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

The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass Catherine Ferguson The ebook bestseller is back with her next hilarious read – a fun, fresh tale of love, friendship and family secrets…When Holly breaks up with her boyfriend Dean, she’s at a loss as to what to do next. But things go from bad to worse when her beloved grandmother Ivy dies – and Holly is left in charge of sorting out Ivy’s house and garden. As she sorts through her grandmother’s belongings and makes her way through the wilderness outside, Holly soon finds that there is more to Ivy than meets the eye, and uncovers a surprising family secret that changes everything…This is a heart-warming and hilarious story from Catherine Ferguson about starting over, learning to garden and most of all learning to love. CATHERINE FERGUSON THE SECRETS OF IVY GARDEN Copyright (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5) This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. AVON A division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2017 Catherine Ferguson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008253356 Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008215736 Version: 2018-05-11 Dedication (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5) For Ian and Krysy Table of Contents Cover (#u6f1075af-772c-54bd-a143-b571f3ceddb3) Title Page (#u4e58a67a-199f-5ba6-aa44-24d2d459645d) Copyright (#u8215615c-0cd9-59e8-89b0-4013e532c842) Dedication (#u198fc64b-4ca4-5536-b0c3-3336dcbd578d) Prologue (#u9b57b7cc-3198-5347-8542-ebf39b104382) Spring (#ude6c8818-cfd1-5726-b096-3ef85289cc61) Chapter One (#ud68180c2-3c2a-5382-8c6b-bf30932eca42) Chapter Two (#uaa6c5b4d-ea66-57e7-9010-7cac2375843d) Chapter Three (#u554cd0b6-5bef-5ffd-82cf-ea43ff954e17) Chapter Four (#u2d1eac95-561a-5fcf-85e8-850ad5e41f69) Chapter Five (#ub89b8c0f-79ff-5da4-96de-2e958cc72510) Chapter Six (#ud460bc70-d38b-56d7-97f7-2e5361aa1e42) Chapter Seven (#u3ee437c0-92b4-57a8-84eb-5aeb6c25013d) Chapter Eight (#u7a064fc4-24d6-5271-8bee-c1bbdc36ea83) Chapter Nine (#u7378467a-3ee1-5c5a-b775-3d4fa06ec5dc) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Summer (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Autumn (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Winter (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapterr Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading… (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5) We stood on the dusty railway platform, Ivy and I, saying our goodbyes. The August sun burned down, making my hangover worse. (It turned out that Ivy’s home-made rhubarb and ginger wine was rather more potent than even she had realised.) I thought longingly of the cool interior of the train, imagining myself sinking into a seat and closing my eyes to ease the ache that was pulsing at my temples. My journey from the Cotswolds up to Manchester involved several changes with a long wait between connections, but it had to be done. I was due back at work in the caf? next day. Not to mention the fact that I was keen, as usual, to escape the countryside and get back to my home in the city, even though I hated leaving Ivy. ‘Will you get a taxi at the other end?’ Ivy looked worriedly at my weekend bag, which was stuffed so full, the zip was in danger of bursting. ‘That looks really heavy.’ I nudged her affectionately, hoisting the bag further up my shoulder. ‘I’ll survive. Don’t worry. I’m a big girl now.’ She smiled, forget-me-not blue eyes crinkling at the corners, her face tanned golden brown and etched with lines from a summer spent in the garden. ‘You might have just turned the ripe old age of thirty, but I’m always going to worry. Show me a grandma who doesn’t.’ ‘Especially one who’s a mum and dad to me as well.’ I pulled her into a hug, which was a little awkward because of the bag. ‘I’ll phone you when I get back to Manchester,’ I added when she didn’t reply. Pulling back, I realised she hadn’t even heard me. She was staring directly over my shoulder at the opposite platform, and I turned, wondering what had caught her attention. Around a dozen people with bags and suitcases – some in little groups – were standing waiting for their train to arrive. ‘What is it?’ I asked, not recognising anyone. The intensity in her eyes took me by surprise. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, Holly,’ she murmured. I felt a twinge of apprehension but disguised it with a laugh. ‘That your rhubarb and ginger wine is at least thirty per cent proof? It’s all right. I already know that, to my cost!’ She gripped my forearms. ‘Can you take a later train?’ I shook my head. ‘This is the last one of the day.’ ‘So go back tomorrow.’ The Manchester train appeared round the bend. We watched as it glided to a halt and passengers began alighting on to the platform. Panic fluttered in my chest. Ivy and I didn’t have secrets. We knew everything there was to know about each other. What was it she needed to tell me? My heart fought with my head. ‘I’d love to stay another night, but I’m back at the caf? tomorrow morning, remember? And Patty’s already short-staffed as it is, with people off on holiday.’ Ivy nodded, seeming to recollect herself. ‘Of course. I’m being silly.’ She forced a smile and let go of my arms. ‘You have to get back.’ People were climbing aboard the train now, and the guard was walking along the platform, getting ready to blow his whistle. I took her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘I’ll phone later and we can talk then?’ She kissed me on the cheek and shooed me into the carriage. ‘Quick, quick, or it’ll leave without you.’ I found a seat and sat on the edge of it, still gripping my bag, full of uncertainty. Ivy had held my arms so tightly when she asked me to stay. Perhaps I should slip off the train and phone in sick tomorrow? But when I looked out on to the platform, she was smiling and waving, back to her normal self, and I thought maybe I’d imagined the flash of despair in her eyes when she begged me to change my plans. Ivy was forever saying the times we saw each other went by far too quickly. Perhaps she simply wanted to prolong our precious weekend together At the exact same moment, we both realised she was waving with a paper bag full of chocolate orange cupcakes that were meant for me. A speciality of the village bakery in Appleton, where Ivy now lived, they were our all-time favourite cakes and Ivy brought some for me whenever she came to visit me in Manchester. So then, of course, I had to rush to the door and grab the bag before the guard blew his whistle and all the doors closed. As the train drew out of the station, we were both laughing – me flopped back in my seat, breathless and giggling, and Ivy on the platform covering her face with her hands in mock horror. She blew me a kiss as the train drew out of the station. I never saw her again. Eight months later Spring (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5) ‘You can cut all the flowers but you cannot stop spring from coming’ – Pablo Neruda ONE (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5) I know I’ve cocked up again when Patty abruptly abandons the milk she’s frothing, and puts her arm around me. I swivel my eyes at her in alarm. My boss showers her dogs with love. But I’ve worked with her long enough – fourteen years to be precise, from being a Saturday girl at sixteen – to know that she’s fairly reserved when it comes to showing affection for actual people. ‘Oh, God.’ I bite my lip and throw a glance at the queue of lunch-time customers. ‘What did I do this time?’ Patty’s mouth quirks up at the corner. ‘You’ve just given poor Betty spicy tomato pickle with her fruit scone.’ I glance over in horror. Betty, one of our elderly regulars, is removing her coat and settling herself at a corner table, clearly relishing the prospect of taking the weight off her bunions and tucking into a delicious home-baked scone with strawberry jam and cream. She’s in for a nasty surprise. Patty grabs me before I have a chance to charge over, and the empathy in her eyes almost floors me. Ever since Ivy died, I’ve been walking around in a sort of stunned daze, doing things on autopilot. Which is why, I suppose, I gave Betty spicy tomato pickle instead of strawberry jam. And burned my hand on the coffee machine last week. As well as carefully spreading a mountain of rolls with gloopy baking fat before Patty noticed and stopped me. ‘Not sure our customers would appreciate the irony of having lard with their healthy salad sandwiches,’ she remarked dryly. In all that time, I haven’t broken down in public even once, but all of a sudden, I’m perilously close to losing it in front of the entire caf?. I dig my nails into my palms, which is meant to distract you from the emotion that’s threatening to knock you flat. It seems to work. And it’s also slightly less weird than crossing your eyes or rolling them around, other suggestions I found online. I solve most of my practical problems online. Ivy was hopeless at DIY so I grew up tackling all the odd jobs around the house to save us money. I even fixed a leaky tap once with one of those step-by-step Wiki guides. As a result, I tend not to be daunted by tasks that other people would run a mile from. My independent streak seems to baffle men. When they discover my parents died when I was four, they first of all think I must want to talk about it (which I absolutely don’t) and then they try to look after me and protect me from the big bad world. I should probably feel grateful. But instead, it makes me feel suffocated. That’s probably why my romantic history is peppered with fledgling relationships that I’ve ended because the guy wouldn’t give me the space I craved. My latest doomed romance ended last summer after Adam, who I actually really liked and thought I might even be in love with, started hinting – after only three months – that we should move in together. He obviously took it as an affront when I said it was a little too early to think about that – because two weeks later, he left me for a glamour model he’d met at his local gym. I told myself I was fortunate to have found out about his shallowness so early on, and I tried not to mind when they got engaged a month after they met. Perhaps I was meant to be alone. Ivy once told me I never gave romance a chance and she asked me if I thought I was running away from commitment. It would be natural, she said, after losing my parents so young, to fear the people I love might be snatched away from me. Privately, I thought this was simply daft psychobabble. The guys concerned were just not for me, that was all. ‘Go and sort Betty out,’ Patty says. ‘And then go away and sort everything else out, okay?’ ‘But …’ I glance at the queue of people, all staring at us expectantly. She shakes her head, gently holding my wrists. ‘No buts, Holly. You were back at work the day after the funeral. Much too soon. And yes, I know the last thing you want to do is make the long journey back down to the Cotswolds and go through Ivy’s things …’ I swallow. ‘And get Moonbeam Cottage ready to sell.’ Just saying it makes my insides quiver. Moonbeam Cottage, in the heart of the Cotswolds, was such a huge part of Ivy’s life. ‘It has to be done.’ Patty’s tone is gentle but firm. ‘And the sooner the better, don’t you think?’ She pauses. ‘What would Ivy be saying to you now?’ I smile, tears filming my eyes. I can hear her in my head, speaking with that lovely West Country burr: ‘Don’t you stress yourself, my lover. Everything will be fine. Sooner you get down there, the sooner you’ll be back home again.’ I always trusted Ivy’s good sense above anyone else’s – except perhaps during those turbulent teen years when we fought as much as any parent and kid. She was a great mix of gentleness, modesty and steely inner strength, and I knew her better than anyone alive. But now she’s gone … I dig my nails into my palms until it hurts. My grandma was special. I was so lucky to have had her in my life. Actually, I never thought of her as ‘Grandma’. I always called her Ivy because, in reality, she was far more than just a grandmother; she was Mum, Dad and grandparent all rolled into one. She scooped me up when I was four years old, after my parents died, and took us off to live in Manchester. Goodness knows why she chose Manchester. I once asked her why on earth she abandoned her beloved Moonbeam Cottage in the tiny village of Appleton to bring me to a big city where we knew no-one at all. She just laughed, tweaked my nose and said, ‘Isn’t that what fresh starts are all about, my lover?’ Ivy missed Mum so much – I’d hear her crying at night when she thought I was asleep – but she never ever dwelled on the day of the accident, at least not in my presence. She always said she preferred to look forward, taking me with her on our exciting ride into the future. As a child, I piggy-backed on her zest for life; she never let fear get in the way of having an adventure – even though, on a supermarket check-out/school cleaner’s wage, the height of her walk on the wild side was our annual trip to the lights and magic of Blackpool. Patty takes hold of my hands. ‘You don’t have to feel guilty about selling Ivy’s cottage, you know.’ I nod, unable to speak. ‘Would you want to live in Appleton? In the heart of the countryside?’ she asks gently. ‘No!’ My insides shift queasily at the thought. Visiting Ivy there occasionally I could cope with. But live in Appleton? With all the painful associations I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to push from my mind? ‘Look, love, Ivy just wanted you to be happy. She would be right behind you, whether you sold the cottage, rented it out or turned it into a refuge centre for cow-pat-hating city girls like you.’ I attempt a smile. It’s not the cow pats that are the problem, but I know that, in essence, Patty’s right. Ivy would have loved me to go with her when she moved back to the Cotswolds after she retired. But she understood that my fear of the countryside ran too deep for that. Ivy knew, as no-one else does, that the reason I cling tightly to my life here in the city is because I need to block out the past. It was why Ivy came to visit me in Manchester all the time. She wanted to make things easier for me. (Only rarely did I summon up the courage to go back to Appleton to visit her, and when I did, I could never totally relax.) Selling Moonbeam Cottage really is my only option. I can’t drag my feet any longer. It’s now April, four whole months since Ivy died, and I’ve been putting off my trip down to the Cotswolds for far too long. ‘And don’t worry about leaving us short-staffed,’ Patty murmurs. ‘Olivia’s finished at uni and, as always, my delightful daughter is absolutely desperate for cash. So she’ll happily fill in while you’re away.’ ‘She’ll do a much better job than me right now,’ I croak, feeling the familiar fears trickling in at the thought of returning to the countryside. ‘Maybe. But listen, Holly.’ Patty grips my shoulders and makes me focus. ‘Promise me you’ll take care of yourself? Take some time to get that beautiful head sorted.’ Gently, she brushes back a strand of honey-blonde hair that’s escaped from my ponytail. She glances apologetically at the waiting customers. ‘Sorry, folks. Staff crisis. Be with you in a sec.’ ‘Go,’ she hisses, handing me a ramekin of strawberry jam. ‘Your job’s here whenever you decide you want to come back, okay? Whether that’s in a month or even in six months’ time.’ Her kindness is too much. I have to get away before I break down and make a complete fool of myself. ‘Thank you,’ I mouth. Then I rush over to Betty with the jam, collect my coat and bag from the cloakroom and step outside into the blustery spring day. It’s a wrench leaving the cosy warmth of the caf? behind, and as the bell on the door jangles behind me and a cool breeze lifts my hair, I wonder with a pang how long it will be before I cross the threshold again. With her daily dose of light chit-chat and practical good sense, Patty has almost single-handedly kept me sane. Ivy died on 14th December from a massive heart attack. My memory of the run-up to Christmas and beyond is a bit of a blur, but I do remember refusing to leave my flat, despite offers from my best friends, Beth and Vicki – and also Patty – to spend Christmas with them. After the funeral in early January, I went straight back to work, even though Patty told me I needed more time to grieve. I convinced her that work was good therapy. And so for the past few months, I’ve slipped into a safe routine: keeping busy all day at the caf?, going home to eat and mindlessly watch TV, then sitting in the darkened kitchen, with just the pool of light from an Anglepoise lamp, to do my sketching, hour after hour, often until well after midnight when my eyes are stinging. I know if I go to bed too early, I’ll only end up lying there, staring into the darkness, fretting about the future. I’ve always loved painting and sketching, and now it’s proving to be an absolute life-line. Ivy’s big dream for me was to study art at college when I left school. She used to say being an artist was my ‘calling’ because my paintings made people think about life and gave them pleasure. But however much I might have wanted to pursue my art as a career, I knew it was never going to be a practical option because we didn’t have the money. When Patty offered to promote me from Saturday girl to full-time staff when I was sixteen, I jumped at the chance, and I’m still there. I still sketch, though, especially now. When I’m focused on drawing the perfect foxglove, it’s easier to keep the dark thoughts at bay. I’ve always been the sort of practical, clear-headed person people can count on in a crisis. But since Ivy died, I’ve felt vulnerable and far less sure of myself. My insides shift queasily every time I think of making that long train journey south, leaving behind everything that’s familiar. Even telling myself it’s just for a few weeks, and then I’ll be safely back home, doesn’t seem to make any difference. How can I bear to stay in Moonbeam Cottage if Ivy’s not there? And then suddenly a memory blazes into my head. Ivy and me on the waltzer in Blackpool. We booked the same week every year, staying in the same guest house and reuniting with some other families we got to know who did the same. I loved it when I was a kid because there was always someone to play with. No holiday in Blackpool was complete without several rides on the waltzer. Spinning round and around, clutching on to each other as the blaring fairground music swallowed our squeals. Laughing helplessly at the thrill of it all. Scream if you wanna go faster! Ivy always went on it with me, even though I knew it scared her. I think she worried I’d slip out of the safety belt. When we got off, she’d exaggerate her wobbly legs, staggering around to make the little kids laugh. The other mums and dads stood watching, smiling at their children and waving. I remember feeling really proud of my fearless grandma for not letting nerves stand in her way. Now, hurrying for home, I mentally open my wardrobe and start picking out clothes to pack. I’ll catch the train tomorrow. I can be brave, too. TWO (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5) Whenever I think of the Cotswolds, where Ivy lived the last decade of her life, I think of the row of pretty golden stone cottages skirting Appleton village green and the gnarled old oak tree by the cricket pavilion. In my mind, it’s always summer there and the sky is always blue. But when I step off the train at Stroud – the nearest station to Appleton – I’m faced with a rather different view of the Cotswolds. Storms have been raging all week, causing destruction right across the country, and today appears to be no exception. I peer out of the station entrance at people scurrying for shelter from the steady drizzle and gusty wind. I can’t afford to hang around. There’s only one bus to Appleton every two hours – and the next one leaves in ten minutes. Grabbing a firmer hold of my suitcase, I start running for the bus station, dodging passers-by and puddles of rainwater. As long as the bus doesn’t leave early, I should just about make it. And then it happens. I round the corner a little too briskly, step to one side to avoid a man with a briefcase, and instead, cannon right into someone else. Momentarily winded, I register the black habit and white veil the woman is wearing and my heart gives a sickening thud. Oh God, I just nearly decked a religious person! But worse is to come. The nun, who I notice is remarkably tall, stops for a second to regain her balance. But she lists too far to one side and ends up staggering off the pavement into the water-logged gutter. To say I’m mortified is a vast understatement. ‘I’m so, sosorry!’ I reach out to her, then draw back my hand, just in case she’s taken some kind of vow that forbids any form of physical contact during high winds. ‘God, are you all right?’ Shit, why did I have to say ‘God’? She’s bending to retrieve her glasses, which mustn’t fit very well because they seem to have gone flying when she over-balanced. Her attempts at picking them up are failing miserably – so, flushed and overcome with guilt, I dive in, swipe them off the ground then rub them clean on my coat before handing them back. She puts them on, almost stabbing herself in the eye, and that’s when I notice something odd. The glasses are attached to a large, false nose. She sways and I grab her arm to steady her, wondering what on earth is going on. ‘Seen a bunch of people dressed as monks and nuns?’ she slurs in a voice that’s surprisingly full of gravel and several octaves lower than I was expecting. ‘Disappeared. And it’s my turn to get the beers in.’ Stunned, I shake my head. So not a nun, then. Not female either, come to that. I glance at my watch. Bugger! Thanks to this stag-do buffoon, I’ve now missed the bus to Appleton and there won’t be another one along for at least two hours. An arm snakes round my waist. ‘Hey, why don’t you come along? Join the pub crawl?’ Actually, how it sounds is Heywhydntc?mlongjnpubcrawl? I stare up at his stupid false nose and black-rimmed glasses, the lenses of which are like jam jar bottoms. I’m amazed he can see through them. No wonder he charged right into me. He sways closer and the booze on his breath almost knocks me flat. I feel like weeping. Today’s long journey from Manchester has been emotionally exhausting, to say the least, and now – to cap it all – I’m being propositioned by a drunk disguised as a nun? It can’t get any worse. Oh hang on, apparently it can. His hand just slipped lower and is clamped so tight, there seems to be no escape. The rest of him might be listing like a yacht in a force nine, but there’s nothing flaky about that firm grasp. I try to move away but the pavement is packed with people and I just keep getting pushed back against him. Then when I do manage to put a small distance between us, he staggers a bit and lurches forward. That’s when I realise he was probably just grabbing on to me in an attempt to remain upright. He grins and the cheap nylon veil slips down over one eye. ‘Dirt on your coat,’ he mumbles helpfully. I glance down. Sure enough, there’s a big splodge of muck from where I wiped his joke glasses on my otherwise pristine beige coat. The one I had dry-cleaned last week. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, catching my look of horror and attempting to look contrite. ‘So you should be,’ I snap, thinking miserably of the two-hour wait ahead. ‘Pretending to be one of God’s holy sisters and making me miss my bus!’ ‘Youdon’tapproveof?mendressed’snuns?’ Quick translation while leaning away to avoid beery breath. ‘No, I don’t approve of men dressed as nuns. Especially if they’re rat-arsed. If I were a nun, I’d be absolutely horrified.’ He snorts, apparently finding it all very funny indeed. ‘Butyouaren’tanunareyou?’ I grit my teeth. A six-foot-two fake nun is using me as a prop to remain standing and people are staring. Plus, I have a two-hour wait for a bus and a lovely reminder of my unholy encounter in the form of a nasty black stain on my coat. Just then, to add insult to injury, the bus to Appleton swooshes past, hurling a litre of gutter rainwater at me. Tears prick my eyes as I watch it accelerate off into the distance. ‘No, I am not a nun,’ I growl, and Maria von Trapp on growth hormones sniggers like a schoolboy. I fix him with my sternest look. ‘Not yet, anyway.’ He blinks several times at me behind his glasses. At least, I assume that’s what he’s doing because I can’t actually see his eyes through the stupid joke lenses. ‘In fact,’ I add, enjoying his confusion, ‘I’m actually training to become a nun.’ He snorts, nearly overbalances, then starts convulsing with laughter. ‘It’s true,’ I say, feeling ridiculously offended on behalf of nuns everywhere. He’s laughing so much, he’s having to lean against some iron railings for support. ‘You off to the convent now, then? Didn’t know there was one in Stroud.’ I give him my haughtiest stare. ‘Actually, I’m – erm – having a last long holiday in the Cotswolds before I start my training up in Manchester. And if you weren’t so pissed, you’d be wishing me luck instead of acting like an utter moron.’ I walk off, nose in the air, fairly impressed with my spontaneous put-down. When I turn a moment later, he’s leaning against a lamppost, arms folded, staring dazedly after me. Me? A novice nun? Ha, that’s a good one! My triumphant smile slips when it occurs to me that a vow of chastity isn’t exactly a stretch for me right now. It’s been well over six months since I did anything even remotely horizontal and non-nun-like. I can’t face waiting for a bus, so I decide to treat myself to a taxi. It’s expensive, but I’ll get there much faster. Luckily, the taxi driver seems to sense that I don’t want to chat and leaves me alone with my thoughts as we wend our way towards Appleton. We drive through a string of pretty villages and I try to stay calm, telling myself everything will be fine. But the trouble is, I know what’s coming. I know that in a minute, we’ll be driving into open countryside without a single house or village pub or any sign of civilisation to reassure me. It’s the wide open spaces that scare me the most. I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at the fields on either side that seem to stretch away to infinity. I’d thought that with the passage of time, the terror would begin to subside. But here I am, my heart pounding in my ears as if it happened only yesterday. I want Ivy so much right now, I feel as if my heart will break. Last time I saw her, she was waving me off on the train back to Manchester. I remember thinking how elegant she was that day. Normally, Ivy lived in casual trousers and tops. Life was too short, she said, for feeling like a trussed-up goose in the name of fashion. But she’d taken me for an early supper at a nearby pub before driving me to the station in Stroud, which was why she was all dressed up. Right then, on that station platform, she could have passed for a woman in her late fifties. Hard to believe she was seventy-two. Actually, the way I usually remember her now is in the old gardening garb she used to wear, or in her hiking gear, fresh from walking in the country lanes around Appleton. A painful lump wedges in my throat. This is how it happens. I’ll just be starting to think I’m doing okay, coping well, beginning to make plans – then boom! The thought that I’ll never be able to see Ivy or hug her ever again sends a flood of grief washing through me. Hot tears prick my eyelids. The nails-in-palms trick isn’t working. Then something Ivy used to say zips into my mind: Worry’s like a rocking chair: it gives you something to do but never gets you anywhere. I swallow hard, picturing her giving me one of her no-nonsense pep talks. It’s almost as if she’s sitting right here next to me, a twinkle in her eyes, on the bench in her beloved Ivy Garden. Telling me not to worry because things are never as bad as they seem and I’ll figure it out somehow. Of course! That’s where I need to be. Ivy Garden. Her favourite place in the whole world. With my eyes still closed, I picture Ivy Garden the last time I saw it, on that final weekend I spent with her. It was a hot August day. We wandered over the road and squeezed through the gap in the hedge, to the dappled woodland clearing that, over the years, Ivy had transformed into a sanctuary of peace and tranquillity. She discovered the place years ago, when she was newly married to Peter, my granddad. He died long before I was born, when my mum was only three years old. Ivy never talked about Peter much, except to say he was ‘a good man’. She said that a lot whenever I asked her what he was like, so I still only had a rather hazy impression of him. He was a self-employed accountant and I got the impression he worked really hard. I think Ivy liked to escape the house and leave him in peace with his calculations. More than once, I heard her say laughingly that her ‘secret garden’ had kept her sane during her marriage. The clearing in the trees was on public land, on the edge of a wood, and Ivy nurtured it into a lovely woodland garden. She planted shrubs, flowers and grasses for every season, so there was a rolling show of colour all year round, from the banks of snowdrops and crocuses as the frosts of winter melted into spring, to the glorious russets of autumn. Many of the villagers knew about the garden and would pop in for a chat while she worked. She often lounged on the old wooden bench reading the blood-curdling thrillers she loved, her feet up, with an old cushion at her back. She never seemed to mind being interrupted. Someone once referred to it as ‘Ivy Garden’ and the name stuck. We were there that blisteringly hot afternoon to pick lavender so that Ivy could make her perfumed drawer sachets to sell at the Appleton summer fete. She would run up the tiny white muslin bags on her old sewing machine and then fill them with the evocatively scented dried herb, tying them up with silky pink ribbon. The proceeds would be donated to the village hall community fund. After we picked the lavender that day, she set her old gardening trug on the mossy ground and we sank on to the wooden bench under the dappled shade of an oak tree, and drank chilled pear cider straight from the bottle. It was a relief to be out of the sweltering sun and we lingered there a long time, soaking up the birdsong and the buzz of nature, as Ivy Garden weaved its magic around us. To our right, the glorious banks of aromatic lavender nestled close to a stone bird bath Ivy had discovered long ago in a local antique shop. Opposite the bench where we sat, on the far side of the little clearing, the tall privet hedge that bordered the road had been ‘scooped out’ to provide a shady place for a little wooden love seat that was Ivy’s pride and joy. She’d had that love seat for years and it was looking a little battered now. But it fitted perfectly in the space, as if it had been designed specially. Back then, at the height of summer, drifts of scented lilies and white foxgloves took pride of place in the garden. The taxi slows and I hear the swish of rainwater as we drive through a flooded part of the road. I open my eyes. It’s getting dark, rain still lashing down outside and we’re motoring through another village, past a row of pretty cottages built from golden sandstone. Moonbeam Cottage itself sits in a little row of properties just like these, directly opposite the gap in the hedge that leads to Ivy Garden. And in a lovely example of serendipity, the cottage came up for sale at exactly the time Ivy was thinking about selling the big house in Appleton, after my granddad died, and downsizing to a smaller place. She must have been so excited when Moonbeam Cottage, right over the road from her woodland garden, came up for sale. It probably seemed as if destiny had taken a hand. During my last visit, she was keen to show off her new garden shed, a very pretty creation in shades of white and peppermint green. Fixed to the side of the door was a wooden placard with a verse carved into it: If you long for a mind at rest And a heart that cannot harden Go find a gate that opens wide Into a secret garden. Ivy laughed and said the poem was a bit cheesy for her taste, but she wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment, so it was staying put. I stare out of the taxi as the fields and houses flash by. When I get to the cottage, I’ll dump my bags and go straight over the road and through that gap in the hedge. If my grandma’s spirit is to be found anywhere, it will be there. In Ivy Garden. It’s almost May, which is when the bluebells bloom. A little stab of reality hits. I’m planning to clear the cottage and get it on the market in double-quick time so I can get back to Manchester as soon as I can. So I probably won’t be here when the bluebells come out. A chill cloud passes over. But I shake it off and check my phone for messages. I can’t afford to be sentimental about Ivy Garden or Moonbeam Cottage or bluebells. They represent Ivy’s past, not mine. The signs for Appleton are becoming more frequent now; I draw in a deep, slightly shaky breath. We’re almost there. And that’s when my heart plummets. Oh, bugger! I came prepared for a bus journey, not a taxi. I don’t have enough cash on me to pay the fare! When I break the bad news to the driver, he says he thinks there’s a cash point outside the village store, and to my relief, when we draw up outside it, so there is. The driver escorts me to the hole in the wall, clearly worried I’m going to run off into the gloom without paying. And then, joy of joys, the bloody machine isn’t working. I turn in a panic, as the wind swirls an empty crisp packet around my feet. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Oh God, what do I do now? His arms are folded and he’s wearing a resigned expression, as if he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. Then a voice says, ‘Can I help?’ I swing around and a man steps out of the alleyway that runs alongside the village store. He arches his brows expectantly. ‘No, no, thank you, it’s fine,’ I tell him, although it quite obviously isn’t. The taxi driver sniffs. ‘She can’t pay the fare.’ From his tone, this is obviously not the first time it’s happened. ‘No, I can!’ I protest. ‘It’s not that I don’t have the money. It’s just I need a cash machine and this one isn’t working.’ I glance at the stranger. He’s slightly taller than me, probably around five foot nine, with a wiry build and fairish hair. ‘Is there another one nearby?’ ‘We’re not exactly awash with facilities here,’ he murmurs regretfully. ‘The nearest is probably five miles away.’ The driver hitches his sleeve and looks theatrically at his watch. ‘I have another job so I don’t have time to drive around looking for a frigging bank.’ He must be wearing hairspray because his crowning glory is standing upright in the wind at an unnatural angle. ‘Look, here’s the money,’ offers the stranger, drawing his wallet from his pocket. ‘I’m Sylvian, by the way.’ He holds out his hand to me and after a second’s hesitation, I quickly shake it. ‘You can pay me back tomorrow if you feel you need to,’ he tells me. I glance at him to see if he’s joking.‘God, no, I couldn’t possibly let you do that. I mean, you don’t know me. I could be any old confidence trickster.’ ‘She seems all right to me,’ pipes up the taxi driver. (Even if I was wearing a devil mask with a bag over my shoulder marked ‘stolen property’, he’d probably still give me a nice character reference, just so he could be on his way.) ‘Look, it’s fine,’ says Sylvian with a shrug. ‘Really. Money’s nothing to me. I don’t even care if you pay me back. It’s the love and the trust that are important, right?’ I stare at him. Is he serious? He’s smiling, so either he really is that laid-back about money or he’s a mad psychopath, just biding his time until the taxi drives off and leaves us alone next to this conveniently dark alleyway. When I still look anguished with indecision, the driver heaves a weary sigh. ‘Look, just take the money,’ he says to me. ‘Give him your watch as collateral.’ ‘That’s a good idea,’ I say, perking up and slipping off my watch. Sylvian chuckles. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need that.’ He rifles in his wallet and draws out some notes. ‘Keep the change, mate.’ The taxi accelerates off and, feeling like a complete idiot, I stand there on the pavement opposite Sylvian, who I can’t help noticing has a rather attractive smile. THREE (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5) I hold out the watch again as the wind whips at my hair. ‘I really wish you’d take it. I’m staying just along the road at Moonbeam Cottage for a few weeks. Do you want me to write my address down?’ I scrabble in my bag for a pen and paper. He smiles down at me, arms folded, the nearby street lamp picking up the vivid green of his eyes. He’s wearing a sweatshirt in the same shade. It bears a slogan that reads: Minds are like parachutes. They only function when they’re open. ‘Stop worrying,’ he says. ‘It’s no big deal.’ ‘But it is!’ ‘Tell you what, you can buy me a drink some time.’ ‘Dinner at a good restaurant, you mean,’ I correct him, thinking of the eye-wateringly expensive taxi fare. ‘Well, if you absolutely insist.’ He raises an eyebrow and I find myself blushing. Bugger, I wasn’t asking him out! ‘So do you live here? Just so I know where to bring the cash,’ I add hurriedly, in case he thinks I have another motive for asking. He nods, digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Temporarily. I’m poet in residence here for a year so I’ve moved into the flat above the village store.’ I follow his gaze as he glances up at the windows. ‘The council’s paying me to encourage talent and stimulate folks’ interest in poetry. I’m running a series of workshops.’ ‘Wow. What sort of poems do you write?’ I gaze at him in awe. He looks so young to be a successful poet – early thirties, at a guess. He grins. ‘Well, I have a feeling this year’s output will feature sheep, orchards and idyllic cottages fairly heavily. The Cotswolds is certainly great for creative inspiration.’ ‘Yes, it certainly is,’ I murmur fervently, while what I’m actually thinking is: Help! I’m a city girl. Get me out of here! ‘I’m giving a poetry reading in Hayworth next week,’ he says, mentioning a neighbouring village. ‘Why don’t you come along?’ ‘Oh. Thanks, it sounds great, but English wasn’t exactly my strongest subject at school.’ ‘No?’ ‘I never really understood poetry.’ I attempt to smooth my wind-blown hair behind my ears. ‘Maths and art. That was me.’ ‘So you’re creative, too? Did you study art at college?’ ‘No. It’s always been my dream, though.’ He shrugs. ‘You should go for it.’ ‘Maybe I will.’ I smile shyly at him. ‘Well, if you change your mind about the poetry reading, give me a shout.’ He grins. ‘We newcomers should stick together.’ I nod, liking the notion that I’m not the only stranger here. ‘Right, well, I’ll drop that money in tomorrow. And thanks again.’ ‘No problem. Need help with that case?’ He glances along the road in the direction of Moonbeam Cottage. ‘No, no, it’s fine. It’s got wheels. Thanks, though.’ I manoeuvre the case around, ready to go. ‘Right, well, lovely to meet you, Holly.’ He lifts a hand and disappears through the door. I walk the last few hundred yards of my journey feeling much lighter in spirit. Sylvian seems lovely. Open and friendly. And really very trusting. I push open the gate and fumble for my key. And at last, I’m standing in the familiar little hallway of Moonbeam Cottage, taking in the silence as memories start flooding in. Actually, it isn’t the complete silence I was expecting. I can hear a drip. I cock my head to one side. To be more precise, it’s a steady drip, drip, drip. Alarmed, I flick on the hall light, push open the door to the living room and stare in dismay at the devastation before me. The ceiling in the far corner of the room is sagging and water is dripping down on to the wooden floor. I glance upwards. The bathroom? I drop my bag and race up the narrow stairs, almost knocking several pottery plates off the wall in my haste. The bathroom is, indeed, a disaster area. The floor has partially caved in, and I stand there, staring in horror, remembering what Ivy’s next-door neighbour, Bill, told me at the funeral. She was apparently getting out of the bath when she had her fatal heart attack. Looking at the scene where she died, a whole host of emotions rush through me and I have to hang on to the doorframe because my legs are suddenly no use at all. As I fight to control the panic, my brain takes in the marks on the wall in the corner where water has been obviously been dripping all the way down from the ceiling and pooling on the floor. Over time, it must have soaked into the floorboards and brought part of the living room ceiling down. I glance up in dismay. There must be a leak in the roof. Oh God, I could have done without this! But it’s probably my fault. The house has lain empty for over four months. When I came here for the funeral, I booked myself into a local B&B because I couldn’t bear to even set foot in the cottage. It was all still so painfully raw. The memories would have knocked me flat. If only I’d thought to at least check things were okay. What am I supposed to do now? Bill’s cottage next door is in darkness and it’s too late to think about calling a tradesman. Tomorrow I’ll find the number for Mike, who was Ivy’s go-to handyman when she needed work done on the cottage. I’m too tired to even imagine what patching up the roof might cost. I’ll face that after a night’s sleep. For now, I need some heat. Unoccupied for months, the cottage is absolutely freezing. And luckily, when I flick the boiler switch, the system groans into life. It sounds just like a monster is waking up in the spare room. Hugging myself through the sleeves of my coat, I go downstairs in a daze into the compact country-style kitchen. Thankfully everything is fine in there. I find a bucket under the sink and take it into the living room, placing it to catch the drips. Back in the kitchen, Ivy’s hideous teapot in the shape of a ladybird catches my eye. A hot cup of tea is just what I need. The teapot hasn’t been emptied from the last time Ivy used it. With a pang of sadness, I tip the contents into the sink and squeeze out the teabags to put in the bin. Then I look at the teapot with its ladybird spots and grinning clown face and find myself smiling. Ivy loved ladybirds; they’re all over the cottage. Ladybird coasters, ladybird mugs, ladybird ornaments displayed all along the windowsill. I always used to joke that her ladybird teapot was a step too far. I pick it up with a wistful smile. Life is strange. I don’t know how many times I’ve laughingly threatened to have the thing recycled at the charity shop. But now I know I’ll never part with it … I’m about to put the kettle on when it occurs to me that the electrics might have been affected by the structural damage. Is it safe having the power on? I’ve no idea so I decide I’d better play safe and switch it off at the mains. I’ll just have to pile on extra layers. But I’m determined to stay in the cottage. There will be no more B&Bs because it’s time I stopped avoiding the bad stuff. A feeling of isolation engulfs me. I trail through to the living room and sit on the chair by the window, staring out into the darkness. How can I bear to stay here, all on my own, without Ivy to talk to and laugh with? Even a few weeks feels like forever. And then, as I gaze forlornly at the trees over the road, a milky full moon suddenly breaks through a gap in the rain clouds and shines down its silvery beams, illuminating the hedge opposite. I stare at it, and a little burst of hope breaks through the gloom. Here I am in Moonbeam Cottage and a moonbeam is actually showing me the way! I can’t see the gap in the hedge from here but it’s definitely there. Suddenly, I know what I need to do. The storm has abated slightly. I run to the front door and slide my feet into Ivy’s well-worn moccasins in the hall. They’re a size too big and they flap a bit but I reason they’ll do the job. Then I grab a torch that’s lying on the hall table and venture out again, through the creaky garden gate, pausing to give Ivy’s old silver Fiesta, parked right outside the cottage, a quick once-over. It’s ancient and getting a little rusty but last time I spoke to Ivy, Florence the Fiesta, as she called it, was still going strong. I dash over the road. Then I stop short. The gap in the hedge isn’t where I remember it. In fact, it isn’t there at all. It seems that in the short time since Ivy died, the prickly twigs have somehow locked themselves together, obscuring the gap. As if the entrance was there purely for Ivy. And now that she’s gone, it’s no longer needed. I’m just about to switch on the torch when the moon slides into view again, and in the feeble light, the gap magically reappears. Holding my breath, thorns scraping at my hands, I divide the woody tangle, determined to get to the tranquil, mossy-floored haven with its bench and bird table, love seat and cute garden shed that I know lies on the other side. A second later, I make it through – and my feet land squarely in a pool of ice-cold rainwater. What the hell? The shock makes me yelp out loud. Stepping gingerly out of the muddy pool, I flick on the torch and shine it around. And my heart sinks into Ivy’s sodden moccasins as I take in the utter chaos that confronts me. The recent storms have truly done their worst. A tree has splintered almost in two and the top half is hanging right across the centre of the little woodland glade. With a pang of horror, I realise it’s crash-landed on to Ivy’s little wooden love seat, which now lies in bits in the mud. The jolly garden shed lies on its side, no competition at all against the strength of the recent gales, and the mossy floor is flooded with muddy puddles that float with twigs and all sorts of debris. It looks as if a giant ogre has lost its temper and rampaged about the small space, wrecking everything in sight. The only survivor of the storm seems to be the bird table, which lies at an angle against the trunk of the broken tree, but is miraculously still in one piece. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. A mix of anger and grief surges up inside me. I thought when I got here, I’d feel closer to Ivy. But instead, all that confronts me is ugliness. I’m just glad she didn’t have to see it like this. When I try to reverse my way back through the hedge, the heel of my moccasin slides in the mud and I feel myself falling. Frantically grabbing for the nearest support, a handful of hedge thorns slice deep into the tender pad of flesh near my thumb, and I yelp and let go, then land on my bum in a squelchy mass of mud. For a few seconds, I sit there stunned, experiencing the weird sensation of cold water seeping into my pants. And then I start to laugh. A giggle at first that escalates into wails of laughter, but then gradually turns into wails of a different kind. For the first time since I got the news about Ivy, I lose it completely. Great, anguished, gasping sobs, as if I’ll never be able to stop. I’m competing with the angry roar of the wind, which has started up again, and I’m grateful for that because it means I can cry as loudly as I want and no-one will hear me. I sob until I’m soaked through with tears and muddy water. And all the time, the wind goes on raging as if it, too, is incensed by the train of horrible events that has led me to this broken wreck of a place. After a while, my sobs lessen and some sort of stoic survival instinct kicks in. I feel slightly better having let it all out. It even seems a little comical now. But when I try to lever myself up, I promptly slip right back down into the smelly, muddy sludge. A second try also fails. Then the rain starts again, peppering hard against my face, driven sideways by the wind, and I sit there shivering, wondering what other indignities the universe can possibly have in store to hurl at me. I hold my face up to the rain in helpless surrender. Then I yell at the broken tree. ‘So what the bloody hell am I supposed to do now?’ Its branches shake in the wind. But as a reply, I can’t help thinking it falls a little short of helpful. I wipe my face roughly with wet hands and anger surges up. I’m angry at my mum and dad for dying when I was only four. I’m angry at Ivy for buggering off and leaving me all alone in the world. And I’m angry at life in general for delivering this latest cruel blow. ‘This is supposed to be a frigging magic garden, isn’t it?’ I croak. ‘So where’s the magic? And tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do!’ No answer. Obviously. I scramble up and push my way back through the hedge and over the road, just wanting to put the desolate scene behind me. Lifting the latch on the gate, I glance towards the row of shops, thinking of my gallant rescuer, Sylvian, in his flat above the village store. It gives me an odd sort of comfort to know he’s there. A friendly face. Back in the cottage, I fumble for my mobile and dial Ivy’s number, pressing the phone to my ear as her message kicks in. Hello, my lovers. Ivy’s answering machine is sadly broken. You’re currently talking to the refrigerator. Please speak very slowly and don’t mention power cuts. I smile at her message – even though I’ve heard it a hundred times before – and a familiar warmth spreads through me. It’s the best I’ve felt all day. A heartbeat later, I dial the number again. When Patty first worked out what I was doing a few months ago, she took me to one side in the caf? and said, very gently, ‘Holly, love, isn’t it time you let the phone company know?’ She was right, of course. But the idea that I might never again be able to listen to Ivy’s voice? That was just too terrible to imagine. I climb the stairs, still listening to the message. When it’s finished, I throw off my outer layer of clothing and get straight into bed, shivering and pulling the quilt right up to my chin. Then I decide I need another pair of socks so I get out again with the quilt still wrapped around me. I peek through the open curtains. The storm is passing over and stars are beginning to appear. I watch a wisp of cloud wind itself around the milky white moon, thinking back to the day of the funeral. I felt numb, as if all the chilly formalities were happening to someone else and not to me at all. It was almost as if I sleep-walked through it – waking in the B&B, dressing carefully and opening the door to a kindly man dressed all in black, who guided me into the car to drive me the short journey to the church in a neighbouring village; seeing Ivy’s friends and acquaintances at the church; receiving their kind words and touches in a daze. For some reason, I can only remember fragments of the day, as if I wasn’t completely there. The handsome elderly woman, her skin deeply grooved, who gently cupped my face and told me Ivy always said that I was her sunshine. The kind, white-haired man who shepherded me to a chair when I was feeling wobbly and pressed a clean handkerchief into my hand when I couldn’t find my tissues. The fresh-faced vicar, who talked about Ivy as though she were a friend, when I knew full well my grandma hadn’t been to church in years. I keep thinking how odd it is that I can remember in vivid detail the intricate web of lines on the woman’s face and the kind man’s freshly ironed handkerchief – which I must still have somewhere – and yet, however hard I try, I can’t recall the drive back to the B&B. I suppose I was in a daze of grief. Now, as I stare at the moon, emotion swells in my chest until I can hardly breathe. I might be selling the cottage and returning to my life in Manchester, but I have a precious connection to this village, through Ivy. I will always think of Moonbeam Cottage and Ivy Garden with such huge affection. I swish the curtains closed and climb back into bed, and in the darkness, I dial Ivy’s number again. But this time, all I get is silence; my phone has no signal. A single tear leaks into my pillow. The lump in my throat feels as big as a tennis ball. Then after a while, I hear Ivy’s voice in my head. Sleep tight, my love. Everything will seem brighter in the morning … FOUR (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5) I’m woken early by the sound of someone being murdered. As the bloodcurdling wails continue, I clutch at the duvet in fright – before realising it’s a cockerel, straining its vocal cords in an attempt to wake the whole of Gloucestershire. I glance at the clock. Four-thirty in the morning. Really? I mean, really? Naming him Colin, I lie there listening to him busting a gut and thinking I’ll never get back to sleep now. Then I promptly doze off, and next time I wake, it’s light outside. I swim slowly to full consciousness, aware of a vague panicky feeling inside. I’m in Ivy’s spare room. I’ve thought about this moment many times; how I’d feel being here in Moonbeam Cottage, without her to shout through that she’s making some tea, or coming to sit on the bed to chat. And now that moment is here, and the place feels horribly empty without her. I take some deep breaths and start to feel calmer. Then a farm vehicle rattles past the cottage, shaking the very foundations and making my heart race at ninety miles an hour. I hug myself, rubbing my arms hard. It’s not going to be easy, this enforced stay in the country, but it has to be done. With the bathroom wrecked by the leak, I don’t want to risk the shower until I know it’s safe, so I have a quick wash in cold water at the sink, then dive into some warm clothes, clean my teeth and apply a little make-up. It’s after eight by then. The village store is sure to be open, and maybe the cash machine will be working again so I can repay Sylvian. Every time I think about how he saved my bacon last night, handing over all that cash to the taxi driver without even taking my mobile number, I’m amazed all over again. I pull on my coat and head out into a calm but chilly April morning. There’s a definite feel of ‘the morning after the night before’. The storms that raged have passed over but there’s a reddish tinge to the sky, which isn’t a great omen. ‘Red sky in the morning … shepherds’ cottages on fire,’ I say aloud, since Ivy isn’t there to say it. ‘Hey, talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, didn’t you know?’ calls a voice. A group of teenagers are languishing in and around the bus shelter just ahead of me. One of the girls, presumably she of the ‘witty’ comment, is staring at me as if I’m completely insane. The thick, ghostly pale foundation she’s wearing contrasts sharply with her heavy black eyeliner, and her asymmetric hair style looks like she’s hacked at it herself, while no doubt costing a fortune in some trendy salon. The short side is bleached blonde and the longer side dyed black. Drawing level with them, I remark casually, ‘If you ask me, madness is highly under-rated.’ ‘I guess you would think that,’ the girl quips, glancing quickly at a blond Adonis-type who’s standing nearby. He’s concentrating on his phone, and doesn’t notice. The others all watch me walk by, blank-eyed, except one of the lads – a cocky, dark-haired boy – who treats me to a fake grin and blows smoke from his fag in my direction. ‘Thank you,’ I call back, and they snigger. The cash point is working again, so I draw out the money and walk round to the side door which I assume leads to Sylvian’s flat above the village store. My stomach swoops as I ring the bell. He greets me at the door in tracksuit bottoms, bare-chested except for a striped blue towel slung round his neck. The sheen of sweat on his brow and finely muscled upper torso makes me think I must have interrupted a work-out. He smiles. ‘Thought it might be you,’ he says, flicking a catch on the carved wooden box he’s holding. ‘Yes, hi,’ I launch in. ‘I want to thank you again for rescuing me last night. It was so good of you. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along at that precise moment.’ I’m aware I’m babbling, but he’s caught me unawares. It’s not often a handsome man greets me in the semi-buff at eight in the morning, looking so … well, buff. Unlike me, Sylvian seems completely at ease with his semi-nakedness. I hardly know where to look, but eventually settle on his startlingly vivid green eyes. When I hold out the money, he gives it a cursory glance then balances the box under his arm so he can stuff the notes in his jeans pocket. ‘You’re very welcome, Holly. I hope you had a good first night in the cottage?’ ‘Thanks, yes, it wasn’t exactly relaxing, though.’ ‘Oh?’ I shrug. ‘Oh, you know, unpacking … new surroundings. It’s a bit unsettling.’ I’m not about to bore him with a run-down of my disaster of a night. ‘You did seem a bit stressed yesterday.’ He hands me the open wooden box. ‘Can you hold this for me?’ Surprised, I take the box, glancing at it curiously. It has about twenty small compartments inside, each containing a tiny brown glass bottle. It’s like something you might find in an old-fashioned apothecary shop. Sylvian locks eyes with me and hovers his hand over the box. Then he looks down and selects a bottle, unscrewing the lid. ‘Try this one.’ He wafts it under my nose. Cautiously, I sniff. The scent is subtle yet sharp at the same time. ‘Lemons?’ ‘A great mood lifter.’ He holds out another bottle and I lean forward to smell it. A powerful floral scent fills my nose. I inhale then breathe out slowly. ‘Lovely.’ ‘Ylang ylang. Good for relieving stress.’ I laugh. ‘Bring it on.’ ‘It’s also an aphrodisiac,’ he murmurs and when I look up to see if he’s joking, he winks at me. ‘It’s true.’ Heat rises in my cheeks. Am I imagining the frisson between us? I’m not sure, because Sylvian is already moving on, giving me a comprehensive run-down on the health properties of sandalwood – also great for stress, apparently – and wafting it under my nose. The woody smell is heavenly, like a forest after it’s been raining. ‘Mmm, that’s my favourite.’ He smiles. ‘That’s the one, then.’ He screws on the cap and hands it to me. I hold up the bottle with a bemused look. ‘But I can’t …?’ He shrugs. ‘Of course you can. Tip a few drops in your bath or on a handkerchief when you need to relax.’ ‘But I need to pay you for it.’ He gives me an amused look and says nothing. I smile, already knowing there’s little point arguing. ‘Well, thank you, but you’re too generous.’ He brushes it off. ‘Look, I’d invite you in but I’m giving a talk and I have to prepare for it.’ ‘Of course. No problem.’ I start beating a retreat. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’ ‘I very much like you holding me up, Holly,’ he says seriously. ‘In fact, I propose you hold me up again while I cook you dinner some time.’ His invitation takes me by surprise. ‘Gosh. Well, maybe …’ ‘I’m counting on it,’ he smiles. I raise a hand and scuttle off around the corner. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and already a caring and generous man has offered to cook me dinner! He also happens to be very fit and easy on the eye. A vision of Sylvian opening the door naked to the waist flashes into my mind, but I tell myself to get a grip. I’m in Appleton to concentrate on Moonbeam Cottage, for goodness’ sake, not a man. Even if that man does have hard abs and a giving nature. Phew, is it me or has the temperature suddenly soared? Feeling more than a little discombobulated, I glance at the label on the bottle I’m clutching and unscrew the top. Sandalwood essential oil. Known for its calming properties. A good sniff of this should do the trick … Back at the cottage, I phone Ivy’s odd job man, Mike, and he says he’ll be round to look at the roof and the damage inside the house as soon as he’s dropped his daughter off at playgroup. He sounds genuinely cut up about Ivy and describes her as ‘bloody marvellous’, which brings a lump to my throat. I love him already! While I wait, I unpack a few more things then sit in the living room, eating the banana I brought for the train journey and wondering how I’m going to pass the time in the evenings while I’m here. There’s a small digital TV and a DVD player that’s so old, it was probably the original prototype, but nothing fancier than that. Ivy loved reading, so her shelves are full of gardening books and thrillers. A cook book would have come in handy while I’m here – I quite like getting creative in the kitchen – but Ivy hated cooking with a passion, so there aren’t any. I smile, remembering. She preferred to just ignore the scales and throw into the pot whatever she felt like, which was usually a recipe for disaster. (She only made the beetroot and nettle omelette once, thankfully.) Mike arrives, whistling up the path, and having looked at the roof and the bathroom, says he can fix it no problem, with a little help from a roofer friend of his. I hold my breath and ask what it will cost, and actually, it’s not as bad as I thought. But when he mentions the additional cost of re-tiling and painting, I swallow hard and suggest we just stick with the repair work for now. I’ve laid bathroom flooring before. And done lots of painting. Surely I can throw a few tiles on the wall? I mean, how hard can it be? It doesn’t have to be perfect. This is the countryside, for goodness’ sake; the land of all things rustic. People round here laugh indulgently when they accidentally tread in a cow pat; and they practically expect whiffy manure smells with their freshly laid chucky eggs in the morning. Ergo, a little ‘rustic tiling’ is sure to be a big hit among potential buyers. Mike says he has a job to finish but he can start work on Monday. My heart sinks because that’s five whole days away, but I smile and tell him that will be perfect. Actually, I have lots of clearing out to do, so the time will probably fly by. I stand at the door, watching him walk cheerily down the path to his white van. I have a feeling that with the repairs to do and the cottage to paint, my estimate of a fortnight to get the place on the market was way too optimistic. And then there’s Ivy Garden to sort out. My heart sinks into my boots. It will probably take a month at least … Mike’s jolly whistle as he climbs into his van attracts the attention of two people locked together just inside the bus shelter over the road. They see me peering over and break apart. It’s that Adonis boy I saw earlier with one of the girls from his group of mates. The one with the extraordinary half-blonde, half-black hair. She stares haughtily back at me as if to say, You shouldn’t be looking – and anyway, it’s perfectly normal to be performing tonsil tennis at a bus stop in full view of the entire village! Adonis just smirks at me. I retreat inside and go straight upstairs to start on the job I’ve been dreading the most. Sorting through Ivy’s wardrobe. By the evening, I’m drained, physically and emotionally – and facing a long night with nothing much to do. I can’t even summon up the energy to start sketching. It’s been on my mind that I need to contact Ivy’s old school friend, Olive, who she used to meet up with from time to time. She wasn’t at the funeral because I couldn’t track down a contact number for her among Ivy’s belongings or even on her phone. I found Ivy’s old address book today but there’s no Olive in there, either, and I went through it page by page. I haven’t made as much progress as I’d have liked with Ivy’s clothes, either. Almost every blouse or jacket of Ivy’s that I took out of the wardrobe, I couldn’t bear to part with because of the memories, so the ‘keep’ pile is like a small mountain. The ‘charity’ pile consists of a scarf Ivy never liked and a jumper that still had the tags on it. So basically, it took me all day to move Ivy’s clothes from the wardrobe to the bed, with some tearful reminiscing over old photos in between times. At this rate, I’ll still be here at Christmas … I sink on to the sofa, on the verge of tears, and stare at the blackness beyond the windows. Then out of the corner of my eye, I catch something move. I whip around and the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life comes into view, moving at a fair old speed. Its legs are so long, it literally scampers towards me, before stopping suddenly, changing course and scuttling back through a tiny opening in the skirting board. My legs are shaking. I’d forgotten about the wildlife that rampages about the countryside. I never see spiders in my modern, second-floor flat. I eye the skirting board nervously. A book would be a good distraction, but I don’t fancy Ivy’s thrillers – it’s spooky enough just being alone in the countryside at night without wanting to deliberately scare myself. A thick blanket of darkness has descended beyond the window. I can see nothing except impenetrable blackness and my own reflection staring back at me, and I get that panicky feeling you have when you’re driving in a snow storm and suddenly it’s a total white-out. I keep peering out, determined to see something, but it’s no use. King Kong could be beating his breast on top of the Empire State Building out there and I’d be absolutely none the wiser … When Mike arrives on Monday morning, I practically fall on the poor man with the sheer relief of having another human being to talk to. I make him a cup of tea and ask about his family, and it’s only when he starts edging apologetically out of the room that I remember the purpose of his visit is to fix the bathroom. Seconds later, his roofer friend arrives so I leave them to it. After my false start, I’ve made a determined effort over the past five days to sort through the kitchen, putting all the stuff I want to keep in the spare room ready to be boxed up for removal. Ivy, bless her, was never great at throwing things out, and by the end of the second day, the dustbin was already filled to bursting. The only time I’ve been out is to the village store for groceries. (I always tidy myself up, just in case I happen to bump into Sylvian, but so far there have been no sightings. He’s probably busy with his poetry workshops.) The best thing about the village store is – pause for effect – you can rent DVDs! I know. Exciting! Later, after Mike has gone, I make scrambled eggs and push my latest movie into Ivy’s old but reliable machine. Tonight’s entertainment is Castaway, starring a very young-looking Tom Hanks. It’s all about someone cast adrift miles from anywhere, with no way of getting in touch with the outside world, and who, in fact, makes a friend called Wilson out of a coconut husk just to have someone to talk to. I don’t think they sell coconuts in the village store. I keep thinking about Sylvian and wondering what he’s doing. It would be nice to see a friendly face. Looking on the bright side, though, the village store’s collection of movies isn’t bad at all, if a little limited by the shelf space. There’s a few classics I’ve never got round to watching. Of course, there’s also some real dross; several truly awful low-budget horror movies with titles like I Know What You Did Last Hallowe’en, and – my particular favourite – Slasher Santa’s Coming to Town. I mean, you’d have to be really desperate to resort to that … FIVE (#ulink_cffa803b-238a-5e27-901d-9699ac2aec0b) Mike is causing me problems. Don’t get me wrong. He’s not eyeing up the silver or anything, and he definitely seems to know what he’s doing. He’s done an enormous amount in a week, and the rate at which he’s working, he’ll probably be finished the entire job inside a fortnight. It’s just he’s so goddamn cheerful all the time. He never stops whistling. He whistles from first thing in the morning right up until he packs his jolly haversack at five and heads jauntily off down the path to his van. Whistling. And you can tell it’s not embarrassed or awkward whistling. He just whistles because he’s happy! And it’s driving me barmy. 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 Storyagain. 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-caf? 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-caf?, 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 d?cor. ‘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 (#ulink_e7f2f834-b2e0-5fae-bcdd-02ea67f48b5c) ‘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. 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 (#ulink_aa165b29-7adc-50e3-96a4-aeb7fd61b487) 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-caf?, hoping Connie is back from Spain, and sure enough, she’s there. The caf? 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 (#ulink_cdd6a403-bd6c-5092-a0e6-d635747582c7) 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.) Retreating slowly inside, I pick up the phone to call Vicki, and amazingly, I get a signal first time. She’s getting ready to go out with Beth and some other friends. ‘Why not come and stay for the weekend, Vick?’ I say it nonchalantly, as if I’ve only just thought of it, when what I really want to do is throw myself to the floor, weep copiously and plead with her to please, please, please come and rescue me. ‘A whole weekend? In the country?’ She laughs. ‘Love, you know me. I’d totally die of boredom. Come back to Manchester. We miss you so much. Please, Holly!’ ‘You miss me?’ Tears well up. ‘Of course we do. When are you coming back?’ I can hear her rushing around getting ready as she talks into her phone, excited about her forthcoming night out with the girls. ‘I can’t yet. I’m doing up the cottage, and Ivy Garden’s in a hell of a state.’ I pause then try again. ‘Why don’t you just come down for the day?’ She sighs. ‘But you know I absolutely hate sheep, right? It’s definitely a phobia.’ ‘So I’ll give Shaun his marching orders. I promise, you’ll have the bedroom all to yourself.’ ‘Shaun?’ She perks up. ‘Have you got yourself a new man already?’ ‘No. I mean Shaun the sheep …’ ‘Oh … Tell you what, Hols, I’ll get myself some wellies then we’ll see …’ My heart dives into my slippers. Message understood. No-one wants to visit me in the back of beyond. And seriously, who can blame them? ‘But listen,’ she says, ‘I was talking to Beth yesterday and we decided that when you get back, we’re going to have this amazing—’ The phone goes dead. The stupid phone has actually cut me off! I slam around crossly in the kitchen, making tea. Honestly, I’d probably get better reception if I moved to Mars! I carry my tea upstairs along with one of Ivy’s weightier gardening encyclopaedias, deciding to bury myself in wildflowers to take my mind off everything. I snuggle under the duvet for a minute, giving in to gloomy thoughts, then I glance at my phone which I’ve thrown onto the pillow on the other side of the bed. I grab it and find Ivy’s number in my contacts. Then I click and wait, with a lump in my throat ,for her familiar message to begin. I know I probably shouldn’t do it, but it makes me smile every time. I toss the phone back on the pillow and start flicking through the huge hardback encyclopaedia. It has a musty smell and the pages are stuck together in places. Something slips out. It’s an old blue exercise book, like the sort we used at school. There’s nothing on the cover, but when I open it at the first page, I see the familiar handwriting and my heart lurches. Ivy must have written it a long time ago because the ink has faded. With hands that are trembling slightly, I flick through the pages. About a dozen have been written on and the rest is blank. It looks as if it might be a diary of some sort. Heart pounding, I begin to read. NINE (#ulink_03c418d1-f458-5d54-a682-df17eb0766ca) 21st September 1965 I escaped to Ivy Garden again today. Peter’s foul mood was casting a black shadow over the house, making me so on edge, I couldn’t settle to anything. I had to get out, otherwise in trying my best to placate him, I might have unwittingly said something wrong and made him even angrier. And his temper is starting to really scare me. It used to happen only when he’d had too much to drink, but since he lost his most important client, the moods have become darker and more prolonged. I try to say the right thing, so as not to upset him, but when he’s in that mood, nothing I say is right. As I was putting on my shoes, I heard the study door open and held my breath. But luckily, he didn’t object to me going. Just demanded to know when dinner would be ready, then retreated into his study and slammed the door. I found myself remembering what it was like between us when we were first married three years ago. If only it could be like that still. But I know we can never reclaim that all-too-brief happiness. I’ve spent the past two years walking on eggshells, doing everything I can to make Peter happy, but it doesn’t seem to matter what I do, it’s never enough. Being childless doesn’t help, of course. We never talk about it, but it can’t have been easy for Peter to find out that the problem lay solely with him; that it was highly unlikely he would ever be able to father a child. The news must have been devastating, his pride crushed. It was hard enough for me to accept the fact that I’d never have the child I so longed for. The consequences for our already shaky marriage didn’t bear thinking about … Stunned, I put down the notebook. Why didn’t I know about all this? It’s as if I’m reading a diary written by a complete stranger. Not the person closest to me for most of my life. Granddad’s moods scared Ivy? But she always spoke warmly of him; never in any great detail, but the impression I’d got was of a happy marriage. She never told me they had trouble conceiving … It must have seemed like a precious gift when my mum was finally born in September 1967. My granddad had been warned he was never likely to be a father and yet the miracle had happened! Had it made a difference to their marriage? Made things better between them perhaps? Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/catherine-ferguson/the-secrets-of-ivy-garden-a-heartwarming-tale-perfect-f/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.