Page 1 of Clara's Secret Garden
CHAPTERONE
Breaking into this ancient potting shed is turning outto be far tricker than I thought.
I appear to be stuck. Quite literally.
Gran had left the door padlocked, like the wonderfullysensible woman that she is. She has all her gardening gear in there. And shealways says you can’t be too careful when potentially prize-winning seedlings areat stake (the Great Marrow Heist of ‘98 is still talked about in Sunnybrook tothis day).
But having found the key and removed the padlock, I wasfaced with a further obstacle: a rake had fallen and jammed itself across thedoor, making it impossible to get in.
Then I noticed that one of the square windows was open justa crack and I thought: Aha! Easy. I’ll just squeeze myself through there...
Wrong!
I’m now stuck. And when I say ‘stuck’, I mean wedged at thehips with my legs flailing at the back, like a character in one of Gran’sfavourite Brian Rix farces. (No idea. But Gran has always loved the theatre.)
Panting with the effort, I wriggle a little, trying to getthe angle just right. If I’m on my side, I’ll be more ‘letter-shaped’, then maybeI can ‘slot’ myself through the window.
But even posties have a hard time getting some of the mailthrough. And that’s exactly how I’m feeling right now. Like a bulky letter thatreally should have been sent parcel post.
The watering can I’m trying to reach is just inches from myoutstretched fingertips. Gran’s poor parched roses might have to wait a whilelonger for a drenching.
A pang of sadness hits.
Gran should be watering her precious garden herself. Butinstead, the only person on hand to help while she’s not here – me, Clara Bowes– just happens to be the least green-fingered person on the planet. (Do deadhouseplants come back to haunt you? Asking for a friend...)
With a frustrated sigh, I stop struggling for a moment,conserving my energy for one last push. I’ve always had an uneasy relationshipwith my generous bahookie. But I really think we might have come to the end ofthe road after this ridiculous fiasco.
A shout behind me makes me start and I try to turn around – andsuddenly, magically, I’m free!
I just have time to catch the surprised look on Rory Angel’sface before I feel myself tumbling head first and landing with a flump on thegrubby shed floor.
‘You okay there?’ Rory gazes anxiously at me through theopen window. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’
Getting up, I laugh it off, slapping the dust off my jeans. ‘No,no. I’m fine.’ Actually, my wrist hurts like hell but I’m not telling Rorythat. I have my pride. Folding my arms, I shrug. ‘I’m doing research into howmany different ways you can enter a building.’
‘Ah.’ His face breaks into a smile. ‘Yes, why be boring anduse the door?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So... window. What’s next? Skylight? Catflap? Sledgehammer through the conservatory roof?’
I stick up my thumb. ‘All on my list. It’s the chimney I’mdreading, though.’
‘Not surprised.’ He nods solemnly, shoving his glasses upthe bridge of his nose. ‘All that soot in places you didn’t realise you had.’
I smile up at him, thinking he could probably do with ahaircut. ‘The door was jammed.’
‘Funnily enough, I guessed that.’
‘Sorry about the rear-end view.’ Sweat prickles the back ofmy neck at the thought of being discovered in such a vulnerable position, buttin the air.
‘Aw, don’t apologise. That’s a mighty fine ass you havethere, Missy,’ he says, in a really terrible imitation of an American accent,and we both laugh, which banishes any lingering awkwardness on my part.
‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask, moving the rake thatwas jamming the door and emerging from the cool of the shed into the sizzling Julysunshine.
‘I was dropping Mum off at a coffee morning along the road,and your car’s not exactly easy to miss.’
Glancing towards the road at my bright yellow Beetle – named‘Birdie’ after the famous make of custard powder – I smile sadly. ‘I’d haveparked on the drive but look at it.’
