The September Garden Read Online Free PDF

down to the back of the garden.
    ‘Who’s that and what did he say?’ asked Sylvie.
    ‘That’s our gardener, and he has a lovely voice,’ Nell said, thinking of Mr Pudifoot and his soft Chilterns twang. ‘He’s a nice man.’
    ‘A simple man,’ said Sylvie.
    Nell ignored her. They came to the bourn, which formed the boundary of the back garden where silvery willows overhung the water, and rushes created a spiky margin. Pebbles under the clear current made the water burble and sing, made it froth and bubble. Long weeds streamed under its surface like green hair. Watercress choked the flow further upstream and occasionally Nell would spot the heron stalking the stiff velvety-brown heads of the bullrushes. Often, ducks would quack their way through the current and, once or twice in springtime, they were rewarded with a family of swans nosing against the flow.
    ‘Why don’t you call it a river? Or a stream?’ demanded Sylvie, standing back from the water’s edge as if she was compelled by Mr Pudifoot’s warning.
    ‘Because it’s a bourn. And a bourn is a chalk stream,’ said Nell, feeling momentarily superior. She peered down. A school of tiny brown minnows froze in the shallows when her shadow fell over the water. ‘The water comes down from the chalk in the hills to join the Chess in the valley. It rises in the winter. Some summers, this is just a dry bed. You only get bourns in the Chilterns.’
    Sylvie wondered what on earth they were going to do next, her face pouting with boredom.
    Nell turned to the biggest willow and reached up for a rope hanging from a branch that stooped over the water. She pulled, and a rope ladder unfolded down the trunk.
    ‘We’re going to climb up here.’
    ‘It’s not very ladylike,’ complained Sylvie. ‘I’ll ruin my shoes.’
    ‘Take them off, then.’
    Sylvie unbuckled her patent shoes, rolled off her socks and stuffed them neatly inside. She lined them up at the base of the willow trunk. Nell, not bothering to undo her sandals, pulled them off with her socks in one go and left them where they fell.
    ‘Come on, then,’ Nell said, folding her bare toes around the first rung. ‘Follow me.’
    When she got halfway up she felt Sylvie’s weight pulling on the bottom of the rope ladder, making it swing and crash back against the trunk.
    ‘Ouch! Merde ,’ swore Sylvie below her.
    Suppressing her desire to laugh, Nell climbed quickly through the willow boughs. She eased herself up into the tree house set into a crook where the trunk split into two. The ceiling was too low to stand up. When her father built it he had miscalculated and was loath to cut away any more branches, leaving it with Lilliputian dimensions.
    It will be fine, he had told her. It’s only meant for children. Grown-ups not allowed.
    Nell wondered for how many more years she would be able to squeeze inside. She sat down and shuffled across the floor to the window – little more than a gap in the wall of rough boards. From her perch, Nell could see clearly across the garden and towards the back of the house. Mr Pudifoot was wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. She spotted Mrs Bunting, cook and housekeeper, flinging some potato peelings onto the compost heap. Through the french windows, she saw her mother, in short-sleeved blouse and wide linen trousers, walk across the Aubusson rug with the folded Times and sit in an armchair out of sight. Only her long crossed legs were visible. Now and again a leg bounced, the ankle circling. From below, Nell heard Sylvie puffing and straining, muttering on the swinging rope ladder.
    ‘Not long now.’ Nell called encouragement over her shoulder. ‘Nearly there.’
    She turned again to the house and saw that the window of her father’s study was still open. In the dimness of the room behind it she could just make him out, turning the dial on his radio set. He sat by the window listening and shaking his head. Nell watched him light a cigarette and smoke it