AN: Hello! I love reading fanfictions and I absolutely love The Secret Garden and Mary and Dickon. This is my first fanfiction ever, so please be kind. CC is always welcome because I am way too shy about writing to have anyone I know proof read it.
For this SG piece I used both the book and the 1993 movie because I like that the character of Mary's mother is more in-depth in the book, but the movie has my very favorite scene of Mary and Dickon on the swing.
I don't own anything.
Leaving the Nest
Mary Lennox had always loved Dickon Sowerby. She had not always known she loved him, but looking back to when they first met she could tell that she had started to love him as soon as she saw him. She remembered how when she first met him she would unknowingly reach out for his arm, not yet understanding, but feeling how she needed him and how he comforted for. She also remembered how he was the first person she felt she could trust with her secret. In the early days of their acquaintance she couldn't stand when someone did not find him as perfect as she did; she could clearly remember telling Martha that she thought he was beautiful and fiercely defending him when Martha said that "his nose turns up too much," and that his "eyes is so round." She could also remember when Colin called Dickon selfish and Mary replied that he was an angel.
Although all those things she had said about Dickon seemed silly, they were still as true now as when she had first said them. At 19 she still loved the way his nose turned up too much, his round eyes that were the color of the moor sky, and his angelic-like presence. She still felt the most comfortable around him and would reach out for him when she needed someone to be there. Still, when she was younger she did not realize the deep feelings inside of her heart.
In 1911 she and Colin both turned 12, and by then Colin was extremely strong and healthy, the garden, and Dickon, had worked their magic on him, and at that young age he was already determined to learn and see everything the world had to offer. He was then very pleased when her uncle, although sad to see them go, had told them of his plans to send them to boarding schools in London. He felt it was necessary and proper for them to be in the hustle and bustle of London, because there really wasn't much for young children at Misselthwaite Manor. Mary, however, was not at all happy with these plans. She loved Misselthwaite and could not imagine leaving the place she called home. She did not like the idea of being apart of "hustle and bustle," she knew what it was like and preferred her garden much more. She also did not like the idea of being raised in high society; the women were cold and cared little for children. She could not stand them and their dresses "full of lace." Mary was then too young to understand that although her mother was like that, not all society ladies were. It didn't matter though, she could still be Mistress Mary Quite Contrary when she wanted to be, and she was put in a very contrary mood when her uncle told her all of this.
Archibald Craven, however, had seen how unhappy his news made his niece. She was like a daughter to him and he loved her as such. He would always have a deep soft spot in his heart for the little girl who brought his family back together, and he could never knowingly make her unhappy. So he decided that while Colin would go away to boarding school, Mary would have a governess come to Misselthwaite and teach her reading, writing, arithmetic, languages, piano, and all the necessary tools to be a proper young lady. Mary was absolutely thrilled that she did not have to go away to a stuffy boarding school; she couldn't stand the thought of leaving the moor, the garden, and Dickon.
Mary thought about this brief history of her childhood and realized how ironic it was that she was now sitting in a stuffy parlor forced to listen to the incessant chatter of the young ladies that surrounded her; she was not at the moor, she was not in her garden, nor with Dickon. It was the middle of 1918 and she and her uncle were staying with a family of a close friend that had two daughters that were both close to Mary's age. Her uncle had thought being around other young people would help her keep her mind off certain unpleasant and sad thoughts. Colin was still at university studying science, he couldn't pick just one branch, he liked them all. He was the only son of a wealthy family and a promising young scholar, the British Empire would not want him to risk his life for her cause, but a poor young man that tended to gardens was a different story. Dickon had been drafted in early 1917.
She remembered the day when he said good-bye vividly. He was leaving early in February, and even though it was still winter, it was an unseasonal warm day. The sun was shining and made the snow covering the ground sparkle. It was as if the moor was telling Dickon, "Well, if I can't say good-bye on a beautiful spring day, I will make today as beautiful as I can." It would have better for Mary if the day had not been so nice, it was like it was laughing at her, taunting her. She was inconsolably sad and was very angry that the day did not reflect her feelings. It would have been so much easier to say good-bye if it was dark, and cold, and as gloomy as she felt. She was a young woman that had no concept of the atrocities of war, but she did know it was dangerous and there was a chance he might not be coming home.
When she had first found out that Dickon had been drafted she had tried to push the idea of it away and not think about it, but then the night before there was no denying that he was truly leaving. She did not sleep at all that night and cried harder than she had ever cried. She wanted to get it all out because she did not want to cry in front of him. No matter how many times he had told her that it was fine, he was fine, everything was fine, she saw how concerned he really was. She could read it all in his eyes when he thought she wasn't looking. She saw how upset he was, how sad, how frightened. So she wanted to be there for him, to be strong and comfort him like he had comforted her so many times before.
That morning as the sun was just rising she got up from her seat in front of the glowing embers that were once a fire and got dressed. Her breakfast was sent up to her and she tried to eat some toast, but her stomach was so upset it was just making her sick. Before she left her room she glanced at her mirror and noticed just how red her eyes were and how white and puffy the skin around them were, and she tried her best to cover the signs of her crying. She walked slowly and purposefully, she had the childish idea that time might slow down if she just walked slowly. But before she knew it she was at the door to her garden, their garden. For awhile she just looked at the ivy covered wall for what felt like an hour but was really only a minute. Then she took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
When she walked in she saw him with his back to her sitting on the infamous swing, completely unaware of her presence, in a garden that to the untrained eye looked completely dead, but Mary knew better; she knew that in the spring this would be the most beautiful and alive garden in all of England. But instead of that thought making her happy, it made her very sad, because she realized this would be the first spring that Dickon would not be there to help her tend to it. She walked up to him on the swing and the sound of her footsteps woke him up from his silent reverie. She looked down at him and for a couple of seconds he didn't look at her, and then he got to his feet and was now looking down at her as he towered over Mary at 6'4". They were a few feet apart and Mary looked at him in a way she had never done before. She had never noticed just how tall he had gotten, or how his face filled out without all of his baby fat, or even how broad his shoulders had become. When did that twelve year old boy with rosy cheeks get replaced with a 20 year old man? But then her gaze stopped at his eyes and realized those had never changed.
No words had been spoken as they were standing across from each other and really, there didn't need to be. Mary and Dickon never needed words to communicate; their relationship was on such a level that they could just look at each other and understand, they were like two parts of one whole. Never breaking her gaze, Mary stepped forward and absentmindedly grabbed the sleeve of his arm like she had done when they were children. In an instant he had pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her waist in a tight hug. She, in turn, rested her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around his middle and hugged him back with as much strength as she could. They stood there in the middle of their garden, wrapped in each others embrace for about a minute when he finally slackened his grip around her. He did not pull apart completely, just enough to look at her, and see the single tear that slid down her cheek. He raised his rough, calloused hand and wiped it away and said in a chocked voice, as if he was also trying not to cry,
"Don' cry now, Miss Mary." She was angry with herself for letting that out; she had been fighting back the tears so hard. She looked straight at him and said, in a unconvincing and contrary tone,
"I am not crying." A small smile had grown on his face and he chuckled just a bit, his eyes full of sadness.
"My Mistress Mary Quite Contrary," is all he had said and pulled her in for another hug. This time he had broken away from her completely. He turned from her and started walking to the door, but before he had gotten all the way Mary shouted,
"Dickon!" He turned halfway around to her and saw that her face and her voice were both strained with sadness and desperation. So many questions swirled in her mind. What was she going to do without him? What if he got hurt? What if he died? But all he did was smile that beautiful, angelic smile, turn back around, and walk out of their garden, their nest, to go to the front lines.