The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass. Catherine Ferguson
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‘Er, yes, I … vegetables are great.’ I stick up both thumbs for emphasis.
‘Good. I’d love to cook for you, Holly. What are you doing on Saturday night?’
‘Oh, well, nothing,’ I tell him honestly. ‘If you like, I could bring dessert.’ I glance at his lean frame. ‘That’s if you eat puddings …’
He smiles. ‘Oh, I eat puddings.’ He says it in a way that makes me think he’s definitely flirting with me … or maybe I’m imagining it. It’s all very confusing.
But as I walk back to Moonbeam Cottage, clutching a carton of goat’s milk Sylvian gave me, I’m feeling much lighter somehow and less stressed.
It must be the Sylvian effect.
Or the fact that Ivy’s birthday on Sunday won’t be nearly such a hurdle if I’ve got a lovely evening with Sylvian on the Saturday to look forward to.
On the way home I peer into the window of the deli-café, hoping Connie is back from Spain, and sure enough, she’s there. The café is empty of customers. Connie waves madly and beckons me in.
‘I wish I had time to chat,’ she says, whipping up a sleeve to show off her tan. ‘But Mum’s collecting me and I need to get finished here.’ She charges off to clear some tables. ‘Talk to me!’
‘I take it the weather was good, then,’ I call from the door.
‘Fab. We had a brilliant time. A few interesting episodes, mainly involving a Spanish waiter and a donkey, but I’ll tell you about all that over a glass of sangria some time!’
‘Brilliant. Can’t wait.’
‘Tell you what, how about we make a day of it?’ she says, pausing for a minute and resting her stacked tray on the table. ‘I’m not working at the weekend so what about Saturday?’
My thought processes whir into action. I’m having dinner with Sylvian on Saturday night. And anyway, Sunday would be better. So much better …
‘What about Sunday?’ I wince inwardly, hoping against hope it’s fine.
She shrugs. ‘Sunday? Yes, perfect. In fact, Sunday’s probably better for me now I think about it.’
A feeling of blissful relief floods through me. ‘Fantastic!’
Connie nods, completely unaware of the torrent of emotion that has just rushed through me like water from a leaky gutter. ‘How about we take a drive out into the country? We can take a picnic if the weather’s good or call in for a pub lunch somewhere.’ She winks. ‘And I can fill you in on Pascal.’
‘Sounds great. Do you mind if we take your car, though? Ivy’s ancient Fiesta can just about manage a trip to the DIY store but only if the wind’s in the right direction.’
Connie laughs. ‘Suits me fine. I’m not too good at being a passenger in someone else’s car. Far too fidgety.’
‘Applying the invisible brake and clinging to the sides of the seat with clenched teeth? Gotcha!’
I walk back to Moonbeam Cottage, lighter in spirit and more optimistic than I’ve felt for a long time.
Some families aren’t so bothered about celebrating their big days. But for Ivy and me, birthdays were a highlight of the year; dates to be circled on the calendar and planned weeks in advance. It was probably because our little family was Ivy and me, that we were intent on ensuring we each had a brilliant day.
I’ve a feeling Sunday will be fine now with Connie to keep me entertained.
Then I remember what we’ll be doing – a drive out into the country – and I feel a stab of anxiety. What if Connie’s car breaks down, miles from anywhere?
I give myself a little shake. Of course nothing bad will happen. The countryside is not my enemy.
Everything will be absolutely fine …
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