The Secrets of Ivy Garden

by Catherine Ferguson

‘I’m not sure I can promise that, Layla.’

  She closes her eyes in exasperation at me.

  ‘And actually,’ I tell her, hardening my tone, ‘if you don’t tell me what’s in those packages, I might have to tell your mum and Jack anyway. For your own safety.’

  ‘You think I’m smoking weed or something, don’t you?’

  I smile sadly at her. ‘Hey, Layla, you’d hardly be the first teenager who went down that particular experimental route …’

  ‘I am not buying weed!’ she interrupts, flushing an angry red. ‘How stupid do you think I am? I couldn’t afford it anyway, but that’s not the point.’ She shrugs and says sheepishly, ‘I did try it once and it had no effect whatsoever. Plus I hate real smoking. It makes me cough and I’ve seen pictures of what it does to people’s lungs and I’d never, ever do it.’ She gives a melodramatic shudder. ‘Disgusting.’

  Relief washes through me. I look at her quizzically, waiting.

  ‘Okay, here goes,’ she sighs. ‘But I’m warning you, if you laugh, I’ll be straight out of here and you’ll never see me again.’

  Her eyes are wary, and to my surprise, I see tears glittering on her lashes.

  She tips up her chin and says defiantly, ‘I write mystery stories.’

  My eyes open wide with astonishment.

  Mystery stories?

  Is she serious? On my list of possible activities going on in the lane with Sylvian, writing mystery stories would come way down the pecking order. Her confession is so not what I was expecting, that I almost laugh, which I’ve been strictly warned not to do.

  She’s staring at me anxiously, her face tinged pink beneath the make-up.

  I clear my throat. ‘Wow. Mystery stories. Phew.’

  I’m flabbergasted, and at the same time mightily relieved I’m not facing some horrible moral dilemma of whether or not to tell Prue and Jack their daughter is wandering down a dubious path in life.

  She smiles shyly at my astonishment. ‘They’re probably not very good. But I like writing them.’

  I shake my head in genuine admiration. ‘And you’ve kept this a secret from everyone? Your mum and Jack? Honestly, Layla, if I’d written anything, I’d be so proud I’d want to tell the whole world.’

  A ghost of a smile appears on her face. ‘I’ve written about a dozen short stories.’

  ‘Really? Crikey, I haven’t got enough imagination for one story, never mind a dozen! I could fill a book with sketches but as for having the imagination to dream up a story from scratch …’ I shake my head in amazement. Then something occurs to me. ‘Hang on, what has this got to do with Sylvian?’

  ‘He helps me,’ she says with a shrug. ‘He doesn’t do any of the writing but he keeps an eye on my grammar and lets me know if he thinks something could be worded better.’

  I gaze at her, feeling bad for underestimating her and thinking the worst. Just like Prue and Jack, according to Layla. She seems so grown up all of a sudden.

  ‘So what’s in the packages?’ I ask. They didn’t look manuscript-shaped to me.

  She smiles sheepishly. ‘My old phone. It’s knackered really, but the record function still works, so I dictate the stories into it and Sylvian types them into his computer and puts them on a dongle for me.’

  ‘Oh. Don’t you have a computer you can use at home, then?’

  Her face falls and she twists her mouth uncertainly.

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me, Jack doesn’t trust you to use it?’

  She looks puzzled for a second then her face clears and she laughs. ‘No, it’s nothing like that.’

  I wait.

  ‘No, it’s just that …’ Still she hesitates.

  ‘Yes?’

  She folds her arms and blows out her breath in frustration. ‘Okay, I suppose I’m going to have to tell you. Here goes.’ She closes her eyes for a moment as if drawing strength. Then she looks at me challengingly. ‘I can’t read or write properly. There, what do you think of that?’

  My mouth opens in surprise but nothing comes out.

  ‘Sylvian’s great. He’s promised not to tell a soul. People would bloody laugh their socks off if they knew I wanted to be an author.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t.’

  ‘Yes, they would.’ Layla’s brow knots fiercely. ‘I’m dyslexic, you see. It takes me a hundred years to just read a book, never mind actually write one down. All those thousands of words.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘I’ve never heard of a dyslexic author, have you? What an absolute frigging hoot!’

  I’m still trying to comprehend all of this.

  There have been clues to her dyslexia but I didn’t twig at the time. There was her reluctance to write me that list of plants. I’d put it down to her being lazy or stubborn. Was that the reaction she’d faced from people all her life? Just because she was too embarrassed to admit she suffered from dyslexia?

  Layla shrugs. ‘I’m dyslexic but we didn’t find out until I was eleven. Mum and Jack – and the teachers as well – all thought I was just a pain in the arse pupil who couldn’t be bothered to learn and only wanted to be the class clown. What they didn’t realise was that I thought I was as thick as two short planks because I couldn’t keep up with the other kids, so I made myself not care. I got the other kids on my side by acting the idiot and entertaining them. So then they didn’t laugh at me …’

  She frowns. ‘I’ve got all these stories in my head so I speak them aloud into my phone and Sylvian types them into a computer for me. I made him swear on his collection of crystals that he wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone about it.’

  I’m full of sympathy and admiration for this feisty, intelligent girl, who’s clearly battled all her life with the thought that she must be stupid because she struggled to read and write like everyone else. I can’t imagine what that must have felt like, at school, when all you wanted to do was blend in. And how challenging later on in life when even applying for a job – filling in all those application forms – is a struggle.

  ‘Oh, Layla, I never realised. But I still don’t understand the secrecy.’

  She shrugs. ‘When you’re dyslexic, you get used to people thinking you’re stupid or just a lazy arse. If I went round telling people I write books, they’d bloody laugh like drains. Mum and Jack included.’ She laughs harshly. ‘Especially them.’

  I shake my head. ‘Of course they wouldn’t.’

  ‘Yes. They would,’ she snaps, her expression fierce. ‘My dear mum and brother think I’m a total waste of space and actually, I don’t blame them. They want me off their hands. And that’s what I want as well. But unfortunately, because I can’t string a frigging sentence together or read properly, I can’t study for exams or get a well-paid job that would mean I could afford my own place.’ She shrugs. ‘So I’m stuck living with them. And they’re stuck with me.’

  ‘Have you shown your stories to anyone? Apart from Sylvian?’

  She shakes her head vehemently.

  I decide to be bold. ‘Would you let me read one?’

  She flushes bright red and it’s clear she’s wavering. She wants to show me. But she’s scared I’ll laugh, bless her.

  ‘Please? I’d be really honoured if you’d let me read a few pages.’

  Finally, she nods. Her smile is vulnerable and hopeful at the same time, and I feel a great sense of privilege, being permitted entry into Layla’s own private world. The pressure not to let her down, however, is huge.

  ‘You mustn’t tell Mum or Jack,’ she begs.

  ‘Why not? They’d be as amazed as I am that you’ve kept such a wonderful endeavour all to yourself.’

  She shrugs. ‘I doubt it. I haven’t exactly made them proud so far, have I?’ She says it defiantly but her chin does a tell-tale wobble that she disguises by pressing her lips together. ‘So it has to be our secret.’

  I nod. ‘Our secret.’

  Layla looks down, pursing her lips as if she’s mulling something over.

  When she looks up, there’s a s
hyness there I’ve never seen before. ‘Would you … would you really like to read one of my short stories?’

  I smile broadly. ‘Layla, I’d absolutely love to.’

  She clearly can’t wait for me to read it because she disappears off to Rushbrooke House straight away and returns less than half an hour later with a manuscript in her hand. With a shy smile, she hands it over to me and says, ‘Keep it overnight.’

  I nod solemnly. ‘I’ll read it tonight. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll go, then,’ she says with a rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights look, and she dashes off, clearly terrified at the thought of me reading her work.

  I feel incredibly honoured to be the first (after Sylvian) to learn of Layla’s secret scribbling – and to be allowed to read some of it, too! It can’t have been easy for her to hand over that story. I settle down on the sofa as soon as she’s gone to start reading. Strangely, I feel nervous, too – I’m probably almost as anxious as Layla right this minute. I know I’d be terrified to let someone else read something I’d written, in case they thought it was really bad and were too polite to say so.

  Even as I open the folder filled with typed pages, I’m already composing in my head a kind and gentle let-down. Just in case her story isn’t very good. But when I start to read, my shoulders – which have been positioned somewhere around my ears with the stress – begin to relax.

  Half way through, there’s a smile on my face – even though one of the characters has just met a grisly end. Thank God! Layla can actually write.

  If you ignore the fact that almost every paragraph ends with an exclamation mark (even two, sometimes), her mystery story is really very readable. Layla’s talent for writing black comedy is clear and I laugh out loud on several occasions. Before I fall asleep, I quickly text her to say how brilliant I think her story is, smiling to myself as I imagine how pleased she’ll be.

  Summer

  ‘Summer was a book of hope. That’s why I loved and hated summers. Because they made me want to believe.’

  – Benjamin Alire Sáenz (Aristotle and Dante

  Discover the Secrets of the Universe)

  NINETEEN

  When the doorbell rings early next morning, I know exactly who it will be.

  I open the door with a big smile. ‘Your story’s brilliant.’

  Layla peers at me anxiously. ‘You’re just saying that to be nice.’

  ‘No, I’m not. If I didn’t like it, I’d say it had potential or something. But I do like it. I like it a lot. You have real talent as a writer, Layla.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ She frowns as she crosses the threshold, but I can see a smile fighting to get the upper hand.

  ‘You bloody well do. Look, I don’t want to give you false hope here, Layla. I’m definitely no expert on literary matters. But I know what I like – and I very much like this!’

  I’m surprised to feel hot tears pricking my lids.

  Layla lets out a girlish shout of delight. Then she clamps her lips together to hide her glee.

  She sits down at the kitchen table while I fill the kettle. About to swing her boot-clad feet on a chair, she catches my eye and crosses her legs instead.

  ‘How long have you been writing these stories?’

  ‘Oh, since I was about fifteen, I suppose. I was meant to be studying for exams but we all knew there wasn’t much point because I was going to flunk the lot. So I used to escape into my imagination instead. It seemed like a far better use of my time to be honest. And it was fun, just opening my mouth and seeing what came out in the recording.’

  ‘But you must dream up the plot first, before you start dictating it into your phone?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course. That’s the easy bit. Choosing the right words is much more like being back at school – but in a good way.’

  I laugh. ‘So you have all the right words but not necessarily in the correct order?’ I quip, remembering something Ivy used to say.

  ‘You what?’ Layla looks puzzled.

  I shake my head. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Morecambe and Wise.’

  She frowns. ‘Are they an R & B band?’

  ‘Comedians. From way before your time.’ I reach into the cupboard for the tin of oatmeal cookies. As I arrange them on a plate, I’m smiling to myself at the whole ‘suspicious package’ misunderstanding. It’s a good lesson for me in not jumping to conclusions, and I’m sure Prue and Jack would also be pleasantly astonished if they read Layla’s work.

  ‘What’s this?’ I hear Layla ask. ‘Have you been writing a diary?’

  Diary?

  My heart leaps.

  I spin round and Layla is flicking through Ivy’s notebook, which I’d left lying on the worktop.

  ‘No!’ I snatch it out of her hands and she looks at me in alarm.

  I shrug awkwardly, holding the diary behind my back. ‘It’s – um – not mine. It’s Ivy’s diary.’

  ‘Wow. Should you be reading it?’

  Her question makes me blanch. I hadn’t thought about the moral angle. Maybe Ivy wouldn’t have wanted me to nosy into her private thoughts? But then, if I hadn’t read it, I wouldn’t have discovered her incredible secret. And even though she never got round to telling me about him, Ivy would have wanted me to find my real granddad, I’m sure of that. She certainly wouldn’t have wished me to be all alone in the world, like I am now.

  ‘Are you all right?’ demands Layla. ‘You’ve gone as white as a ghost.’ She kicks out a chair. ‘Sit down before you fall down.’

  I slump into a chair, emotion threatening to overwhelm me.

  ‘What’s going on?’ demands Layla.

  I shake my head, but Layla cuts me dead.

  ‘Don’t say “nothing”, like I’m a child who needs protecting,’ she snaps. ‘I get enough of that at home. You’ve helped me, so now it’s time for me to help you.’

  I smile at her. I very much doubt she’ll be able to help, but Layla is like a dog with a bone. If something’s bugging her, she will not let it go until she gets answers. And actually, maybe she can help? I can’t keep this all to myself. I’ve got to confide in someone or I’ll go mad. And Layla seems as good a choice as any. For starters, she could probably tell me all about Henry and Henrietta Chicken. And she might even be able to shed light on the identity of Ben, Lucy Feathers, Mr H and Penelope, Ivy’s dinner party guests.

  So I tell her the whole story. Of finding the diary and reading all about the dinner party and Ivy’s baby confession.

  Layla listens intently, not saying a word.

  ‘So there you are.’ I swallow hard. ‘I might have a granddad I never knew I had.’

  We stare at each other, the words vibrating in the air between us.

  Layla breaks the silence. ‘Bugger me. It’s like something out of Long Lost Family.’

  I laugh, which breaks the tension. ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘So when do we get started?’ She rubs her hands together.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, faintly alarmed.

  ‘Well, obviously you need to work out who Ivy’s secret man was, and I’m the ideal person to help you because I’m totes into solving mysteries.’

  ‘Yes, but this isn’t an episode of Miss Marple. It’s my life we’re talking about. Not some exciting whodunit.’

  She frowns. ‘Don’t you want my help, then?’

  I hesitate.

  ‘I know the Chickens, for a start,’ she says, leaning forward, a gleam in her eyes. ‘I think we should start there. We could go and interview them. And they’ll know the others who were at Ivy’s dinner party that night. I think I know who Ben is – and I met Lucy Feathers at the Appleton summer fete once. They might know who Mr H and Penelope are because I’ve never -’

  ‘Hold on, hold on!’ I laugh to hide the panic rising up in my chest at the very thought of speaking to these people. ‘We – I can’t just pitch up on the Chickens’ doorstep and start asking questions about Ivy and prying into their personal lives. It’s just
not the done thing.’

  Layla snorts. ‘Sod the done thing. You thought you didn’t have any family, Holly – and now it looks like you might! Just think about it!’

  ‘Of course I’m thinking about it! I haven’t actually thought about anything else since I read the diary!’

  ‘Well, you need to act on it or you’ll go mad.’

  My head is spinning, and I’m not sure if it’s because Layla is storming on ahead with barely a thought for how I’m feeling about all of this, or because I know my life might be about to change forever. Ivy’s secret has the potential to make all my dreams come true.

  I might have family!

  Layla’s eyes are shining. ‘Well? What do you think?’

  I give her a tiny smile, touched by her eagerness to help me.

  Maybe Layla has a point. I don’t want to barge into people’s lives like a bull let loose in a branch of Collectibles. But perhaps this isn’t the time for subtlety and caution. Not when there’s so much at stake.

  ‘We need to make sure we don’t upset anyone,’ I tell her carefully. ‘After all, my real granddad might not even know I exist.’

  She points at me gleefully. ‘You said “we”! So we’re a team!’

  My heart is drumming excitedly, wondering what we might uncover, but I need to put the reins on Layla.

  ‘You can help me figure it out,’ I tell her. ‘But we are not Inspector Barnaby and his sidekick, okay?

  TWENTY

  Next morning, there’s a sharp rap on the door as I’m standing in the kitchen, eating buttered toast. I quickly finish the last bite and put the plate in the sink.

  I haven’t even made it to the hallway before the knocking resumes, much louder and with three times the urgency.

  It has to be Layla. Patience is definitely not one of her major strengths.

  ‘Got a surprise for you,’ she beams when I open the door.

  ‘A surprise?’ I repeat warily.

  I can’t help feeling nervous. The last time she said that, she flipped over a rock with her foot to reveal the most gargantuan spider I’d ever clapped eyes on. Then she screamed with laughter at my horrified expression.