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

Jack gets on with the job, wielding the axe with power and precision, as I stand by admiring his – um – technique. Well, I’d be silly not to watch closely, wouldn’t I? Garner a few gardening tips, that sort of thing.

It’s really quite an art, this tree-felling stuff, I reflect, admiring the muscular flexing motion of Jack’s shoulder and back, clearly visible through the clinging and almost transparent cotton of his shirt …

He’s looking over at me.

Bugger. He’s obviously asked me a question but I was too busy concentrating elsewhere.

‘Sorry?’ Blushing, I tap my ear. ‘Can’t hear a thing with this rain.’

Jack frowns skywards. The rain has stopped.

‘I was saying if you need help tidying this place up, I’ll probably be around at the weekend,’ he says.

I shake my head. ‘Thank you but I’ll be fine.’

‘You can manage?’

‘Definitely.’

He grunts, not looking at all convinced, and I feel my hackles stir.

‘You’re welcome to borrow gardening tools. Have you got a strimmer to get rid of these thistles and nettles? Because that’s a big job,’ he points out, axe balanced over his shoulder, long muscular-–looking legs planted in the ground like twin oaks.

‘I’ve got the tools,’ I tell him shortly. ‘At least, Ivy will have. Somewhere.’

‘I could speak to Nick Wetherby. Local gardener. He’d have it whipped into shape in no time.’

I clench my teeth. Why is he so doubtful about my gardening skills? Do I look that clueless? I could be Monty Don’s second cousin twice removed, for all he knows, with green fingers by the shed load.

‘Right.’ He shrugs. ‘I can see you’re determined to do it yourself.’

‘Yes, I am actually. I’m a really good gardener, if you must know.’ Well, I will be, once I look up ‘strimmer’ in the dictionary. I’m absolutely certain of it.

He nods. ‘If you’re stuck, go to the garden centre and ask for Layla,’ he says, before turning back to the task in hand.

I watch him a while longer. Then he shouts, ‘Stand back!’ and with one more hefty stroke, the tree starts to capsize. It falls to one side with a crash and the birds flap noisily from their perches.

‘Thanks for that,’ I say, as he bends over to examine the tree stump that’s left.

‘No problem. I can take the tree away,’ he offers. ‘Unless it’s something you’d rather do yourself, of course?’

I glare at him as he rises up to his full height. Then I catch the tiny flicker of amusement in his blue eyes.

‘Thank you,’ I tell him pleasantly. ‘That would be wonderful.’

‘You don’t need the wood?’ he asks.

I shake my head. ‘Gas fire.’

He grunts. ‘Mind if I use it?’

‘Be my guest.’

He nods. ‘Right, I’m off. We live in the big ramshackle of a place over there,’ he says, nodding in the direction of the woods. ‘Rushbrooke House.’

We? Who’s we?

Perhaps there’s a Mrs Rushbrooke and two point four adorable kids.

He picks up the axe and swings it over his shoulder. ‘Ivy was a wonderful woman,’ he says, and we exchange a look of understanding. On this, at least, we’re in complete agreement.

‘Well, see you, Holly.’ He raises a hand and strides off through the woods, presumably back to Rushbrooke House. He turns and looks back at me with a slightly puzzled expression, as if he’s trying to work me out.

I look away quickly and pretend to be examining the tree stump in an Alan Titchmarsh, highly professional sort of way …

SEVEN

Colin the cockerel has been preparing since I arrived for his X Factor: The Birds audition. This morning, his enthusiastic practice begins at prompt five-fifteen.

Sometimes I can roll over and go straight back to sleep, but this morning, the smell of freshly painted walls tickles my nose and starts me thinking about how much work I still have to do in the cottage. And then, of course, I’m wide awake.

Two weeks have passed since my encounter with Jack Rushbrooke and his magnificent axe. But although the roof has been made water-tight and Mike has finished the repairs on the bathroom, I’m still no nearer heading back home to Manchester.

I spent a couple of days painting the bathroom after Mike left and it’s looking great. But I’ve shot myself in the foot, in a way, because the gleaming bathroom now stands out like a sore thumb and I can no longer ignore the fact that the rest of the rooms in Moonbeam Cottage are in urgent need of a make-over. I’ll need a fair few coats of magnolia to cover Ivy’s eye-catching teal blue and terracotta walls in the living room.

But actually, redecorating the cottage is the least of my worries.

I nip downstairs to boil the kettle. Then I bring my tea back to bed and sit there sipping it, trying not to think about Sunday May 15th, which has always been one of the most important days on my calendar. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s only a week away now and I’m dreading it.

I sigh. Colin the cockerel isn’t the only thing stealing my sleep right now.

It’s Ivy’s birthday next Sunday.

It looms large and scarily empty, and I haven’t a clue how I’m going to fill it. I never imagined I’d still be here in Appleton in the middle of May. I thought I’d be safely back home, with Vicki and Beth to help me get through the 15th. But then, I hadn’t banked on a leaky roof and a cottage in need of updating.

My blossoming friendship with Sylvian seems to have come to a grinding halt. I keep thinking I’m bound to bump into him in the village store but, so far, our paths haven’t crossed. And Connie is still away in Spain, although she’s due back tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to catching up with her and finding out if she’s had any romantic adventures, which she assured me she fully intended to do.

Another note of interest: I see Jack Rushbrooke, he of the impressive axe-wielding skills, most nights.

Now, that sounds a lot more interesting than it actually is.

What happens is that Jack sprints past Moonbeam Cottage most evenings about eight o’clock. In fact, it’s happened so often since I’ve been here that I now hold off drawing the curtains until I’ve seen him flash past. Not that I wait by the window. I’m really not that bored. (Although I am bored enough to have spent a rather disproportionate amount of time wondering where on earth he goes every night.)

Three weeks into my self-imposed exile, I am so starved of human contact, I’ve actually started musing aloud about life to Fred the Spider, aiming my pithy observations at the crack in the skirting board. (No come-back as yet, but I’m pretty sure he appreciates my dry wit.)

I spend the day in the local DIY store, buying paint, then attempting to obliterate the burnt orange walls in the kitchen with a neutral shade of beige. It feels sad and disloyal, as if I’m painting away Ivy’s personality.

Later, I’m just out of the bath, face scrubbed and gleaming, when I realise I’m out of milk, so I throw a jacket over my pyjamas and run along to the village store, hoping to catch it before it closes.

I’m just about to go in, when I spot Sylvian walking towards me.

‘Where have you been?’ He greets me with a smile. ‘Hibernating?’

‘Actually, I was thinking the same about you,’ I admit, feeling ridiculous in my stripy PJs and trainers.

He studies my face. ‘You know, your chakras are well out of whack.’

‘They are?’ How can he tell? Should I be worried? And where are my chakras anyway?

‘I was just off to my yoga class,’ he says, ‘but I can skip that for one night. Come up to my place. I’ve got just what you need.’

His flat is just how I pictured it. All lovely calming blues and pale greens, a huge squashy sofa covered in cushions, and an amazing display of crystals in a glass-fronted cabinet. It smells delicious, too. A cross between some kind of lemony essential oil and … chocolate. Yes, definitely chocolate.

‘What’s that gorgeous scent?’ I ask, hopeful there might be a family-sized bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk lurking under one of his many cushions.

He whisks something off a side table and wafts it under my nose. ‘Chocolate-scented candle. Lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Is it edible?’ I’ve never really been one for lighting candles everywhere. I always think I might set the place on fire.

He chuckles. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ His face lights up. ‘But wait a minute …’ He disappears into the kitchen and I hear him opening the fridge.

‘I’ve got some kimchee, if you’re hungry,’ he calls through.

‘Kimchee?’ I wonder what that is? A kind of yummy Japanese cake, perhaps?

‘Fermented cabbage,’ he shouts. ‘It’s delicious and very good for you. Like to try some?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. Just eaten,’ I shout, rather too quickly.

He returns with a bowl of what I assume is the aforementioned ‘kimchee’ and starts tucking in. The smell of it is so rank, my eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. It puts me in mind of a burst sewage pipe.

‘Where do you live?’ I ask, while he eats his revolting snack. ‘When you’re not here, I mean.’

‘I’ve got a house in Cornwall, right by the beach. Big windows so the light pours in.’

‘It sounds lovely.’

‘It is. Being so close to the sea is good for the soul. I’ll take you down there some time.’ He rises to his feet from a cross-legged position in one smooth movement and takes his bowl into the kitchen.

My mind is whirring. Did he just offer to show me his house in Cornwall?

‘Now, a spot of meditation, I think,’ he says, coming back into the room. ‘For your chakras.’

‘Er, great!’

Five minutes later, I’m lying on the floor with my eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to empty my mind of all thoughts. Sylvian’s voice is soft and hypnotic in my ear: ‘Any time a thought finds its way into your head, see yourself blowing it away, like a dandelion clock. Pfft! Off it goes, leaving your mind beautifully tranquil.’

I’m trying my best but I keep getting a whiff of kimchee, which makes the ‘deep breaths in’ slightly nerve-racking, to be honest. Then I open one eye to find Sylvian lying on the floor next to me.

Thoughts pour in and I’m powerless to blow them away: Is this an elaborate chat-up line? Let’s meditate together. Ha! Good one, Sylvian!

But peering over at him, I decide his motives are probably pure. He has his eyes closed and he’s meditating with me, his lean diaphragm moving up and down with his deep breathing. It looks like the only reason we’re lying on the floor together is to get peaceful. On the other hand, he did offer to take me down to Cornwall. I can’t decide if I’d be disappointed or relieved if it turns out he only has friendship in mind.

After our meditation, he makes nettle tea and sits cross-legged on the floor while I try out the vast sofa and admire Sylvian’s suppleness. Any other bloke who sat like that I’d quite frankly think was a bit weird, but Sylvian manages to carry it off and look really rather sexy.

I tell him I feel much better for the meditation – which actually, I do – and he looks pleased. ‘You should try and do it every day if you can,’ he says. ‘It takes discipline, of course. Abby and Sara both found it really hard to apply themselves at first but they quickly got the hang of it.’

‘Abby and Sara?’ I ask, puzzled.

He looks perplexed himself for a second. Then he says, ‘Oh, I haven’t mentioned them, have I? They live in my house in Cornwall.’

‘Oh. Right.’ I can’t help feeling surprised at this. I’d imagined him living on his own in his lovely beach-side retreat. ‘So you have housemates, then.’

‘I suppose I do, yes.’

‘That … must be nice.’

‘It is. They’re lovely girls. You’d like them, I’m sure.’ He smiles warmly. ‘And I know they’d like you.’

I smile back, flattered he’s even thought about how I’d get on with his friends.

He tells me about the poetry workshop he’s doing in nearby Cirencester the next day and I take this as my cue to thank him for the tea and therapy and leave him to his preparations.

He comes down to the main door and leans round me to open it, and when I turn to thank him again, his nearness takes me by surprise. We’re squashed up close in the small space and his eyes are burning into mine. Then he leans forward a fraction and kisses me, full on the mouth.

It’s an attractively confident kiss. No messing about. His lips are firm and warm, and as kisses go, it’s a good one, breaking my current drought very satisfyingly. Very satisfyingly indeed, in fact. The whiff of kimchee is barely noticeable.

I’m just about to lean in and kiss him back, when he says, ‘Do you like vegetarian food?’

‘Er, yes, I … vegetables are great.’ I stick up both thumbs for emphasis.

‘Good. I’d love to cook for you, Holly. What are you doing on Saturday night?’

‘Oh, well, nothing,’ I tell him honestly. ‘If you like, I could bring dessert.’ I glance at his lean frame. ‘That’s if you eat puddings …’

He smiles. ‘Oh, I eat puddings.’ He says it in a way that makes me think he’s definitely flirting with me … or maybe I’m imagining it. It’s all very confusing.

But as I walk back to Moonbeam Cottage, clutching a carton of goat’s milk Sylvian gave me, I’m feeling much lighter somehow and less stressed.

It must be the Sylvian effect.

Or the fact that Ivy’s birthday on Sunday won’t be nearly such a hurdle if I’ve got a lovely evening with Sylvian on the Saturday to look forward to.

On the way home I peer into the window of the deli-café, hoping Connie is back from Spain, and sure enough, she’s there. The café is empty of customers. Connie waves madly and beckons me in.

‘I wish I had time to chat,’ she says, whipping up a sleeve to show off her tan. ‘But Mum’s collecting me and I need to get finished here.’ She charges off to clear some tables. ‘Talk to me!’

‘I take it the weather was good, then,’ I call from the door.

‘Fab. We had a brilliant time. A few interesting episodes, mainly involving a Spanish waiter and a donkey, but I’ll tell you about all that over a glass of sangria some time!’

‘Brilliant. Can’t wait.’

‘Tell you what, how about we make a day of it?’ she says, pausing for a minute and resting her stacked tray on the table. ‘I’m not working at the weekend so what about Saturday?’

My thought processes whir into action. I’m having dinner with Sylvian on Saturday night. And anyway, Sunday would be better. So much better …

‘What about Sunday?’ I wince inwardly, hoping against hope it’s fine.

She shrugs. ‘Sunday? Yes, perfect. In fact, Sunday’s probably better for me now I think about it.’

A feeling of blissful relief floods through me. ‘Fantastic!’

Connie nods, completely unaware of the torrent of emotion that has just rushed through me like water from a leaky gutter. ‘How about we take a drive out into the country? We can take a picnic if the weather’s good or call in for a pub lunch somewhere.’ She winks. ‘And I can fill you in on Pascal.’

‘Sounds great. Do you mind if we take your car, though? Ivy’s ancient Fiesta can just about manage a trip to the DIY store but only if the wind’s in the right direction.’

Connie laughs. ‘Suits me fine. I’m not too good at being a passenger in someone else’s car. Far too fidgety.’

‘Applying the invisible brake and clinging to the sides of the seat with clenched teeth? Gotcha!’

I walk back to Moonbeam Cottage, lighter in spirit and more optimistic than I’ve felt for a long time.

Some families aren’t so bothered about celebrating their big days. But for Ivy and me, birthdays were a highlight of the year; dates to be circled on the calendar and planned weeks in advance. It was probably because our little family was Ivy and me, that we were intent on ensuring we each had a brilliant day.

I’ve a feeling Sunday will be fine now with Connie to keep me entertained.

Then I remember what we’ll be doing – a drive out into the country – and I feel a stab of anxiety. What if Connie’s car breaks down, miles from anywhere?

I give myself a little shake. Of course nothing bad will happen. The countryside is not my enemy.

Everything will be absolutely fine …

EIGHT

The next day is Wednesday and I’m feeling full of get up and go. This feeling is increased ten-fold when I arrive at Ivy Garden to tackle the nettles and find a surprise waiting for me.

A carpet of bluebells has transformed the little woodland clearing.

The ground is dotted with little clumps of the tiny lilac-blue flowers. They peep out from between the trees, like tiny precious jewels, and the scent of them brings back so many memories.

I thought I’d never see the bluebells again – but here they are!

Feeling inspired, I don Ivy’s old gardening gloves and set to work pulling up nettles.

As I work, it occurs to me that once all the nettles and weeds have gone, there will be a large expanse of earth available for planting, all along the hedge. An idea takes shape in my head. Before she died, Ivy kept talking about wanting to plant a wildflower meadow. Perhaps I could have a go myself? It can’t be that difficult. I seem to remember reading in one of her gardening books that wildflowers actually prefer soil that isn’t very fertile. In other words, they’ll probably grow anywhere. Sounds like my kind of plant …

By tea-time, I’ve cleared a large patch of nettles, and I head back to the cottage feeling tired and very grubby. As I sink gratefully into a hot bubble bath, I think about my life back in Manchester. Apart from watering my fairly indestructible umbrella plant, I’ve never gardened in my life. But I’ve just spent a whole day in the open air, getting all hot and sweaty, and aching everywhere, but actually rather enjoying it. Or at least enjoying the sense of accomplishment after a job well done.

Later, feeling ravenous, I’m hunting around in the fridge when the phone rings. I rush to answer it, chewing rapidly, having just popped a large piece of quiche into my mouth.

‘Hi, only me,’ says Connie. ‘Listen, I’m really, really sorry but I’m afraid we’re going to have to postpone our day out. It’s Dad’s birthday on Sunday.’

I actually stop breathing for a second.

‘Mum’s cooking a special meal and she’ll absolutely kill me if I’m not there for it. She’s always been big on family birthdays. Holly? Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ I draw in a gulp of air and a piece of quiche lodges itself in the back of my throat. I cough and splutter, trying desperately to swallow down the remains of the pastry, but my mouth feels dry as dust.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I gasp. ‘Bit of quiche went down the wrong way, that’s all. I just need to get some water.’

‘Off you go, then. Are you sure you’re all right?’

She sounds as if she feels really guilty for cancelling, so I force myself to say in an upbeat tone, ‘Actually, I’m planning a wildflower meadow at Ivy Garden. So now I’ll be able to do it on Sunday.’

‘Oh, good.’ Connie sounds relieved. ‘Because I felt terrible.’

She hangs up, and feeling oddly light-headed, I walk through to the kitchen and mechanically gulp down some water. Then, remembering what Sylvian told me, I sit down, close my eyes, draw in a deep breath and blow my worry away like a dandelion clock.

Perhaps it’s fate that Connie cancelled. Maybe I was meant to plant a wildflower meadow on Ivy’s birthday. It would certainly be a lovely tribute to her. And at least I’m busy on Saturday night, at Sylvian’s, which will mean I won’t have much chance to brood.

Later, I’m poring over Ivy’s gardening books, researching which wildflowers flourish best in a shady, woodland setting, when the doorbell rings.

It’s Sylvian in his yoga gear.

‘Hi, hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he says with that lovely, tranquil smile of his. ‘I just wanted to give you this.’

He dangles a delicate pendant necklace and I cradle it in my hands.

‘Rose quartz,’ he says. ‘It’s the stone of universal love. It opens the heart and promotes deep inner healing and feelings of peace.’

‘Oh, it’s gorgeous.’ I hold up the tiny, pale pink sliver of crystal, admiring its beautiful luminosity.

‘And don’t say you can’t take it.’ He smiles. ‘It’s a gift.’

I flush with a combination of awkwardness and pleasure.

I’m a little perturbed that he thinks I’m in need of ‘deep inner healing’. Is it really so obvious that my life is a wreck? Still, I very much like the idea of ‘feelings of peace’.

I’ve never met anyone like Sylvian; he’s so calm and giving and … spiritual. He has this mysterious aura of being at one with the universe which is really very attractive. I can’t imagine anything fazing him. Anything at all. If the roof were to suddenly slide off the cottage, Sylvian would probably step nimbly aside in a bendy yoga sort of way then prescribe a calming ‘downward dog’ pose, followed by a cup of herbal tea.

‘Do you want to come in?’ I ask, hoping I haven’t left any underwear drying on the radiators.

‘Tempting. But no.’ He looks genuinely regretful. ‘I need to be up early.’

I nod. ‘Let me guess. You’re going out at dawn to commune with nature?’ I say, thinking how wonderful to be so at peace with everything.

‘No, the gas man’s coming round.’

‘Oh.’

‘Here, let me …’ He takes the rose quartz pendant and slips it around my neck. His fingers are cool against my neck and I give a little involuntary shiver of pleasure.

He fumbles with the catch, clearly having trouble fastening it, and at one point, I turn and catch his eye. We smile at each other and it feels suddenly very intimate. His face is so close to mine, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me again.

Then he says, ‘Listen, I’m really sorry, Holly, but I think I might have to take a rain check on our dinner date.’

My heart drops like a stone. ‘Oh. Why?’

‘I’m booked to do poetry workshops at the weekend apparently. They got the dates wrong, so I’ve only just found out. I’ve asked them to try and rearrange but I doubt they’ll be able to. I’m really sorry. ’

I fix on a smile and give my head a little shake. ‘Hey, no problem. We can do it some other time, right?’

He nods. ‘It might still be okay for Saturday. I’ll let you know when I hear from the organisers, okay?’

Chain fastened, he turns me round to face him, slipping his hands behind my neck and lightly massaging the tops of my shoulders. ‘If we can’t do Saturday, I’ll make it up to you some other time,’ he says, looking deep into my eyes. ‘And that’s a promise.’

A noise distracts me and I glance along the road. A tall figure is running towards us. It’s Jack on his nightly jog.

He sees me and slows to a standstill at the gate. Then, observing that I’m otherwise occupied, with Sylvian’s arms draped around my neck, he raises a hand and walks on, with that same slightly puzzled expression, probably imagining far more than is actually happening.

‘See you, Holly,’ murmurs Sylvian, brushing my forehead with his lips. At the gate, he turns, touches his lips and sends me an imaginary kiss. ‘Love and light.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ I pat the crystal. ‘Er … love and light!’

I watch him as he walks off along the road. He’s staring up at the moon, and I can’t help having a look myself. It’s probably an ancient source of spiritual inspiration – or something …

I could certainly do with my spirits lifting tonight. My weekend is once again looking as empty as a fairground in a force nine gale.

Listlessly, I watch as Jack sprints along the road then turns down the next street. I glance at my watch. He’s early tonight. Perhaps the woman whose husband works in Dubai, and who Jack visits under cover of darkness because they don’t want the neighbours to catch on, got home from work early today? This is my latest theory on why he flashes past the cottage most evenings. (These long nights in the country play havoc with your imagination.)