The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass. Catherine Ferguson

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СКАЧАТЬ woken early by the sound of someone being murdered.

      As the bloodcurdling wails continue, I clutch at the duvet in fright – before realising it’s a cockerel, straining its vocal cords in an attempt to wake the whole of Gloucestershire.

      I glance at the clock. Four-thirty in the morning.

      Really? I mean, really?

      Naming him Colin, I lie there listening to him busting a gut and thinking I’ll never get back to sleep now. Then I promptly doze off, and next time I wake, it’s light outside. I swim slowly to full consciousness, aware of a vague panicky feeling inside.

      I’m in Ivy’s spare room.

      I’ve thought about this moment many times; how I’d feel being here in Moonbeam Cottage, without her to shout through that she’s making some tea, or coming to sit on the bed to chat. And now that moment is here, and the place feels horribly empty without her.

      I take some deep breaths and start to feel calmer. Then a farm vehicle rattles past the cottage, shaking the very foundations and making my heart race at ninety miles an hour. I hug myself, rubbing my arms hard. It’s not going to be easy, this enforced stay in the country, but it has to be done.

      With the bathroom wrecked by the leak, I don’t want to risk the shower until I know it’s safe, so I have a quick wash in cold water at the sink, then dive into some warm clothes, clean my teeth and apply a little make-up.

      It’s after eight by then. The village store is sure to be open, and maybe the cash machine will be working again so I can repay Sylvian. Every time I think about how he saved my bacon last night, handing over all that cash to the taxi driver without even taking my mobile number, I’m amazed all over again.

      I pull on my coat and head out into a calm but chilly April morning. There’s a definite feel of ‘the morning after the night before’. The storms that raged have passed over but there’s a reddish tinge to the sky, which isn’t a great omen.

      ‘Red sky in the morning … shepherds’ cottages on fire,’ I say aloud, since Ivy isn’t there to say it.

      ‘Hey, talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, didn’t you know?’ calls a voice.

      A group of teenagers are languishing in and around the bus shelter just ahead of me. One of the girls, presumably she of the ‘witty’ comment, is staring at me as if I’m completely insane. The thick, ghostly pale foundation she’s wearing contrasts sharply with her heavy black eyeliner, and her asymmetric hair style looks like she’s hacked at it herself, while no doubt costing a fortune in some trendy salon. The short side is bleached blonde and the longer side dyed black.

      Drawing level with them, I remark casually, ‘If you ask me, madness is highly under-rated.’

      ‘I guess you would think that,’ the girl quips, glancing quickly at a blond Adonis-type who’s standing nearby. He’s concentrating on his phone, and doesn’t notice. The others all watch me walk by, blank-eyed, except one of the lads – a cocky, dark-haired boy – who treats me to a fake grin and blows smoke from his fag in my direction.

      ‘Thank you,’ I call back, and they snigger.

      The cash point is working again, so I draw out the money and walk round to the side door which I assume leads to Sylvian’s flat above the village store. My stomach swoops as I ring the bell.

      He greets me at the door in tracksuit bottoms, bare-chested except for a striped blue towel slung round his neck. The sheen of sweat on his brow and finely muscled upper torso makes me think I must have interrupted a work-out.

      He smiles. ‘Thought it might be you,’ he says, flicking a catch on the carved wooden box he’s holding.

      ‘Yes, hi,’ I launch in. ‘I want to thank you again for rescuing me last night. It was so good of you. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along at that precise moment.’

      I’m aware I’m babbling, but he’s caught me unawares. It’s not often a handsome man greets me in the semi-buff at eight in the morning, looking so … well, buff.

      Unlike me, Sylvian seems completely at ease with his semi-nakedness. I hardly know where to look, but eventually settle on his startlingly vivid green eyes. When I hold out the money, he gives it a cursory glance then balances the box under his arm so he can stuff the notes in his jeans pocket.

      ‘You’re very welcome, Holly. I hope you had a good first night in the cottage?’

      ‘Thanks, yes, it wasn’t exactly relaxing, though.’

      ‘Oh?’

      I shrug. ‘Oh, you know, unpacking … new surroundings. It’s a bit unsettling.’ I’m not about to bore him with a run-down of my disaster of a night.

      ‘You did seem a bit stressed yesterday.’ He hands me the open wooden box. ‘Can you hold this for me?’

      Surprised, I take the box, glancing at it curiously. It has about twenty small compartments inside, each containing a tiny brown glass bottle. It’s like something you might find in an old-fashioned apothecary shop.

      Sylvian locks eyes with me and hovers his hand over the box. Then he looks down and selects a bottle, unscrewing the lid. ‘Try this one.’ He wafts it under my nose.

      Cautiously, I sniff. The scent is subtle yet sharp at the same time. ‘Lemons?’

      ‘A great mood lifter.’ He holds out another bottle and I lean forward to smell it.

      A powerful floral scent fills my nose. I inhale then breathe out slowly. ‘Lovely.’

      ‘Ylang ylang. Good for relieving stress.’

      I laugh. ‘Bring it on.’

      ‘It’s also an aphrodisiac,’ he murmurs and when I look up to see if he’s joking, he winks at me. ‘It’s true.’

      Heat rises in my cheeks. Am I imagining the frisson between us? I’m not sure, because Sylvian is already moving on, giving me a comprehensive run-down on the health properties of sandalwood – also great for stress, apparently – and wafting it under my nose.

      The woody smell is heavenly, like a forest after it’s been raining. ‘Mmm, that’s my favourite.’

      He smiles. ‘That’s the one, then.’ He screws on the cap and hands it to me.

      I hold up the bottle with a bemused look. ‘But I can’t …?’

      He shrugs. ‘Of course you can. Tip a few drops in your bath or on a handkerchief when you need to relax.’

      ‘But I need to pay you for it.’

      He gives me an amused look and says nothing.

      I smile, already knowing there’s little point arguing. ‘Well, thank you, but you’re too generous.’

      He brushes it off. ‘Look, I’d invite you in but I’m giving a talk and I have to prepare for it.’

      ‘Of СКАЧАТЬ