The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgeson Burnett was an early work of climate fiction

I grew up in a mixed-heritage family. Both of my parents’ childhoods were deeply affected by colonialism in India and they often told me stories about this period in their lives. As a result, I inherited a sense of place and a feeling for a country which was never my home.

It’s a strange feeling, which I still struggle to put into words, though I tried in my memoir, Shalimar: A Story of Place and Migration, which holds at its heart the sensation and imagery of India’s climate and its wildlife. India, for me, will always coexist with English weather and the roses my father tended to in our modest, suburban home in Hayes, west London.

While we now have beautifully written, tender children’s books which address colonial history, from Nazneen Ahmed Pathak’s City of Stolen Magic (2023) to Jasbinder Bilan’s Nush and the Stolen Emerald (2024), The Secret Garden still holds a powerful spell over me. That’s because of its representation of nature and its use of fiction to tell a story about England and India, two countries brought together through the healing space of the garden.

I believe that re-contextualising A Secret Garden as an early work of climate fiction – a type of storytelling that imagines how climate change could shape our world – is an apt way to rethink this classic tale.

This article is part of Rethinking the Classics. The stories in this series offer insightful new ways to think about and interpret classic books and artworks. This is the canon – with a twist.

Published in 1911, The Secret Garden unfolds against the backdrop of the fictional Misselthwaite Manor and its walled garden on the Yorkshire Moors.

While Yorkshire and its thick sheets of rain, enveloped in mist and fog, is portrayed vividly by Hodgeson Burnett, the ghostly heat and skies of India are also woven throughout the book’s micro-climates. Hodgeson Burnett’s attention to nature is masterful and magical:

One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands out and throws one’s head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing … And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries.

The climates of India and Yorkshire blur into a new reality when seen through the eyes of the book’s central protagonist, the recently orphaned Mary Lennox. She is sent to live with her uncle after her parents die of cholera in colonial Calcutta.

Wilful and fiery, Mary’s grief and rootlessness seems to be unending until she follows a twitching robin into a walled garden. There she befriends other children including her cousin Colin, who uses a wheelchair, and the gardener, Weatherstaff.

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The hidden sanctuary and wonder of the garden is intertwined with Mary’s inner world and her search for solace after the loss of her parents. Her resilience thrives and blooms, particularly when she becomes a storyteller and draws the other children into this secret place through her tales of adventure.

Here, the telling of the “story” of the garden is as important as the experience of the garden itself. This is where fiction does its work – we need stories like this to recover a sense of care in times of ecological crisis.

Last year saw the launch of the Climate Fiction Prize, a vital endeavour to specifically support literary fiction as a cultural form which permits writers the freedom to imagine alternative paths for human existence. The Secret Garden is a work of such imagination, of transformation from otherwise impossible states of crisis and inertia.

Beyond the Canon

As part of the Rethinking the Classics series, we’re asking our experts to recommend a book or artwork that tackles similar themes to the canonical work in question, but isn’t (yet) considered a classic itself. Here is Davina Quinlivan’s suggestion:

Shaun Tan’s Tales From the Inner City (2018) is a beautiful and extremely moving collection of illustrated, eco-centric stories exploring the relationship between humans and animals in urban environments.

Tan is well known for his elegiac and often uncanny, playful storytelling and Tales From the Inner City skilfully braids these aesthetic values with a powerful message of hope and compassion for the wild and domestic creatures we share our world with. While there is no explicit reference to the climate crisis, Tan’s exquisite images illustrate stories of kinship between humans and dogs, snails, whales, pigeons, cats and tigers – all bound to each other as intertwined species.

Set within cities, the wild beauty of each animal seems enlarged, as does the poignancy of each story, reminding us of what we have to lose. Some of the creatures literally morph into giant versions of themselves, eerie against Tan’s various backdrops of urban space. In one story, two tiny humans are seen being carried through stormy waters, perched between the ears of an enormous cat. It’s an indelible image of hope and survival in the wake of environmental devastation. Tan’s imaginative power is utterly extraordinary.

Davina Quinlivan is an AHRC-funded StoryArcs Fellow based in the Department of English and Creative Writing at The University of Exeter. She is also an Artistic Lead with Emblaze, an imprint of Paper Nations. Paper Nations is an award-winning creative writing incubator illuminating stories of colour in the South West, funded by Arts Council England and produced by The Story Society, Bath Spa University.