Noor and the Garden at Night

Every night, when it was time for bed, Noor knelt on her pillow and said goodnight to the garden.

"Goodnight, apple tree," she said. "Goodnight, lettuces. Goodnight, pond. Goodnight, bench."

The garden was small, but Noor loved every bit of it. In the daytime it was full of things to do. There were bees to watch and peas to pick and worms to rescue from the path. There were butterflies on the lavender and blackbirds on the lawn, and a hedge so thick you could hide inside it.

But at night, the garden went dark and still. The flowers closed up. The butterflies disappeared. The blackbirds went quiet.

"Everything's going to sleep," Noor sighed, pushing her coral glasses up her nose. "And I'm missing it all."

Baba was folding her clothes on the chair. He came and knelt beside her, and looked out of the window too.

"Not everything is going to sleep," he said. "Some of the garden is only just waking up."

Noor turned round so fast that her glasses nearly fell off. "What do you mean?"

"The garden has a night shift," said Baba. "Creatures and flowers who only come out when it gets dark. Most people never see them, because they're always asleep in bed."

Noor's eyes went wide behind her glasses. "Can I see them?"

Baba looked at the clock. He looked at the warm summer sky. He looked at Noor's hopeful face.

"Just this once," he said. "As a special treat. But there are rules."

Downstairs at the back door, he helped her pull her coral wellies on over her pyjamas, and wrapped her soft teal dressing gown tight. He took the little brass lantern from the shelf and turned it down so low that it was hardly more than a glow.

"Rule one," he whispered. "We go slowly. Rule two: we whisper. Rule three: we look with our eyes, not our hands."

And together they whispered the night-time rhyme:

"Hush, hush, tiptoe slow,
the night garden's waking, soft and low."

Baba opened the back door, and the night came in to meet them.

It smelled of cut grass and warm earth and something sweet that Noor couldn't name. It was very, very dark.

"I can't see anything," whispered Noor, holding Baba's hand tight.

"That's because your eyes are still in daytime," Baba whispered back. "They need time to change. Let's count to twenty, really slowly, and see what happens."

So they stood on the doorstep, very still, and counted. One… two… three… four…

And as they counted, something magical happened. Out of the darkness, shapes began to appear. The round black shape of the apple tree. The long, low shape of the bench. The silver gleam of the pond. The pale, soft line of the path.

By the time they got to twenty, the garden had come back, but different. Blue and silver and grey, as if someone had dipped it in moonlight.

High above the apple tree, the first star blinked on.

"Ready?" whispered Baba.

Noor nodded, and they stepped out into the night.

They had only gone three steps when Baba stopped and pointed down at the path.

The stones were covered in silver lines. Wiggly, shiny, glittering lines, criss-crossing everywhere, like someone had been drawing on the path with moonlight.

"What made those?" breathed Noor.

Baba lifted the lantern a tiny bit. And there, at the end of the shiniest line of all, was a snail.

It was big and brown, with a stripy shell like a cinnamon bun, and it was gliding very, very slowly across the stones. On top of its head, two long feelers waved gently, with a tiny dark eye at the end of each one.

Noor crouched down to watch. The snail didn't hurry. It didn't stop. It just slid along, smooth as a whisper, leaving its silver line behind it.

"Where's it going?" Noor whispered.

"To the lettuces, I expect," said Baba. "For its supper."

"Good evening, Mr Slowcoach," Noor whispered to the snail.

The snail waved one feeler. Or maybe it was just the breeze.

Next, Baba led Noor to the flower bed by the fence.

In the daytime, there was a tall, scruffy plant there that Noor had never paid much attention to. It had long green stems and tight, pointy buds, like little closed umbrellas.

"Watch this one," whispered Baba. "Very carefully. Don't blink."

Noor stared at the bud. Nothing happened. She stared harder. Still nothing.

And then, very slowly, the bud gave a tiny shiver.

One pale yellow petal loosened. Then another. Then another. The bud was untwisting, unfolding, opening up right in front of her eyes, like a hand uncurling from a fist, until a whole round flower sat there, pale as butter, glowing softly in the dusk.

Noor pressed her hands to her cheeks. "It woke up," she gasped. "Baba, the flower woke up!"

"It's called an evening primrose," whispered Baba. "It sleeps all day, and opens up at night."

All along the stem, more buds were shivering. Pop. Pop. Pop.

"Hush, hush, tiptoe slow," Noor whispered to them, "the night garden's waking, soft and low."

The sweet smell was stronger now. Noor sniffed and sniffed.

"That's the jasmine," Baba whispered, pointing at the fence. It was covered in little white flowers, like stars that had landed. "And the night phlox, there. Do you notice something about all the night flowers?"

Noor looked. The evening primroses were pale yellow. The jasmine was white. The phlox was white too. In the darkness, they almost seemed to glow.

"They're all pale," she said.

"So they can be seen in the moonlight," said Baba. "And the sweet smell is an invitation. It says: come and visit."

"Who to?"

Just then, something soft and fluttery came drifting out of the darkness. It was a moth. A big, furry, cream-coloured moth with feathery feelers, and wings like dusty velvet.

It landed on an evening primrose, and unrolled a long, thin tongue like a tiny straw, and began to drink.

"Oh," whispered Noor. "That's who."

More moths came, one, two, five, floating between the pale flowers like soft, slow confetti.

Then, from somewhere very close, came a sound.

"Hoo… hoo-hoooo."

Noor jumped, and grabbed a big handful of Baba's woolly jumper.

"It's all right," Baba whispered, smiling. "That's a tawny owl. Look. In the apple tree."

Noor looked up. The moon had risen, big and round and silver, behind the apple tree. And there, on one of the low branches, sitting as still as a statue, was an owl. She could see its round head, its soft, speckled feathers, and its two dark eyes, looking right at her.

"Hoo… hoo-hoooo," said the owl again.

And from far away, over the rooftops, another owl answered: "Ke-wick!"

"They're talking to each other," whispered Baba. "Saying, I'm here. Where are you?"

Noor cupped her hands round her mouth. "Hoo, hoo," she whispered, as softly as she could.

The owl turned its head. It blinked one slow blink, as if to say, I heard you.

And then, under the hedge, something rustled.

Rustle. Snuffle. Rustle, rustle.

Noor held her breath. Baba squeezed her hand and crouched down very low, and Noor crouched down too.

The leaves at the bottom of the hedge were shaking. Something was pushing its way through. Something small, and round, and in no hurry at all.

Out onto the moonlit lawn trundled a hedgehog.

It was about the size of a loaf of bread, with a coat of prickles that shone silvery at the tips, and a little pointy face with a shiny black nose that never stopped twitching. Snuffle, snuffle, snuffle.

It trotted along the edge of the lawn, sniffing the grass, poking its nose under leaves. Every now and then it stopped and crunched something.

"Beetles," whispered Baba. "And slugs. Hedgehogs are the gardener's best friends."

The hedgehog came closer, and closer, snuffling right up to Noor's coral wellies. It sniffed her toe. It gave a little huff, as though wellies were not very interesting.

Then it trundled on.

"Baba," Noor whispered, "can I name it?"

"Of course."

Noor thought very hard. "Prickles," she decided. "Because of its prickles."

"Very sensible," said Baba.

Earlier that summer, Baba had put a shallow dish of water on the lawn, under the edge of the hedge. Noor had always wondered who it was for. Now she knew.

Prickles trundled up to the dish, and dipped his little pointy nose in, and drank. Lap, lap, lap. Noor could hear the tiny sound in the quiet night.

"Is he thirsty from all that snuffling?" Noor whispered.

"Probably," said Baba. "He might walk the length of twenty gardens tonight, looking for supper. That's why there's a little gap at the bottom of our fence. So he can go next door, and the next door, and the next."

Noor imagined Prickles visiting all the gardens on their street, one after another, all night long, while everybody slept.

"Hush, hush, tiptoe slow," she whispered to him.

Prickles snuffled, and went on his way.

They tiptoed on to the little pond at the bottom of the garden.

It was only a small pond, with a stone edge and some reeds and a big flat lily pad. But tonight there was something in it that Noor had never seen before.

The moon.

The whole round, silver moon was lying in the water, perfectly still, as though it had come down to have a bath.

"Look," Noor breathed. "The moon's in our pond."

Then, from the stone edge, something went plop!

Ripples spread out across the water in circles. And the moon broke into a hundred wobbly silver pieces, shivering and dancing.

"Oh no!" whispered Noor. "We broke the moon!"

"Wait," whispered Baba.

They waited. The ripples grew smaller. And smaller. And slowly, slowly, the silver pieces drifted back together, until the moon was round and whole again.

On the lily pad sat a small brown frog, looking very pleased with itself.

"Ribbit," it said.

At the very end of the garden was the wild corner. Baba never mowed it. In the daytime it was full of long grass and dandelions and clover.

But tonight, the wild corner was full of stars.

Noor stopped and stared. Down in the long grass, there were tiny lights. Little green-gold glows, shining steadily, like someone had scattered a handful of stars and they had landed in the grass.

"Baba," she whispered. "Did some stars fall down?"

Baba smiled, and crouched down beside her. "They're glow-worms," he whispered. "Little beetles, who make their own light. They shine to say to each other: here I am."

"Like the owls," Noor whispered.

"Just like the owls."

Noor counted them. One, two, three, four… seven tiny green lights, glowing in the grass, still and patient and calm.

She didn't touch them. She just looked, for a long, long time, and felt as if she had found a secret that the whole world had forgotten about.

"Hush, hush," she whispered to the glow-worms. "Shine soft and low."

Baba spread out the old picnic blanket on the lawn, and they lay down on their backs, side by side, and looked up.

The sky was dark blue now, deep and soft, like velvet.

Something flickered across it. Something small and quick, swooping and zigzagging and swooping again.

"A bird?" whispered Noor.

"Look closer," said Baba.

It flickered past again, close over the apple tree, flittering and fluttering. Then another. And another.

"Bats," whispered Baba. "Little pipistrelle bats. Each one is no bigger than your thumb. They're out catching midges for their supper."

Noor watched them dart and dip. They were so fast and so light, like scraps of night that had learned to fly.

"How do they see where they're going in the dark?" she asked.

"They sing," said Baba. "Very high, much too high for us to hear. And the song bounces back off everything, and tells them where things are."

Noor lay very still and listened, as hard as she could. She couldn't hear the bats singing.

But she liked knowing that they were.

As they lay there, more and more stars came out.

At first there were only a few, here and there. Then there were dozens. Then there were so many that Noor couldn't count them, scattered all across the sky like sugar on a dark blue tablecloth.

"Pick one," whispered Baba. "Pick one to be yours."

Noor looked and looked. There was a big bright one just above the apple tree, shining steadily. And right next to it, a smaller one, twinkling.

"That one," she said, pointing at the little twinkly one. "That's mine. And the big one next to it is yours. So they're keeping each other company."

Baba was quiet for a moment. Then he squeezed her hand. "Perfect," he said.

They lay there and watched their stars together. Somewhere, the owl hooted softly. The frog said ribbit. The jasmine breathed out its sweet, sweet smell.

Noor felt the cool grass under the blanket and the warm hand holding hers, and thought that she had never been so happy in her whole life.

When they sat up, Noor's dressing gown was damp.

"Dew," whispered Baba. "It's coming down from the night air. Look."

He held the lantern up to the lavender bush. And there, strung between two stems, was a spider's web.

Noor had seen spider webs before. But never like this. Every single thread was covered in tiny drops of dew, and every single drop was shining in the moonlight, like a necklace made of the smallest pearls in the world.

In the middle sat a little spider, quite still, resting.

"She made that tonight," said Baba. "All by herself, while we were looking at the stars."

"It's beautiful," Noor whispered. And then she gave an enormous yawn. It came out of nowhere, so big that her glasses wobbled.

"Baba," she said, "can we stay out here all night?"

Baba smiled. "Not all night, little star. But maybe just a little bit longer."

"Can I turn the lantern off?" Noor asked. "All the way off?"

Baba handed it to her, and she turned the little knob until the glow went out.

Now there was only moonlight.

The garden turned silver and blue, all over. The lawn was silver. The apple tree was blue-black, with silver edges. The pond was a silver coin. The pale flowers glowed like little lamps. Even Baba's face was silver, and when Noor held up her hands, they were silver too.

All the colours of the daytime had gone, Noor thought. The coral of her wellies, the green of the leaves. But the garden wasn't less beautiful without them. It was just beautiful in a different way. A quieter way.

They sat on the bench together, and Noor leaned her head on Baba's arm.

She wasn't scared of the dark at all. Not one bit. The dark wasn't empty. It was full of friends.

"Hush, hush, tiptoe slow," she whispered sleepily, "the night garden's waking, soft and low."

"I think," said Baba softly, "it might be time to say goodnight."

Noor nodded. She stood up beside the bench, with Baba's hands on her shoulders, so she could see the whole garden. And very quietly, so she wouldn't disturb anybody, she said goodnight to everyone.

"Goodnight, Mr Slowcoach," she whispered. "Goodnight, evening primroses. Goodnight, moths. Goodnight, jasmine."

"Goodnight, owl in the apple tree. Goodnight, Prickles, wherever you are. Goodnight, frog on your lily pad. Goodnight, moon in the pond."

"Goodnight, glow-worms. Goodnight, bats. Goodnight, spider, and your beautiful web."

She looked up.

"Goodnight, my star," she said. "And goodnight, Baba's star."

The garden didn't say anything back.

But the owl hooted, very softly, just once. And a little breeze came through the jasmine and carried its sweet smell right up to her nose, as if the whole garden was saying: goodnight, Noor. Come again.

Baba scooped Noor up in his arms, dressing gown, wellies and all.

She was so sleepy now that her head fell onto his shoulder all by itself. Her eyes kept closing, then opening, then closing again.

He carried her slowly back up the path, careful not to step on the silver snail lines. The back door was waiting at the top, with the warm yellow kitchen light glowing through it.

Noor opened her eyes one more time and looked back over Baba's shoulder.

There was the garden, silver and blue and dark and full. Still wide awake. The moths were still dancing at the flowers. The glow-worms were still shining in the grass. Somewhere under the hedge, Prickles was snuffling for his supper. And Mr Slowcoach had nearly reached the lettuces.

The night shift was busy. And it didn't need her to stay awake to keep going.

"Baba," she murmured into his jumper. "The garden doesn't go to sleep."

"No," he whispered. "It just takes turns."

In the kitchen, Baba pulled off her wellies, one, two. There was a blade of grass stuck to one toe, and a smudge of earth on her knee, and a tiny piece of lavender caught in her dressing gown.

"Evidence," said Baba, smiling, and he left it there.

He carried her up the stairs and into her bedroom, and tucked her into bed, and took off her coral glasses and folded them on the bedside table.

"Can the window stay open?" Noor mumbled. "Just a little bit?"

Baba opened it a crack. The cool night air drifted in, soft against her cheeks. And with it came the smell of jasmine, sweet and gentle, all the way up from the garden to her pillow.

"Thank you for the night shift," Noor whispered.

"Thank you for coming with me," whispered Baba, and he kissed her forehead.

Then he turned out the light, and the room went dark. But it was a different kind of dark now. A friendly kind. A dark that was full of things.

Noor lay in bed with her eyes half closed, and listened.

She could hear the night garden through the open window.

"Hoo… hoo-hoooo," went the owl, soft and far away.

"Ribbit," went the frog, from down by the pond.

Rustle, rustle, went something under the hedge. Prickles, she thought, and smiled.

Shhhh, went the breeze through the apple leaves.

And there were other sounds, too, that she couldn't hear but knew were there. The silent flutter of moths. The high, secret songs of the bats. The glow-worms, shining without making any sound at all. The snail, sliding silently towards the lettuces.

All the sounds wove together, soft and slow, into a kind of song. A night-time lullaby, that the garden sang every night, for anyone who was awake to hear it.

Noor's eyes closed.

"Hush, hush, tiptoe slow," she breathed, so quietly that it was hardly a whisper at all. "The night garden's waking… soft… and low."

And so Noor fell asleep.

Her breathing went slow and deep. Her hand lay open on the pillow. And in her dreams, she was very small, small enough to ride on a moth, floating from flower to flower in the moonlight.

Outside, the garden kept watch.

The moon sailed slowly over the apple tree. The owl sat on its branch, round and still. The frog sat on its lily pad. The glow-worms shone their little green lights in the long grass. And somewhere, under the hedge, Prickles was on his way to the next garden, and the next, and the next.

On the path, Mr Slowcoach finally reached the lettuces, and took a very, very small bite.

And high above it all, in the deep blue sky, two stars were shining side by side. One big and steady. One small and twinkly.

Keeping each other company.

All through the quiet night.

Hush, hush.

Goodnight.