Read Online The Skeleton Garden by Marty Wingate - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marty Wingate
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mouth snapped shut.
“I’ll get another spade and help.” Pru locked her arm through Orlando’s and took him along to the shed. “Look,” she said quietly, “it’s just that it was a special tree planted for the Wilsons, and Simon is sorry that it hasn’t thrived. It’s put him in a bit of a bad mood. He’ll be fine.”
She took two spades from the wall, and they returned to the parterre to find Simon already digging; they joined in. Ten minutes later, Simon pulled the tree out by its skinny trunk, revealing a pitifully small spray of roots. A few more leaves fluttered to the ground.
“Would you look at that.” Simon held the trunk up like a baton. “There’s nothing to it. Well,” he said, “it was a dry summer this year—and last as well. I suppose I should’ve watered it more.”
“Are you going to plant another tree?” Orlando asked from his position sprawled out on the nearby lawn.
“Not until we find out what this soil is really like,” Pru said. “Let’s dig down and see.”
Simon plunged his spade into the soil. “Right,” he said.
“Orlando,” Pru called over her shoulder. “You, too.”
“It’s a bit tight over there, Aunt Pru. I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”
“Well then, we’ll widen the hole just to accommodate you. Come along.”
The hole grew and deepened. The soil—loose, dry, and gravelly—began to weigh on them, each spadeful heavier than the last. Soon Pru stripped off her jacket and the fleece under it. Simon shed his sheepskin jacket, and Orlando tossed aside his thick sweater with sleeves so long he had used them as gloves. Pru thought they’d stop when they got to another soil profile—a streak of clay, a layer of loam, bedrock, anything different—but they were four feet down and still no sign of change.
“The tea is poured—are you not coming in?” Evelyn stood over them at the edge of the pit. “Whatever are you doing?” she asked, her eyes taking in the scene.
Orlando jumped out and Simon tossed his spade onto the ground. “I suppose we have got carried away,” he said.
“Just trying to sort out why the tree didn’t do well,” Pru said. “It’s odd that there’s so much gravel here.” She sank her spade in again, and brought up a load of soil, gravel, and a piece of twisted metal as big as a stepping-stone. It had jagged, rusted edges. She picked it out and held it up to the others. She could see a bit of white paint and something black, like charring.
Simon reached for his spade and began digging again. “Peachey hasn’t buried any of his old cars out here, has he, Evelyn?”
Evelyn didn’t dignify that with an answer, but remained at the pit and watched, along with Orlando, as Pru and Simon dug further, until they hit a larger piece of metal with a rounded top. Pru knelt down, scooped away the gravelly soil, and leaned back to get a better view. The tail of a plane stuck out of the soil like a shark’s fin, with an emblem painted in black-and-white on the side that looked remarkably like a swastika.
Chapter 9
A gust of wind swept a few cold drops of rain onto their faces. No one spoke for what seemed like ages until Orlando asked, “Is it real?”
“Awfully big for a toy,” Simon replied.
“I went on a school trip to Duxford once—the Imperial War Museum,” Orlando said. “We got to fly a Spitfire on a simulator.” He grabbed hold of imaginary controls in the cockpit. “It was brilliant.” He stuck his hands back in his pockets, jerked his head dismissively, and said, “But I was just a kid then.”
What was the precedent for this, Pru wondered. The war was over. “Should we phone Christopher? Or Martin?”
“I’m not sure what they could do—pin a medal on someone?” Simon snapped his fingers. “Stan Snuggs. He grew up here—he may remember something. I’ll go and fetch him. Why don’t you let up until we get back?” he asked Pru. “Orlando, come along.”
Pru looked around—Evelyn had
“I’ll get another spade and help.” Pru locked her arm through Orlando’s and took him along to the shed. “Look,” she said quietly, “it’s just that it was a special tree planted for the Wilsons, and Simon is sorry that it hasn’t thrived. It’s put him in a bit of a bad mood. He’ll be fine.”
She took two spades from the wall, and they returned to the parterre to find Simon already digging; they joined in. Ten minutes later, Simon pulled the tree out by its skinny trunk, revealing a pitifully small spray of roots. A few more leaves fluttered to the ground.
“Would you look at that.” Simon held the trunk up like a baton. “There’s nothing to it. Well,” he said, “it was a dry summer this year—and last as well. I suppose I should’ve watered it more.”
“Are you going to plant another tree?” Orlando asked from his position sprawled out on the nearby lawn.
“Not until we find out what this soil is really like,” Pru said. “Let’s dig down and see.”
Simon plunged his spade into the soil. “Right,” he said.
“Orlando,” Pru called over her shoulder. “You, too.”
“It’s a bit tight over there, Aunt Pru. I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”
“Well then, we’ll widen the hole just to accommodate you. Come along.”
The hole grew and deepened. The soil—loose, dry, and gravelly—began to weigh on them, each spadeful heavier than the last. Soon Pru stripped off her jacket and the fleece under it. Simon shed his sheepskin jacket, and Orlando tossed aside his thick sweater with sleeves so long he had used them as gloves. Pru thought they’d stop when they got to another soil profile—a streak of clay, a layer of loam, bedrock, anything different—but they were four feet down and still no sign of change.
“The tea is poured—are you not coming in?” Evelyn stood over them at the edge of the pit. “Whatever are you doing?” she asked, her eyes taking in the scene.
Orlando jumped out and Simon tossed his spade onto the ground. “I suppose we have got carried away,” he said.
“Just trying to sort out why the tree didn’t do well,” Pru said. “It’s odd that there’s so much gravel here.” She sank her spade in again, and brought up a load of soil, gravel, and a piece of twisted metal as big as a stepping-stone. It had jagged, rusted edges. She picked it out and held it up to the others. She could see a bit of white paint and something black, like charring.
Simon reached for his spade and began digging again. “Peachey hasn’t buried any of his old cars out here, has he, Evelyn?”
Evelyn didn’t dignify that with an answer, but remained at the pit and watched, along with Orlando, as Pru and Simon dug further, until they hit a larger piece of metal with a rounded top. Pru knelt down, scooped away the gravelly soil, and leaned back to get a better view. The tail of a plane stuck out of the soil like a shark’s fin, with an emblem painted in black-and-white on the side that looked remarkably like a swastika.
Chapter 9
A gust of wind swept a few cold drops of rain onto their faces. No one spoke for what seemed like ages until Orlando asked, “Is it real?”
“Awfully big for a toy,” Simon replied.
“I went on a school trip to Duxford once—the Imperial War Museum,” Orlando said. “We got to fly a Spitfire on a simulator.” He grabbed hold of imaginary controls in the cockpit. “It was brilliant.” He stuck his hands back in his pockets, jerked his head dismissively, and said, “But I was just a kid then.”
What was the precedent for this, Pru wondered. The war was over. “Should we phone Christopher? Or Martin?”
“I’m not sure what they could do—pin a medal on someone?” Simon snapped his fingers. “Stan Snuggs. He grew up here—he may remember something. I’ll go and fetch him. Why don’t you let up until we get back?” he asked Pru. “Orlando, come along.”
Pru looked around—Evelyn had
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