Ivy Lane: Summer: Part 2

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘I have,’ said Christine, scrolling through her phone. ‘Damn. Voicemail,’ she announced seconds later, slipping the phone into her pocket.

  Charlie grabbed the other hose from Peter and aimed both of them into the shop. ‘Now, fill buckets and throw the water in,’ he shouted.

  In the distance I could just make out the harsh sound of sirens. Within seconds it seemed the sound had amplified and I felt a sob of relief well up through my body.

  As the fire service sprang into action, unloading equipment in a slick and practised manoeuvre, a transit van pulled up in front of the pavilion.

  A pale-faced Aidan, a pink-faced Jeff and a wide-eyed Suzanna joined the crowd wordlessly.

  Five minutes later the fire was out and all that remained was the putrid smell and the smouldering shell of a building. The firefighters, with Charlie assisting, began to stow their equipment away again.

  ‘Come on, everyone,’ called Christine, clapping her hands. ‘Let’s all away in to the pavilion for a cup of tea.’

  I felt so sorry for the Green Fingers team, watching them troop after Christine. This had to be an unmitigated disaster for the documentary. Aidan slumped against a wall and punched numbers into his phone, a hand constantly raking through his hair. Jeff sank into a chair and gazed at the floor and Suzanna shook her head as Gemma filled her in on the details. All that equipment, if not gone up in smoke then certainly damaged, possibly beyond repair. All that work. Wasted.

  With an aching sadness, I went and helped Christine with the refreshments. As I went back in with a tray of mugs, Peter arrived and called us to attention.

  ‘I’ve just had a word with the fire service,’ he announced formally.

  We all gathered to listen.

  ‘As we weren’t broken into, it doesn’t look like arson. He guesses most likely it was an electrical fire.’

  He put a fatherly arm around Charlie’s shoulders. ‘Three cheers for Charlie for his excellent command of the situation. If you hadn’t been there, son, the consequences could have been much worse.’

  I joined the others in a round of applause.

  ‘Sorry about your filming equipment, lads,’ said Charlie with a shrug, shooting Aidan a regretful look. ‘I tried to rescue it, but I guess most of it will be ruined.’

  Suzanna pushed through the crowd and pulled him towards her. Her long curly hair was tied up in a thick ponytail and her white dress was still white. She looked fresh and perky. I felt like a smoked mackerel by comparison.

  ‘You’re a star, Charlie; thank you,’ she said, kissing his cheek.

  ‘Let’s have a picture of Suzanna and Charlie,’ said Gemma, pulling her phone out of her pocket. ‘We can send it to the Kingsfield Mail. Local hero comes to the rescue!’

  ‘I helped too,’ cried Dougie, squeezing in beside Suzanna and tapping his cheek for a kiss.

  Aidan leaned across and shook Charlie’s hand. ‘I owe you one, mate,’ he said. ‘Luckily, these days all our filming is digital and uploaded straight away, so we haven’t lost any footage. Thank God.’

  ‘Oh, really? Well, pleased to hear it.’ Charlie grinned, clapping Aidan firmly on his back.

  My eyebrows flexed automatically; he had changed his tune. It seemed all was well in Charlie’s world now that he had saved the day.

  I poured some milk into a black coffee and went and sat down. Within seconds Charlie joined me. He smelt of smoke and earth and sweat and it took me back to when we first met in January. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face; he was so pleased with himself. I smiled back. An overprotective, but definitely a useful man to have around.

  I wanted to add my congratulations to Suzanna’s but I felt awkward. Yesterday he had tested our friendship sorely and I wasn’t sure where we stood any more.

  ‘Friends?’ he said quietly into my ear.

  I took a deep breath and stared at him, wondering what exactly he wanted from me. Was he really content to remain just friends?

  ‘Friends,’ I replied with a laugh. I bumped his shoulder with mine playfully and he spilt his tea into the saucer. I’d decided I was going to start letting people in, I couldn’t change my mind as soon as things got tricky.

  ‘Hey, who’s this?’ he said, sticking his lips out and exaggerating a long slurp straight from the saucer.

  ‘Shazza!’ I squeaked with delighted.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he whispered, stretching his eyes wide, and we giggled like a pair of kids.

  Chapter 7

  Despite being visually unappealing, my gooseberry fool made with Greek yogurt was a triumph. In fact, I thought, licking the spoon one more time, if I ate any more I might not fit in to my dress. That was the problem with experimenting with recipes when you lived alone, you ended up eating every bit. I popped the bowl into the fridge to present to Alf later on and ran upstairs to get ready.

  My new dress was hanging on the wardrobe door.

  This would set tongues wagging. I’d lost count of the number of times people had told me to get my legs out on the allotment over the last few months.

  I flung my T-shirt and leggings off and slipped the soft jersey fabric over my head. Round necked, short sleeves and hemline just below the knee; on anyone else this dress would be demure, but it was the most revealing outfit I had worn in . . . I did a mental calculation . . . almost two years.

  I took a step back to get the full effect in the mirror and felt tiny bubbles of nerves fizz away in my stomach.

  It was time.

  At Easter Gemma had compared me rather unflatteringly to an onion, with layers and secrets as yet still unrevealed. I preferred to see myself as a flower unfurling under the nurturing care of the Ivy Lane community. And today I was finally ready to turn my face to the sun.

  It was the first Sunday in August and the day of the annual show, the climax to what had been a tense few weeks and a chance for everyone to show off their produce. It was the highlight of Ivy Lane’s social calendar, so Christine informed me; the gates would be thrown open to the public and people from all over Kingsfield would be coming to visit.

  And so would Aidan.

  Four weeks had passed since the fire in the shop, when the Green Fingers team had last been on site. A professional company had been hired to clean up the fire damage, new doors fitted and the committee was awaiting an insurance pay-out to arrive before replenishing the stock. The fire was well and truly over.

  However, there was still a tiny flame burning. Not brightly, or fiercely, but nonetheless, it was there. And it brought heat to my face every time I thought about Aidan.

  The trouble was that I appeared to have developed a bit of a crush on a man who plainly wasn’t interested. Someone who had simply being doing his job. I couldn’t get that last filming session out of my head; he had truly seemed to care. And when I’d confronted him, he claimed I didn’t understand. I was confused and needed Gemma’s advice. Hence the dress, which would be the catalyst for a major heart-to-heart. Goodness only knows what she would make of all my news.

  I glanced at my watch: eleven a.m. Only one hour left for any exhibits to be entered. I needed to get my skates on. My stomach performed a double somersault as I took a last look at my legs in the mirror and then, collecting an old-fashioned soda bottle, a tin of cakes and a slate cheeseboard, I set off for Ivy Lane.

  It was a glorious day and the pavilion looked beautiful: bunting, hanging baskets and pots of trailing petunias adorned the porch and end-to-end tables covered with gingham cloths formed a huge track on the grass in front of it. Two gazebos housed refreshments, the raffle, and a bottle stall as well as an assortment of jams, preserves and cakes for sale.

  Peter, at a make-shift desk on one of the picnic tables, had a queue of people already submitting their entries. Christine was directing plot holders to the judging tables with their produce and Nigel was erecting a barricade of cones and striped tape around the tables as if it was a crime scene. There was a tangible buzz in the air, like the hours be
fore a wedding; anticipation, nerves and happiness all rolled into one.

  The Green Fingers van was parked up. Aidan was here. I spotted him straight away as I walked past the pavilion but I forced myself to focus on Suzanna first. She was on the pavilion steps interviewing a well-turned-out man who I hadn’t seen before and Jeff was filming, so I hovered nearby.

  You know when you leave your best birthday present until last? That.

  I took a big calming breath and glanced over at Aidan.

  He hadn’t shaved, his linen shirt was crumpled and his hair was sticking up in peaks at the back. I caught a whiff of his scent, spicy and masculine, and it sparked off a fluttering sensation in the pit of my stomach. My face felt like it was on fire. What started off this morning as a ‘bit of a crush’ was rapidly getting out of hand.

  My pulse ramped up a notch and my lips took on a numbness normally associated with a spell in the dentist’s chair.

  And breathe. In and out. Tilly Parker, has Aidan given you so much as one iota of encouragement? No, he hasn’t. Stop being ridiculous.

  I lifted my eyes to his face.

  He was looking right at me with a boyish friendly smile, both eyebrows raised, creasing his forehead comically.

  Around us I was vaguely aware of lots of activity: pushing and shoving at the only sink, an argument between Nigel and Graham about the authenticity of Graham’s parsnips –‘It’s simply not cricket,’ I heard Nigel say, prodding Graham in the chest – and Liz scampering round like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland accusing everyone of stealing her scissors. But I kept my eyes trained on Aidan, soaking up every detail of his face, his body as he stepped towards me.

  I’d missed him.

  ‘You look lovely today, Tilly.’ He held my gaze shyly.

  That was the nicest thing he had ever said to me.

  A sudden insistent thudding noise filled my ears and it took a moment to realize that it was my heartbeat.

  I could have smiled beguilingly and walked on head held high. But no. This was Tilly Parker we were talking about.

  ‘I thought you preferred the natural look,’ I said. ‘Old T-shirts and scruffy trousers?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Aidan tapped a pen on his cheek and pretended to ponder. ‘It is a lovely dress, although I had been referring to your smile, but now you mention it, I did particularly like the white T-shirt you wore in that storm.’

  The one that went completely see-through with the pink bra underneath. The one as pink as my face. He liked that? I didn’t know where to look.

  ‘Thirty minutes more!’ shouted Peter officiously, earning disapproving stares from Suzanna and Jeff. ‘Then the window for submissions is closed.’

  ‘I’d better . . . er.’ I dipped my boiled-beetroot-coloured head and made a dash for my plot.

  Speaking to Gemma was my priority. I hadn’t told her anything about James. She was going to freak out when she saw me in a dress. And then I would tell her. The thought of getting everything out in the open once and for all sent shudders down my spine.

  Gemma was there, head bent over a table she had set up outside her shed. Dishes and plates of fruit and vegetables were piled precariously all over it.

  ‘Ta dah!’ I gave her a twirl and smiled nervously. This was it. My heart was banging away on my ribcage. I waited.

  She lifted her head for a fraction of a second and gave me a vacant stare. I had to stop myself from gasping. Her hair was greasy and plastered to her head, her normally expressive eyes were dull and her skin pallid and grey.

  ‘Very nice,’ she mumbled and went back to doing something with her onions.

  If she hadn’t looked so awful I might have been offended, but as it was, I was worried. This wasn’t like Gemma at all. I took a step closer.

  ‘It’s no use!’ she screamed, sending me leaping into the air with fright. She hurled an onion with a grunt at her apple tree and it ricocheted off, sending a shower of juice in all directions. ‘None of my onions match and I can’t tie the raffia properly around the tops.’

  Wow. I hadn’t realized she would be taking the show seriously too.

  I elbowed her out of the way and deftly tied the protruding onion tops with raffia to decorate them, sending a silent thank-you to my mother for all those hours she made me spend at the Women’s Institute flower-arranging classes.

  There.

  ‘Gemma—’ I began.

  ‘Later,’ she said, piling all her exhibits into wicker baskets. It might have been the strength of the onions, or the stress of the competition, I wasn’t sure, but it looked as if her red eyes were a result of recent tears. ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ she said and then hurried off in the direction of the pavilion.

  Oh, I thought, watching her departing body weaving from side to side under the weight of the baskets. With a disappointed sigh I opened my shed.

  I was only entering three categories: carrot, sweet peas and cupcakes. The cakes were in my basket but I still had work to do. I dug up half my carrots to find three of similar size, snipped a fat bunch of sweet peas and made it to the judging area with five minutes to spare.

  Peter grabbed hold of my shoulders and kissed my cheek. ‘My dear girl, I’d almost given up hope of you joining in,’ he said, lifting the red tape over my head for me to enter.

  ‘So had I,’ I replied with a wry smile.

  I lay three miniature carrots on my slate cheeseboard. The black contrasted beautifully with the bright orange roots and frilly green leaves. I set the slate down in between some purple carrots that must belong to Shazza and some huge ones that would have fed the entire cast of Watership Down for a week.

  I arranged the sweet peas in the bottle and then hopped up the steps into the pavilion to pile my six cupcakes onto a cardboard cake stand. Each one was decorated with a different vegetable fashioned from fondant icing. To be honest, they weren’t great; the carrot, courgette and parsnip looked like worms and the tomato, apple and strawberry weren’t much more than coloured balls.

  But I had made an effort, that was the main thing.

  I slipped back under the stripy tape just as Charlie arrived, out of breath and carrying a box of produce.

  ‘You’re cutting it fine, lad,’ said Peter, shaking his head.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Charlie, grinning in my direction. ‘Just had to make a few last-minute changes.’

  I rolled my eyes. A man could be too obsessed about the length of his runner beans.

  Peter welcomed the man I had seen earlier as the judge and the judging commenced. The Green Fingers crew joined him in the cordoned-off arena and there was a noticeable lift in the atmosphere as the competitors relaxed while they waited for the results to be announced.

  Gemma. I was so desperate to talk to her that I thought I would burst. I scanned the crowd gathered around the pavilion, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Gone home to get changed,’ Christine informed me when I questioned her. She shook her head. Her curls were in particularly rigid rows today and not a wisp of it moved. ‘I don’t know what’s got into that girl today.’

  Hmm. Me neither. And as much as I was worried about Gemma, selfishly I had been looking forward to a good chat about my rampant crush.

  I spent the next hour keeping away from Aidan, unsure what I would even say to him. I returned to my plot instead and by the time I’d tidied Gemma’s table and sorted out my abandoned carrots, the judging was over.

  I smoothed my dress down over my hips and made my way back to the pavilion. The gates were open and a steady stream of visitors flocked through Ivy Lane allotments.

  The stripy tape had been removed and cards marked first, second and third had been slipped under the winning entries. The crowd surged towards the tables and I noticed Jeff hovering, camera poised and ready to capture the emotions of the ecstatic winners and sore losers.

  It didn’t take long for results to emerge: Shazza’s hollers of joy at the carrot table could only mean one thing and judging by the audible gnashin
g of Nigel’s teeth, it appeared Graham had pipped him to the post on the parsnip front. I hung back at first; I wasn’t competitive by nature and anyway, I had low expectations for my first ever show.

  Gemma slipped in beside me and put her arm through mine.

  ‘Feeling better?’ I said, scanning her face for any tell-tale signs. She had showered and changed and was much more like the old Gemma; clean curls, summer dress and a ready smile. Still very pale, though.

  ‘Much better now I’ve seen this,’ she said, squeezing my arm. ‘Look! I’ve got first prize for my onions!’

  We laughed and moved round the table. I’d come second with my sweet peas. Fantastic! But nowhere with my carrots. Unsurprising, given the competition.

  I took a deep breath and turned to Gemma. ‘Can we have a chat later, somewhere quiet?’

  For a fleeting moment, she looked terrified and cast her eyes downwards. Then she licked her lips and smiled. ‘Sure. Later on, yeah?’

  I smiled at her, already wondering where we’d find somewhere quiet in this place.

  ‘Bloody hell, Tills!’ squealed Gemma, shaking my arm and pointing to a paper plate of green apples. ‘You’ve got first place for your apples!’

  I peered at the apples. Sure enough my name was on the winning entry. Odd. Very odd.

  Suzanna materialized smoothly beside me and from the other side of the table, Jeff zoomed a lens right up to my face. Further investigation revealed that I’d also come third with my peas and second in the courgette category. Neither of which I’d entered.

  ‘A glowing start to your first year on the allotment,’ said Suzanna. ‘Congratulations! How do you feel?’

  ‘I’m amazed,’ I laughed. ‘Absolutely amazed. It’s so unexpected.’

  Which was rather an understatement, given the circumstances.

  Chapter 8

  After maintaining my expression of surprise mixed with delight, as opposed to pure shock, I broke away from Gemma and Suzanna as soon as I could and cornered Peter in the tiny pavilion office.