‘Absolutely. Lop off all those beastly orange flowers. Cut them back to the wood, as Daddy would say.’ She totters out on a cloud of Chanel No. 5, swatting away a wasp with a little squeal of horror. ‘And Holly?’ She turns at the door. ‘Be ruthless!’
Ruthless? I can do that.
Twenty minutes later, the tomato plants are looking shiny, green and rather naked, every one of those pesky yellowy-orange flowers plucked and dropped in a box that lies at my feet.
I survey my handiwork and clap muck off my hands. A job well done, if I say so myself. Prue will be delighted.
I glance around the greenhouse, noticing a proliferation of yellow flowers growing on another type of plant. I seem to remember Prue saying they were her prize courgettes.
More pruning!
Diligently, I set to work, nipping off the delicate little flowers.
A high-pitched laugh distracts me.
Jack is walking towards me, across the lawn, with Selena running daintily beside him, trying to keep up.
‘Holly? Could I have a quick word?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Jack doesn’t usually concern himself with my tasks in the garden. Thank goodness. (If he did, I’d have been rumbled a long time ago.)
He clears his throat. ‘Look, I know this is above and beyond the call of duty, but Layla’s in the house trying to make a shepherd’s pie and I’m worried she might set the kitchen on fire.’
‘Really?’ I laugh.
He grins. ‘I was wondering if you could go in and supervise her for a while?’
‘Yes, of course.’ My ability to stop fires before they start way exceeds my gardening talents. This will be a breeze.
‘Great. I’m running Selena to the station but I’ll be back in an hour.’
They turn to leave. Then Jack swings round and stares at the tomato plants.
‘Funny. I could have sworn they had blossom on them yesterday when I looked. I told Mum to expect a fine crop of tomatoes in a week or two. But I think she’s going to be disappointed …’
Puzzled, he shakes his head, clearly fearing for his mental health.
Shocked, I glance at Selena. ‘But didn’t you say your father used to prune off the blossom?’
She glances at Jack with a wide-eyed look that says I’m obviously delusional. ‘I don’t know where you got that from, Holly,’ she laughs. ‘Daddy doesn’t know the first thing about gardening!’
I frown. ‘Your father’s still with us?’
‘Of course. I’m meeting him for dinner tonight.’ A smug smile of victory flashes across her face. ‘I’ll tell Daddy you said hello, shall I?’
Speechless, I watch her trip away across the lawn with Jack.
Unbelievable!
TWENTY-SEVEN
I find Layla in the messy kitchen, clutter on every surface. She’s peering into a casserole dish on the ancient cooker top and there’s an ominous whiff of burning, which is presumably why Jack asked for my help.
She turns. ‘Welcome to the mad house. Think I’ve torched the minced beef.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ We both stare into the dish and I swipe it off the heat. ‘I think it’s caught on the bottom.’
‘As in “caught fire”?’ Layla looks incredulous.
‘Well, kind of. But if we’re lucky, we could take out all but the very bottom layer that’s burned and transfer the rest to another pan.’ I glance around. ‘Another pan?’
An assortment of pans and dishes sit on the worktop but I can’t tell if they’re clean.
Layla peers into them, shaking her head.
‘You can’t possibly have used all these pans for your shepherd’s pie,’ I laugh.
She looks puzzled. ‘No. I’ve just used that one on the hob. The kitchen always looks like this.’
‘Really? Doesn’t anyone tidy up? It looks as if you’ve been burgled.’
Layla feigns an offended look. ‘Well, that’s rude.’
I grin, slightly shamefaced. Perhaps Layla’s direct manner is starting to wear off on me. ‘I mean, it’s a lovely kitchen but just a bit disorderly, that’s all,’ I amend, noticing a strategically placed bucket over in a corner. The ceiling above it shows signs of a leak. In fact, the whole house has that slightly musty smell that hints at nasty surprises in the woodwork.
‘It’s a bloody dump, you mean,’ grunts Layla. ‘Look at the ceiling.’
We stare up at it and I wince. Some of the ancient plaster has crumbled away. It definitely needs some attention. But in a house this cavernous, where would you start?
‘It’s like a freaking haunted house,’ grins Layla. She runs a large pan under the tap, swills it out roughly and presents it to me. ‘Voila. One pan.’
‘Great.’ Trying not to notice what’s been in it before, I grab a damp tea towel, wipe the bottom of the pan and tip the rescued beef into it. There’s a carrot and a stock cube lying on the bench, along with a bag of sprouting potatoes.
‘Does your mum usually do the cooking?’ I ask, thinking Prue’s absence must be the reason for the chaos.
Layla snorted. ‘Not unless she absolutely has to. Like if we have Auntie Joan over on a Sunday. Usually, we all just get our own food. My favourite’s Pot Noodles.’
‘So you never sit down for a meal together, during the week, just you, your mum and your brother?’
‘Hardly ever. If we waited for Jack, we’d starve to death. He’s always back quite late. And Mum prefers to eat ridiculously early.’
‘How early?’ I ask, stirring the beef.
‘Seven o’clock,’ says Layla scathingly. ‘Can you believe it? I’m never even in before eight.’
‘Seven’s okay. Any later and you won’t be able to digest your food properly,’ I point out, sounding scarily like a mother myself. ‘Perhaps you should make an effort to get back earlier. Especially if your mum’s cooked you something nice.’
Layla frowns. ‘I don’t think she’s that bothered. I think she quite enjoys eating on her own. She says she likes the peace and quiet.’
I shrug. ‘You might be surprised. So where do you have your – erm – Pot Noodles?’
She shrugs. ‘If I’m in, I get my food and take it up to my room. Then I either record my stories or watch telly.’
She peers into the pan. ‘I don’t like shepherd’s pie much, but Jack keeps banging on about how it’s time we made an effort to eat proper food. He’s paying me a tenner to do this.’
I stare at her. ‘He paid you?’
She shrugs. ‘Why not? It works for me.’
I feel a pang of sympathy for Jack. He works his butt off every day to provide for them all and the prospect of a scrap with a stroppy teenager over getting dinner on the table is probably an obstacle too far. No wonder he resorts to financial incentives.
I abandon the pan and peer in the fridge.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Layla at once.
I bring out some onions and an aubergine that’s just this side of turning, along with a block of cheese and some milk. ‘I think we can do a bit better than boring old shepherd’s pie.’
I set Layla the task of digging around in the cupboards for a can of tomatoes, dried garlic and herbs, and I harpoon an opened bottle of red wine to add to the meat sauce.
‘My version of moussaka,’ I explain. ‘Do you want to make the cheese sauce?’
An hour later, when Jack walks in, the kitchen is looking a lot tidier. The wooden table has been cleared and wiped clean and a vase of freshly picked freesias sits in the centre.
Jack looks around in mild surprise. ‘You’ve been busy.’
I smile, feeling oddly self-conscious. ‘Yes, we have. We’ve made moussaka.’ My voice sounds weird, as if it doesn’t belong to me. ‘Or at least, my take on it. Layla made the cheese sauce.’
Jack grins and perches one buttock on the edge of the table. ‘From a packet?’
He’s changed into faded jeans and a blue checked shirt.
‘No!’ squawks Layla, full of indi
gnation. ‘I made it from scratch with butter and flour and everything.’
Jack nods, impressed. I’m aware of him studying me lazily, arms folded, with an appreciative smile that crinkles his eyes at the corners and brings fire charging into my cheeks. I keep breathing in little wafts of his cologne. I wish I didn’t like it. But I do. Far too much.
‘You can come again, Holly,’ he says.
Smiling, I blush a bit more and concentrate hard on getting the moussaka into the oven.
‘And I take it you’ll be joining us for dinner?’ he adds matter-of-factly, hopping off the table and going to select a bottle of red from the wine rack. He holds it aloft. ‘Like a drink?’
‘Oh, no, don’t worry.’ I hope he doesn’t think I’ve been hanging around, expecting an invitation to stay. ‘I’ll be getting off home now.’
Layla clatters a pile of knives and forks on to the table. ‘No, you won’t. I’m setting you a place.’ She lays the table with a flourish. ‘So now you have to stay. It would be rude not to. Wouldn’t it, brother dear?’
‘Definitely.’ Jack winks at me. ‘And we’ll need a second opinion on this cheese sauce of yours, dear sis.’
He smiles at Layla, watching her work. I get the feeling harmony in the kitchen doesn’t occur terribly often here.
I laugh. ‘Oh, well, if you put it like that …’
‘Good.’ Jack glances at his watch. ‘Actually, I need to deliver a chair to a customer. Have I time to nip out before this incredible feast is served?’
‘Loads of time,’ I assure him. ‘The moussaka will be an hour and we need to make dessert yet.’
‘Can’t wait.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘A sit-down dinner during the week that doesn’t involve peeling off cellophane. What a novelty.’
He grabs his keys from the table and goes out, whistling.
While he’s gone, I show Layla how to make a crumble for dessert with some of the apples piled in the fruit bowl. We add cinnamon to the apples and porridge oats to the topping to make it extra delicious. She’s never baked with Prue, apart from the messy stuff when she was little, and I find that quite sad. I learned all my baking skills from Ivy. She hated cooking and never attempted anything fancier than shepherd’s pie. But baking she loved.
‘We should light some candles,’ I suggest, as Layla sneaks a spoonful of crumble. It’s fresh from the oven, and she yelps as it burns her mouth.
And right at that moment, all the lights go out and we’re plunged into gloom.
‘Shit. Power cut,’ says Layla. ‘We haven’t had one of those for months.’
‘Told you we should light some candles.’
‘Yeah, that was a bit spooky. Are you psychic or what?’
She pulls open drawers, presumably looking for candles, uttering a choice expletive when she can’t find any.
She clicks her fingers. ‘I know! Follow me.’
We leave by the back door and crunch along a gravel path in the descending gloom. It‘s only seven-thirty but there’s a chill in the air and the sky is dark and threatening rain.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘The cottage in the woods.’
‘Are you sure?’ Warning bells ring. I seem to recall Jack saying Prue doesn’t like the cottage being disturbed. ‘Won’t your mum mind?’
Layla’s charging along at a fair old pace. ‘Mum’s not here,’ she calls back. ‘And anyway, we’re just looking for candles, not wrecking the place.’
A little way into the woods, there it is. A small but perfectly formed cottage. It’s like a little house from a fairytale, except it has a sad, neglected air about it. The white paint is peeling off the front door and the two hanging baskets suspended from the porch are overgrown with weeds.
Layla pushes open the door with some effort as it seems to have got stuck – the wood warping over time perhaps – and we walk straight into the living room of what had been William Rushbrooke’s private space.
I flick the light switch but of course nothing happens. I wonder whether that’s because of the current black-out, or has the power long since ceased to reach this shabby little hidey hole in the woods?
A wooden desk in one corner holds an ancient word processor and a flask, with its black plastic cup sitting beside it. I wander over and draw my finger through the dust on the computer screen. A candle on a saucer has burned down to the wick and I notice the cup has been used and contains a film of mould from a long-ago coffee.
I shiver. When her husband died seventeen years ago, Prue obviously closed the door on his precious bolt-hole and left it exactly as it was. It reminds me of Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, a prisoner of the past in that ill-fated gown and veil, the wedding breakfast that was never eaten draped in cobwebs, left to go mouldy along with all her hopes and dreams.
A lump rises in my throat.
Poor Prue …
Layla is rummaging around in some boxes piled along one wall.
‘Yes!’ She holds up a church candle in each hand. ‘I thought I’d find some here.’
‘How did you know?’
She shrugs. ‘I’ve been here before. Lots of times when Mum didn’t know. It’s cool, isn’t it?’
We glance around and I nod. ‘It is. I love the fact that it’s hidden away in the woods, like the gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel. It’s so – romantic.’
Layla gives a little sigh. ‘I think of my dad sitting there at the desk, using that weird dinosaur of a computer, dreaming up his inventions.’ She pauses. ‘I wish I’d known him. He sounded – I don’t know – different. In a good way.’
I smile at her. ‘A bit like you.’
Layla’s eyebrows rise. ‘You think so? You think I might have taken after him?’
I nod. ‘Absolutely.’
She turns away, but not before I catch the glisten in her eyes.
She places the candles on the floor and opens a few more of the boxes, peering inside.
‘Hey, look at this!’
She’s holding an old orange folder in one hand and a glossy black and white photo in the other. I draw closer to look. It’s a side-on picture of Layla, her hair dark, clearly its natural colour. Reed-slim in a black leotard, she’s holding her arms in a ballet pose, laughing into the camera.
I look again.
It’s not Layla at all.
‘It’s Mum,’ says Layla, sounding shocked. ‘I thought it was me for a minute.’ She stares at the photo. ‘I look just like her when she was young.’
‘Haven’t you seen these photos before?’ I ask, surprised.
‘No, they were in this file. I thought they must be Dad’s engineering papers or something so I never looked.’
She passes me a few of the photos, all showing Prue not much older than Layla, in various laughing dance poses. She looks so happy in them, it makes me wonder who the photographer was. Her husband? William Rushbrooke?
I turn one of them over. There’s an inscription on the back in blue ink.
Broadway, New York, July 1978.
I gasp. ‘Oh my God. Your mum danced on Broadway?’
Layla nods, looking surprised at my reaction. ‘She first met Dad in New York. He was over there on holiday with a mate and they went to a Broadway show and Mum was one of the dancers. Jack told me he fell in love with her on the spot and tried to get backstage to talk to her but he couldn’t. So he waited at the side door for her and that’s how they met.’
Realising my mouth is open, I snap it shut. ‘Wow. How romantic. She must have been a brilliant dancer. I bet she’s told you loads of tales about those days – did she ever work with anyone famous?’
Layla shrugs. ‘I don’t think so. Jack mentioned someone called Glenda Close?’
‘Glenn Close? Wow! Your mum ought to write a book.’ I grin at her. ‘Or maybe you should write it!’
Layla crosses her eyes comically. ‘You’re joking. Mum never talks about her life in New York. Ever. I think she’s ashamed that she used to be a danc
er.’
‘Ashamed? But why? She must have been a fabulous dancer to have been picked for productions on Broadway.’
‘Yeah?’ Layla stares at me.
I nod excitedly. ‘Oh, yes!’
‘So why won’t she talk about it?’ Scathingly, she says, ‘Of course, she’s lady of the manor now. Maybe she thinks she’s too posh to have been in musicals.’
‘But she should be proud of it! Crikey, if I’d been a dancer in the Big Apple, I’d be telling everyone I know and boring the pants off them.’
‘Mum’s not like most people. She—’
The door suddenly flies open and a torch is swung in our eyes.
‘Layla? What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Beside me, Layla jumps.
‘I was looking for candles,’ she bursts out, clearly well-practised at finding excuses for bad behaviour. Except that in this instance she is telling the truth.
Jack’s face is like thunder. ‘Well, get them and let’s get out of here. You know the rules.’
‘What rules?’ Layla looks sulky.
‘Don’t give me that,’ growls Jack. ‘You know what I’m talking about. Mum hates you disturbing this place.’
‘Well, I don’t know why,’ grumbles Layla, although she does as she’s told, gathering up half a dozen candles. ‘She’s got a photo of Dad by her bed to remember him by. Why does she need this place as well? It’s such a waste, sat here empty all the time—’
Jack turns and fixes her with a glare and she snaps her mouth shut. He glances at me and his face softens slightly. ‘Sorry, Holly. It’s just she knows the score.’
He marches off into the gloom and I follow him, turning at the door, just in time to see Layla quickly stuff the photos she found up her jumper with a guilty look.
Back at the house, she runs upstairs, supposedly to wash her hands but probably, I’m guessing, to escape the tense atmosphere. From what I remember, teenagers spend their whole lives in their bedrooms, and Layla is clearly no different.
I busy myself getting the moussaka out of the oven while Jack finds saucers for the candles and lights them, placing three on the table and dotting more on the counter where I’m working.
The Secrets of Ivy Garden Page 22
