The Secrets of Ivy Garden

by Catherine Ferguson

  She grins. ‘You don’t need to look so worried. You’ll like it. Come on.’

  She’s already half way to the gate.

  ‘Layla, I’m not going anywhere in my pyjamas,’ I point out, and she grins and says she’ll wait while I get dressed, but I need to hurry because otherwise the bird might have flown the coop.

  ‘Is this a real bird?’ I ask, trying to keep up with her loping stride along the main street ten minutes later.

  She looks at me as if I’m mad.

  ‘The bird that might have flown the coop?’ I prompt.

  Her face clears. ‘Oh, right. No. Well, sort of.’

  I peer at her expectantly.

  She shrugs. ‘It’s a chicken. Well, two chickens actually.’

  My heart sinks and I slow my pace. ‘Hang on, Layla. Please don’t tell me we’re heading for Henry and Henrietta Chicken’s house?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m not ready,’ I tell her tetchily. ‘And it really isn’t up to you, Layla, to decide how I’m going to proceed with this.’

  Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘Ooh, keep your feathers on. You want to know if Henry is your granddad, don’t you?’ She raises her arms in a melodramatic shrug of expectancy, then stares at me as if I’m as brainless as one of her barnyard chickens.

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ I tell her firmly. ‘And I appreciate you wanting to help, Layla. But we’ll do it my way, okay?’

  She rolls her eyes and I take a deep breath as my heart hammers away at the mere thought of actually meeting Henry Chicken.

  I suddenly realise I’m holding my breath, which might account for the feeling of disorientating light-headedness, as if I’ve just stepped off a fairground waltzer and can’t make my legs move in the right direction.

  If I’m honest, it’s hard to believe I’m even having this conversation with Layla, discussing the best way to approach possibly finding my real grandfather. I feel like I’m in a weird sort of dream, wandering through the pages of a novel, like a less brave Alice in Wonderland.

  I need to keep my feet on the ground, though, and not get too carried away. If this were a story in a book, I’d be practically guaranteed a happy ending. But what are the chances that my probings into Ivy’s past will result in a happy ever after …?

  I do want to meet Henry. Of course I do. I want to find out about everyone who was at that fateful dinner party.

  But the truth is, I’m petrified of what I might find.

  And how am I supposed to find out if Henry had an affair with Ivy? I can’t just blurt it out, as in Hey, Henry, did you and Ivy have a thing going and if so, do you think it’s possible I might be your love grandchild?

  What if he actually is my grandfather but he’s horrified at me turning up out of the blue like this? If he and Henrietta were together at the time of the affair, she could be in total ignorance of her husband’s indiscretion, so he’s hardly going to welcome me pitching up at his door and asking him awkward questions.

  He might deny all knowledge of an affair and threaten to call the police if I harass him any more …

  Layla is studying me, arms folded, tapping her foot impatiently.

  ‘You don’t get anywhere being a mouse,’ she says. ‘Come on. Let’s find your family.’

  I nod and she sticks up both thumbs triumphantly then leads the way to Henry and Henrietta’s cottage. I’ve never seen her move so fast.

  She strides along the main street, a girl on a mission, then takes a right turn into the unmarked, potholed road that’s already familiar to me after I trailed Jack to his swimming session that night.

  I’m managing to keep up, despite the fact that my legs are quaking with a mix of nervous anticipation and plain old-fashioned terror.

  Layla opens the gate of the Chickens’ cottage and I swallow hard, remembering Henrietta popping up out of the hedge with her binoculars.

  An attack of cold feet descends and I shake my head as Layla holds open the gate for me.

  ‘Why not?’ she frowns.

  ‘Just no.’

  ‘But you’ve come this far. You can’t chicken out now.’ She snorts at her unintentional joke. ‘Chicken out!’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘But don’t you want to know?’ Her face is a picture of exaggerated teenage disgust, as if I’ve casually remarked that dog food makes a nice change from cornflakes in the morning. ‘Christ, I’d be desperate to find out if I were you.’

  Her range of disparaging expressions is truly breathtaking. I’m learning a great deal about teenagers. Apparently you have to mentally dilute their frustration by about a hundredfold and then you might be near the truth. So in this case, I can probably assume that Layla is mildly surprised I’m not more eager to know if Henry is kin.

  ‘Yes, of course I want to find out,’ I tell her in an urgent stage whisper. ‘But not like this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s too sudden. You haven’t given me any time to think. I mean, what the hell do I say?’

  She smiles and grabs my wrist. ‘Don’t worry about that. You don’t have to say anything. I’ll ask the questions.’

  I snatch my arm back and hiss, ‘Layla, for God’s sake, you’re not frigging Hercule Poirot. Now will you please come back to Moonbeam Cottage and we can talk about this sensibly.’

  A key grating in a lock makes us both flinch. We turn to find a small, balding man standing in the cottage doorway. He’s wearing a maroon dressing gown and neat glasses.

  ‘Good morning, Layla.’ He looks at us expectantly. ‘Can I help you, ladies?’

  I plaster on a smile as my heart leaps up and down like a kid on a bouncy castle. ‘Er, no, it’s fine. Sorry to disturb. We, er, got the wrong cottage.’ I shoot dear Hercule a warning glance. ‘Didn’t we, Layla?’

  ‘Did we?’ She looks confused for a second but I know it’s an act. ‘No, I don’t think we did.’ She adopts a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression. ‘You are Henry Chicken of 3 Rose Cottages?’

  Henry looks slightly taken aback. As well he might, bearing in mind he’s lived all his life in this tiny village and so has Layla.

  He adjusts his glasses. ‘What’s this about, Layla?’

  I grab the back of her jumper, hoping to subtly drag her back up the garden path but she’s inching determinedly forward, detective persona well in charge.

  ‘It’s about Ivy,’ she says. ‘Ivy Grainger?’ She turns to me. ‘Holly’s granny.’

  Henry looks at me.

  Behind the little round glasses, his eyes widen. ‘Holly? Is that really you?’

  Swallowing hard, I nod.

  ‘Well, blow me down,’ Henry breathes, gazing at me as if he’s just clapped eyes on the eighth wonder of the world.

  I stare back at him, my heart leaping in my chest. I’m certain I’ve never met him before but he seems to know me.

  How does he know me?

  His eyes are kind. They’re a blue-grey colour, just like mine. And he has the same fine hair that’s impossible to handle on a damp day – except that he’s lost most of his.

  I open my mouth to speak but my throat is bone dry.

  Have we found him? Was Henry the love of Ivy’s life? Is he the grandfather I never knew I had?

  He’s still looking at me as if he can’t believe his eyes.

  Perhaps he always knew about me and has been hoping that one day, I’ll turn up on his doorstep just like this?

  He opens his mouth to say something, at which point Layla, unable to contain her excitement for a second longer, squeaks, ‘So did you and Ivy have a secret affair, then?’

  Horrified, I nudge her hard, making her squawk with indignation this time.

  Then I force a hearty laugh. ‘Teenagers, what are they like? Don’t you want to just murder them at times? Ha ha ha!’

  Henry blinks at Layla. ‘Secret affair? With Ivy? What on earth are you talking about, my dear?’

  My heart sinks a little. Of course he and Ivy weren’t a couple.
Talk about jumping to conclusions.

  On the other hand, Henry could be denying it in order to protect his marriage …

  Layla groans with disappointment. ‘So you and Ivy didn’t … you know?’ She illustrates her question with a helpful shagging action.

  Henry’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. This is awful. I have to get her away …

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ trills a voice behind us.

  We both spin around. Henrietta is sailing up the street, a fuchsia pink smock billowing around her ample figure, her bright auburn curls tied back with an orange scarf.

  ‘Layla!’ she booms, panting up the path. ‘To what do we owe this very definite pleasure?’ She peers at me. ‘Don’t I know you, dear?’ My eyes are riveted by a bead of perspiration snaking down between her enormous perfumed breasts.

  I hesitate. What can I say? Yes, you do know me. You were popping up out of a bush in your nightwear last time we met …

  ‘It’s Ivy’s girl,’ says Henry. ‘Holly. Remember? I couldn’t quite believe it was her, all grown up. She was knee high to a grasshopper the last time we saw her.’

  Henrietta smiles. ‘Ah yes, of course, the Holly and the Ivy.’ She lays a hand on my arm. ‘Your grandmother was a delight, my dear. You must miss her terribly.’

  I nod as a pang of sadness whacks me in the gut.

  Layla snorts appreciatively. ‘The Holly and the Ivy. I never thought of that.’ She links my arm and whispers, so only I can hear, ‘Aw, so in a way, that was your song, wasn’t it?’

  Taken aback at the contact, I smile at her. ‘I suppose it was. In a way.’ I give her arm a little squeeze.

  Henrietta is snuggling up to her husband, towering over him by a good six inches, giving his bum a playful squeeze. Henry’s hand reaches round her waist as he gazes up at her adoringly, and I get the impression they’ve briefly forgotten we’re there.

  Layla and I exchange a glance.

  ‘Hen, my Huggy Panda Bear?’ murmurs Henry.

  She smiles. ‘Yes, my Luscious Honey Pie?’

  ‘Layla and Holly would like to know if I had a fling with Ivy.’

  His tone is perfectly calm. He might just as easily have said, Layla and Holly would like to know if we prefer Spain or France for holidays.

  I fill the stunned silence with a gulp, as Layla tightens her hold on my arm.

  Huggy Panda Bear stares down at her Luscious Honey Pie in confusion. Then she gives a throaty laugh. ‘Well, no disrespect to your grandmother, Holly – she was a perfectly lovely lady – but why on earth would my Henry ever feel the need to venture elsewhere for his afternoon delight?’ She gives her husband a coy smile and he blushes bright red with pleasure.

  ‘When we met, it was an irresistible magnetic attraction,’ she booms, thrusting her bosom closer with each word, as if she’s impatient to devour Henry right there and then.

  Layla frowns. ‘I take it that’s a “no”, then?’

  ‘That would indeed be a “no”,’ agrees a besotted Henry.

  ‘Not even an – erm – quick shag that you forgot about?’

  ‘Layla!’ I dig her hard in the ribs and shake my head at the surprised couple in apology.

  ‘What?’ demands Layla indignantly. ‘We’ve got to be sure, haven’t we?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile at them and herd Layla through the garden gate. ‘Our mistake. You’ve been really helpful.’

  ‘What about before you were married, Henry?’ calls back Layla, as I frogmarch her away. ‘Did you know Ivy way back then?’

  ‘We married at eighteen,’ Henrietta bellows cheerfully. ‘And my Henry was most certainly a virgin. I realise you might find that hard to believe because he’s such a sexual firecracker …’

  I glance at Layla and she grimaces.

  ‘It was always meant to be,’ shouts Henrietta. ‘Even our names go together.’

  Layla snorts and mutters, ‘Well, obviously, they don’t. Unless you’re writing a book for five-year-olds and the main characters are two naughty piglets.’

  ‘Layla! I think they’re lovely people.’

  She looks a bit abashed. ‘So do I. I didn’t mean they were naughty piglets. Just that their names sound weird together.’

  I turn to smile and wave, just in time to catch Henrietta pulling her husband indoors with undoubtedly a little more than lunch on her mind.

  We walk side by side in silence for a bit. My mind is whirling. I’ve actually met two of the guests at Ivy’s dinner party all those years ago. It makes the puzzle real somehow. But I definitely need to get Layla under control because she’s embarrassingly unstoppable when she’s on a mission. On the other hand, I can almost certainly cross Henry Chicken off my dinner party list, and that wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for Layla – however cack-handed her methods might be …

  If Henry was in love with Ivy, surely I’d have spotted some sign of regret or guilt or at least recognition in his expression? But frankly, the poor man just looked bamboozled.

  ‘Christ,’ says Layla as we head along the main street. ‘Imagine being married to that.’

  ‘Henry? He seems nice.’

  ‘No. I mean sex-crazed Henrietta.’

  I grin at her. ‘Henry looks the picture of health. I don’t think he’s complaining.’

  She makes a vomiting face. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t suffocated him by now. You can bet she’ll be the one inventing the weird positions.’

  ‘Layla! I don’t want images like that in my head.’ I bump her sideways and she almost falls into the hedge with an indignant shout. I smile to myself, wondering what Layla would think about Henrietta and her binoculars, spying on her brother? She’d probably consider it hilarious and go round telling everyone in the village. I’d better keep the unsavoury image to myself for now.

  ‘Right, I’m off,’ she says, noticing Josh is in the bus shelter, talking to one of his mates.

  ‘Layla – how did you meet Sylvian?’ I ask suddenly.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ She darts a suspicious look at me as colour rises in her cheeks.

  I shrug as if it doesn’t really matter. ‘I just wondered how you first got to know him. He’s a bit older than your friendship group.’

  She smiles. ‘I went to one of his poetry talks, hoping I might get some tips on writing. I chatted to him afterwards and he was really encouraging. See ya!’

  She saunters coolly across the road, over to the bus stop. A car whizzes towards her and I shout a warning, but she doesn’t even slow her pace.

  Josh is grinning over at her. I’m really not keen on that boy …

  ‘Er, Layla?’ I call.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d like a word, please.’

  She sits down beside Josh but I beckon her over.

  ‘Right now?’ She looks sulky.

  ‘Yes, right now. We need some ground rules. If you want to continue helping me, that is.’

  She sighs and doesn’t move.

  ‘Of course, if you don’t want to help me crack the case, that’s absolutely fine.’ I start walking away.

  Three seconds later, she shouts my name.

  ‘Yes?’ I don’t bother turning round.

  ‘I’ve probably got ten minutes,’ she yells, sounding extremely narky.

  I keep on walking. ‘We’d better be quick, then, hadn’t we?’

  Back at Moonbeam Cottage, I make us a cool drink and take the glasses through to the living room, where Layla is lounging on the floor. She gulps hers down immediately then lies flat, stretches her arms over her head and gives a huge yawn. ‘That was good fun. When are we doing Ben?’

  ‘Could you sit up, Layla? This is a serious business and we can’t have meetings lying on the floor.’

  ‘Crikey, keep your wig on.’

  ‘Right, so you’re with me in this?’ I demand once she’s sitting up straight.

  ‘Yes. I told you that, didn’t I?’

  ‘Just making sure. Because if we’re going to do this, we ca
n’t just go barging into people’s lives asking all sorts of impertinent questions, okay?’

  Layla purses her lips. ‘What you mean is I can’t go barging in …’

  I grin at her. ‘Well, you are a little on the eager side. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing.’

  She doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘Look, I need your help. You’re a smart girl. Highly intelligent—’

  She gives a grunt of disbelief.

  ‘You are, Layla. Stop underestimating yourself. Look, if it hadn’t been for you marching me along to the Chickens, I’d be no further forward, would I? We just have to channel your enthusiasm. Make sure it doesn’t get you into trouble.’

  ‘Okay.’ She stands up and gives a mock salute. ‘Ready, boss.’

  I laugh and she joins in.

  ‘Right, Layla. What exactly do you know about Ben?’

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Ben Hart’s all right,’ says Layla.

  ‘Really?’

  She shrugs. ‘He’s way less of a wanker than most of the oldies I know.’

  ‘Wow. Praise indeed,’ I say caustically, as my heart rate quickens. ‘Examples?’

  She frowns, thinking. ‘Well, he once caught me and my mates setting – erm – doing an experiment on a dead rat, and instead of threatening to call the coppers, like most oldies would, he said he remembered what it was like being a teenager. It was natural to want to experiment at our age. But it was probably best not to – erm – do what we were doing.’

  I nod, liking the sound of Ben. ‘And the experiment on the rat was?’

  She grins. ‘Seeing how fast it would burn.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Of course.’

  ‘But it’s like Ben said.’ She’s immediately on the defensive. ‘It’s practically our duty to experiment. I don’t know why the oldies can’t see that.’

  ‘I know. Especially since setting fire to a dead rat represents such a mammoth advance for mankind in the field of animal biology.’ I grin. ‘Layla Rushbrooke, Pulitzer Prize winner, here we come.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she says, looking sheepish. ‘That was years ago, by the way. When I was fourteen.’ She jumps to her feet. ‘So shall we go and talk to Ben?’

  Alarmed, I watch her pulling her jacket on, getting ready for action.