The Secrets of Ivy Garden

by Catherine Ferguson

  If all that is true, I can take some of his sadness away by revealing who I am.

  My heart is hammering frantically.

  Already, I’m picturing the look on his face when he learns we’re related – natural doubt fighting with the desire to believe it. And finally, enormous delight in finding he has a granddaughter he never knew about …

  ‘There are plenty of advantages to being a bachelor,’ Ben says. ‘I can do what I want, when I want, with no-one to please but myself. I’m healthy and I’ve still got all my marbles.’ He taps his head. ‘Believe me, girls, that counts for a lot when you get to my age.’

  ‘You definitely don’t look ancient,’ says Layla earnestly. I catch Ben’s eye and we smile.

  ‘What?’ Layla demands, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Nothing,’ we chime together.

  She sighs. ‘Anyway, kids ruin your life so you’re probably better off not having any, Ben. Plus it’s bloody hard work bringing them up.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I ask, laughing.

  She shrugs. ‘It’s what Mum always yells at me when we’re having a row.’

  ‘Oh.’ Is she exaggerating? Quite possibly. I can’t believe Prue would be as insensitive as that. ‘Your mum was on her own with you and Jack after your dad died,’ I remind her. ‘It can’t have been easy for her.’

  I’m expecting Layla to argue. But for once, she just frowns and lapses into a pensive silence.

  ‘I haven’t bumped into Prue in years,’ muses Ben, after a moment.

  Layla sniffs. ‘That’s because she avoids the village like the plague.’

  Ben and I exchange a glance as Layla scrapes back her chair and bounds over to the counter to sprinkle more chocolate on her cappuccino.

  He reaches over and lightly touches my hand. ‘By the way, I really wouldn’t consider it nosy if you wanted to ask me anything to do with your grandmother. She was one very special lady, and if I can help in any way by filling in the gaps, please ask away.’

  I nod but it’s impossible to speak because of the lump in my throat.

  ‘I knew her most of my life, from when we were kids at the village school.’ His eyes glisten. ‘I miss her, too.’

  Plonking herself back down at the table, Layla catches the tail end of this and nods. ‘Ivy was cool. She actually sort of understood teenagers, instead of deciding we’re all yobbos like some folk around here. Including Mum.’

  Ben smiles in agreement. He’s just the sort of man Ivy would admire. Quietly spoken but self-assured. Younger than his years in mind and body. A gentle man.

  Ben clears his throat. ‘I suppose we’d better get down to the real business of the day, eh, Holly?’

  My head swims. I’m still far away in my own thoughts about his relationship with Ivy, and just for a second, I actually imagine he’s talking about the business of finding my granddad.

  Layla nudges me and murmurs, ‘The cake stall.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ I force a smile. ‘The cake stall.’

  We chat about the fete and what Layla and I can do to make the cake stall a success.

  I’m really warming to Ben. He’s wise and thoughtful with a lovely, dry sense of humour, and almost without realising I’m doing it, I’m analysing his face, his posture, his mannerisms, even the shape of his nails, looking for clues as to whether we could possibly be related.

  When he said he missed Ivy, I could tell the sentiment came right from the heart. He wasn’t just saying it to make me feel better. He really meant it.

  Oh God, what if …?

  I have to take a sip of coffee to hide the sudden surge of emotion. My hand is shaking and when I set down the cup, it rattles in the saucer.

  ‘Do you help to organise the fete every single year?’ Layla is asking.

  Ben chuckles. ‘It certainly looks that way. They always ask me and I never have the heart to refuse.’

  I leave them chatting and slip off to the Ladies, where I lean on the basin and stare at myself in the mirror. It’s ridiculous imagining Ben might be the granddad I never knew. Isn’t it? It’s just too fantastical for words – like something Layla might dream up when she’s penning one of her cosy mysteries.

  So why, if I don’t believe it, am I examining my features in the mirror for any trace of a family resemblance?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When I get back to the table, Layla is showing Ben how to work his phone.

  ‘See all this?’ Layla indicates the pile of summer fete paperwork he’s generated. ‘You could store the information on your phone instead. Then it would all be in one place.’

  Ben nods. ‘Sounds great but I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve only just discovered how to send a text. I had no idea what an emoticon was until yesterday.’ He smiles sheepishly. ‘I thought it was something to do with car theft.’

  Layla grins. ‘I could give you a lesson if you like. Walk you through all the features on your phone.’

  ‘That would be marvellous.’ Ben beams. ‘Thank you, Layla. I’d really appreciate your help some time.’

  ‘Hey, no problem.’ She smiles a little shyly, her cheeks tinged with pink. ‘I know we haven’t got time now, but there are a couple of things on this phone that would make your life so much easier …’

  Ben watches, genuinely fascinated by what she’s showing him, and I suddenly wish Prue and Jack were here to witness how helpful and lovely Layla can be when the mood takes her. I get the feeling they get her bolshy, rather childish side most of the time, and as a result, their expectations of her are perhaps limited. Jack works his butt off all week and Prue seems to be in her own little world most of the time. Even at meal times they all do their own thing, according to Layla. Ships that pass in the night, with no time for the kind of healthy communication that brings families closer together.

  It’s a slightly depressing scenario. Sometimes, when Layla is on one of her rants about her family, and declaring she can’t wait to have a place of her own, my heart feels heavy. From my vantage point, she has family, therefore she has everything. She just doesn’t realise it.

  I sneakily think all three of them need their heads knocking together.

  At last we get down to chatting about the practicalities involved in organising a cake stall, and Layla suggests I make notes on my phone.

  She turns to Ben. ‘I’m dyslexic, so I can’t do it.’ She laughs. ‘At least, I could, but it wouldn’t make much sense and we’d be sitting here till midnight.’

  Ben nods at her revelation. ‘They say there’s an element of genius in a lot of people with dyslexia. Look at Leonardo da Vinci.’

  ‘Tom Cruise and Jennifer Aniston,’ I supply, having done some research. ‘Not sure about “genius” but they’re exceptional in their field.’

  Layla nods. ‘Apparently Agatha Christie had a learning disability and couldn’t spell for toffee. Imagine that.’

  I nudge her gently and murmur, ‘You’re in good company, then, especially Ms Christie.’

  She stiffens, shooting me a warning look.

  I know what it means.

  Don’t tell Ben about my writing!

  ‘He’s class. I wouldn’t mind having him for a granddad myself.’ Layla peers at me to gauge my reaction as we stand outside the deli-café watching Ben hurry off to his car. ‘Clueless about modern technology, though. And we’re no further forward in discovering if he’s your granddad or not.’ She sighs. ‘I wanted to ask him straight out if he’d had an affair with Ivy. But I pictured your face and stopped myself in time.’

  ‘Gosh, Layla. That was very mature of you. You sure you’re not coming down with something?’

  ‘Oh, ha, ha! Very funny. I’m not a kid any more, you know. I am learning when it’s best to keep my mouth shut.’

  I grin at her. ‘Subtlety and diplomacy? Crikey, Layla, we’ll make an impressive adult of you yet. Ben certainly seemed grateful for your technology skills.’

  We walk in the direction of Moonbeam C
ottage in companionable silence, deep in our own thoughts.

  ‘Something happened that night at the dinner party,’ Layla muses when we reach my garden gate. ‘Something that was important to Ben. Do you think it might have been him and Ivy – erm – doing it for the first time?’

  ‘That did occur to me – especially when he described it as a “life-changing” night.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to his girlfriend?’

  ‘Lucy Feathers?’

  She nods. ‘He obviously didn’t marry Lucy. But maybe, if we found her, she’d be able to tell us whether Ben and Ivy were ever an item. I googled her but nothing came up and no-one around here seems to know where she lives.’

  I stare at her. ‘You’ve been doing detective work in the village?’

  She shrugs. ‘I’ve asked a few customers at the garden centre. I’ve been telling people Lucy Feathers is an old friend of Mum’s and we want to get back in touch. I’ve drawn a blank so far though.’

  I fall silent, mulling over Layla’s proactive approach, as she talks on about how much she likes Ben. It makes me slightly uneasy. It was all very well when it was just the two of us, talking things over and trying to solve a mystery, but I’m not sure I want the wider community knowing all about Ivy’s affair.

  No-one knew that her husband, Peter, was emotionally abusive towards her. Ivy kept quiet about that, probably out of a misplaced sense of loyalty towards him and guilt at finding herself having feelings for another man.

  But with my lovely grandma no longer here to defend herself, I’m worried people might judge her harshly for having an affair, without knowing the circumstances.

  A little voice in my head is nagging me.

  Ivy’s reputation is not the only reason I’m not keen on news of our search spreading.

  The fact is, Layla’s detective work is making the search for my granddad frighteningly real. The more people she talks to, the more likely we are to make progress and solve the mystery.

  My insides are in uproar at the very thought.

  With her uncanny way of sensing my mood, Layla frowns and says, ‘Look, I know you must be scared, Holly. But trust me, it’ll be fine. You’ve got to do this. Then whatever happens, at least you’ll have found out the truth and you won’t drive yourself mad wondering what might have happened if you’d only been a little bit braver.’

  I give her a feeble smile. ‘Wise words.’ I lean in to her for a second to show my gratitude.

  ‘I know.’ She tosses her head. ‘I’m a genius. By the way, how did Midsummer Night with Sylvian go?’

  I glance at her in horror. ‘He told you about that?’ Oh, God, please don’t say she knows about the tantric meditation!

  ‘Hey, relax. He hasn’t told me any of the gory details. Just that he was planning a picnic in Ivy Garden.’

  ‘Oh. Well … it was fine.’

  She grimaces. ‘Ooh, that bad, eh?’

  ‘Let’s just say Sylvian and I have – erm – different ideas about life.’

  ‘Say no more.’ She taps the side of her nose.

  It hasn’t taken me long to get over Sylvian and to realise that I had a very lucky escape there. We had nothing in common really. I was feeling so lonely when I arrived that I think I just grabbed on to him when he gave me encouragement. I needed to feel I wasn’t entirely alone. I don’t bear him any ill will at all. I still think he’s a good person. It’s just his lifestyle seems so alien to me.

  ‘Now, we need to talk about the stall,’ Layla says, ‘so we can get things organised and do Ben proud.’

  Instantly my heart goes into overdrive. I try to join in as Layla talks about the merits of whole cakes over muffins and vice versa, but I’m finding it hard when my stomach is fluttering and all I can think is: How will our search for my granddad end?

  It will truly be a dream come true if there’s a happy conclusion.

  But what if there isn’t?

  TWENTY-SIX

  The next few weeks pass in a whirl of decorating the cottage and planning for the fete cake stall.

  I’m aware I should be spending more time gardening for Prue, but I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything. I just can’t stop thinking about the whole Ivy mystery and wondering about Ben …

  On my way back from the village store this morning, I’m so deep in thought, I almost collide with a woman walking towards me. We do the ‘dancing’ thing, trying to get past each other, and laugh at how silly it is.

  She looks around sixty and she’s dressed smartly in a floral skirt, blue jacket and sensible shoes. When she laughs, her whole face lights up. My mum would be like her, I think, as I often do.

  And then, of course, I remember my brilliant idea for a matching agency, which I came up with years ago when I was in my early teens and raging hormones meant I was always wishing Ivy would bugger off and leave me alone, and I could have my real parents back. (Because, of course, they would have been so much more understanding … )

  Wouldn’t it be lovely, I used to think, if children without parents could be matched with parents without children? Such a simple idea but how much happiness it could bring! I’d only allow really lovely mums and dads on to my books and they’d have to pass a kindness test – possibly involving a stray kitten.

  I got quite obsessed with the idea at one time. I mentioned it to my best friend at school and she gave me this really sad, pitying look. But actually, I wasn’t looking for sympathy. I already had a parent, and despite the occasional tearful shouting match, deep down I knew that in having Ivy to fight my corner, I was a whole lot luckier than some.

  I just thought I was on to something with the matching agency.

  I smile, recalling those idealistic days of childhood when the idea was born. Things seemed much simpler then. Of course, when I was a bit older I learned all about adoption, but that seemed unnecessarily complicated, full of rules and regulations, and it took the shine off my enchanting vision.

  Thinking about it now, on a purely practical level, a parent ‘match’ would certainly solve the problem of where to go for Sunday lunch, when everyone else is busy with cosy family plans.

  My mobile rings. To my surprise, it’s Prue.

  ‘Hello. How are you?’ I say. ‘Is your sister feeling any better?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you. Now. Polly. I’m phoning to check everything is all right in the garden. I hope you’re giving my greenhouse babies lots of love and care. The tomatoes especially need very particular attention.’

  I wince. Oh hell, do they?

  ‘Er, actually, I’m off there this afternoon,’ I say quickly. ‘And yes, the tomatoes are looking – um – delicious!’

  ‘Excellent. Well, I’m expecting great things on my return. Goodbye.’

  She hangs up without waiting for my reply.

  I frown at the handset.

  I’m fairly certain she wouldn’t pass the kindness test. Too chilly by half. The poor stray kitten would be dismissed immediately and expected to fend for itself.

  I feel a sudden pang of sympathy for Layla.

  Prue is definitely no ‘earth mother’ …

  Later, when I finally go over to Rushbrooke House, I’m alarmed at the amount of weeding that needs to be done. But then, it is July, the height of the growing season. The result is a very long session that makes me ache in places I didn’t realise I had.

  There are also the ‘greenhouse babies’ to check. In all the recent upheaval, I’ve been forgetting to do that, which is very remiss of me considering just how proud Prue is of her salad vegetables.

  Thankfully, when I enter the greenhouse, everything looks fine. Not a greenfly in sight.

  ‘Hi, Holly,’ says a voice behind me, and I swing round.

  It’s Selena.

  She’s ‘dressed for the country’ in brown cord trousers, white shirt, tweed waistcoat and matching tweed hacking jacket. A brown cap perches at an angle on her gleaming chestnut hair. It pains me to admit it, but she definitely has a way w
ith a jaunty angle. In that outfit, she could be modelling for a huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’ catalogue.

  ‘I was looking for Jack,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to get back to London tonight but he said on no account was I to leave without a kiss goodbye.’ She smiles smugly, narrowing her eyes at me so they look almost feline. ‘He’s such a sweetie.’

  I paste on a smile. ‘If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.’

  ‘Thank you, Holly. Oh, and by the way, you’d better prune those tomato plants.’

  ‘Really?’ I swing round and stare at the plants in question. They’re vibrant and green, climbing up the wooden sticks, with little orange flowers sprouting from their stalks.

  ‘But they look really healthy,’ I start to say. Then I think: Hang on a sec, is she having me on?

  She’s so sly. Can I really trust her to tell me the truth?

  Selena shakes her head firmly. ‘Appearances can be deceptive. If in doubt, get pruning. That was always Daddy’s motto.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  She smiles sadly. ‘He’s gone now.’ She swallows and glances down at her feet, and my heart goes out to her.

  ‘He was a good gardener?’ I prompt gently, in case she wants to tell me about him.

  When someone you love dies, people often assume you’d rather not talk about them because you’ll get upset, but it’s not always the case. I always welcome any opportunity to remember Ivy.

  When Selena looks up, she’s smiling through her tears. ‘Dad had real green fingers. We had an ornamental garden at Hatley Hall next to the maze, and Daddy used to insist on doing the pruning himself. He said the gardeners were never ruthless enough. I used to hold his sweater while he worked.’

  ‘Memories like that can be a real comfort,’ I murmur, surprised to suddenly be feeling such empathy towards my arch enemy.

  She nods sadly. ‘They can indeed, Holly.’

  ‘And obviously with tomato plants, you have to – erm – prune away all the …’ I wave my arm vaguely in the plants’ direction, hoping she’ll fill in the blank.