Ivy Lane: Summer: Part 2

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘Aidan Whitby,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t the very name of him make you want to swoon?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said vaguely, handing over a fiver for a bag of straw.

  Aidan did nothing for me and Whitby made me think of crabs, donkeys and Dracula. Nothing swoon-worthy about that list. I wondered what she was on about.

  ‘Our director,’ she clarified. ‘I’ve received a letter from him today confirming the time of our meeting.’ She widened her eyes. ‘A TV director coming to Ivy Lane.’ She sighed.

  ‘That will be exciting, won’t it?’ I said, wishing I meant it. I seemed to be the only person who wasn’t thrilled about it.

  ‘I’ve pinned the notice up on the board. Spread the word please, Tilly love, we need everyone there.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, picking up my straw.

  ‘And I’m counting on you to be our shining star, promoting allotment gardening for beginners and the younger generation. It’ll do wonders for our profile, wonders.’

  I gave her a tight smile and made my exit, my heart pounding with dread. Christine was going to be sorely disappointed, I thought.

  Chapter 2

  I shook the box of cat biscuits and listened.

  Nothing.

  Even this small act of defiance on the part of my kitten was almost too much to bear tonight.

  Last May I didn’t get out of bed all month. This year was a definite improvement on that: I had dragged myself into school each day, but by evening I’d had enough and right now the urge to dive under the covers and succumb to the misery that the month brought was almost over-powering.

  Maybe next May would be even better and I wouldn’t Dwell On The Past at all.

  I took a deep breath. Keep telling yourself that, Tilly, and it will come true.

  I played a quick game of Things to be Thankful For to cheer myself up (Supernoodles, Ant and Dec, and Lycra) while I cleared away my dinner things and stowed them in my tiny galley kitchen.

  There. No one would ever know I’d been.

  Despite coming on leaps and bounds at the allotment: making friends and putting my stamp on my half-plot, I still didn’t feel ready to put down roots on the home-front. I didn’t especially want to examine why this was but part of me suspected I was still hoping to wake up and find the last eighteen months had been a dream. A bad dream.

  I sighed and shook the box again.

  Cally at four months old was fast becoming a stroppy teenager in cat years; slinking to his own tune and completely ignoring my calls when it was time to shut him in the kitchen before I left the house. Eventually I heard the soft thump as he jumped down from my bedroom window sill and the tinkle of his collar signalling his descent down the stairs. He brushed his stripy grey body against my legs and sat neatly by the back door.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, bending to ruffle his chin. ‘You’re not allowed out on your own yet.’

  My spirits took a nosedive as I glanced at the clock. I should go. I didn’t want to but I would, I decided, scooping up four pots labelled ‘sweetcorn mark two’ into a carrier bag. My pumpkin seedlings could wait another few days, but these really needed to be in the ground. If I was quick, there would be just enough time to plant them before the extraordinary meeting in the pavilion.

  I strapped on my helmet and hi-vis waistcoat and cycled off.

  My part of Kingsfield had virtually no greenery except a few scrappy grass verges and a handful of melancholy poplar trees and somehow this made the arrival at Ivy Lane allotments extra magical: up Wellington Street I rode, left along Shenton Road by the shops, right into All Saints Road past my school and finally a left turn into Ivy Lane, where, between the ends of two rows of terraced houses, a driveway led Narnia-like to a lush green world, an oasis of serenity amidst the chaos of suburbia.

  Although perhaps not right now, I thought, as I approached the pavilion.

  Roy, shielding his eyes from the evening sun, looked up at Christine who was on a stepladder on the pavilion porch, hammer in hand and a tangled string of bunting trailing over her shoulder.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Chris,’ snapped Roy, ‘you’d think it was a visit from the Royal Bloody Family.’ He caught my eye and shook his head in exasperation.

  I dismounted to find out what was going on.

  ‘He farts like the rest of us, you know,’ he added.

  ‘Not like you, I hope. You stinkin’ great warthog.’

  Roy swiped a hand through the air irritably and turned away. ‘I’m surprised you’ve not had us lined up on the road waving flags,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  Christine froze and you could almost see the cogs in her brain clunking as her eyes darted to and fro: where will I get thirty Union Jacks in Kingsfield on a Monday night?

  I would quite like to have watched the drama unfold but as I was limited for time I pressed on to plot sixteen.

  Gemma’s shed door was open again and I shouted hello as I went by.

  ‘Evening, Tilly,’ she replied. Gemma must have come straight from work; she was dressed in her white beautician’s tunic and black trousers, and her hair was gripped back with an ordinary hairclip. Her tongue poked out from between her lips and she appeared to be drawing something on a large piece of cardboard. I mentally crossed my fingers that it wouldn’t be a sign to hold up during the meeting, like those sequin-covered messages of adoration that you saw at gigs.

  I gathered what I needed for planting: watering can, compost, trowel and bonemeal and made my way over the vegetable beds to see how my young plants were doing.

  Although I hadn’t been much of a cook lately, the abundance of fresh food springing up all around me and the satisfaction of picking something I had grown myself was beginning to tempt me back into the kitchen and last night I found myself dreaming about a primavera risotto that James and I had once had in Rome, all unctuous and creamy. I planned to recreate it using my own shallots, broad beans and peapods –strictly speaking it should have been mangetout but there couldn’t be too much difference, surely? – and beg a bit of asparagus from Vicky-near-the-gate.

  I might even push the boat out and invite someone round to share it with me. How about that for progress?

  I bent down and held my breath as I inspected the little patch of peas, pak choi and callaloo; nibbled but no worse than last week. Hurrah, one nil to me in the slug wars. Far from only having myself to feed, last week I’d discovered I was, in fact, feeding an army of slugs who, as soon as my back was turned, marched through my juicy plants leaving nothing but bare stalks.

  It had been a setback, but such, I had come to understand, was the nature of gardening. I’d bought some slug pellets and, thankfully, they seemed to be working.

  Planting my sweetcorn was the work of a few moments so I tidied away my things, called for Gemma and the two of us ambled towards the pavilion, me rather more reluctantly than her.

  ‘If they ask for people to have main roles,’ said Gemma, linking her arm through mine, ‘I’m going to put my hand up.’

  ‘Really?’ I grinned at her. ‘I’d never have guessed.’

  ‘Ooh, he’s here, look!’

  Gemma pointed to a white transit van adorned with the Green Fingers logo. There was a man inside with a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Christine and Peter as welcoming committee were on the pavilion steps, poised to pounce on the poor man as soon as he emerged. Christine had changed into a dress and cardigan. The buttons bulged across her tummy slightly and the orange flowers clashed with her pink cheeks but I didn’t think I’d ever seen her look so radiant.

  ‘Wellingtons, Mother!’ hissed Gemma as we passed her on our way in.

  ‘Wha—’ Christine looked at her feet, thrust her hands through her steely grey curls and darted into the little office.

  We pushed our way into the pavilion. It was heaving; even more people had turned up than for the AGM in February. The room had been arranged lecture-style with assorted chairs facing a top table nearest the door. We squeezed past Dougie in the
front row and found spare seats near the back.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ boomed Peter as he and Christine led a tall dark-haired man into the pavilion and took their places at the top table. The room fell silent immediately. ‘Allow me to introduce Aidan Whitby, TV director for the Green Fingers show.’

  Aidan raised a hand and smiled self-consciously. Some people clapped. Gemma included. I huffed to myself; he would have to do more than simply climb out of his van to impress me.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’ said Dougie, straining his neck to look out of the open door.

  At that moment Charlie and Alf arrived together and everyone laughed. I pointed to the empty seat next to me and Alf’s eyes lit up, but Charlie barged past everyone and dropped into it before he had taken a step. Poor Alf. I heard Gemma snigger beside me.

  ‘Hi,’ he whispered in my ear.

  We were a bit squashed and the heat radiating from Charlie’s thigh was so intense that I wondered whether he had come straight from a fire.

  Aidan Whitby stood up and cleared his throat. ‘Hello, everyone, and, er, thank you for coming.’

  The laughter died down, the audience straightened up and several bosoms heaved. He was slim, had a broad nose, which somehow made him look quite friendly, and thick wavy hair, which grew in a circle like the whorl of a fingerprint. Even from the back of the room I could see his brown eyes taking us all in, scanning our faces.

  He’s in the media, I reminded myself, be on your guard at all times.

  ‘He looks very intelligent,’ I heard Colin’s mother Rosemary whisper to Liz.

  I glanced at Gemma to roll my eyes but she was gazing at Aidan, transfixed.

  For heaven’s sake.

  ‘Suzanna sends her apologies, she’s at the Chelsea Flower Show filming the pre-show build-up,’ said Aidan, hunching his shoulders in a can’t-be-helped manner. Cue gasps from an over-excited audience.

  ‘So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me tonight,’ he continued with a self-deprecating smile.

  ‘Sorry to go on about this,’ said Dougie, a chewed pencil hovering over an old envelope, ‘but what dates will the lovely Suzanna be here? Exactly.’

  ‘Er . . .’ Aidan hesitated and caught Peter’s warning glance. ‘I can’t confirm that at the moment. Depends on her filming schedule.’

  Dougie sank back into his chair gloomily.

  Aidan explained that filming would begin in June. For most of the time, it would be just him and a cameraman. They wanted to follow us over the summer with the climax of the episode being the Ivy Lane allotments annual show in August. I’d heard about the show from Christine. It was a highly competitive affair with an official judge and prizes up for grabs for every type of vegetable under the sun.

  Suzanna Merryweather and possibly a make-up artist would apparently only be here intermittently.

  ‘I hope you don’t expect us to wear make-up?’ said Nigel, flaring his nostrils.

  ‘Hear hear,’ said Roy, folding his arms.

  Aidan had one arm wrapped across his body and his other hand across his mouth. I suspected he was smothering a chuckle. ‘The make-up artist would be purely for Suzanna. Whether you wear cosmetics is your choice. We’re looking for real lives, real people, not made-up for the camera, or glamorous. Dress exactly as you would normally, the scruffier the better.’ He looked round the room and beamed at us.

  ‘Phew,’ said Christine, looking pointedly at her husband.

  ‘Charming,’ said Gemma, patting her curls.

  ‘Sorry,’ stammered Aidan, waving his arms like an apologetic octopus. ‘That came out all wrong. What I mean is. . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘We think this episode of Green Fingers will be very special; a true celebration of British allotments.’ He paused to smile at the committee.

  ‘He defo uses hair wax,’ hissed Gemma. ‘No one gets a tousled look like that without putting some effort in. I admire that in a man.’

  ‘We don’t want boffins who’ve studied at – I dunno – Kew Gardens,’ he went on. ‘Or word-perfect actors who don’t know one end of a wheelbarrow from the other. We want people with passion; we want grass-roots experience – any little hints and tips you may have, skills that have been passed on from father to son,’ he looked around suddenly, ‘or mother to daughter, obviously, or even father to daughter. . .’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied in a whisper as Aidan paused and ran an anxious hand through his hair repeatedly until it stuck up in peaks.

  ‘Anyway, you get my drift,’ he said. ‘The point is that we want to find out about the real people at Ivy Lane and what makes it so unique.’ He exhaled with relief.

  His speech had done the trick; he seemed to have got everyone back on side and there were happy faces all round.

  ‘And rest assured, if you’re being filmed, it’ll be obvious,’ said Aidan. ‘There’ll be no hidden cameras spying on you. Except that one. Ha-ha.’ He pointed up at the ceiling where a red light winked from the motion sensor for the burglar alarm.

  The entire audience shifted in their seats as one and Liz even yelped.

  ‘Joke, joke, sorry,’ he said, holding his hands up with a grimace. ‘Moving on.’

  He took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I have a list of plot holders who have been nominated by the committee to be interviewed.’

  He forced his sleeves up over his elbows as if he was getting ready to get stuck in. His slate-grey shirt had epaulettes at the shoulders. A smattering of chest hair was just visible at the open neck.

  James hadn’t had chest hair, he was completely smooth. I wondered how different it would be lying skin to skin, my cheek resting on a hairy chest.

  I sat up straight with a jolt, startled by my own train of thought, and fanned my face.

  ‘I know!’ whispered Gemma with a wink. ‘He is rather attractive, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that.’ I wasn’t sure what it was. Other than quite a shock to be thinking about bare chests.

  ‘He’s not an object, you know,’ tutted Charlie.

  ‘Tilly Parker?’ Aidan’s brown eyes searched the room.

  My entire body went on red alert.

  ‘Here!’ shouted Gemma, pointing out my puce-coloured face to the TV director. I cringed as everyone turned to stare.

  Aidan glanced at me, then at Charlie – who chose that moment to stretch his arm along the back of my chair – and back to me. He held my eyes for a second and my heart thumped anxiously. He pressed his lips together and – so fractionally that I almost missed it – raised his eyebrows.

  What? What was that supposed to mean?

  ‘Who else is on the list?’ yelled Gemma.

  Christine jumped up from her seat and snatched the piece of paper out of Aidan’s hand, glancing nervously in my direction, or maybe Gemma’s, it was hard to tell when her eyes were so glossy with adulation. ‘We’ll go over this another time.’

  ‘Right,’ said Aidan, leaning away from her. ‘That’s it, I think. Oh, one final point. We really want you to enjoy having us here, just be yourselves, relax and act natural.’ He nodded to signal the end of his speech and exhaled as if he was glad to get that over with.

  We all clapped, even me. I’d liked him more than I thought I would. Except for the ‘we want to find out about the real people’ part.

  Peter closed the meeting, thanking everyone for coming, and we made a bid for freedom and fresh air.

  Aidan had been cornered up against the noticeboard by Brenda and as I passed him he caught my eye and grinned. I couldn’t help chuckling at his please-rescue-me face and I was about to come to his aid when Charlie tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Fancy going for a drink?’ he said loudly.

  He probably meant just as mates, but I flinched, besides which he had practically shouted down my ear.

  ‘No,’ I answered sharply, softening as his face drooped, ‘not on a school night.’

  ‘Right,’ said Gemma. ‘I’d better dash.’

  Bef
ore I could question her, she ran off. I said goodbye to Charlie and by the time I had asked Vicky about her asparagus and made it back to the plot to collect my bike, Gemma had stuck a cardboard sign on the outside of her shed, offering Green Finger Specials, including hair, make-up, nails, waxing and even men’s haircuts for five pounds. She tapped the sign as I went past.

  ‘This is my big break, Tilly, I can feel it. Isn’t it exciting?’ She fluttered her eyelashes and shimmied and I smiled back, wishing I shared her joy.

  I must admit, I had been reassured to some degree by Aidan’s words, but still, I’d much rather be left alone. I had been so looking forward to a peaceful summer; warm afternoons spent within this community that had welcomed me with such generous arms. Everyone was so excited about being on TV but I couldn’t shake the feeling that our gentle equilibrium would somehow be disturbed by the TV crew’s presence.

  With a heavy heart I wheeled the bike onto the road and headed for home. My allotment had suddenly lost a little of its magic, and I wasn’t sure if it would come back.

  Chapter 3

  I was crouching carefully in between my broad beans and pak choi, trying not to squash anything. Thanks to Charlie’s rather wonky planting, there was a wedge-shaped space that I reckoned I could squeeze Christine’s courgette plant into. I turned the soil over with my hand fork and peered over my shoulder.

  I was literally keeping a low profile.

  The Green Fingers crew had arrived on site for the first time and Peter was doing the rounds, showing Aidan and a cameraman the highlights of the allotment. When I arrived they were in the shop and as far as I could make out they were doing a slow circuit of the whole site, plot by plot. They hadn’t got as far as sixteen yet. I was hoping to barricade myself in my shed when they did.

  It was only ten o’clock but the sun was already warm on my back and I wished I’d tied my hair up before leaving the house. Every time I bent forward wisps of it tickled my face and my neck felt a bit sweaty. I pulled a piece of string out of my pocket left over from tying up the peas and twisted my hair into a messy ponytail.