From The Spring*, by Peter Dickinson
. . . Dad got a new job and the family moved south. That June Dad and Mum took Derek off to look at a lot of roses. They had their new garden to fill, and there was this famous collection of roses only nine miles away at Something Abbey, so they could go and see if there were ones they specially liked, and get their order in for next winter. Mum and Dad were nuts about gardens. . . .
The roses grew in a big walled garden, hundreds and hundreds of them, all different, with labels. Mum and Dad stood in front of each bush in turn, cocking their heads and pursing their lips while they decided if they liked it. They’d smell a bloom or two, and then Mum would read the label and Dad would look it up in his book to see if it was disease-resistant; last of all Mum might write its name in her notebook and they’d give it marks, out of six, like skating-judges, and move on. It took hours.
After a bit Mum remembered about Derek.
“Why don’t you go down to the house and look at the river, darling? Don’t fall in.”
. . . The river was better than the roses, a bit. The lawn of the big house ran down and became its bank. It was as wide as a road, not very deep but clear, with dark green weed streaming in the current and trout sometimes darting between. . . . He counted trout for a while, and then walking further along the river he came to a strange shallow stream which ran through the lawns, like a winding path, only water, just a few inches deep but rushing through its channel in quick ripples. Following it up he came to a sort of hole in the ground, with a fence round it. The hole had stone sides and was full of water. The water came rushing up from somewhere underground, almost as though it were boiling. It was very clear. You could see a long way down.
While Derek stood staring, a group of other visitors strolled up and one of them started reading from her guidebook, gabbling and missing bits out.
” . . . remarkable spring . . . predates all the rest of the abbey . . . no doubt why the monks settled here . . . white chalk bowl fifteen feet across and twelve feet deep . . . crystal-clear water surges out at about two hundred gallons a minute . . . always the same temperature, summer and winter . . . ”
“Magical, don’t you think?” said another of the tourists.
She didn’t mean it. “Magical” was just a word to her.
But yes, Derek thought, magical. Where does it come from? So close to the river, too, but it’s got nothing to do with that. Perhaps it comes from another world.
*from THE LION TAMER’S DAUGHTER AND OTHER STORIES, Delacorte, US 1997
from TOUCH AND GO, Macmillan Children’s Books, UK 1999
first published in BEWARE, BEWARE c 1987
reproduced by permission from the author!!!
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The description is magical too. Adults doing boring stuff and going off, as a child to explore, finding deeper meanings in all you see that those bloody passing tourists.
Thanks Peter, Thanks Robin.
Ooooh. That’s *fabulous!* Thank you for sharing!