Harvest of the Mem Sahib

The Harvest of the Mem Sahib.

For Mary Lennox, life had considerably improved since she had moved to Misselthwaite Manor. Once upon a time she used to be quite a contrary child, never happy and never moved to do anything. After her parents died, she came to the Manor, and not only did she have to look of of doors for things to keep her entertainede foe found herself enthralled with a garden that had been locked up for a good ten years. It was as if magic, (Magic she had called it, over and over), that she found the key and wriggled her way in the secret little place. It was a Magic place to her, but since she was older she had used the word less, much less. She wasn't sure what she would have called it now, but it was powerful enough to get Colin, her dear cousin, on his feet and running about again. Perhaps it was Colin's sheer determination. Once that young man had an idea in his head it was impossible to get it out. He would never give up on a thing.

What had changed her so? She couldn't really say. Perhaps it was the moors slowly winding their way about her heart, and the lush colourful beauty of the gardens that surrounded the Manor. All she knew that she had been a rather unhappy little girl, and now, nearly eight years later, she was a thoroughly happy and contented young woman.

Nothing and no one in the world could tear her away from Misselthwaite, the moors, or Colin's Garden. It used to be secret until Mr. Craven had discovered that they had brought it back from abandonment. Mr. Craven allowed the children to look after it themselves with the exceptionBen Ben Weatherstaff, as it was their sanctuary, their place of e. e. Over time though, the garden began to shrink. Mary remembered when she had first been in there that it had been such a huge wild place. It still had a lure to it, a comfort like an old blanket, a magic like a book from childhood, but something else tugged at her heart. Mary always liked to challenge herself, and she knew the garden ever so well. Her eyes would often look farther, and she would sneak out the door and onto the moors.

They stretched on around the Manor for what seemed like for ever and ever. There was a village out there too, a village with people that she'd only had a glimpse of. She never wanted to move away, she didn't want to leave Thwaite. Indeed, when her uncle suggested she take up formal lessons at a boarding school she was horrified at the idea and it made her depressed. She would have to be away from Dickon and Colin, and away from her beautiful garden. Archibald Craven saw the horror in the young lady's eyes, and seeing that she was doing so well with her Governess that he saw no reason to upset her. Yorkshire had been kind to Mary, and the spindly youth had grown into a red-cheeked, full-limbed lass that could be as every bit as imperious and cool as her mother.

Mary, however, had over time let loose of that trait, enjoying rather to tumble and play in the gardens about the Manor, all her thoughent ent upon knowing each living thing intimately. Colin had a similar interest, though he turned to books a lot, and his analytical mind was perfectly suited to the field of science. A little paranoia of his weakness lingered, though, and every day he ran down the road into the moor, exercising and keeping himself fit. He had said that he would be an athlete, and he was as fit as one.

He did this every day until Dr. Craven decided the boy was fit enough to go to school. Colin wanted to live as normal a life as possible now that he was well. He was very pleased to go to a boarding school with other boys, as he wanted to be the best scientist there was. He was quite decided that he wouldn't get this staying at home. It was a good thing he went to the school too, as he had the opportunity to take part in a lot of different sports, and he was really very good at them. He was no champion, but he did well enough to please himself, and that was good for him.

This left Mary at the Manor and the only person near her age that she was able to spend time with was Dickon. He often asked her why she didn't take full advantage of her family's plenty and go to a proper school where she could be a highly educated woman, perhaps one with a fancy job.

"I would be away from the Garden," she said, and usually left it at that because such talk upset her. She was happy at Misselthwaite, and she never wanted to leave.

Maybe - maybe the Cravens wanted her to leave. She talked to her Uncle about it, about whether he wanted her to leave once she had reached an age. He shook his head, telling her that Misselthwaite was as much her home as Colin's, and that she was welcome to stay as long or as little as she wanted to there once she had become an adult.

It was evident that the children were on their way to growing up, as Colin was getting as tall and proud as his father, and Dickon was as strong-limbed and robust as he always had been, except he was much taller now and had grown sideways as well as longways, his shoulders growing wide an strong. His tumbling rusty-red hair had darkened a touch since his younger days to a warm reddish-brown, fey curls around his ears and strong brown neck, and he was as sturdy as a draught-horse. He was two years older than them both, so he had grown more than they, and was nearly already a man. He could lift Mary fair over his shoulder now, though he didn't make habit of it as he decided rather quickly that it was disrespectful to her as a lady.

Mary was rather annoyed at this, understandibly. In fact, Mary had quickly begun to be annoyed about a fair few things. Their childhood play had slowed down over the years, and there was less and less that Colin and Dickon, particularly Dickon, felt at ease to do with her. They would no longer tickle her, (Colin did not cease this activity entirely as he was a playful sod), and they tumbled less. There was nothing more liberating for her than to lie amongst the grass and run about like a moorland pony. Long ago they would lean upon each other as they panted from the chase and fun, and Dickon would watch Mary very clevery use her skipping rope. One de ste stopped doing that, and Mary couldn't figure out why. She was a good fourteen years of age at the time, and she thought maybe he thought her too old for such an activity. She would have hated to stop though as it made her heart race so delightfully. It upset Mary so that one morning whilst she was buttering her scones for her breakfast, she took it up with Martha, Dickon's brother.

"Martha," she said, "I have a question."

Martha looked up from the grate she was polishing and rubbed the back of her hand over her brow. "Oh aye? An' what is it?"

Mary frowned in thought before continuing. "Dickon is behaving rather peculiarly."

Martha's eyes widened with concern. "How so?"

She frowned very deeply now. "Yesterday I was showing Dickon a new trick I can do with my skipping rope and he fair wouldn't look at me!"

The maid eyed Mary for a good moment, blushing deeply. "Oh, I see."

"And not only that," she said. "I was climbing a tree on the moor, and I asked him to help me down from the last branch, as it is a frightful jump, and he was very hesitant." She pouted into her tea. "He acted like he didn't want to touch me!"

Sighing, Martha stood, pulling a chair across from Mary and sitting tentatively. Obviously what she wanto sto say was important, as she wouldn't have bothered ceasing her polishing unless it was so.

"Dear Mary," she said with a kind smile. "I seen thee grow from a funny little child," Martha took a breath and eyed Mary meaningfully, "An' nothin's brought me such joy than ta see thee grow into a young woman."

Mary gulped down her scone and stared at Martha. "Excuse me?"

Martha couldn't help but giggle. "Tha' have looked at thyself in a mirror haven't thee?"

"Of course I have," Mary said. "I'm hardly a woman! I'm only fourteen."

"Tha' is enough of a woman that poor Dickon can' do the things that ye used to. It's jus' not proper, Miss."

Mary pouted, turning away from her scones. "I don't care. He's my Dickon. We play together, it's what we've always done."

Martha sighed gently. "Aah, Miss Mary. It's sad, aye, but things, they change. An' one day tha'll get thyself married to a fine gentleman an' thee won't be worried about playin' on the moor and bidin' your tiith ith us Sowerby's."

The very thought of not spending her time with the Sowerby's, Dickon and all, tore up Mary's heart.

"But I love you all," she said, eyes gleaming. "And I never want to be without you!"

Martha stood, for the first time turning her back on the young lady, and she crouched at the hearth, polishing the grate again. "Tha'rt better off keepin' to thy station, Miss."

It was a horrible moment, one Mary did not forget for all her years. It was the point in which she realised her childhood was slipping away from her, and with it any reason to soclialize with the 'help' as they were called in the high class circles she was being encouraged to mingle with. From what she could gather of these people, she had no desire to mingle with them whatsoever. Her Governess, Mrs. Waidsley, began to try to teach her how to sip tea properly and walk a certain way, and speak French. She was most certainly not permitted to speak broad Yorkshire in front of her. Mary, in her contrary way, had taken to speaking it thickly whenever she could in defiance. The Governess looked ready to tear her own hair out.

"You expect that moor rat to ever find a good husband when the time comes?" she said to Mr. Craven once, cheeks red with frustration. "She can't speak God's own english without mangling it beyond recognition!"

Mr. Craven was very forgiving of Mary's stubborn nature, and like with his son, he let her have her way about the Manor. In this case, however, he insisted that she keep learning Mrs. Waidsley's lessons on proper ettiquette and lady-like behaviour.

Mary, very begrudgingly, did as her Uncle Craven wished her. There wasn't much point in her defying his words anyway. Even if she did go out of doors, these days Dickon was in no place to play with her if he wanted to, for he had been taken on by Mr. Roach, the head gardener at Misselthwaite Manor, as Ben Weatherstaff's rheumatism didn't allow the old man to do quite as much as he used to even when Mary had arrived. Young Dickon, all at sixteen years, was brought in to help him with all that was left to do after he did what he could. This overjoyed Mary as Dickon was always about in the garden should she want to have a quick chat after her lunch. Even better was that sometimes, as she laboured in the parlour under Mrs. Waidsleys' tutelage, she could glance out the window to see Dickon working hard in the garden, beautiful burning red-brown curls sticking out under a worn brown cap, a black rook on his wide square shoulder and his happy little fox running about the garden.

Those days were gentle and kind and Mary soon found that instead of being angry, she should be thankful at all the world gave her, for terrible things were brewing outside their safe haven of Yorkshire. It happened on a winter morning, and she remembered it well. She had been sitting on the front steps of the Manor, watching Dickon tend the roses by the balustrate lamp, clipping them back.

"Have tha' seen the papers?" asked Dickon, all his attenion on the garden.

"No," said Mary. "Mr. Craven reads them, but I don't. It's only ever about people fighting in Europe and I had enough of that in India."

There was a sad gleam in Dickon's eyes as he leant back from the rose bush he was crouched in front of, resting on his heels of his feet, and he gathered his brown common-looking scarf about his neck.

"Aye, but tha' should," he saidad tad things is brewin' in Europe. Bad things indeed."

Mary frowned. "What kind of bad things?"

"War," Dickon said.

"Oh there's always a war," Mary said impatiently, for she didn't like such talk. "All those politicians and their friends in the army. They're not happy unless they're shooting somebody."

Dickon gave a wide amused smile at this, his large blue eyes meeting hers for a moment before he moved on to turn some soil. "Summat in my bones make me feel it's different this time." He shook his head, frowning thoughtfully at the earth beneath him. "Nay. Don't feel good about it."

Mary tossed her hair over her shoulder and huddled into her winter clothes. "Don't think on it," she said. "I'm sure it will be over in a month or two."

She wasn't one to ignore any of Dickon's feelings, especially the ones that went right down to his bones. This was one, however, that she just didn't want to think about. And she didn't, for quite some time.

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