Free Tom's Midnight Garden by Philippa Pearce Page B

rubbed it between her fingers, and then held them up to Tom’s nose.
    He sniffed the finger-tips; the smell was of the faintest to him. ‘Should it be a smell of scorching?’ he asked doubtfully.
    ‘No, James says the smell is of lemon-verbena.’
    ‘Why is it called Burning Bush, then?’
    ‘They say that if you come out at midnight on Mid-summer Eve, and set a flame to this, the whole plant will blaze up.’
    ‘How do you know—have you ever tried?’
    ‘No, of course not. Because there’s only one plant in the garden, and we don’t want that burnt to ashes.’
    ‘Oh!’ Tom supposed to himself that it might be true.
    Hatty drew nearer to him. ‘Shall I tell you something—something secret?’
    ‘If you like.’
    ‘This bush is grown from a slip of the real burning bush—the one that burnt when Moses was there.’
    ‘But that was long, long ago, and in the Bible!’
    ‘I shan’t tell you secrets again!’ said Hatty, offendedly.
    But she could never resist telling him. Not only on that first day of meeting, but on all the days following, her secrets and stories poured from her with haste and eagerness as though she were afraid that Tom’s company would not be hers for long. When they were tired with playing in the garden, Hatty would lead the way to the summer-house. They went up the steps and Hatty opened the door for them. From the back of the summer-house she brought forward two twisted iron garden chairs, and put them in the doorway, for herself and Tom. There they used to sit, looking over the oblong pond, watching the fish rise, and Hatty talked.
    Once Edgar found them. They were not aware that he had been standing staring and listening, until suddenly—from one side of their view down the garden—he called to Hatty: ‘What are you up to there, Hatty?’
    ‘I am not “up to” anything, Cousin Edgar.’
    ‘For the last five minutes you’ve been talking and nodding and smiling and listening, all by yourself.’
    ‘I am not by myself. I am talking to a friend of mine.’
    ‘Where is he?’
    ‘On this other chair, of course.’
    Edgar burst out laughing, very unpleasantly. ‘Really, Cousin Hatty, people will think you’re queer in the head—once it used to be fairies, which was just silliness; and now it’s somebody who isn’t there!’ He went off, laughing.
    Hatty was trembling, when she turned back to Tom. ‘And now he’ll go and tell the others, and they’ll jeer at me, and Aunt Grace will say it shows how unfit I am to go anywhere with other children, outside, in the village.’
    ‘Well, then,’ said Tom, ‘why did you tell Edgar about me?’
    She opened her eyes very wide at him: ‘But one must tell the truth, mustn’t one?’
    Often, from their seat, they could see Abel at work down the garden. He would sometimes stop and look in the direction of the summer-house, and Hatty would then wave to him, in a Princess-like manner.
    ‘So sad about Abel,’ said Hatty, mysteriously.
    ‘Sad?’
    ‘The whole family is a sad one. But you must promise not to tell, if I tell you.’
    Tom said nothing, and Hatty went straight on.
    ‘He had just one brother, and they were together in the fields one day—it was just before Abel became gardener here. His brother was very jealous of him, and one day, in the fields, they fought. Well, really, his brother just attacked Abel—with a weapon—murderously.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘He killed Abel—that is, of course, he very nearly killed him. There was a great deal of blood. It lay smoking on the ground of the field.’
    There was a horrified silence; and then Tom said suddenly, ‘What was Abel’s brother’s name?’
    ‘Really, I don’t remember,’ said Hatty, looking away from Tom at a bird in the sky.
    ‘Was his brother’s name Cain?’ asked Tom. Hatty pretended not to have heard him. This was particularly irritating to Tom, as it was what he had to suffer from all the other people in the garden. ‘Because the story of Cain and