The Secrets of Ivy Garden

by Catherine Ferguson

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ I smile brightly to show her it really isn’t the end of the world. I hate people feeling sorry for me. ‘I’ve got some great friends, though, back in Manchester.’

  ‘Friends are sometimes nicer than your family,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘You can choose your mates and they get you.’ She frowns. ‘Mum and Jack think all my friends are a bad influence, especially Josh.’

  I think of Adonis/Josh with his arm around Anne-Marie’s waist. Mum and Jack may well have a point.

  She flushes beneath the pale make-up. ‘Josh has asked me to go with him to the live gig at Barton Fields,’ she says nonchalantly. ‘But don’t tell Mum and Jack or they’ll try and stop me.’

  ‘Is that a music festival?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s sort of a small-scale one with bands from all over. I’ve never been before but Josh has been loads of times.’

  Probably with a different girl every time.

  She smiles. ‘Josh says it’s brilliant. It’s on at the end of June. You should go.’

  ‘I’ll probably have gone by then.’ As I say the words, my stomach does a funny little twist. Don’t say I’m getting attached to the place! That’s not good because I obviously can’t stay. Not that I’d really want to. I’m just feeling sentimental, that’s all.

  Layla looks thoughtful. ‘But I thought you still had loads you wanted to do here?’

  ‘I do but it all costs money and I’m not earning at the moment. My savings have practically run out.’

  ‘So it’s just lack of money that means you’ll have to go back earlier than you want to?’

  I shrug. ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Money rules our lives, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Some people are slaves to the filthy lucre, yes.’

  ‘They’re what?’

  I smile. ‘I just mean money can rule your life if you let it. Sometimes, though, you have to be brave and go for your dreams, even if it means coping with less money for a while.’ I’m thinking of Jack and his furniture business.

  We spend the next hour working in silence. Then I ask her if she knows which flowers thrive in shady woodland conditions and she starts reeling off a whole list of names that I’ve never heard of.

  I hold up my hand. ‘Hang on. I’ll never remember all that. Can you send me a text with those flower names so I have it when I next go to the garden centre?’ I grin. ‘And maybe you could get me a discount since you work there.’

  She carries on working as if she hasn’t heard me.

  Puzzled, I stare at her back. ‘Layla?’

  She turns grumpily. ‘What?’

  ‘A list of flowers? In a text?’

  She shrugs. ‘You don’t need that. You can remember them.’

  ‘Well, I won’t.’ I laugh, wondering what the problem is. Perhaps she doesn’t want me to have her phone number? ‘Could you write them down for me, then?’

  She heaves a sigh as if I’ve asked her something really challenging. ‘Yes, if I remember.’

  I shake my head, bemused. ‘Hey, it’s no big deal. I’ll bring a gardening book over and you can point them out, okay?’

  She shrugs. ‘Okay.’

  Later, she wanders over to the trees and murmurs into her phone for a while, keeping her voice ridiculously low so I can’t possibly hear anything. She finishes her call and says she has to go because she’s meeting Anne-Marie.

  She wanders over to the broken love seat and bends down to examine it. ‘Shame about this. Are you going to get it fixed?’

  ‘I thought I might have a go at mending it myself.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ She grins. ‘I hope you’re better with a hammer than you are with a hoe.’

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ I ask, laughing at her gentle insult and surprising myself with the thought that I wouldn’t mind her company. Especially tomorrow …

  ‘Sunday lunch with the family,’ she groans. ‘Can’t escape it. Jack’s threatened to cut off my allowance if I don’t show up.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Unless there’s a very good reason for my absence, of course. Like if my leg accidentally gets amputated.’

  I laugh. ‘You’d better be there, then.’

  She grins. ‘Yeah. Are you doing anything tonight?’

  I shake my head. ‘Someone was going to cook me dinner but they had to cancel.’ Sylvian finally phoned me last night to confirm that the workshop dates couldn’t be changed.

  ‘Shame,’ she says and turns to leave.

  I suddenly remember the time I saw Sylvian in deep discussion with Layla, handing her a parcel. I’ve wondered about that a few times.

  ‘Oh, Layla?’

  ‘Yes?’

  If I ask her about Sylvian, she’ll probably just get all defensive on me, thinking I’m prying into her private life.

  I smile at her. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Yeah. See ya!’

  It’s Saturday night. And since I’m spending it on my own instead of being wined and dined by Sylvian, I decide to push the boat out and treat myself to a good bottle of wine.

  In the village store, it’s clear I’m not the only one planning a night in. As I stand in line with my bottle of red, the two rather glamorous women in front of me in the queue are squabbling good-naturedly over what flavour tortilla chips to buy with their chardonnay. I admire the long summery dresses they’re wearing. They both look about my age.

  ‘Ooh, candles,’ says the taller, dark-haired woman, who’s wearing deep pink. ‘Do you have scented candles?’ she asks the store owner.

  He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, ladies.’

  The other woman, a blonde in a flowing turquoise dress, laughs and says, ‘Honestly, Sara, you and your candles! I’m sure he’ll have quite enough anyway.’

  I listen to their chatter, trying not to feel envious. It sounds as if they’re off to a party. If I was in Manchester tonight, no doubt I’d be getting ready to meet friends. Or I’d be having Vicki and Beth round for a girls’ night in. Take-away, wine, rom-com. Perfect!

  Still, there’s no reason why I can’t have a good night on my own. I might even treat myself to two rental movies tonight!

  The next morning, I raise a glass of orange juice to Ivy on what would have been her seventy-third birthday then quickly get into my gardening gear.

  I’m planting my wildflower garden today in her honour.

  It seems the perfect thing to do on her birthday. I tell myself I’m almost glad my plans for the weekend ended up being cancelled. I empty out the packets of wildflower seed into an old plastic box, mainly because I’m curious to see what they look like. Nothing terribly exciting, to be honest, and I find it quite a stretch to imagine that these little muesli-like lumps will transform into a colourful display like the one on the front of the packet.

  During the morning, I work on preparing the ground, then I take a break, eating a ham sandwich sitting on the tree stump. I’m clapping crumbs off my work trousers, about to start trickling the seed on to the prepared ground, when I hear a car draw up and park beyond the hedge.

  Instantly, I’m on high alert. No-one ever parks there. What if it’s the council come to inspect this bit of their land? (Ivy never seemed to worry about this, but it was always in the back of my mind that, one day, the council might have plans for the area.)

  Car doors slam and voices drift over the hedge, making me anxious. Perhaps I’ll duck out of the way just in case. I don’t feel up to answering any awkward questions.

  Making for the trees, I keep my eye trained on the gap in the hedge, hoping these people – whoever they are – aren’t heading in here. But in my haste to make myself scarce, I walk straight into the side of the tree stump, trip awkwardly and go sprawling on to the ground.

  Lying there dazed, I realise the voices are drawing nearer, so I scramble up, rubbing my knee, which took the brunt of my fall. Only then do I realise I wasn’t the only thing to go flying: the box containing the wildflower seeds is now lying on the slope o
f the compost heap.

  Damn! But at least it landed right side up. So with a bit of luck …

  Glancing into the box, my heart sinks. It’s practically empty. Most of the seeds have been lost and I’m left with about a dozen rattling around in there that wouldn’t make much impression on a window box.

  A voice drifts over. ‘Well, you can hardly expect me to go commando-style through the park, all the way from Rushbrooke House.’ It’s a woman and she doesn’t sound very pleased. ‘Even if it is a shortcut.’

  I’m about to dive into the trees for cover when I hear a laugh I recognise. ‘I should hope you don’t go commando-style anywhere at your ancient time of life.’

  Layla?

  I relax slightly. What on earth is she doing here? I thought she had a family lunch?

  ‘What are you talking about, Layla?’ demands the woman.

  A third voice, male this time, says, ‘Commando-style means to go around completely naked. That was just Layla’s little joke, Mum.’

  Jack!

  Oh God, what is this? A family trip out?

  I glance down at my tatty work wear and wipe the back of my hand across my mouth to get rid of imaginary ham sandwich crumbs.

  ‘I still don’t see why we had to bring the car around,’ Layla complains.

  ‘I’m fifty-eight. I don’t want to be traipsing through forests at my age.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Prudence, you’re not exactly on your death bed,’ Layla mutters. ‘I should think you’ve got at least another twenty years left in you for annoying the hell out of me.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Madam? Just because my hearing is not what it used to be does not give you the right to name-call behind my back. And please don’t refer to me as Prudence. I’m Prue to everyone else, but Mum to you.’ She gives a little squeak of protest. ‘Oh my gosh, you don’t really expect me to crawl through that filthy hedge, do you? I could catch all manner of terrible diseases.’

  Layla snorts. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I am not being ridiculous. It’s been a long time since my last tetanus injection.’

  ‘A sense of humour injection would be good.’

  ‘Er, I heard that, young lady!’

  ‘Hmm. Funny how you just happen to catch some things and not others. I think they call it being selectively deaf, don’t they?’

  ‘Sorry? I didn’t hear that.’

  Jack’s deep voice interjects. ‘Here, let me hold those thorns back for you, Mum. Then you can squeeze through easily. Just as well you’re as slim as you ever were, eh?’

  Prue laughs.

  Jack’s flattery has apparently worked because next second, a tall woman in a belted peacock blue suit and black patent heels steps into the clearing. She pats her shoulder-length, mid-blond hair and glances around her in surprise. ‘Oh, my goodness. This is odd. I never even knew it existed.’

  Layla, arriving through the gap followed by Jack, rolls her eyes. ‘Well, bearing in mind you hardly ever leave the house for fear of running into The Dreaded Ribena, it’s not surprising you don’t know about this place.’

  ‘I am not frightened of Robina Worsley,’ says Prue sternly.

  ‘I should hope not, Mum. By all accounts, she’s just a sad old bully who you haven’t seen in years. I don’t know why you allow her to get under your skin the way you do. You should just ignore her.’

  ‘Yes, well, you know nothing about it,’ snaps Prue.

  ‘If I were you,’ suggests Layla, ‘I’d probably go and tell her to—’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Layla,’ Jack warns.

  She grins broadly and looks around, instantly spotting me semi-lurking among the trees.

  ‘Hi, Layla.’ I walk forward and exchange a nod with Jack.

  ‘This is Holly, Mum,’ says Layla. ‘The gardening expert.’

  I shoot her a baffled look. Is she joking?

  Prue steps carefully over the grass towards me. ‘Hello, Polly, I’m Prue Rushbrooke.’ She looks around. ‘Well, it’s, erm, certainly interesting here. I’m sure it’s going to look lovely when it’s finished.’

  ‘I’m helping her to clear the nettles and I’m going to prune the climbing roses,’ says Layla. ‘And it’s Holly, Mum, not Polly.’

  ‘You cleared the petals?’ Prue looks confused. ‘I wouldn’t have thought the flowers would be dying off this early in the year.’

  ‘The nettles, Mum,’ shouts Layla close to her ear, which makes Prue jump. ‘We cleared masses of them yesterday.’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to shout. And weren’t you meant to be helping me by cleaning your room yesterday?’

  Layla looks sheepish.

  I chew on my lip, feeling guilty by association.

  Prue turns to Jack, who’s walked over to the shed and is now peering inside. ‘What’s your opinion, darling? Would Polly be suitable, do you think?’

  ‘Definitely. She’d be brilliant,’ says Layla.

  ‘I wasn’t asking you, dear,’ Prue says frostily. ‘I was asking Jack. Although why I’m not allowed to make my own decisions about things like this, I really don’t know.’

  I stare at them in bewilderment. I’d be brilliant for what exactly?

  Jack frowns. ‘You don’t need a gardener, Mum. You’ve got me to cut the lawns.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t know anything about roses,’ she points out. ‘And if we can chop those horrible leylandi down so they no longer block out the sun, I might be able to have a rose garden at last.’

  Jack looks decidedly underwhelmed by this.

  ‘Layla tells me you have terrific green fingers, Polly,’ says Prue.

  ‘Oh, she has,’ Layla jumps in. ‘Haven’t you, Holly?’ She opens her eyes wide at me, signalling something I’m definitely not getting. ‘She could easily plant you a new rose garden, and I could help her.’

  ‘What do you say, darling?’ Prue turns to Jack, who’s inspecting the strimmer he lent me that’s been in the shed ever since.

  He frowns at me. ‘This hasn’t been used. Is there something wrong with it?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘You have used one before, haven’t you?’

  Behind him, Layla’s nodding her head manically at me.

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course. Dozens of times.’ I force a smile. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many times a strimmer has – um – saved the day!’

  ‘Right. Know anything about roses?’ he asks.

  ‘Do I know anything about roses?’ I repeat, stalling for time. ‘Do I know anything about roses!’

  I catch Layla in the background giving me an enthusiastic thumbs up.

  Actually, by sheer coincidence, I was reading all about the darned things in one of Ivy’s gardening books last night. So yes, I do know a bit about roses. Especially the sort that can climb trees. I start waffling on about dead-heading and greenfly and horse manure, while Layla tries her best not to laugh.

  ‘Well, you sound just the girl for the job!’ announces Prue, beaming at me.

  I stare at her in alarm. ‘What job?’

  ‘Gardener at Rushbrooke House,’ says Layla, grinning. ‘I said you’d be great.’

  Jack’s eyes are fixed on me with that weird stare again.

  God, I’m being grilled for a job I didn’t even apply for!

  ‘Actually, Layla did a lot of the work here,’ I begin. ‘She’s very knowledgeable about gardens, so perhaps she could …?’

  ‘So you’re saying you won’t do it?’ Prue frets, completely ignoring my suggestion that her own daughter actually has the skills required.

  Layla folds her arms and starts kicking angrily at some stones by her feet.

  I really feel for her. She’s a teenager and probably by definition not the easiest person to live with, but I happen to know for a fact she’d do a great job on the garden. Why won’t they give her a chance?

  Prue is looking expectantly at me, waiting for my answer.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ I begin. ‘I�
�m very busy getting the cottage sorted out to sell at the moment, so I haven’t got a lot of spare time. And I’ll be leaving Appleton soon.’

  ‘It would obviously just be a very temporary job,’ says Jack.

  Prue frowns at him. ‘Would it?’

  ‘Yes. Holly has to – get back to Manchester.’

  ‘Oh.’ She peers at me. ‘Manchester? Whatever for?’

  ‘That’s not the point, Mum,’ interjects Layla crossly. ‘The point is: temporary or not, do you want to hire Holly?’

  Prue smiles. ‘Of course I do. I think she’ll be fabulous.’

  I try to smile but inside I’m feeling rattled by Jack’s comment. Why was he so adamant that I’ll be leaving soon? It almost sounded as if he couldn’t wait to see the back of me! Even now, I can see him studying me out of the corner of my eye. I bet if I turn, he’ll look away.

  I swivel my head, and sure enough, his eyes flick away, caught in the act. What is it with him? There’s obviously something about me that bothers him but I can’t for the life of me think what it can be.

  ‘All that work you’re doing on the cottage must be costing a bit,’ says Layla. ‘I should imagine the money would come in handy?’

  I hesitate. She’s right. It would.

  Prue beams at her son. Then she turns to me and mentions an hourly rate that’s ridiculously generous. I catch Jack’s reaction and I can tell he’s not best pleased.

  But apparently what Prue wants, Prue usually gets.

  ‘Weekday mornings would be best. Say nine to twelve-thirty?’ she says. ‘What do you think, Polly?’

  ‘Holly,’ corrects Jack.

  Prue looks bemused. ‘That’s what I said. Polly.’

  My mind is racing. The extra cash really will come in handy. It will mean I can afford to stay on here a little longer and get the cottage and garden completely finished. Trouble is, I feel bad accepting a job I’m not qualified to do.

  ‘Are there no gardeners living in the village?’ I ask, thinking they’d undoubtedly do a much better job than me. Even with Layla’s help.

  A shadow passes over Prue’s face. She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want anyone from the village. I want you.’

  I can feel Jack’s eyes on me again. Why do I get the uneasy feeling he can see right through me? He probably knows I’ve never done a day’s gardening in my life …