The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass

Also, nothing seems to be the least little bit of trouble.

I swear if I asked him to clean out all the hairs and gunk that’s blocking the shower plughole, he’d actually enjoy doing it. He’d pull it all out – every nasty glistening clump – and dispose of it all while whistling a happy tune.

I mean, there’s just no need for it.

He packs up at five on the dot and his face appears round the door. ‘Family night tonight.’ He rolls his eyes cheerfully. ‘Pizza and a movie. Probably Toy Story again. Take my advice, pet. Enjoy the single life while you can.’

And he’s off, leaving me to relish my single life with a vast array of enchanting possibilities at my disposal. Embroidery night class in a neighbouring village. Cinema twenty miles away. Or another night in front of the telly.

I settle for the telly.

The spider pops out, clearly tempted by the Coronation Street theme tune, and I nod approvingly. A spider with taste. He has a bit of a scamper around, then he stands stock still, presumably having just clapped eyes on the giant and wondering whether to play dead or make a run for it.

Slowly, slowly, I rise from the sofa and we eye each other. Then, quick as a flash, he streaks back into his hole.

I feel quite disappointed. And definitely not scared.

‘It’s okay, Fred,’ I say out loud. ‘As giants go, I’m pretty harmless.’

Then I laugh at myself for talking to a spider and giving it a name. He probably doesn’t even speak the same language as me. Perhaps the girl at the bus stop was right and I really am going insane, being here all alone with only a friendly arachnid to converse with of an evening.

I picture Mike driving back to the bosom of his family, the kids dancing to the door to greet him. Cherry, his wife, smiling from the kitchen, face flushed from pizza-making, telling him to hurry up and shower because they need to get the film under way if the kids are going to get to bed at a decent time …

I need to get out!

Grabbing my coat, I escape from the cottage, slam the door behind me and start walking briskly towards the shops.

The teenagers are gathered at the bus stop and, as I pass, I can’t help noticing Adonis has his arm around a very pretty girl with long strawberry-blonde hair. The girl with blonde-black hair is nowhere to be seen. He sees me and brazens it out, treating me to a very sarcastic smile.

I frown to myself. Little scumbag! He’s obviously the sort who enjoys spreading his favours around.

The lights of the deli-café up ahead are warm and welcoming and I decide to pop in for a coffee. Passing by the village store on the way, I hear voices in the little alleyway that runs alongside it and turn to look. There are a couple of garages along there, and I spot Miss Blonde-Black leaning against one of them, talking urgently to a man.

I do a double-take.

It’s Sylvian.

Curious, I stop and lurk by the post box, pretending I’m reading the postal times, so I can observe the two of them together. (Boredom makes people act in very weird ways.) They’re deep in conversation and something in the way they’re angled towards each other makes me think they must know each other fairly well.

Sylvian hands the girl a small package. She glances quickly behind her, then she takes it and stuffs it into her shoulder bag. They do a quick thumbs up at each other and she walks away quickly without looking back.

As she passes me, I nod wisely at the post box times then straighten up and smile as if I’ve only just recognised her. She gives me an uncertain look, as if she can’t quite place where she’s seen me before, before marching over the road to join her mates at the bus shelter. As she joins them, I notice Adonis quickly withdraw his arm from Miss Strawberry-Blonde’s waist and shuffle away from her along the rail.

I feel a pang of sympathy for Miss Blonde-Black. She obviously has no idea she has a rival for his affections.

As I approach the deli-café, something in the window catches my eye.

Oh my God, of course! This is where Ivy used to buy her gorgeous chocolate orange cakes. I stop for a moment, smiling wistfully at the single cupcake in the cabinet. There’s only one left and it definitely has my name on it. I slip into the shop and a girl behind the counter with a swingy brown ponytail looks up, smiles and says, ‘Hi. What can I get you?’

‘Can I have a chocolate orange cake, please?’

‘Just the one?’ She glances over. ‘Oh, there is only one.’ She grabs a bag and pops in the luscious-looking sponge cake. ‘Anything else?’

I shake my head. ‘No, just that, thanks.’

She seems familiar somehow, but she can’t be because I hardly know anyone here I must have seen her on one of the rare occasions I came down to spend the weekend with Ivy.

She frowns. ‘Pardon me for asking, but are you all right? You’re as white as a ghostly apparition.’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

She groans. ‘Sorry, have I put my foot in it? You’re probably just naturally pale, are you, with that lovely translucent skin? I’m always putting my foot in it. My mum says I should never, ever get a dog of my own because then my feet would be permanently in the shit, if you get my drift.’

She hands over the paper bag. ‘They’re my mum’s favourite, those chocolate orange cakes. Every time I go home to Cirencester I have to take her half a dozen.’

I try to smile, but tears well up.

‘Oh, what’s wrong?’ She looks horrified. ‘Have I put my foot in it again?’

‘No, no, not at all. It’s me. It’s the cake.’ I stop and force myself to take a slow breath in and out. ‘Memories,’ I say eventually, in a calmer voice.

‘Ah, yes.’ She nods. ‘They can pounce at the most inopportune moment.’ She glances across at the only occupied table, where a dark-haired woman in a gold jumpsuit and heels sits nursing a cup, glancing from time to time at the door. ‘Listen, I’ll be closing up in twenty minutes or so. Why not have a cup of tea? On the house.’ She holds out her hand. ‘I’m Connie, by the way.’

‘Holly.’ We shake hands rather formally then, for some reason, we both laugh.

Frankly, I’m all tea-d out. It’ll probably be a decade from now and we’ll have had five new prime ministers before I have my next real urge for a cuppa. But I’m sensing the tea is not the point.

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ I smile at Connie and she ushers me through a panel on hinges to her side of the counter. ‘Is this your shop?’

She nods. ‘Sort of. It’s a family business that my granddad started up about – ooh, a million years ago.’ She grins. ‘And now my mum and dad manage it. They’ve left me in charge while they tackle the tax return.’

‘Well, I think it’s lovely.’ I glance around, admiring the décor. ‘So cosy and welcoming.’

Connie looks pleased. ‘Thank you. You’ve just moved into Moonbeam Cottage, haven’t you?’ She hands me a cup of tea and a little jug of milk. ‘I’m so sorry about Ivy. She was such a lovely woman.’

‘Thank you. Yes, she was. I’m only staying in the cottage temporarily.’ Then I grin. ‘The grapevine’s certainly alive and well, then. Does the whole village know who I am and when I moved in?’

She laughs. ‘Absolutely everyone.’

I assume she’s joking. At least, I hope she is. The door opens and we both turn.

A woman in a cute pink dress with long, shiny chestnut hair and enviably slim, tanned legs steps daintily over the threshold and glances around her. She spots her friend, breaks into a relieved smile and clacks over in her cream skyscraper shoes.

‘Selena? Are you all right?’ The gold jumpsuit woman peers up at her. ‘You look … harassed, if you don’t mind me saying?’

‘It’s Selena. Emphasis on the first syllable, remember?’ She gives a little tinkly laugh, as if it doesn’t really matter.

‘Oh God, of course. Selena. Sorry. I’ve been calling you Seleena for ages. You should have said.’

‘No matter.’

‘What’s her name?’ whispers Connie in my ear.

I grin. ‘Plain old Selena, I think, but pronounced differently?’

Selena brushes something off the chair and sits down gingerly, as if it might be about to fall apart. ‘Moira, you just wouldn’t believe the nightmare I’ve had.’

Moira groans and crosses her eyes comically. ‘I have nightmares every day living in cute-village-land. The boredom levels – God! I said to Roger the other night, As soon as the smalls have buggered off, we’re upping sticks and moving back to civilisation! I mean, it’s all right for him, escaping to bloody London every weekday, but it’s me who’s stuck in this hellhole twenty-four-seven.’ She pats her perfectly teased and lacquered hair-do. ‘Anyway, you were saying. Nightmare …?’

Selena nods. ‘Well, I was told there was a shortcut through the park -– via someone’s makeshift garden, weirdly.’ She glances frostily back at us, and Connie and I – standing at the end of the counter – instantly become fascinated by the dregs in our cups.

‘But with my sense of direction being so appalling, I ended up in a bloody field, didn’t I? In these shoes. So then I was chased by a herd of frigging sheep!’ The last word comes out as an exasperated squeak. ‘Had an entire field of the little woolly fuckers running at me, baa-ing.’

‘God. Yes. Been there.’ Moira shakes her head. ‘It’s not “baa”, you know. It’s more like “brains”, if you really listen.’

‘Is it?’ Selena cocks her head to one side. ‘Oh yes, I see what you mean. Brai-ai-ains. Ha! And they all look the same, don’t they? Like little woolly zombies. Had to kick my shoes off and run like hell.’

Moira sighs. ‘I don’t mind the sheep so much. But the cows.’ She shakes her head. ‘They are evil bastards.’

Beside me, Connie snorts and quickly turns it into a cough. I dig her in the ribs and she picks up her notepad and pen and goes over to take their order.

As she assembles a tray of peppermint teas, she motions to me to top up our cups. ‘Then we can hear what else they think of the village,’ she murmurs with a wicked grin, glancing over at Selena, who’s examining her nails while her friend is in the Ladies.

I raise my eyebrows in mock disapproval. ‘Do you listen in to all the customers’ gossip, then?’

‘Oh, absolutely.’ She points at her nose. ‘I blame this for my nosy tendencies. What’s the point of having a big one if you can’t make it work for you?’

I laugh and study her as she stands at the drinks machine, watching boiling water hiss into a white teapot. She’s about mid-twenties with huge expressive brown eyes and an impish smile. The nose in question is what some people might term ‘handsome’.

‘It suits you,’ I say truthfully. ‘Your nose, I mean.’

‘Thanks.’ She flares her nostrils and gives me a profile pose. ‘There’s a fair few hooters like this in my family. We got them from my darling granddad, who still gets “Beaky” from his friends, bless him. Actually, we like to call them “strong” noses.’

Laughing, I point at a small mole just below my breastbone. ‘I got this from Ivy. Apparently my mum had one in exactly the same place. We like to call them “beauty spots”.’

Connie laughs and carries the tray of drinks over.

I touch my ‘beauty spot’ wistfully. My family might be gone, but it’s a sort of comfort to know that in hundreds of little ways, they still live on in me. They will always be a part of me.

Moira bursts out of the Ladies. ‘So whose garden is this shortcut through?’ she asks Selena, continuing the conversation where she left off. ‘I must say, I’ve never heard of it and we’ve lived here – ooh, nearly a whole sodding year now.’

Selena shrugs. ‘No idea. Never found it. Belongs to some old biddy with a gap in her hedge, apparently.’

My heart misses a beat.

I glare at Selena’s slender, lace-clad back. How dare she describe Ivy as ‘some old biddy’.

Tears spring to my eyes. ‘That’s Ivy she’s talking about.’

‘The cow.’ Connie throws her a murderous look, which makes me feel a whole lot better. ‘Does she mean the shortcut through Ivy Garden?’

I nod. ‘You should see it. It’s a disaster after the storms.’

‘Really? Oh, what a shame.’

‘Does everyone call it Ivy Garden now?’

‘Oh, yes. It’s well known in the village. People still pop in there, mainly to remember Ivy and have a quiet moment on the bench.’

My heart swells with emotion at this.

Connie touches my arm. ‘Listen, I fancy a hot chocolate with whipped cream. Why not make one for each of us while I wipe those tables? If you can’t work the machine out, give me a shout.’

I nod gratefully and go over to investigate.

‘I’m sure you’ll have Ivy Garden looking gorgeous again in no time,’ she calls.

I shake my head sadly. ‘I’ve never gardened in my life. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Then you’ll just have to learn,’ smiles Connie. She turns to the two women and says pleasantly. ‘Can I get you anything else? No? Oh, and by the way, there’s loads of interesting things going on in the countryside.’

I swivel round with interest.

Moira snorts at Selena and murmurs, ‘I thought we all made our own entertainment around here.’

Connie puts her hands on her hips. ‘I bet you didn’t know that the Women’s Institute organise a film night once a month. With a DVD and a really big TV.’

I realise she’s joking, but the two women just stare at her in amazement as if she’s one of the woolly zombies.

Connie turns and winks at me. Then she bustles back behind the counter. ‘Let me know what you think of this shortbread. I baked it this morning; it’s so full of butter, it’s probably against the law. Go on, you know you want to!’

Moira and Selena leave soon after, but Connie and I linger over our hot chocolates. By the time we’ve finished, I’ve found out all about Connie’s desire to become an infant school teacher – she’s very excited about starting her course in September – and she knows all about my disastrous relationship with my ex, Adam.

A car draws up outside just as I’m thinking about leaving.

Connie peers out. ‘It’s Dad. He’s going to be looking after the shop while Mum and I are in Spain.’

‘You’re going on holiday?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’ She grins. ‘A bit of sun will set me up nicely. Even better, Mum’s paying!’

‘You lucky thing!’

‘I know. It’s for my granddad, really. He used to go off on walking holidays all the time but he’s been feeling a bit under the weather recently, so this is Mum’s plan to revitalise him.’

‘What about your grandma? Does she go, too?’

Connie looks sad. ‘Oh, she died years ago when Mum was really tiny. I never actually knew her.’

My heart swells in sympathy. I know how that feels …

‘So it’s the three of you?’ I paste on a smile. ‘In Spain for a family holiday? How lovely.’

Connie laughs. ‘Sharing a room with Mum who likes to be lights out and asleep by ten won’t exactly make for a riotous time – and then there’s all the walks we’ll have to go on to keep Granddad company. But yes, I’m looking forward to it.’

‘It sounds like heaven to me,’ I admit, hoping I don’t sound too wistful.

I’m smiling so hard to show I’m pleased for her that my jaw is starting to ache. It’s just I can’t help thinking about my holidays with Ivy in Blackpool. We could never afford to go abroad but it didn’t really matter. We had fun anyway.

I knew she also loved the times she spent with her old school friend, Olive, who lived in London. They’d arrange a weekend break somewhere at least once a year, but it was never any more exotic than Bournemouth. Ivy had simple tastes …

How amazing to be able to take a family holiday totally for granted, the way Connie can …

The door opens as I’m putting my cup in the dishwasher and three people walk in.

‘Hi, folks,’ smiles Connie. After introducing us all, she grabs her mum and granddad, linking her arms through both of theirs and doing a smiley pose for my benefit. ‘Now you can see exactly where I get the, er, handsome nose from.’

‘Fortunately, she gets the rest of her good looks from me,’ quips Martin, her dad, who’s over doing something technical with the coffee machine.

Connie’s mum, a pretty, dark-haired woman called Helen, pretends to be annoyed at their remarks but I can tell she’s not put out at all. Connie’s granddad, who’s tall and rather distinguished-looking, is a bit more reserved. But when Connie says, ‘Holly is Ivy’s granddaughter. She’s staying at Moonbeam Cottage,’ he immediately steps forward to shake my hand warmly and murmur his condolences.

As I leave, Connie and her mum are chatting about their holiday wardrobes and planning a girls-only shopping trip, and Martin is groaning good-naturedly at the bashing their credit cards are likely to take.

I walk slowly back to the silence of Moonbeam Cottage, thinking what lovely people they are, and trying to shrug off the weight of sadness that has descended on me after listening to their happy family banter. It was lovely to meet them all, but paradoxically, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so totally alone in my life …

I glance at my watch. Five hours to while away before I can sensibly go to bed. Food is my usual time-filler these days, but I’m too full of shortbread and hot chocolate to face dinner.

There’s nothing else for it.

With a sigh, I switch on the TV and slip Slasher Santa’s Coming to Town into the DVD machine. It will provide welcome background noise, if nothing else – because Moonbeam Cottage suddenly seems more deathly silent than an undiscovered Egyptian tomb.

Then something weird happens. One of those great big ironies in life.

No sooner have I had this thought – about the Egyptian tomb – but the air is suddenly split with a great cracking sound that makes me jump a foot in the air.

It happens again.

And again.

I go to the window and look out. It sounds like someone is chopping down a tree – and the noise appears to be coming from the woods over the road.

Ivy Garden!

Quick as a flash, I’m over the road to investigate, and as I squeeze through the gap in the hedge, my mouth falls open at the sight before me.

Someone is doing a spot of tree-felling. A tall man in jeans and lumberjack boots. He’s wielding a large axe, shirt sleeves rolled up, aiming his swings at the base of the fallen down tree, apparently completely oblivious of the rain that’s started to fall.

A feeling of indignation rises up. That’s Ivy’s tree. Surely the decision as to whether it stays or goes is up to me?

Of course, it’s not really Ivy’s tree at all. But since she devoted so much love and care to this little corner, then surely it belongs to her in spirit, if not altogether legally. But anyway, that’s beside the point. What right has this man to muscle in and knock that bloody tree down without a by-your-leave?

‘Er, excuse me!’

He carries on flexing his muscles and whacking at the poor thing.

‘I said, excuse me!’ I start picking my way gingerly across the mud slide. ‘Can I ask what you think you’re doing?’

But my protests are drowned out by the now steady splish-splash of rain on the leaves and the manly grunts as axe slices into tree trunk.

Mindful of having landed on my bum in the mud last time, I concentrate on my feet, and by the time I glance up, the man is looking over at me, axe down by his side. He doesn’t look terribly pleased at the interruption.

I swallow hard, rooted to the spot for a moment, and he stares back at me, squinting slightly as rain drips into his eyes. His dark hair is glistening with moisture, and his soaked shirt clings to the muscles of his upper body.

A big rumble of thunder followed swiftly by a crack of lightning makes me jump and brings me back to my senses. I look at the poor, capsized tree and suddenly remember why I’m there. Who is this man? And what on earth does he look like, posing with that axe! It’s like a scene from a Jane Austen mini series. Any minute now, he’ll be leaping on his horse and thundering off into the woods, watched by a puzzled and distraught heroine who’s yet to realise it’s all down to a massive misunderstanding.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask calmly.

He looks at me like I’m several twigs short of a complete branch. ‘It needed felling,’ he says dryly. ‘So I’m felling it.’

SIX

‘But I might not have wanted it chopped down.’

He continues to study me with a slight frown, as if I’m some sort of interesting plant life he’d thought was extinct.

‘You really think we should leave it standing?’ he asks at last.

‘No, of course not. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have chopped it down … eventually.’

His mouth quirks up at one corner.

‘I meant I’d like to have made the decision to chop it down myself.’ My cheeks feel so scorched, the raindrops are probably evaporating on landing. I shrug awkwardly. ‘This was Ivy’s special place.’

His expression softens. ‘You knew Ivy?’ He drops the axe on the ground and walks towards me.

‘She was my grandma. And I can’t imagine what she’d be saying if she could see this … mess.’

He looks down at me, his dark hair plastered wetly to his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. You must be devastated. Ivy was one special lady.’

I can’t trust myself to speak, so I just nod.

‘I’m Jack Rushbrooke, by the way.’

‘Holly Dinsdale.’ I hold out my hand and he grips it. A funny little shock runs along my arm, I guess because when you shake hands under normal circumstances, it tends to be rather less cold and wet than this.

‘Are you staying at Moonbeam Cottage?’ he asks.

‘Just till I get it on the market. Then I’ll be gone.’

He nods. ‘You’re selling up. Of course.’

I glance at him, puzzled. Why ‘of course’? Has he heard through the grapevine that I hate the countryside?

‘You won’t need Moonbeam Cottage, I suppose. Not where you’re going,’ he says.

‘You mean Manchester?’ Wow, news certainly gets around.

But he’s looking at me in slight confusion. I have a feeling we’ve got our wires crossed somewhere, but I haven’t the faintest notion how.

‘Right. Well. Do you mind if I finish the job?’

I shrug, still feeling stupidly emotional about the tree. ‘Yes, why not?’ I say flippantly, as if I really don’t care. ‘You’re already half way there.’

I can’t help noticing how tall Jack Rushbrooke is. In his jeans, lumberjack boots and heavy duty waterproof, he looks as solid and immovable as the trees surrounding the clearing. He just shouldn’t be here, that’s all, in my private place, making decisions about what happens to Ivy Garden. What if him chopping the tree down alerts the local council, who own the land, and they decide it can no longer be used as a public garden?

Emotion is making me illogical, I know, but I’m suddenly desperate for things to stay exactly as they are, just the way Ivy left them.

‘In future, I’m going to do the gardening myself if you don’t mind,’ I announce.

He nods slowly as he walks back to the tree and picks up his axe. ‘Okay. I’ll just get this done.’ He pauses then holds out the axe. ‘Unless you’d like to …?’

I stare at the axe for a panicked second. Does he really expect me to …?

Then I notice the gleam in his eyes. ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘I’ll see to the tree, then I’ll leave the rest of the gardening to you. All right?’

‘Whatever.’ I give a nonchalant shrug, while privately thinking, Thank God for that! At the risk of sounding horribly un-feminist, I’d probably end up chopping off something vital if I so much as picked up that ferocious-looking implement.