping his
hands.
The
matron came trotting back to them and caught Emmie’s hand, pulling at
her sharply. “We haven’t much time. Come along, all of you. No dawdling.
There are only so many extra trains for the evacuated schools,” she
added to Miss Rose. “The timetable is all upset. If we miss this one,
we’ll have to wait hours.” She glanced irritably down at Emmie as she
spoke, as if it were her fault that they were late.
The
train was already steaming as the children hurtled onto the platform
and a porter flung the doors open for them, bundling them in as Miss
Rose and Miss Dearlove and Mrs. Evans wrestled with bags and food
baskets.
Emmie
collapsed onto a padded seat, clutching her brown paper bag of clothes
and staring out the window. She could see another train at the next
platform with a girl gazing back at her. She smiled faintly, recognizing
the strange girl’s expression of fear and excitement. There was even
something of her own sickening loneliness. Perhaps that girl had never
been out of London either. Perhaps she’d never been on a train. But
maybe, just perhaps, the train was taking her toward something new and
different. Things might be better—-even though she’d had to leave so
much behind.
The
girl waved at her, and Emmie lifted her hand slowly as their train
shuddered and creaked and began to pull out of the station, out of
London, heading for somewhere else.
***
Emmie
leaned back against the scratchy velour of the seat. She was facing the
window, but she was hardly looking at the green banks next to the
tracks that the train was racing through. She wondered where that other
girl’s train had been going. She had looked nice—-no, not nice. Nice was what Miss Dearlove and Miss Rose were always encouraging them to be. Play nicely. Now, that isn’t nice. Is it, Emmie? Nice little girls don’t behave like that.
The
only other girl Emmie’s age at the Craven Home had left when they were
both about five. Louisa had been very nice indeed, and that was why she
had been adopted. It had been made quite clear to Emmie that if only she
had been more like Louisa, she might have been adopted too. But she was
much too old for that now. And she didn’t care anyway.
Emmie
ran her hand over the arm of the seat, and tears stung the corners of
her eyes. The dark, dusty stuff reminded her of Lucy’s fur.
Whenever one of the younger, sweeter, nicer
children was taken away to have a proper home, or when Miss Dearlove
snapped at her for being ungrateful, or the boys teased her for being
skinny and pale and ugly, Emmie would simply shrug and stare. Miss
Dearlove called her insolent, and Arthur had smacked her ears for giving him that look.
She’d
stare until Miss Dearlove flounced away or the boys grew bored. And
then she’d sneak upstairs to the little window on the landing outside
the girls’ dormitory. There was a large cupboard half in front of it,
full of musty blankets and spare clothes, and a skinny, ugly, little
person could squeeze behind the cupboard and open the window—-and climb
out onto the rusted iron fire escape without anyone knowing where she
had gone.
The
first few times Emmie had been out there in the days just after she’d
found the window, she sat there alone, gazing out across the roofs
below. She loved the view—-watching the clouds streaked with red as the
sun went down. Even on the days when London was choked in fog, she had
imagined the sky and the rooftops beneath the layers of gray. If she
leaned against the railings, she could just see a slice of the road and
watch for passersby and wonder where they were going—-and where she
would go one day. She’d even taken a few steps down the fragile, old
metal staircase. But then common sense had sent her slinking back again.
She had nowhere to go. She couldn’t leave.
Emmie
had been out on the fire escape on a February afternoon when she first
saw her. It had been almost dark and icy cold, especially because Emmie
wasn’t wearing a coat. She couldn’t sneak her coat upstairs, not without
someone stopping to ask her why. But being cold was worth it—-for time
alone to think and watch the sky.
She
had felt as though she were all alone in the city. A purplish light had
soaked through the sky, and wisps of cloud floated by, looking almost
close enough to touch. Emmie leaned against the metal railings, feeling
the hard cold of the iron bite into her cheek and knowing she should go
in before they missed her.
Something
had made her stay. Afterward, she thought she’d known something was
going to happen. There was the faintest creaking on the metal steps, and
a darker patch of shadow slunk onto the tiny landing where Emmie was
curled.
“A
cat!” she whispered. The cat was tiny—-hardly more than a kitten—-and
shy. It hesitated at the edge of the landing, watching her suspiciously.
She caught a gleam of light reflected in its eyes. Why had it come all
the way up here?
Emmie
moved her hand cautiously toward her pocket, trying not to move
suddenly and scare the cat away. She had hidden a sandwich in her
handkerchief—-fish paste. She hated it, but they were supposed to finish
everything that was on their plates. Usually she dropped the scraps off
the fire escape, but she’d forgotten. She held back a laugh. Perhaps
this cat had eaten her leftovers before. Perhaps that was why it had
come.
She
opened her handkerchief and wrinkled her nose at the smell. But there
was a scuffling in the darkness—-the cat had moved. It could smell the
fish paste too. Someone turned on the light inside, and both Emmie and
the cat froze. But no one saw the open window. There was a quick patter
of footsteps up the stairs, and one of the little girls disappeared into
the dormitory.
With
the light on, Emmie could see the cat—-tiny and skinny, like her. It
was hunched at the corner of the metal floor, eyes fixed on the wrapped
sandwich, but too scared to come closer.
Slowly,
Emmie put the handkerchief down between them and unfolded it properly
to let the little thing have a glimpse of the food. Then she wriggled
farther back against the wall of the house.
“You
may as well eat it,” she whispered. “I won’t. You can have it.” She
watched the cat curiously. It was nothing like the cats she had seen in
the schoolroom books. They were plump and cushiony, with long, white
whiskers. This creature looked half-starved, and it couldn’t resist the
sandwich for long. It darted forward and began to tear at the bread,
glancing over at Emmie every so often to check that she wasn’t moving.
When
the sandwich was gone, the cat sniffed at the handkerchief and even
licked it, as if the flavor of the fish paste had soaked into the
cotton.
Then it turned and whisked away, skinny tail held low, and Emmie leaned over to watch it scurry down the steps.
The
next night, she had only bread and butter, but the cat didn’t seem to
mind. It ate the whole slice, and then when Emmie held out her fingers,
it sniffed them curiously before it darted away.
Emmie
kept taking her scraps out to the fire escape, and the cat kept turning
up. As soon as she climbed out of the window, a small, dark shape would
appear, faster and faster each time. There were days she couldn’t get
out, of course—-days when Miss Dearlove decided on a “brisk walk” or the
inspectors came. But it only took seconds for Emmie to slip behind the
cupboard and open the window a crack and drop her scraps out onto the
fire escape.
It
was an odd feeling, waiting and hoping for a glimpse of black fur. It
wasn’t even as if the cat stayed for long, not for those first few days
anyway. She—-Emmie was only guessing it was a she, but “it” all the time
sounded mean—-would eat whatever Emmie had brought, and then when she
was sure all the food was gone, she would hurry back to whatever she had
been doing. Sniffing around the trash bins, probably, Emmie thought.
It
seemed strange to mind so much, to sit in lessons and hope the cat
would turn up, but Emmie found that she thought about the cat more than
she thought of anything else. She had never had a pet or known any sort
of animal. The Craven Home only had the occasional mouse, and then only
in the kitchens, where the children weren’t really supposed to go. There
wasn’t any chance of taming a mouse with crumbs, even if Emmie had
wanted to. Knowing that the cat came to see her, or her sandwiches,
tugged at something inside Emmie. The cat wanted her, even if it was
only for food. It needed her—-and she needed it too.
In
the third week, the cat climbed into Emmie’s lap when she wasn’t fast
enough unwrapping another fish--paste sandwich, and Emmie named her
Lucy.
“Emmie! Emmie!” Someone pulled at her hand, and Emmie realized Ruby was talking to her.
“Don’t you want a sandwich?” Ruby pushed one into her hand, and Emmie stared down at it, trying not to gag. It was fish paste.
“No!” she said sharply, and shoved it back at Ruby. Then she caught Miss Rose’s eye and added, “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”
“There’s
plain bread and butter, Emmie.” Miss Rose passed her another paper
packet. She went on gently. “You need to eat something. It’ll be hours
more yet. It’s a long way.”
Emmie nodded. She was too miserable even to ask again where they were going, in case she started to cry.
“Missing
that scrawny cat?” Joey leaned over, speaking through a mouthful of
sandwich, and Emmie pressed herself back against the seat disgustedly.
If only they hadn’t all seen. She had kept Lucy a secret for weeks, but
the little cat grew tamer and a tiny bit plumper, and she was clever
enough to figure out that Emmie—-and more food—-were inside the house.
Miss
Dearlove shooed her out, but Miss Rose seemed to like cats. When she
saw Lucy sitting on a windowsill or sneaking along the passage by the
schoolroom, she smiled faintly and looked the other way instead of
chasing the little cat outside again. And the cook liked her—-Lucy had
the sense to catch a mouse and drop it in front of Mrs. Evans’s feet.
After that, Emmie would occasionally see a saucer of milk in the yard at
the bottom of the fire escape—-a saucer where there had once been milk
anyway.
How
could they have made her leave Lucy behind if what everyone said was
true and London was going to be flattened by bombs? And the gas. Emmie
had heard Miss Rose and the cook saying that all the mailboxes were
being painted with special gas--detecting paint, so they’d glow yellow
instead of red if there was gas floating in the streets. It sounded as
though it was going to happen any day now. What would happen to Lucy if
that was real?
Emmie
shivered and closed her eyes for a second. She could see Lucy lying on
the little iron landing of the fire escape, basking in the sun. The
little cat liked to stretch out on her side, showing off her rusty
reddish black underneath. Sometimes she even lay on her back with her
paws in the air. She’d wave them, as if she was inviting Emmie to rub
the fluff of her belly. And then if Emmie dared, half the time Lucy
would pounce on her and bat at her wrist. But Emmie didn’t mind the
scratches.
The
other children had petted Lucy and even fed her scraps, but she seemed
to remember that Emmie had been her first protector, and she always came
back to the fire escape.
Emmie
had found a basket the night before while they were packing. It was in
that same cupboard of odds and ends that stood in front of their window.
There must have been a cat once before—-or perhaps it was meant for
picnics in the park, although Emmie wasn’t sure anyone at the Home had
ever done something so lovely. She hadn’t asked Miss Dearlove or Miss
Rose if they could take the cat. She hadn’t even thought about it. It
had been so clear to her that Lucy could not be left behind. She’d
simply been grateful that she wouldn’t have to carry Lucy in her arms or
tie a string around her neck. She didn’t think the cat would like being
on a train.
But
before breakfast wasn’t Lucy’s time to appear slinking through the
kitchen or creeping up to the top of the iron staircase. Emmie had
hurried through the press of twenty excited, bewildered children,
dropping paper bags and gas masks and winter coats that smelled of
mothballs—-because even though it was a sweltering September day, who
knew how long they’d be away for? Miss Dearlove raced around, spooning
porridge into the little ones, sewing buttons back on, and in between,
dashing back into the kitchen to screech at Mrs. Evans about twenty
sandwiches.
In
the passage outside the kitchen, she came on Emmie with a fingerful of
beef dripping, trying to persuade Lucy into the lidded basket. The
little cat had her front paws in, and Emmie was wondering if she should
just take a chance and shove the rest of her in too.
“Emmie!
For pity’s sake, why haven’t you got your coat on? We’re about to
leave! What’s in that basket? You’ve not put your clothes in there, have
you? You should have them in a parcel, like the others.”
Emmie glanced around at her, and Miss Dearlove sucked in her cheeks.
Lucy saw that Emmie was distracted and took her chance to launch out of the basket.
“No!”
Emmie squeaked. “Oh, miss, catch her!” And she flung herself full
length, grabbing the thin, black cat, who to Miss Dearlove looked just
as scruffy and ugly as the little girl. Emmie was sallow skinned and
thinner than ever, since she’d been hiding away half her food to feed
the cat. Emmie’s hair had wisped its way out of her thin braids already,
and her arms were all scratched.
“That
disgusting stray! I might have known…” Then the matron stopped and
stared at the basket. “Emmie Hatton, did you think you were taking that
creature with you?”
Emmie
crawled clumsily onto her knees and stood up slowly, gripping the
squirming cat in her arms. She stood there, wincing as Lucy flailed her
claws and pulled several more threads out of her cardigan. The cat
didn’t care that she was being saved. She was hungry, and she had not
liked the basket at all.
“We
have to,” Emmie whispered, her greenish eyes widening as she stared
back at Miss Dearlove. It wasn’t one of her purposeful stares—-she
wasn’t trying to make Miss Dearlove angry. This was a round--eyed look
of panic and disbelief. They couldn’t leave the cat behind. It would be
too cruel. “The bombs…” she faltered.
“We
are not taking a cat, certainly not a dirty stray like that. Why, even
proper pets are…” Miss Dearlove trailed off, shaking her head. “Get
going, Emmie. We’ve a train to catch that’s taking us halfway across the
country! You’re making us late. Now come along.” Miss Dearlove went to
seize Lucy from Emmie’s arms, but Emmie screamed and darted back, and
Lucy hissed, not even sure who to be angry with. She fought and bit and
scratched, and at last Emmie let go of her with a despairing cry as the
cat streaked away through the kitchen and the scullery and out.
“At
last! Now get out to the hallway and find your coat. We should have
left by now. Mrs. Evans, are you ready? The children are lining up,”
Miss Dearlove added to the cook, who was standing in the kitchen doorway
watching.
But Emmie crouched to pick up the basket, gazing into it as if she almost couldn’t believe it was empty.
“Put that down!” snapped Miss Dearlove, taking the handle.
Emmie jerked away, snatching it back. “No! I have to go and get her. We have to bring her with us!”
The
matron grabbed the basket, and with her other hand, she slapped Emmie
across the cheek. Emmie dropped the cat basket and leaned against the
wall, tears seeping from the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t crying
because Miss Dearlove had hit her, even though it hurt, but because
she’d realized that it was true. They meant it. They really were leaving
Lucy behind.
“I
couldn’t help it,” she heard Miss Dearlove murmur to the cook. “Dratted
child, she does it on purpose. Bring her, will you, Mrs. Evans? I need
to go and lock up.”
Emmie
felt Mrs. Evans’s arm slide around her shoulders, and the cook’s dry
fingers stroked her scarlet cheek. She could hear the old woman tutting
gently, but her voice seemed to come from a long way away.
“Come
along, sweetheart. You come on now. Don’t you worry about that little
cat. She’ll be next door, stealing a kipper for her breakfast, I expect.
Time we were on our way.”
2 Copies of Return to the Secret Garden
Runs November 6-November 18
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(US & Canada only)
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