‘No! We are not going to knock on Ben’s door. There is such a thing as subtlety, Layla. We have to talk strategy.’
I sound calm and in control, but I’m actually the very opposite. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach at the very thought of meeting Ben.
‘I do know what subtlety is. I’m not stupid,’ says Layla sulkily.
I heave a sigh. ‘I’m aware of that, Layla. You’re actually a very long way from stupid.’
‘Hmm, well, you’re the only one who thinks so.’
Hoping to head off a nobody-understands-me adolescent sulk, I smile brightly. ‘So. Do you know anything else about Ben? Apart from the fact that he’s all right?’
Layla thinks. Then her face lights up. ‘He’s one of the summer fete organisers – and they’re always looking for helpers. We could volunteer!’
A little spark of excitement ignites within me. I’ve got a good feeling about this.
‘Well done, Layla! That’s more like it.’ I smile at her admiringly and even through her stark white make-up, I can detect a pleased glow. ‘So how do we sign up as volunteers?’
She shrugs. ‘No idea.’
‘Community hall.’ I get to my feet. ‘And there’s no time like the present. Coming?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t you have to be somewhere? Won’t Josh be missing you?’
She glares at me but doesn’t deign to reply.
‘You don’t have to come with me.’
She snorts. ‘Yes, I do. You need someone brave enough to ask questions.’
I eye her warningly.
‘Subtle questions, of course,’ she relents.
‘Good.’ I nod approvingly. ‘You’re starting to get the idea.’
When we get to the community hall, it’s empty apart from a woman at the far end of the room running a mop over the wooden floor.
‘It’s Mrs Trowbridge,’ Layla hisses. ‘She cleans in the village.’
‘Isn’t your mum looking for a cleaner?’
Layla frowns. ‘Yes, but she’d never hire someone from the village. Perish the thought. They might be a friend of Robina’s or something.’
Mrs Trowbridge stops mopping and tells us to add our names to a list in the kitchen if we want to help with the fete. Layla disappears off to the toilet – I suspect to refresh her vampire lipstick – while Mrs Trowbridge finds me a pen and chats away about the fete.
‘It’s usually a good day, if the weather’s all right. My granddaughter’s taking part in the freestyle dance competition and I’m making a dozen of my big lemon curd tarts for the refreshment tent. They’re always popular.’
‘Ooh, they sound lovely,’ I say politely. ‘I’ll have to make sure I grab a piece before it all goes.’
Mrs Trowbridge’s eyebrows rise. ‘I hear you’re gardening for her up at the big house.’
I smile and nod.
‘How’s that working out, then?’
‘Fine. Yes, it seems to be going – well, fine!’
She nods, her expression giving little away, and I’m left wondering what she expected me to say. I’m suddenly aware of a ‘them and us’ divide, which I didn’t think existed any more.
‘I’m not one to tell tales.’ Mrs Trowbridge leans closer and I prepare myself for some juicy gossip. ‘But I have heard Prudence Rushbrooke was a bit of a one in her younger days. If you know what I mean.’ She nods conspiratorially.
‘A one?’
‘Yes, you know, loose.’ She purses her lips. ‘Giving away her favours at the drop of a hat. Or a pair of scanties.’
I stare at her in confusion. Prue? Loose? It’s very hard to visualise. But the problem is, I had the same story from Connie, so they’re either both listening to the same unreliable gossip or there’s actually a grain of truth in their tale. But this I really can’t believe.
‘You must be thinking of someone else,’ I begin, but her face suddenly closes up and she springs away from me. Her eyes flick across to the door, just as Layla enters the kitchen.
‘What’s going on? Talking about me, are you?’ She laughs self-consciously.
Mrs Trowbridge gives me a knowing look and gets on with the mopping.
On the way out, Layla realises she’s left her eyeliner in the bathroom so she dives back inside, while I find a sunny spot to sit down on the old stone wall in front of the hall.
It’s peaceful here. The scent of summer blossom on the trees around me drifts up my nose as I turn my face up to the sun, thinking of Ivy. I’m fairly certain the love of her life wasn’t Henry Chicken.
I know the oddest-looking couples can be happy together, but I just don’t see Ivy and Henry as a pair of lovebirds. And in any case, it’s clear Henrietta wears the pants in their relationship. She’d never allow her pint-sized hubby to stray further than the garden gate.
So it’s one down, two to go. Soon, I will meet Ben Hart. My heart leaps frantically at the very thought. Ever since I read the mind-blowing entry in Ivy’s diary and realised there was a whole area of her life I knew nothing about, I’ve hardly been able to eat a thing. And it’s not only excitement at what I might discover. It’s also real, gut-wrenching fear, because there’s so very much at stake here.
I’m aware that the search for my grandfather is filling the huge void left by Ivy’s death. I’m no longer drifting aimlessly, like a tiny boat on the ocean, wondering what use my life is if I don’t matter deeply to another person. Someone who shares that precious genetic bond.
The discovery that I could possibly have family I have yet to meet has catapulted me off on a whole new journey, which fills me with a sort of breathless yearning. How I would love to be part of a family again! But the flipside of all that hope and possible happiness is almost too painful to contemplate.
What if I fail in my mission? What if I can’t find Ivy’s lover? Or what if I do – but he wants nothing at all to do with me? He might even deny any connection and then I’d feel even lonelier than I did before.
And what then …?
My return to Manchester will inevitably be delayed while I try to solve the mystery, but that doesn’t bother me the way it once would have. I’ve grown fond of Appleton, living in Moonbeam Cottage and having Ivy Garden literally on my doorstep. I’m even enjoying the gardening and sprucing up the cottage. And then there’s the people I’ve met, of course …
The sun slips behind a cloud and I shiver. Something tickles my arm and automatically I go to shake it off. But when I look down, the breath catches in my throat.
It’s a ladybird.
I hold my arm very still, struck by the insect’s perfect, glossy red and black symmetry. A huge lump forms in my throat.
I needed something – a sign – that I’m on the right track. And there it is. It can’t be a coincidence. I smile, remembering the ugly ladybird teapot that’s packed away carefully in bubble wrap.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper, as a single tear rolls down the side of my nose and plops on to the warm stone wall beside me.
Ivy’s with me. I just know she is. She wants me to find Bee …
The ever-present ache in my heart seems to swell through my whole body to a bittersweet crescendo. I was so lucky to have Ivy in my life, loving me and helping to shape the person I’ve become. Anchoring me. Giving me that profound sense of belonging that equips you to go off and explore life with confidence.
I’ve known what it’s like to be loved absolutely unconditionally, and I’m so grateful for that.
The ladybird billows its wings and takes flight, and my heart flutters with panic, watching it float away. But then it settles right beside me on the wall and I breathe easy again.
A door slams, hauling me back to reality. Layla barges out of the community centre, shouting that she’s found out what Ben needs help with at the fete.
‘Mrs Trowbridge says Ben’s desperate for someone to organise and run a cake stall. I told her you’ve worked in a café for years so we’d do it.’ Her eyes are shining. ‘I know
how to make chocolate cake.’
I open my mouth to say that just because I’ve served cake doesn’t necessarily mean I’m good at baking the things – but I suddenly realise she’s about to plonk herself down on the wall beside me.
‘No!’ I push out my arm to protect the ladybird and accidentally whack her on her side.
‘Woah!’ Layla stares down at me. ‘What the …?’
‘Sorry.’ I try to smile and look normal. ‘It’s – um – just a ladybird.’
It sounds so ridiculous. I’m expecting Layla to accuse me of needing to get a life, or something similar, with a few more expletives thrown in for emphasis. But her eyes light up.
‘Where? Oh, yeah.’ She peers down close enough to scare the poor thing half to death. ‘Wow.’
We both examine it for a while.
‘Ladybirds are amazing, don’t you think?’ says Layla at last. ‘I mean, they’re so perfect.’
Her girlish enthusiasm cheers me.
I smile at her. ‘They are, aren’t they?’
TWENTY-TWO
On Friday morning, when I arrive at Rushbrooke House for my daily gardening session, Prue has some news for me. She brings me into the kitchen to tell me.
Her sister, who lives in Kent, hasn’t been well and Prue is going down the next day to spend some time with her.
‘Now, I trust you to keep an eye on things while I’m away, Polly,’ she says briskly. ‘You don’t need to keep to your usual hours. Just pop over when you like and make a note of the hours you work.’
‘Okay. No problem.’
‘Jack’s driving me down there tomorrow and he’ll collect me in a fortnight.’
‘That’s nice of him,’ I say, wondering about her pristine VW Golf in the garage.
She sighs. ‘Well, I told him I’m perfectly capable of driving myself but he absolutely insists. I don’t know what on earth he imagines will happen. Does he think I’d take a nap at the wheel and cause a major pile-up on the motorway?’
‘I guess he’s just being protective,’ I soothe, stifling a yawn. It’s nice the way Jack looks after his mum, but I sometimes think he might be a little over-protective.
‘Hmm. You’re probably right.’ She peers at me. ‘You seem tired, Polly. You should have an early night.’
‘Oh, I’m fine.’ I smile at her.
I’m learning to let Prue’s bossiness wash over me. It’s just the way she is. And actually, she’s right. I’m shattered. Since discovering the stuck pages in Ivy’s diary, I’ve lain awake a lot at night, thinking about Ivy and Bee. And I still haven’t caught up properly on sleep since my lovely time with Sylvian, lying on the village green all night staring up at the stars.
‘Did you know Ivy at all?’ I ask Prue casually, hoping for a clue. Anything, really, that might point me in the direction of Bee.
She lifts her sunglasses and dabs carefully at her mascara. ‘I knew her a little when I first moved to Appleton when I married,’ she says, ‘although we didn’t move in the same circles. And then, years later, I heard she’d returned to the village, back to Moonbeam Cottage.’
‘Can you remember who Ivy was friends with, all those years ago?’ I ask, my heart beating a little faster. ‘It would be – um – nice to talk to people she used to know in her younger days.’
Prue frowns. ‘To be honest, my memory isn’t what it used to be. I seem to recall she and Peter were great friends with the Chickens at one stage.’
‘Henry and Henrietta?’
‘Yes. Do you know them?’
‘I’ve met them.’
Prue smiles. ‘You wouldn’t forget her in a hurry. Not that I’ve seen her for many years.’
‘Did you ever bump into Ivy in the village, after she came back?’ I prompt hopefully.
‘Do you know, I never did.’ She turns away and starts dead-heading flowers. ‘Mind you, that’s hardly surprising since I never have much need of going into the village. That corner shop is a total rip-off, so I do all my shopping at the big superstore in Cirencester.’
I study her back curiously. Is Layla right? That Prue is too scared of bumping into that Robina person to ever venture into the village? How sad, if it’s true.
She goes off to find a list of jobs she’s written for me to do while she’s away, and I glance curiously around the big farmhouse kitchen. It’s a complete mess. Not only is it untidy, with dishes and pans on every single surface, but it smells musty. The plaster on the ceiling looks ancient and seems to be coming away in lumps, and there’s a big patch in the corner where the wallpaper is hanging loose, presumably because the wall needs treating for damp. Rushbrooke House really is crumbling around their ears, just as Jack said.
I really feel for him, having to work at a job he hates just to keep this old monster ticking over.
When I get back from my morning’s gardening, I make a sandwich and take it over to eat in Ivy Garden. It’s a gloriously sunny June day and I want to prune the climbing roses the way Layla has shown me. I’m hoping she’ll come over later with news about Ben and our part in the summer fete. She promised me she’d find out.
Sure enough, she drops by late afternoon, straight from her shift at the garden centre.
‘Ben knows we’re doing the cake stall and he wants us to meet him for a chat on Tuesday,’ she says, eyes sparkling at the prospect of some more sleuthing.
‘Great.’ I swallow hard. That’s only three days away. ‘Where are we meeting?’
‘Deli-café at midday. Is that okay?’
‘Fabulous.’ I sound calm but my mind has gone into instant overdrive. Maybe Ben is the missing link and we can finally solve the mystery. Excitement and apprehension at the very thought make my insides roll over.
Unaware of all this, Layla gives me a thumbs up. ‘Right. Can’t stop. Meeting Josh.’ And she barges her way back through the hedge.
That night, I lie awake, thinking about Henry Chicken and Ben.
I’ve pretty much ruled Henry out as Ivy’s secret love. At first, his stunned reaction to seeing me made me think that maybe he was The One. But then I realised he was only amazed at how the years had flown by because last time he saw me I had been little more than a toddler.
But what about Ben?
My heart trips along that little bit faster every time I think about meeting him in the café at noon on Friday.
TWENTY-THREE
Midsummer Night dawns sunny and warm.
It’s Monday, the day before Layla and I are due to meet Ben in the deli-café, which I’m really nervous about. Every time I think about meeting this man who could be my granddad, I feel slightly queasy, wondering what I’ll say to him.
Another person who’s making my heart beat that little bit faster is Sylvian. Seeing him later for our Midsummer Night date will go a long way towards taking my mind off meeting Ben.
Since our delicious night on the village green, I’ve been thinking about Sylvian quite a lot. The very next day, he sent me an email with details of the art college near where he lives in Cornwall, which surprised and delighted me because it proved he’d been thinking about me, too. I’ve never met a man who’s so caring and intelligent, and has such fascinating ideas about life. I’ve been doing the meditation thing whenever I feel over-anxious, and I have to say, it really does work. Going to stay in Sylvian’s house by the beach would probably be like visiting a spa! I’d return home so much more relaxed. I’m sure I could really get into his way of life …
It helps, of course, that he’s also gorgeous and sexy. And I think he really likes me, too.
I can’t wait to find out what he has planned for our pagan celebration tonight. Thankfully, since I assume we’re going to be somewhere outdoors, the night ahead is set to be dry, mild and rather humid.
Perfect!
What do pagans wear, I wonder? Searching through my limited wardrobe, I come across a long, silky summer dress, patterned with big red poppies that I’ve never worn. I slip on my gold gladiator sandals and
pose in the full-length mirror. Floaty and floral is good, I think, admiring the effect. And the dress will be nice and cool for a humid night. I’ve blow-dried my hair and it gleams in the sunlight filtering through the bedroom window.
I keep having visions of Sylvian turning up at my door in full pagan attire. What that would be, I’m not entirely sure. As long as he’s not wearing scratchy robes and a long fake beard or dressed as an ancient, gnarly tree, I really don’t mind. I’d draw the line at green body paint, though.
He arrives on the dot of eight o’clock wearing, to my relief, a lovely, if unimaginative, outfit of jeans and a pale blue T-shirt. He looks gorgeous. And so does the large, expensive-looking picnic basket he’s carrying.
He smiles wolfishly. ‘You look beautiful, Holly. Very … woodland creature-like.’
I grin. ‘Exactly the effect I was aiming for. Where are we going?’ I lift my dress to reveal my flimsy sandals. ‘Are these going to be appropriate? If we’re hiking to the top of a hill, I’d better change.’
He shakes his head. ‘No hills. Just a relaxed walk over the road.’ He nods in the direction of Ivy Garden.
‘Oh. Fab,’ I say, pleasantly surprised.
He smiles. ‘It’s such a magical place. I didn’t see any point in going further afield. Shall we go?’
He takes my hand and I lean into him as we walk over the road. He holds the hedge back at one side so I can get through the gap without snagging my dress.
‘This is glorious,’ I sigh, breathing in the scent from the climbing roses, as Sylvian shakes out a blanket for our picnic by the tree stump. ‘After you,’ he says with a flourish and I lower myself on to the rug in as graceful a manner as I can.
He places the picnic basket in the middle and sits down opposite me. ‘I hope you’re hungry. I’ve got some little delicacies that I’m sure you’ll love. Champagne?’
‘Ooh, yes, please.’ I love champagne. I don’t love the sound of the ‘little delicacies’ so much but maybe they won’t be so bad. If I concentrate on the champagne, everything will be fine …
He draws a chilled bottle from the basket, pops the cork and I cheer and hold out my glass. ‘To Midsummer Night,’ I toast, and we laugh and clink our flutes and take our first sip of champagne. It’s cold and delicious, and I smile happily, savouring the bubbles fizzing on my tongue.
The Secrets of Ivy Garden Page 18
