Ivy Lane: Summer: Part 2

by Cathy Bramley

  There was a storm coming, I was sure of it. I shivered and decided to dash to the pavilion to take cover in comfort.

  As I passed the Green Fingers van, I caught sight of Aidan on his phone and smiled to myself. When he wasn’t directing or interviewing, that man had a phone permanently glued to his ear. His laughter wafted through the open window and I slowed to enjoy it. OK – to eavesdrop.

  ‘I can’t wait to get on that plane to Peru,’ he said with a groan. ‘Get away from all these humans and their inflated bloody egos. It’s the politics and one-upmanship I can’t bear. Give me wildlife any day.’

  I clapped a hand to my mouth and pressed my body against the back of the van out of sight.

  Me? Did he mean me, or the Ivy Lane community generally? Had I displayed an inflated bloody ego? He had seemed so pleasant, so genuinely interested in us. He had coaxed us with his gentle questions, pretended to listen to our stories. But all along he was simply doing his job. And back then, not five minutes ago, I’d really felt as though he cared. About me.

  My shoulders lowered a full four inches as I registered a crushing disappointment.

  I ducked my head and ran into the pavilion just as a tremendous clap of thunder filled the air and made my ears ring.

  The atmosphere inside the pavilion was no less stormy; Peter and Christine were under attack from mutinous plot holders.

  ‘I spent weeks making that fertilizer from chicken droppings,’ said Graham indignantly. ‘That would definitely have added a quirkiness to the programme. But not a glimmer.’ He threw a look of disdain in my direction.

  ‘And I’ve grown purple carrots,’ said Shazza, shaking her head incredulously. ‘How can they not have been interested in purple carrots?’

  There was an exasperated huff from the corner of the room where Karen, who by the look of it had heard quite enough about Shazza’s purple carrots, had a hand pressed to Jeff’s forehead. Gemma, on the other side of him, held his hand. He really didn’t look well.

  Further along, Roy sat chortling with Dougie, enjoying all the action.

  ‘I’m more concerned about the hosepipe ban,’ declared Vicky. ‘Those marrows are such guzzlers and it’s killing my back walking all the way to the gate with watering cans.’

  As if by divine intervention, there was another enormous roll of thunder and the sky unleashed the most forceful rainfall I had ever heard. Water hammered against the corrugated roof of the pavilion and the noise was deafening.

  ‘I think the hosepipe ban might be lifted as of tomorrow,’ shouted Peter over the din.

  The door banged opened and Aidan appeared, his soaked shirt clinging to his skin. ‘The equipment,’ he yelled. ‘Jeff, all our equipment is outside by the toilets!’

  Jeff’s face had gone as grey as the sky. His body lurched forward, juddering like a man possessed, eyeballs out on stalks, and with a violent groan he threw up all over Karen’s T-shirt.

  ‘Sunstroke,’ she said matter-of-factly. How could she not scream at being vomited on? ‘He needs to get to bed.’

  Aidan had his arms out in front of him, as if he was balancing on a tightrope, not sure what or who to rescue first.

  ‘The shop,’ I yelled, putting my own hurt feelings to one side for the time being. ‘Let’s get all your equipment in to the shop. That will be the quickest place.’

  Aidan, Peter, Graham and I dashed back out into the storm and started pulling all the mysterious black cases into the shop. Goodness knows what they needed all that clobber for; I’d only seen them use one camera and a clipboard. The storm was in full flow now, with lightning flashes illuminating the dark sky and cracks of thunder that rattled my teeth. My clothes and hair were soaked and I tried not to think about my pink bra peeking jauntily through my white vest.

  We finished the job as quickly as we could and dashed back, dripping and shivering, into the pavilion.

  ‘Thanks, Tilly.’ Aidan smiled at me, rubbing his hair with one of the towels that Shazza was passing round.

  I flashed him a cool glare. ‘Well, despite my inflated bloody ego, I thought I’d help you out.’

  ‘What?’ He frowned. ‘Oh . . . no, you don’t understand.’

  ‘You need to get this man home,’ said Karen, pushing between us. She had cleaned Jeff up and found herself an old T-shirt to change into.

  ‘You get him home,’ said Peter. Jeff looked dead on his feet and his head was lolling on his shoulders. Aidan had to virtually carry him to the door. ‘I’ll make sure the shop is secure before I leave tonight,’ Peter added.

  ‘Thanks for your help, everyone,’ said Aidan, staring at me. ‘We’ll have to come back tomorrow and finish off.’ He sighed. ‘The bosses won’t be happy.’

  How could I have thought he enjoyed our company? He obviously didn’t want to spend even one more day with us. I turned to Gemma, suddenly anxious to share all my woes.

  ‘Shall we go back to your shed and have a cuppa?’ I said. ‘Gemma?’

  Her face was a perfect match with Jeff’s and she had a hand clamped across her mouth. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever recover from seeing that man puke,’ she mumbled. ‘I think I’m going to be sick myself. Dad, can you take me home?’

  Once all the invalids had departed I felt at a bit of a loose end. Although the worst of the storm had passed, the rain was still pelting down and I didn’t fancy cycling home. I decided to go back to my own shed and wait for the rain to stop.

  The constant sunshine over the last few weeks had turned the earth to concrete. I kept my head down and waded through the puddles. I felt Charlie’s eyes on me from his sheltered position in the greenhouse, but I didn’t meet his stare. I’d had enough of men for one day.

  I set to with cleaning my tools and rearranging my shelves and was just beginning to get bored when Colin’s face appeared at the window.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got a new book. It’s called Heroes.’

  I had developed a soft spot for Colin, especially now that I’d felt the wrath of Rosemary. I grinned and opened the shed door.

  We settled into plastic chairs and he produced the book from inside his jacket.

  ‘Out of curiosity,’ I asked, ‘what does Rosemary think you do for a living?’

  ‘Security guard,’ he said with a crooked smile.

  ‘Oh?’ I concentrated on keeping my features neutral. He didn’t seem robust enough to stand up to his mother let alone intruders.

  He nodded as he thumbed through the pages to find his place. ‘Yeah, I got the uniform from a shoot I did once. I sewed up the Velcro panels on the trousers and stick it in the wash every week. She’s never questioned it.’

  He shrugged his shoulders and we giggled. I was so glad he had come. De-stressing with a book was the perfect antidote to the dramas of the last hour.

  I spoke too soon as the door to my shed was prised open by an outraged Rosemary.

  ‘What on earth are you doing with my son?’ she gasped.

  ‘Mum! For God’s sake, I’m nineteen,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

  And only reading a sodding book, I added mentally.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, glaring at me. ‘Too young to be locked in a shed with Tilly. Why can’t you find a girl your own age?’

  ‘I’m not that old,’ I retorted.

  My shed door, still flapping, was flung back again, this time by Charlie.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, arms folded, looking every inch the Victorian father, although I wasn’t sure by now which one of us was supposed to need protecting.

  I’d had enough of this. ‘Colin and I were reading. Now out, both of you!’

  I snatched the book out of Colin’s hand and waved it in front of their faces.

  ‘Colin?’ Rosemary pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘You never read books.’

  I rolled my eyes as she reached out to touch her son.

  ‘Sorry about this, Tilly,’ muttered Colin. ‘Come on, Mum,’ he said as he led Rosemary away, ‘I’ve g
ot something to tell you.’

  Hallelujah, not before time.

  I turned my gaze to Charlie. ‘What was all that about?’

  Charlie shifted uncomfortably and scratched his head. ‘I saw Rosemary barge in and thought . . . you and him.’

  I sighed. ‘Well, we weren’t,’ I said, sinking down onto a chair, suddenly desperate for today to end.

  ‘And I was jealous, I suppose,’ he muttered.

  ‘Charlie, I’m disappointed in you,’ I said wearily. ‘We’re supposed to be friends.’ I met his eye. ‘Just friends.’

  He backed towards the door and bowed his head. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually. He strode away and the empty silence suddenly felt deafening. I let out a breath and squeezed my eyes shut.

  What was it I liked about the allotment again? Oh yes, that was it. Peace and quiet.

  Chapter 6

  The next day dawned fresh and crisp, as if the air conditioning had been left on all night. What a relief after the sauna of yesterday. I hadn’t planned to go to the allotment today, I was supposed to be replenishing my meagre wardrobe with a dress – yes, a dress – to wear to the annual show, but after the events of the previous day there was no chance of me staying away.

  I gave Cally his breakfast, tucked a large bottle of water and a cereal bar in my bag and cycled off.

  The gates to Ivy Lane were already open and I sailed through, feasting my eyes on the rainbow shades of the allotments. Yesterday’s rain seemed to have turned up the contrast and our fruit and vegetables appeared brighter and more vivid than ever. Winter had been brown, spring had turned the world green and summer . . . summer filled every tiny corner with colour. From bold reds to plumptious purples, vibrant yellows to playful pinks, the whole place hummed with vitality and harmony.

  There was no sign of the Green Fingers crew and Charlie’s car wasn’t in the car park either, so with any luck I might be in for a peaceful morning. Although not entirely quiet; a pink bottom poked up behind a row of carrots on Gemma’s half of plot sixteen.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I called, parking my bike and dropping my bag down on the bench.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gemma, swallowing whatever was in her mouth. ‘I chucked up in Dad’s car and then as soon as I got home I was fine again.’

  ‘What are you eating now?’

  ‘Spinach. Straight from the ground. Irony and bitter.’ She stooped to gather another handful of leaves and popped them straight in. ‘Have you seen your present?’

  I followed her nodding head towards the door of my shed. Someone had left two jars of jam with little gingham caps on with a card wedged between them.

  The gift was from Rosemary. I read the card out loud to Gemma . . .

  Dear Tilly,

  I can neither thank you nor apologise enough. The progress you have made with Colin’s reading puts me to shame, as does my behaviour yesterday. I hope you can forgive me.

  Fond regards,

  Rosemary

  ‘Oh, that is so sweet. Of course I forgive her.’

  ‘Thank God she didn’t barge in on Colin when he was in my shed,’ said Gemma. ‘Can you imagine! I’d be getting death threats, not jam. Hello, Alf.’ She waved over my shoulder and I turned around to greet him.

  Alf was making a slow beeline towards us. He seemed older and thinner. I’d always thought of him as sprightly but today he was leaning on a stick and breathing heavily.

  ‘I don’t suppose either of you youngsters could help an old codger out for a few minutes, could you?’

  I didn’t have much to do so I willingly volunteered. He took my arm and we meandered up towards his plot.

  ‘The gooseberries want picking,’ he said. ‘They’re too ripe really, they’re much easier to pick when they firmer. My fingers are stiff today and I keep popping the buggers.’

  ‘Do you know,’ I said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a gooseberry.’

  He chuckled. ‘You’re in for a treat, lass.’

  We went into the shed to find a suitable receptacle for the fruit.

  ‘We had good times here, me and our Celia,’ he said, waving a gnarled hand towards a series of curled-up old photographs tacked to the shed wall with drawing pins. I stepped closer to study them and my breath caught in my throat.

  ‘Oh, Alf, what lovely memories.’

  Taken from the same spot each time, the pictures showed the couple hand in hand outside the greenhouse, one from as far back as the seventies, judging by Celia’s dress, the pair of them getting older and more stooped as the years went by. The most recent picture was just of Alf. Alone.

  ‘Look at your jet-black hair!’ I said, tapping a finger on the oldest picture and trying to keep the wobble from my voice.

  ‘It hasn’t been that colour for twenty years,’ he said, handing me a basket.

  ‘The two of you look very happy together.’

  He nodded and turned away. ‘We were,’ he said gruffly. ‘Life’s not got its sparkle without her.’

  How did that work then, I wondered, following him out to the gooseberries bushes: growing old with someone? It was one thing to love a person when their body was toned, their eyes had twenty-twenty vision and their tufty hair was still russetty and golden, when they were full of dreams of preserving the natural landscape of England and making a family of their own. I acknowledged that at some point the list had ceased to be generic – but it was quite another to carry that love to the end of life, when bits of your loved one had been replaced or dropped off or stopped working, when ambitions had been replaced by a mix of achievement and regret. How would that feel?

  My eyes had misted up with tears and I blinked them away.

  ‘What will you do with all these?’ I said, dropping a fistful of plump fruit into the basket.

  Alf wiped a hand covered in gooseberry juice on his trousers and sighed.

  ‘Celia loved them,’ he said, lowering himself into a deckchair parked at the end of the row of fruit bushes. ‘Pies, jam, crumble . . . gooseberry fool was her favourite.’ He shrugged. ‘Give ’em away, I expect. That’s all I ever do now, give stuff away. Help yourself if you want some.’

  I could have kissed him; he seemed so defeated.

  ‘I’ll make you a gooseberry fool,’ I said, giving him a deliberately bright smile. I’d never tasted it, let alone made it, but that was what Google was for.

  ‘Fire!’ shouted a male voice, Nigel perhaps, pulling us out of our reverie. ‘The shop’s on fire!’

  Alf and I stared at each other, I dropped the basket, grabbed hold of his arm and we headed towards the shop as fast as he could go.

  Ahead of us, a fat cloud of grey smoke rose above the pavilion. The shop was tucked behind it, out of sight. Everyone was leaving their plots and running in the same direction. Shazza and Karen had grabbed buckets, Liz had got her watering can and Peter was fixing the hoses on to the taps. Brenda and three of her grandchildren stayed well back with Helen and the baby, but the rest of us formed a group in the car park.

  ‘Has someone rung the fire brigade?’ said Rosemary breathlessly, shooting me a timid smile.

  ‘Mum’s doing it now,’ said Gemma, pointing to Christine, who had a finger blocking one ear and a mobile phone pressed to the other. Her elbows stuck out at right angles and she was pacing round in circles like a demented lioness.

  Charlie appeared from the direction of the shop. His face was red and he was gasping for breath.

  ‘OK, we need hoses, buckets, everything you’ve got,’ he shouted.

  ‘The hoses are on,’ yelled Peter, jogging towards him. He paused briefly to fold his comb-over back into position.

  ‘Fire service is on their way, so they are,’ announced Christine. ‘Five minutes, they reckon.’

  Charlie grabbed the hose out of Peter’s hand and ran off towards the shop.

  ‘Turn it on full,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Will any of the other hosepipes reach this far?’

  ‘I’ll check,’ said Peter, scurrying to do
as he was told.

  Nigel followed Charlie. ‘What can I do?’ he yelled.

  ‘Turn off the power to the shop. We don’t know what started the fire. We need the electricity off in there.’

  Unsure what to do, the rest of us huddled together, gradually edging closer and closer to the shop. Thank goodness Charlie knew what he was doing. Liz had set her watering can down, but Shazza and Karen started flinging buckets of water at the sides of the shop building. Thick smoke was streaming from the gaps around the double doors and even cracks in the roof. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of burning chemicals and soon we were all spluttering and holding our clothes across our mouths.

  Peter pushed his way through the crowd with another hosepipe and aimed it at the shop doors.

  Charlie turned towards us, his face pouring with sweat from the heat. ‘I’ve doused the doors and the roof, I’m going to break the doors down now. Stand back, everyone, the smoke will be ten times worse once they’re open.’

  ‘Charlie, wait,’ I cried. ‘Is there petrol in there, could it explode? I know you’re a professional, but what about protective clothing?’

  Charlie, his mouth set in a grim line, glanced at me. ‘It’s all right; I know what I’m doing.’ Then he smiled briefly as if to say thank you for caring and I smiled back nervously.

  ‘No petrol,’ said Peter, ‘lots of chemicals. Is Roundup flammable, does anyone know? But . . . Oh bloody hell! The Green Fingers equipment!’ He groaned and despite the intense heat, his face went grey.

  Charlie kicked the door open; more smoke gushed from the gap and I stepped backwards instinctively.

  Charlie pulled his T-shirt off, soaked it in water and tied it across his face.

  Wow. There was something about a man being brave, while shirtless, that did something to my insides. Gemma slid her arm through mine and we exchanged glances.

  Not just my insides, then.

  ‘Whose got Aidan’s number?’

  Everyone looked at me for some reason so I went bright red even though I didn’t have it.