The Watcher in the Garden Read Free

just woken from a deep sleep. The hostility in the wide open eyes of her daughter was familiar, if daunting. Mrs. Hartley steeled herself and said, “It’s the Red Cross today, you know. There’s such a lot to be done.”
    â€œI hoped it would be raining.”
    â€œYes, well—you did say you’d help, and Diana—”
    â€œI suppose Diana has been up for hours, beavering away.” Suddenly the hostility drained away. She saw her mother’s face, kind, concerned, baffled, as it so often was under her sudden attacks, and remorse made her fling back the bedclothes and spring out to clutch Mrs. Hartley painfully round the ribs. “Don’t worry. I’ll come.” A sudden thought made her release her mother so that she staggered back. “I don’t have to wear a skirt, do I?”
    Mrs. Hartley recovered her balance, and at the same time knew that another kind of balance might shortly be lost. She said carefully, “You’ve got some very nice dresses—”
    â€œYou know I didn’t mean dresses. I don’t see why—”
    Almost too late Mrs. Hartley said hurriedly, “Oh well, I suppose as it’s the vegetable stall—”
    Over Kitty’s glowering face the clouds dispersed. “After all, Mum, I’d look pretty silly handing out pumpkins in a dress, wouldn’t I?”
    Mrs. Hartley said, with a shade too much enthusiasm, “Oh, quite. It hadn’t occurred to me. Yes, by all means. Jeans. A clean pair.”
    For a moment there was silence. Mother and daughter looked sombrely at one another. Then Kitty smiled. Triumph? Remorse? Or perhaps amused affection. Mrs. Hartley never knew. She left the room, saying only, “Breakfast as soon as you’re ready. I want to be there by nine if possible.” If there was a reply she was too far away to hear it.
    At breakfast Kitty noticed that her elder sister was wearing a dress. As usual, it was a dress that enhanced her dazzling prettiness. She looked as if she found the prospect of a day behind a Red Cross stall both pleasing and stimulating. She gave Kitty, in her clean though threadbare jeans, one look, opened her mouth, glanced at Mrs. Hartley and shut it again. She took a breath. “Morning, Kitty,” she said.
    â€œMorning.” Kitty found it unnecessary to look up from her plate. Too often she found Diana’s existence offensive. In a way she regretted the jeans. Too late she realized they emphasized her youth. A dress would have made her look nearer seventeen than her fifteen and a bit. In jeans she could be any age, and the poise she lacked, compared with Diana’s effortless assurance, would be put down to lack of years and not to the constant turmoil that she struggled always to keep screwed down inside her.
    Mr. Hartley came in late, greeted his family absently, ate hurriedly and left, looking at his watch.
    Breakfast over, Kitty said, “I’ll wash up.”
    Mrs. Hartley and Diana looked at her in surprise. “Oh, but I thought we’d—”
    Diana interrupted Mrs. Hartley. “Good idea. You and I know what goes into the cartons. She doesn’t. It’ll save time.”
    The weather was warming up for Christmas and the approach of the long Australian Christmas summer holidays, and the ladies on the charitable organizations like Mrs. Hartley’s Red Cross group knew it was wise to fit in their stalls, fairs and functions before the holidays began.
    It was just a quarter past nine when the Hartley car turned in at the hospital gates. In the hospital garden there was already activity. Some of the best places were already taken. The spot they eventually chose for the vegetable stall faced the lawn and backed on to the drive.
    â€œThank goodness,” said Mrs. Hartley. “We’ve got the cake stall under the trees. They always sell better when they’re not steaming with heat.” Then she went off to inspect