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Feb. 5th, 2006 12:01 amThe bright sun, after hours in the dark carriage, dazzled Mary’s vision as she stepped out; and before her eyes had a chance to adjust they’d put the blindfold over her eyes.
“You’re not to try to take it off,” Colin warned – his voice had gotten deeper, and in the second Mary had had to see him she could tell he’d grown what seemed miles. It was he who had tied the blindfold. “And you can try to see through it if you like, but it’s no good. I had Dickon test the blindfold on me first to be sure. We wanted to make it a real surprise.”
“Aye,” said Dickon. That was all, but Mary could hear him smiling. It was part of Dickon’s Magic, that you always could tell when he was smiling, even if you couldn’t see it.
He had been standing a little behind Colin when Mary got out. From what Mary had seen, he hadn’t changed at all; only perhaps grown a little more freckled, his smile a little wider. He still seemed to be Dickon, though. Not, of course, that Mary had expected anything else – she didn’t want him to change, and for the most part if Mary didn’t want Dickon to do something, he wouldn’t do it. For the most part.
Still, it had been a long time that she was away – the first time she’d left the Manor for anything longer than a few hours since she’d arrived, four years ago – and Dickon, for all his gentleness, was a wild creature like Mary herself. Wild creatures could be befriended, but not tamed.
“I do not like surprises,” Mary announced, darkly.
“You’ll like this one,” Colin promised, and snatched up her hand to tug at it. “We’re not far – don’t be so poky, Mary, we won’t let you walk into anything –”
Reluctantly, Mary started to move her feet forward. She was going to stumble, she knew it –
Dickon’s hand came down on her arm, steadying her. “There, Miss Mary,” he said, cheerfully – his voice had changed a little after all; she could hear it now – “as if tha’ didn’t know all o’ these paths well enow’ to run ‘em back and forth blind in any case, with no help from me nor Colin!”
This was true enough that Mary relaxed, and started concentrating on keeping the turns through her uncle’s gardens straight in her mind. She was fairly sure she knew where they were going – there was really only one place they would be taking her – but it was reassuring, all the same, to trace the familiar paths with her feet.
They were going around the fountain, now, and now they were in the orchard, and now they were passing through the door, the door. Even if she hadn’t known the route by heart, she could tell by the tickle of ivy against her cheek. And now they were in the center of the garden, and Dickon’s hand was falling away from her arm.
“Dickon,” Colin ordered, “take off the blindfold.”
Mary stood very still, as the cloth fell away from her eyes; light poured in through her closed eyelids, and it came to her, with a start, that she was almost afraid. It was months she hadn’t seen the garden – months in which anything could have happened; and while she knew, of course she knew, that Dickon and Ben Weatherstaff would be caring for it while she and Colin were in school, still –
She kept her eyes closed, for a moment longer, and then opened them.
It was all the same.
It was all nearly exactly the same.
Only one spot was different – a spot which had been bare for four years, ever since the first cuttings of Canterbury bells that Dickon had brought Mary from the Sowerby garden had failed. It had been a blow, at the time; they were the first flowers that Mary had truly failed to grow, and the bare patch of dirt – under a broken branch of the tree that dominated the small garden – had acted as a silent reproach every time Mary’s eye fell upon it.
Mary had tried again, the next year, but to no avail, and after that Dickon had suggested, quietly, that she might do well to leave it alone for a bit. Dickon’s suggestions tended to be good ones, and Mary had done as he asked.
But now –
“Canterbury bells,” Dickon said, from behind her, “an’ cockleshell orchids, is those there – an’ marigolds, in the corners.”
Mary was still staring at the riot of flowers. “Canterbury bells take two years to grow from seed,” she said; she sounded disbelieving and ungrateful, to herself, and wished she could change it, say it again differently.
“Aye,” Dickon said, unperturbed. “We planted ‘em a good two year back.”
“Dickon planted them,” Colin corrected; Mary could see his eager face, bright, to one side. “I did not know about it until I got back last week, but I helped then – it was my idea to surprise you.”
Mary turned around, her navy-blue school skirt swinging against skinny knees. “Thank you,” she said, to them both, and heard it coming out stiff, and awkward. She still didn’t know how to thank people properly.
Dickon opened his mouth to answer, but Colin cut in first. “Now you’ve seen it,” he announced, “I am going to bring Ben Weatherstaff and Martha; they wanted to see you, but I told them we had to show you the surprise first.”
And then Colin was gone – running; Colin almost always ran everywhere – and it was just Dickon and Mary in the garden.
Mary looked down at the flowers, and then back at Dickon. Her ‘thank you’ didn’t seem like enough; it never did.
“Thank you,” she said again, nonetheless.
Dickon laughed, easily. “Eh!” he said, “it were no trouble – not once I had the seeds; ‘twere only a matter of rememberin’ to water ‘em.”
It all sounded very natural, and easy, and the Mary of four years ago would likely have accepted it. But Mary knew a little more about growing flowers, now; and about work, and timing, and growing things.
The very first present Mary had ever gotten was a skipping rope; she had known still less about thanking people, then, and she had given Martha her hand, and stiffly shaken it. Martha had laughed – it still burned, a little, to remember how she had laughed – and said, “If tha’d been our ‘Lizabeth Ellen tha’d have given me a kiss.”
“Do you want me to kiss you?” Mary had asked; and Martha had said, “if tha was diff’rent, p’raps tha’d want to thysel’.”
Well, Mary was different now – she was, she thought, sudden and fierce. And this present was worth more than tuppence, and had taken more time to choose than a skipping-rope. And even if it was not the right way to thank someone for planting a garden for you – well, it was something, at least.
“Dickon,” Mary said, aloud, and Dickon turned to her; and Mary stood on her toes (he was taller than she had expected, after all) and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“The flowers are beautiful,” she said, after, back on her heels again, and smiled up into his stunned face – surprising Dickon was one of things it was almost never possible to do; he generally seemed to know what Mary was going to do almost before she did it – with a feeling that perhaps, that had been the right thing to do, the right way to thank him, after all.
“You’re not to try to take it off,” Colin warned – his voice had gotten deeper, and in the second Mary had had to see him she could tell he’d grown what seemed miles. It was he who had tied the blindfold. “And you can try to see through it if you like, but it’s no good. I had Dickon test the blindfold on me first to be sure. We wanted to make it a real surprise.”
“Aye,” said Dickon. That was all, but Mary could hear him smiling. It was part of Dickon’s Magic, that you always could tell when he was smiling, even if you couldn’t see it.
He had been standing a little behind Colin when Mary got out. From what Mary had seen, he hadn’t changed at all; only perhaps grown a little more freckled, his smile a little wider. He still seemed to be Dickon, though. Not, of course, that Mary had expected anything else – she didn’t want him to change, and for the most part if Mary didn’t want Dickon to do something, he wouldn’t do it. For the most part.
Still, it had been a long time that she was away – the first time she’d left the Manor for anything longer than a few hours since she’d arrived, four years ago – and Dickon, for all his gentleness, was a wild creature like Mary herself. Wild creatures could be befriended, but not tamed.
“I do not like surprises,” Mary announced, darkly.
“You’ll like this one,” Colin promised, and snatched up her hand to tug at it. “We’re not far – don’t be so poky, Mary, we won’t let you walk into anything –”
Reluctantly, Mary started to move her feet forward. She was going to stumble, she knew it –
Dickon’s hand came down on her arm, steadying her. “There, Miss Mary,” he said, cheerfully – his voice had changed a little after all; she could hear it now – “as if tha’ didn’t know all o’ these paths well enow’ to run ‘em back and forth blind in any case, with no help from me nor Colin!”
This was true enough that Mary relaxed, and started concentrating on keeping the turns through her uncle’s gardens straight in her mind. She was fairly sure she knew where they were going – there was really only one place they would be taking her – but it was reassuring, all the same, to trace the familiar paths with her feet.
They were going around the fountain, now, and now they were in the orchard, and now they were passing through the door, the door. Even if she hadn’t known the route by heart, she could tell by the tickle of ivy against her cheek. And now they were in the center of the garden, and Dickon’s hand was falling away from her arm.
“Dickon,” Colin ordered, “take off the blindfold.”
Mary stood very still, as the cloth fell away from her eyes; light poured in through her closed eyelids, and it came to her, with a start, that she was almost afraid. It was months she hadn’t seen the garden – months in which anything could have happened; and while she knew, of course she knew, that Dickon and Ben Weatherstaff would be caring for it while she and Colin were in school, still –
She kept her eyes closed, for a moment longer, and then opened them.
It was all the same.
It was all nearly exactly the same.
Only one spot was different – a spot which had been bare for four years, ever since the first cuttings of Canterbury bells that Dickon had brought Mary from the Sowerby garden had failed. It had been a blow, at the time; they were the first flowers that Mary had truly failed to grow, and the bare patch of dirt – under a broken branch of the tree that dominated the small garden – had acted as a silent reproach every time Mary’s eye fell upon it.
Mary had tried again, the next year, but to no avail, and after that Dickon had suggested, quietly, that she might do well to leave it alone for a bit. Dickon’s suggestions tended to be good ones, and Mary had done as he asked.
But now –
“Canterbury bells,” Dickon said, from behind her, “an’ cockleshell orchids, is those there – an’ marigolds, in the corners.”
Mary was still staring at the riot of flowers. “Canterbury bells take two years to grow from seed,” she said; she sounded disbelieving and ungrateful, to herself, and wished she could change it, say it again differently.
“Aye,” Dickon said, unperturbed. “We planted ‘em a good two year back.”
“Dickon planted them,” Colin corrected; Mary could see his eager face, bright, to one side. “I did not know about it until I got back last week, but I helped then – it was my idea to surprise you.”
Mary turned around, her navy-blue school skirt swinging against skinny knees. “Thank you,” she said, to them both, and heard it coming out stiff, and awkward. She still didn’t know how to thank people properly.
Dickon opened his mouth to answer, but Colin cut in first. “Now you’ve seen it,” he announced, “I am going to bring Ben Weatherstaff and Martha; they wanted to see you, but I told them we had to show you the surprise first.”
And then Colin was gone – running; Colin almost always ran everywhere – and it was just Dickon and Mary in the garden.
Mary looked down at the flowers, and then back at Dickon. Her ‘thank you’ didn’t seem like enough; it never did.
“Thank you,” she said again, nonetheless.
Dickon laughed, easily. “Eh!” he said, “it were no trouble – not once I had the seeds; ‘twere only a matter of rememberin’ to water ‘em.”
It all sounded very natural, and easy, and the Mary of four years ago would likely have accepted it. But Mary knew a little more about growing flowers, now; and about work, and timing, and growing things.
The very first present Mary had ever gotten was a skipping rope; she had known still less about thanking people, then, and she had given Martha her hand, and stiffly shaken it. Martha had laughed – it still burned, a little, to remember how she had laughed – and said, “If tha’d been our ‘Lizabeth Ellen tha’d have given me a kiss.”
“Do you want me to kiss you?” Mary had asked; and Martha had said, “if tha was diff’rent, p’raps tha’d want to thysel’.”
Well, Mary was different now – she was, she thought, sudden and fierce. And this present was worth more than tuppence, and had taken more time to choose than a skipping-rope. And even if it was not the right way to thank someone for planting a garden for you – well, it was something, at least.
“Dickon,” Mary said, aloud, and Dickon turned to her; and Mary stood on her toes (he was taller than she had expected, after all) and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“The flowers are beautiful,” she said, after, back on her heels again, and smiled up into his stunned face – surprising Dickon was one of things it was almost never possible to do; he generally seemed to know what Mary was going to do almost before she did it – with a feeling that perhaps, that had been the right thing to do, the right way to thank him, after all.
