A Tent in the Garden

The tent had been in the loft for so long that nobody could remember what colour it was. When Dad brought it down it turned out to be orange, and Isla thought that was the best colour a tent could possibly be.

“Tonight?” she said.

“Tonight,” said Dad. “If it stays dry.”

It stayed dry. Just. There were clouds in the afternoon that came over the roof and thought about it and went away again. By tea-time the sky was clear and pale, the sort of blue that goes on for a long time before it gets dark. Isla ate her tea standing up so she could look at the tent through the window. It was already up. Dad had put it in the middle of the lawn, well away from the apple tree, because he said apples fall at night and he did not want to be woken by one.

It had taken two goes. The first go, it fell down. Isla had been holding a pole, and she had let go of the pole to point at a bee, and the tent had folded itself gently onto the grass like something going to sleep. The second go was better. Dad held the poles and Isla put the pegs in, one at each corner, pushing them in with the heel of her hand until they were nearly all the way down, and then Dad went round after her and pushed them in the rest of the way, and did not say anything about it, which she appreciated.

Now it was standing. Orange. Sort of a triangle, sort of not. There was a zip at the front that went in a curve, and when you opened it, the tent yawned.

Isla went in first.

Inside, it was orange too. Everything was orange. Her hands were orange. Dad’s face, when he crawled in after her, was orange. The light came through the sides and made the whole inside of the tent look like the inside of a peach.

“Right,” said Dad. “Provisions.”

They had brought two sleeping bags, one blue and one green. Two pillows from the house. A torch. A packet of biscuits, the plain ones, because Dad said chocolate ones melted and got on things. Isla’s rabbit, who was called Rabbit, and who had never been camping before and was, Isla said, a bit nervous about it. A bottle of water. A book.

They laid the sleeping bags out side by side. Isla got into hers and got out of it again three times, because she kept remembering things. Her slippers. A second torch, in case the first torch stopped. Her jumper, in case it got cold. Dad lay on his back with his hands behind his head and waited.

“Done?” he said.

“Done,” she said, and lay down.

They lay and listened.

A garden at night is a different garden. Isla knew every bit of it in the day, the path and the shed and the place by the fence where the cat from next door came through, but she had never been in it like this, lying down, at the level of the grass, with the sky going slowly dark above the orange roof.

There was a bird somewhere, saying the same thing over and over. There was a car, far off, that went past and was gone. There was the apple tree, moving a little, though there was no wind that she could feel. And there was the tent itself, which made small noises when the air moved. A tick. A flap. A sort of breath.

“Dad.”

“Mm.”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That.”

He listened. “That’s a hedgehog,” he said. “Going along by the fence. They snuffle. It’s a snuffle.”

Isla listened. It was a snuffle. She lay very still and let the hedgehog go all the way along the fence and out of hearing, and she did not shine the torch at it, because Dad said it was the hedgehog’s garden at night, and you did not shine torches at people in their own house.

They ate three biscuits each. Dad had four, actually, but nobody counted.

Then Dad read the book. It was a book about a boat, and they had read it before, and Isla knew what happened, but that was fine. It was better in a tent, in the orange dark, with the torch propped against the pillow. Dad’s voice sounded different in the tent. Closer.

When the book was finished, Dad turned the torch off.

The tent went dark. Then, slowly, it did not. The orange sides were grey now, and there was light coming through them, not much, but some. Isla unzipped the door a little way and looked out.

The moon was up. It was over the shed, and it was nearly round, and it had made the whole garden silver. The grass was silver. The apple tree was black, with silver on the edges of its leaves. The path was a pale line going up to the house, and the house was dark, except for one small light in the kitchen that Dad had left on so they could find their way back if they needed to.

“Dad. Come and look.”

He came and looked. They knelt in the doorway of the tent with their heads out, side by side, and looked at their garden with the moon on it.

“It’s like a different place,” said Isla.

“It’s the same place,” said Dad. “It’s just that we’re usually asleep for this bit.”

They watched for a while. A bat went over, quick and quiet, and was gone. The cat from next door came through the gap in the fence, saw them, stopped, and thought about it. Then it went on its way along the edge of the lawn, silver too, without hurrying.

“Do you think it’s cross that we’re in its garden?” said Isla.

“I think it’s used to sharing.”

It began to get cold. Not very cold. Just the sort of cold that reminds you there is a sleeping bag behind you. They zipped the door up most of the way and left a gap, so the moon could come in, and got back into their bags.

Isla put her jumper on after all. Rabbit was tucked in beside her with his ears out.

“Dad.”

“Mm.”

“We should do this every night.”

“We’ll see.”

“Every summer, then.”

“That,” said Dad, “we can do.”

The tent ticked. The apple tree moved. Far off, the same bird said the same thing, more slowly now, as if it was nearly finished. Dad’s breathing went long and even. Isla lay on her back with her eyes open and watched the grey roof of the tent, and the little bit of silver coming through the gap in the door, and listened to her garden being a different place.

Then she rolled onto her side, and pulled the bag up to her chin, and put her hand on Rabbit.

Outside, the moon went slowly over the shed, and over the apple tree, and over the house. The grass grew wet with dew. The hedgehog came back the other way along the fence, snuffling, and nobody heard it.

And in the middle of the lawn, the small orange tent stood in the silver, holding the two of them, warm and close, until the morning came and found them there.