The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass. Catherine Ferguson
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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.’
‘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.