May 9, 1982
Kathleen had a flask of tea and a bacon sandwich already wrapped up for me when I went down with my tray of puppet pieces this morning. I like Kathleen. She is kind without any fuss.
The birds were singing and the sun was warm. I felt stronger and happier with each step as I walked across the gravel drive. The sounds of music and the clatter of crockery from the kitchen faded as I walked deeper into the garden, beyond the orchard, behind the toolshed, and under the archway into the enclosed garden. I worked quietly and steadily, gluing strands of embroidery thread to Dickon’s head to make his hair. My fingers were cold from the glue, but I could feel the sun on my back and my neck. I thought it was funny that a squirrel came bounding across the grass toward the statue where I was sitting—just as if I was Dickon and the animals wanted to be near me.
Out there today I felt the embarrassment of their taunts and tricks ease away from me. Out there I couldn’t imagine anything sillier than being afraid of a bit of banging on a door.
As I ate my sandwich I thought about how strange the statue I was sitting under is. It is a young child in a long dress—like an angel, but without any wings. She has her hands cupped, held out in front of her, as if she is asking for something, or waiting for something to be put into them. Begging almost. She is odd, but I like her. I might think of something precious I can give her.
I have been up here in my room since darkness began to fall. I am going to get back to my designs for Dickon’s clothes.
May 10, 1982
I rushed out into the garden after school today. I needed to be away from them all.
I had done my homework. I had! But when I went to take it out of my bag it was gone.
Mrs. Davies was furious. Clearly any concern she may have almost felt for me a few weeks ago was gone. She asked me to stand up in front of the class and explain where it was. But of course I couldn’t. One, because I was in the classroom and she knows, just like all the other teachers, that I can’t speak out loud in front of the others; and two, because I just don’t know where it is. I remember putting it into my bag this morning. Someone—one of them—must have taken it.
I could hear some of the others in the class sniggering as I stood there. My cheeks were blazing hot. But I didn’t cry. I won’t ever let them think they have gotten to me. I just stood and thought of Jane Eyre and how she had been humiliated at her school and tried to let Mrs. Davies’s accusations that I was “sloppy” and “not taking responsibility for my own actions” wash over me.
No one wanted to pair up with me for the experiment in science, so I had to do it with Mr. Braithwaite. At lunchtime I sat alone, but still one of them managed to walk past my table and pour orange juice into my lunch.
On the way home from school I kept my head down but I could hear comments like, “Where’s your homework, Mary?” and “The mysterious case of the invisible project!” They think they are so funny. But they are not. It isn’t funny at all.
So I ran out to the garden as soon as I got home and sat there under the begging girl. I listened to the birdsong and the leaves on the trees, the distant traffic. And I waited until I was calm enough to come back in. I had missed dinner. But when I got up to my room there was a foil-wrapped sandwich and a flask outside my door.
May 15, 1982
Secret garden? Ha! I can’t even get that right. I can’t believe I thought I had something, somewhere to myself outside this room.
I didn’t notice them at first. I was so wrapped up in what I was doing. It was only when something bounced nearby that I realized someone was throwing tiny hard apples at me from over the wall of hedge. At first they landed close to me. Then one hit the side of my head and another knocked Dickon’s head. Then they came thick and fast—bouncing and pattering around me like rain.
Pelted.
Pathetic.
The quiet was over. I tried to gather together my tray of stuff, as if I was packing up anyway, but I was trembling and my face was hot. A flying apple stung the back of my hand. Another caught my neck. I loaded the tray and began to walk, ignoring them as I went under the archway and back toward the house. They called out after me.
“Weirdo!!”
“Can we play dolls too, Mary?”
“Mary talks to her dolls! We heard you, Mary!”
“Freak!”
I ran. The tray shook. Dickon’s head tumbled and I didn’t stop to pick it up. When I got back to my room, all I had on my tray was spilled varnish, unused clay, and some tiny apples.
I am so cross that my place has been discovered. I am humiliated, as usual, but mostly I’m sad. Sad that I have left one of my puppets out there. I know it’s silly but it feels like I have abandoned a friend. Poor Dickon! Was I talking to him as I made him? I don’t know. When I am making my puppets I feel like I am somewhere else. Someone else. And having them around the room with me like this makes me feel less alone. I don’t know if that makes me a freak. They called me a freak. I don’t care if I am. But I do care that I have left him out there, abandoned, with no one to care for him.
I’ll go out early tomorrow and look for him.
They have taken the garden from me. But not my room. I still have up here. I have my books, my puppets, and my words in this diary. I can speak my mind on these pages in a way I can’t outside this room. And I can protect it all from them. This is my place, and they are locked out of it.
Right now I am writing this by flashlight in bed.
It is two a.m.
And I can hear her footsteps climb the stairs.
June 3, 1982
There are only six of us left. She still has a core group of followers. They move around the house like a pack of wolves. It is the five of them and me.
I thought that she would lose some of her power as her group of supporters dwindled, but the opposite seems to have happened. It is as if her nastiness has become concentrated.
There aren’t so many practical problems to deal with during the day. The last three days at school have been almost normal. I guess she doesn’t have so many followers to do her bidding and she is too sneaky to be caught.
But every night she is there on the other side of the door.
June 4, 1982
This evening I went down to the kitchen to ask Kathleen for some flour. I couldn’t find her at first, but the smell of cigarette smoke soon led me to the back door.