WHO KNEW THE STORM THE NEW GENERATION

By Josephine Draycott

This stunning sequel to Who knew the storm whisks the characters from the previous book, loosely based on Frances Hodgson Burnett's classic novel for children, The Secret Garden, and their offspring, off on some new and quite surprising adventures.

It is a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Josephine Draycott
• Release date: Dec 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9788734532950

Book preview

WHO KNEW THE STORM

THE NEW GENERATION

(A sequel to Who Knew the Storm)

A book in two parts by Josephine Draycott

Copyright © 2022 Josephine Draycott

All rights reserved

First Edition

ISBN (Paperback)

ISBN (eBook)

Dedication

To Those We Have Loved and Lost

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PART II

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Author’s Notes

About The Author

Prologue

Oh how I’d love to be inside a Monet

It all looks so guileless and gay

The people promenading with purposeless grace

Then silently fading away

I’d walk through the long grass till I reached the blurred lines

And go to the people and say

"Where have you come from and where are you going to

On this most beautiful day?"

Then I’d climb to the big house one sees in the distance

I’d knock on the door and hope someone was there

That they would invite me for coffee and croissants

And we’d while time away with no longer a care

Oh how I’d love to be inside a Monet

And gaze at the poppies in flowering flame

Feel the breeze on my skin and the light in my being

Till I fade away just the same

The Poppy Field, an original poem by Josephine Draycot

The Poppy Field near Argenteuil, 1873 by Claude Monet

PART I

A Mirror to Nature

"The function of art is to hold the mirror up to nature, and there simply isn’t a mirror big enough.

- Douglas Adams

CHAPTER ONE

A rose by any other name

Mary sighed as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror whilst putting the kettle on for what seemed like the millionth time that day, and possibly the trillionth time that week.

A gentle waft of déjà vu breezed in through the open kitchen door, bringing a pleasant scent of newly mown grass and delicately tickling Mary’s senses.

Gazing back at her reflection, she surprised it by smiling. Her face lit up and her features softened. Not so bad for an old bird, she said to herself and poured the now boiling water into the pot, knowing that Dickon would be in in just a moment, regular as clockwork, wanting his tea.

Right on cue, he hobbled in, but instead of heading straight for the sink as usual to wash his hands, he went up to Mary, kissed her on the back of her head, and when she turned, presented her with an enormous bunch of freshly-picked, exquisite, pink roses.

’Appy birthday, luv, he said, and made his way painstakingly over to the table, where he sat down heavily, wiping his hands unceremoniously on his overalls.

Thank you, darling, said Mary, putting the roses down by the sink and pouring the tea. This was a ritual that had been going on for many years now, but Mary was still pleased.

She placed a steaming mug and a plate of biscuits before Dickon and began arranging the roses in a large, ceramic jug that served as a vase. It had also been a birthday present a few years back from her son, Daniel, when he was going through his pottery phase. She smiled again when she thought of him.

As if reading her mind, Dickon mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit, What time are they all comin’ tonight then?

Around six, replied Mary, bringing her tea over to the table. I thought we’d have drinks outside and then move into the dining room.

Ooooooh, very posh, said Dickon, but Mary could tell that he was happy. He always was these days. The old war wound in his leg still troubled him, but now his old farmhand Charlie and his children had taken over the farm for good and he and Mary had moved back to the manor, her childhood home, he spent all his time outside, looking after the gardens and devoting himself most especially to the roses in the secret garden, including the Mary Rose variety that Mary used in her perfume making, a magnificent bunch of which he had just cut for her birthday bouquet.

Seeing Dickon looking at the roses, she asked, Did you actually leave any for the next batch?

Dickon chuckled.

There’s still plenty, ya daft apeth, he said affectionately, finishing off his tea. He stomped off then to make himself beautiful for the ball, or so he laughingly put it.

Mary grinned once more, tidied up the tea things, and walked through the gardens to the large, cool outhouse where she made her signature perfume. She got so absorbed in the pleasurable monotony of the work and the heady fragrance of the distilled petals that she was almost late for her own birthday party.

CHAPTER TWO

Flowers, always and always

Whilst Mary was pottering in her private, perfumed idyll, Kim and Torsten were in the secret garden enjoying the late summer sunshine.

The garden was looking particularly ravishing, gorged with a veritable symphony of colour; roses in bloom, but also asters, salvia, camellias, lavender and goldenrod, amongst many others, and the air was filled with scent and the busy humming of the bees.

Kim was standing at an easel, putting the finishing touches to a painting he was planning to give to Mary that evening as a birthday gift. It was based loosely on Monet’s Luncheon on the Grass and depicted Mary and all their friends, human and Traansylvanian, enjoying a picnic in the secret garden, some sitting, some standing around, but all with the same joyful expression on their multi-coloured faces.

Kim was in the process of adding Torsten into one corner of the painting. He had bade him pose on a strategically placed bench to one side of the lawn, because it put him in mind of Monet in his garden in Giverny. He was a massive fan of Monet, and in his previous life as an interior designer in Norway, had often taken inspiration from impressionist artists in his work.

Torsten mopped his brow, sighed and said, There is sweet music here that softer falls than petals from blown roses on the grass.

Aha, said Kim with a smile, still painting, Quoting Tennyson now, are we?

Well, replied Torsten, you’re not the only one who has access to Archibald Craven’s most excellent library.

Thank heavens Sven had the sense to leave that room alone when he tore the manor apart on his crazy Rocky Horror gig, said Kim, frowning at the memory.

Torsten got up then and stretched, massaging his back, stiff from sitting so long in one spot. He went up behind Kim and kissed him on the back of his neck.

It’ll never be dry in time for this evening, he said.

It’s alright, elskling, replied Kim. I’ll leave it on an easel in the morning room and it’ll dry just fine. A final flourish and he stood back to look at the painting.

So, what do you think? he asked.

It’s breath-taking, breathed Torsten in direct contradiction to what he had just said. You have captured the flowers just perfectly.

Monet said that he perhaps owed having become a painter to flowers, said Kim, wiping his paint-stained hands on an old rag.

How do you know that? asked Torsten.

Kim bent down to pick up the rag that had just slipped out of his mottled fingers. Straightening up, he replied, I had a book. Back in Norway. Lots of interesting facts and pictures. I used to look through it and wish I could paint like him. He looked wistful for a moment.

It’s better than a Monet, declared Torsten, putting his arm around Kim. And even I look quite presentable. I was worried that you’d make me look like a polychromatic blob, but you didn’t. Thank you for that.

Kim chuckled and they carried the painting back to the house between them.

Are you looking forward to the party? asked Torsten as they ascended the stairs to their bedroom.

Very much, replied Kim. I haven’t seen the kids for a while, they’ve all been so busy.

And Dordi’s making dumplings, said Torsten, turning pink and patting his not-so-flat tummy.

As Kim freshened up and got ready for the party, he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and decided he didn’t look too bad for a fifty-six year old ex-farmhand. He thought about Mary turning fifty-five and reflected on all that had happened to them over the past twenty years since he had come to Yorkshire.

Falling in love with Torsten was the best thing that had happened. It had taken him, as well as everyone else, completely by surprise. Everyone knew that Kim had been Daniel’s partner, but Torsten had never been openly gay if you don’t count a penchant for amateur dramatics and a peculiar love of laundering. Homosexuality was commonplace and totally acceptable in Traansylvanian society (Daniel Baldursson had taught them well), but the only person who had ever suspected that Torsten might bat for the other team as it were, was Dordi, his sister, who knew him better than anyone, and she thought nothing of it. She was always just surprised and sorry that he never seemed to be interested in being in a relationship.

Kim hadn’t expected to find love again after what happened to poor Daniel, and he and Torsten were the first inter-species couple, as far as anyone knew, so had no idea how it would work out, but fourteen earth years on, it seemed to be going pretty well, and none of their unusual entourage batted an eyelid (or eyelids, depending to whom you were referring) when they saw them together now. They practically lived at Misselthwaite these days, helping Mary and Dickon keep the place ship-shape, Torsten only returning to Traansylvania via the portal when he needed to. He had given up his soul-destroying job as a mattress warehouse manager and was now directing shows for the theatre company with whom he and Arne had performed The Rocky Horror Picture Show so many moons ago.

A fine, if somewhat atypical couple they made as they walked hand in hand down the imposing staircase in matching, light linen suits, and out of the house into the warmth of the early evening. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses floated up to them from down the steps on the garden terrace.

Sounds like the party’s already started, said Kim, pushing his Panama hat to a jauntier angle.

Let’s do the Time Warp again, said Torsten, wiggling his