The Secrets of Ivy Garden

by Catherine Ferguson

  Connie takes my hands in both of hers. ‘And all that time, your poor parents …’

  I nod. ‘I can’t imagine the pain Mum must have been in, and how Dad must have felt knowing he could do nothing to help her because his phone was broken.’

  ‘So did they die at the scene?’ Connie whispers.

  ‘No. When the paramedics eventually arrived, they were both still alive, although Mum was obviously bleeding out and in huge distress, and Dad was unconscious by that time. They both died in the ambulance on the way to the nearest hospital which was thirty miles away.’

  A tear rolls down Connie’s face and I swallow hard, within a breath of breaking down myself. ‘Ivy said Mum died from blood loss. There was a chance she could have survived the trauma of the injury – and Dad, too – if only they hadn’t been so far away from civilisation and a hospital.’

  I grit my teeth. This was the bit that gave me nightmares even now. ‘So because they were right in the middle of the frigging countryside when it happened, they never stood a chance.’

  And then I do start to cry.

  I sob noisily on Connie’s shoulder, my heart breaking as if it had happened only yesterday. Connie’s brilliant, hugging me hard and telling me to just get it all out.

  At last, I calm down and Connie produces some paper hankies from her bag and makes me a cup of hot, sweet tea. The sugar makes me gag but I smile and tell her it’s just what I need.

  She wants to stay to make sure I’m okay, but I finally manage to convince her I’ll be fine. I just want to curl up in bed.

  ‘Are you sure?’ She frowns, examining my face.

  ‘Absolutely. And Connie?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘You’ve been amazing.’ I smile at her. ‘Thank you.’

  After she’s gone, I feel so exhausted, I’m convinced I’ll just flake out and sleep. But I can’t. No matter how many sheep I count, I just lie there, tormented by the reel of clashing images rolling by on a loop in my head. In the end, I go downstairs in my pyjamas and stare at the TV screen, not really watching. Then I lie on the sofa and try to do the meditation Sylvian taught me, thinking perhaps that might calm my mind and help me to relax.

  It does the trick because I fall asleep right there on the sofa,.

  When I wake, it’s already dark outside. Rubbing my gritty eyes, I climb the stairs and slide between the cool sheets, my head still full of the drive with Connie.

  Ivy and I should have discussed my parents’ accident a long time ago, then maybe I wouldn’t have built up the horror of it in my head as I have done. It all happened so long ago. Yet tonight, it feels horribly overwhelming, as if it only happened yesterday.

  I catch sight of Ivy’s diary, still lying on the bed. Reading it might make me feel she’s still here with me. I prop up the pillows, settle myself on the bed and start reading slowly through the pages, hearing her voice in my head, still hoping to find some clue that I missed the last time.

  When I’m finished, I flick through the rest of the pages. They’re all empty. Every last one. I go back and read the final entry again, with mounting frustration that this is all there is.

  I wish there was more …

  Then I look more closely at the page with the last entry. That’s strange. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but it looks thicker than the rest.

  My heart rate quickens. It feels thicker, too. And that’s because there are two pages stuck together.

  How did I not notice this before?

  Carefully, so as not to tear it, I slide my finger in to loosen the corner, where the two pages seem to be attached. And sure enough, when I prise them apart, there before me are two more sides full of Ivy’s handwriting.

  Heart thudding in my chest, I begin to read:

  4th December 1966

  What a night! Where do I begin? I should be feeling so sad and guilty this morning, but instead, I’m filled with such happiness, I think I might explode!

  We rarely give dinner parties at home – mainly because I can barely boil an egg without burning the pan. It was Peter’s idea. He’s been doing some business with Henry Chicken, who lives in the village with his extrovert wife, Henrietta, and he asked me if we could invite them over for a meal. He seemed really keen on the idea and I hoped that it might be the start of a new, more sociable life for us, so I agreed. Then the numbers grew and the upshot was, there were eight of us (including Peter and me) sitting down for dinner last night!

  This was the guest list:

  Henry and Henrietta

  Ben and guest (he brought the lovely Lucy Feathers)

  Mr H and Penelope

  I was slightly worried how everyone would get on. (Ben and Lucy hadn’t met Mr H and Penny.) But as it turned out, we all had a marvellous night. Everyone loved the main course, which was quail and roast vegetables with a redcurrant sauce, and the Crepes Suzette for dessert went down very well indeed! The men also enjoyed Peter’s single malt far too much! He didn’t seem to mind at all, though. In fact, Peter probably drank more than everyone and ended up very drunk. (But happily drunk, for a change.) In the end, I had to help him up the stairs, which he didn’t even remember this morning.

  And somehow, late in the evening, Bee and I found ourselves alone together, as I knew we would. Even when I was planning the evening, I think I realised that this would be the night. That finally, we would give in to our feelings and my life would change forever …

  I’ve been sitting forward, devouring every single word Ivy wrote. Now, I slump back on the pillows, stunned. The evening of December 4th 1966 had been a truly momentous one for Ivy. That was the night she finally gave in to her passion for Bee.

  She must have really loved him to give herself like that while my granddad was still alive. I knew Ivy well enough to know she must have agonised for a long time before giving in to her strong feelings and starting an affair.

  So now I knew the truth. Ivy’s relationship with Bee wasn’t simply a friendship and a flirtation. It had gone much deeper than this, starting on that night in December.

  And there was more …

  13th January 1967

  I can barely believe it! But it’s true! I finally went to the doctor’s today and he confirmed what I already knew, but was too scared to hope was true.

  Tears are rolling down my face on to the page as I write this. Our baby will be born in September! (My due date tallies with the night of the dinner party.)

  It would be so incredible if only …

  I want to run to Bee and tell him the amazing news, but more than ever now, our relationship must remain a secret. I can’t do it to Peter. He’s always wanted a family. Could I really deny him that now?

  My only comfort is that Bee will understand.

  I’ve never felt so emotional in my life – down one moment, high as a kite the next. I’m finally having a baby, and it’s such a glorious feeling!

  In a way, it feels as if it’s meant to be. Even persuading Peter that he’s the father should be easy.

  Peter came into my room, drunk, one night before Christmas and we had sex for the first time in months. It was miserable because it’s so obvious he no longer cares for me. But that coupling – desperately sad though it was – will serve a very important purpose. It means Peter can believe that the miracle he was told might never happen has come true. He will be a father. He won’t calculate the dates, I’m fairly certain of that. He’s always wanted a family. So maybe we can all be happy …

  There, the diary ends.

  Stunned, I flick through the rest of the pages. But this time, I know for sure that there is no more.

  For the next few hours, as the sun comes up, I stare into space, thinking of the incredible ramifications of this latest revelation.

  Ivy had a baby with her lover, Bee.

  That baby was my mum, so Bee was her father.

  And my grandfather …

  SIXTEEN

  I need to see Sylvian. His warmth and wise words about life a
re just what I need to help me think straight.

  Despite the humid, summer night, my limbs feel chilled and stiff with sitting in the same position for so long. I glance at the clock and a little shock runs through me.

  An age has passed since I found the pages stuck together in the diary. Literally hours. It’s almost midnight! I really want to talk to Sylvian but will he still be up so late? Should I be disturbing him at this hour? He did say I could knock on his door any time of the day or night. Perhaps I’ll just walk along there and see if the lights are on in his flat.

  Jack’s words flash through my mind. Selena heard some rumours about Sylvian …

  But I brush them aside. Sylvian is a good person. And he’s so caring and generous. If he were the sort to behave badly with women, surely he would have had his wicked way with me by now? Let’s face it, he’s had plenty of opportunities.

  And anyway, I wouldn’t trust that Selena as far as I could throw her. It’s quite ironic that Jack should be warning me about Sylvian, when really, it should be me warning him about Selena. With her elegant little outfits and horror of sheep, she sticks out like a sore thumb in the countryside, whatever she might protest to the contrary. Why can’t Jack see that?

  A little voice in my head whispers: Maybe he does see it, but he loves her anyway, because love is blind.

  My heart twists. But I shake off the thought and climb out of bed, dressing in my jeans and top from earlier. I pause only to run a comb through my hair. It doesn’t matter that my face is scrubbed bare of all make-up. My skin is lightly tanned from working in the garden and looks healthier than it ever has. And anyway, Sylvian doesn’t judge people on superficial looks. He’s got much more substance to him than that.

  I leave the cottage and walk along to Sylvian’s flat, breathing in the balmy night air. The moon hangs over the village green, a pearly crescent set in a navy velvet sky. As I walk, the moon’s presence grounds me and, at the same time, makes me think about the mysteries of life. We’re like little orbs of light ourselves, going about our daily business and striving for our individual goals, but it’s our connections with others – family, friends, even the stranger you exchange a smile with in the street – that make all the striving worthwhile.

  All my family had gone and I was learning to live with it.

  But now …

  I’m still trying to take it all in. It seems incredible that, thanks to Ivy’s romance with Bee, my mum was born – and so was I! I can still barely believe it. I might have a granddad! He might, even now, be staring at this moon, marvelling at how beautiful it looks.

  My heart swells with emotion.

  I don’t know how I’ll track Bee down. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. But I will find him.

  Sylvian’s living room window is in total darkness. Disappointed, I slow to a halt and turn to walk home. I really wanted to see him. The diary revelation has rocked the very foundations of what I thought was true, and I know for a fact I won’t sleep tonight.

  ‘Holly?’

  I spin round. Someone is sprinting along the pavement towards me.

  Miraculously, it’s Sylvian.

  ‘I thought it was you.’ He stops in front of me, not even out of breath. ‘I was on the village green, looking at the moon. I’d rather appreciate it with you, though.’ He smiles and takes my hand.

  He takes my hand. I smile at him. ‘Lovely.’

  He leads me across the green, shining his phone light in front of my feet so I can see where I’m going, and we stop beneath the branches of an ancient, gnarly oak tree. The moon sails out from behind a wispy cloud at that moment, casting an eerily delicate light over everything.

  I like that Sylvian hasn’t asked me what I’m doing out at this time. It’s as if he just accepts this is the way it’s supposed to be. Sort of serendipity at play. That’s what it feels like to me, too.

  ‘I’ve been lying looking up at the stars,’ he says, sinking to the ground, cross-legged. ‘Why don’t you try it?’

  I follow his lead – a lot less gracefully, it has to be said. (With Sylvian I tend to feel a bit clumsy and awkward, like a baby elephant larking about in the mud.) The grass feels cool beneath my hands as I lean back and breathe in the gloriously sweet scent of – actually, I haven’t a clue, but I’m sure it’s some really pretty flower with an unpronounceable name.

  Sylvian is so close, our arms are touching and I can feel his body heat. He draws in a deep breath and blows the air out slowly.

  ‘Do you know what day it is next week?’ he asks.

  I think rapidly. Election day? A month to the day since we first met? Wednesday? ‘Um, is that a trick question?’

  He chuckles softly. ‘No. I just wondered if you realised that next Monday is Midsummer Night.’ He lifts my hair and places his lips gently on the side of my neck, holding them there. His delicate touch sends little electric pulses pinging off in all directions to the furthest outposts of my body. ‘The night when druids and pagans and lots of other folk gather to mark the summer solstice.’

  ‘Do you celebrate Midsummer Night?’

  He nods. ‘I’ve been down to Stonehenge many times. It’s cool to be there. But this year, I thought I’d like to celebrate it with you.’

  ‘At Stonehenge?’ I ask alarmed. I’m not sure communing with the universe is really my thing. I’d be bound to stand out like a sore thumb somewhere like that, amongst all those folk in weird costumes.

  He chuckles. ‘No. I thought somewhere closer to home.’

  ‘Where?’ I can’t help being intrigued.

  ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘Ooh!’

  ‘So put next Monday night in your diary.’

  I smile at him. ‘Okay. I will. If I can squash it in among all my other exciting appointments.’

  ‘Excellent. I look forward to it,’ he murmurs, lying back and staring up at the moon.

  I lie down beside him and he asks me about my past, and I find myself telling him everything, even about my parents’ horrible accident. I stop short of talking about the diary, though. For some reason, it feels too soon to tell anyone about that. I need to hug it to myself for a while first. Explore how I feel about it and decide what I’m going to do.

  When I talk about Mum and Dad, he takes my hand and tells me how his own parents have both died, although much more recently than mine, when he was in his early twenties. I feel even closer to him when I hear that. I want to roll over and hold him tightly and make him feel safe, even for just a moment. We can shield each other from the fears and the dark thoughts …

  Meanwhile, it’s nice to be just lying here, holding his hand.

  ‘You’ll get on well with Abby and Sara,’ he murmurs. ‘They’ll love you, I’m certain of it.’ He chuckles. ‘Abby’s the organiser. If I tell her you’re trying to fix up the cottage, she’ll be wanting to come up and help.’

  ‘They know about me?’ Surprised, I swivel round to look at him.

  ‘Yeah. I speak to them on the phone most days.’ He turns and flashes me that lovely, serene smile. ‘Naturally, I talk about things – and people – that are important to me.’

  ‘Oh.’ I swallow hard. Sylvian talks to his friends about me? And I’m important to him? But we hardly know each other.

  I haven’t been important to anyone in that way for quite a while, though, and it feels nice.

  A brief image of Adam making his gym Twiglet feel important on a deserted beach whizzes into my mind. She’s welcome to him. I’d far rather be lying here with Sylvian, staring up at the stars, with that feeling that I might just be on the brink of something special …

  ‘You should come down to Cornwall,’ he says. ‘I want to show you the house. It’s incredible. And the girls would love to meet you.’

  ‘I’d like to meet them, too,’ I tell him, feeling suddenly rather shy.

  ‘Good.’ He squeezes my hand. And after a pause, he says, ‘You know, family comes in all shapes and sizes. Just because we have no
blood relations, doesn’t mean we can’t make a family of our own …’

  ‘Gosh. Um, I suppose not.’

  Crikey, what’s he suggesting? I’ve only known him for a few weeks. It’s a bit too soon for babies.

  He suddenly swings up, on to his elbow, and looks directly into my eyes. ‘Sorry. That didn’t come out right. I just meant there are all sorts of family set-ups out there and none of them less valid than the rest.’

  Relieved, I smile at him. ‘I know what you mean.’ I love that he talks about deeper issues and really thinks about things.

  ‘It must have seemed as if I was coming on too strong just then.’

  ‘No, no.’

  He sighs. ‘The trouble with me is I tend to accept what my intuition tells me, without question. And right now, it’s telling me that it feels absolutely right to be lying here with you in this moment.’ His mouth twists into a smile. ‘Of course, society would probably argue that taking time to “think things through” is far more important than something as ridiculously unscientific as intuition.’

  His green eyes burn with intensity as he looks down at me, and I feel a strong urge to reach up and kiss him.

  ‘Who cares what society thinks?’ I smile, feeling fired up by his passion. ‘Not me!’

  He nods approvingly. ‘Good for you, Holly. I wish more people thought that way. People should trust their intuition more and let themselves just go with the flow. Do what comes naturally.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ I sigh, stretching my limbs languorously. I’m feeling deliciously light and carefree under this beautiful moon with this beautiful man, who seems to like me very much.

  The feeling is mutual. I’m liking Sylvian more and more.

  I knew talking to him would be the right thing to do. I should listen to my own intuition more often! My head was all over the place after reading the stunning final pages of Ivy’s diary. But having spent time in Sylvian’s tranquil presence, I’m feeling much calmer now. I just need to relax and things will work out exactly the way they’re supposed to …