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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ you holding me up, Holly,’ he says seriously. ‘In fact, I propose you hold me up again while I cook you dinner some time.’

      His invitation takes me by surprise. ‘Gosh. Well, maybe …’

      ‘I’m counting on it,’ he smiles.

      I raise a hand and scuttle off around the corner.

      I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and already a caring and generous man has offered to cook me dinner! He also happens to be very fit and easy on the eye.

      A vision of Sylvian opening the door naked to the waist flashes into my mind, but I tell myself to get a grip. I’m in Appleton to concentrate on Moonbeam Cottage, for goodness’ sake, not a man. Even if that man does have hard abs and a giving nature. Phew, is it me or has the temperature suddenly soared?

      Feeling more than a little discombobulated, I glance at the label on the bottle I’m clutching and unscrew the top. Sandalwood essential oil. Known for its calming properties.

      A good sniff of this should do the trick …

      Back at the cottage, I phone Ivy’s odd job man, Mike, and he says he’ll be round to look at the roof and the damage inside the house as soon as he’s dropped his daughter off at playgroup. He sounds genuinely cut up about Ivy and describes her as ‘bloody marvellous’, which brings a lump to my throat. I love him already!

      While I wait, I unpack a few more things then sit in the living room, eating the banana I brought for the train journey and wondering how I’m going to pass the time in the evenings while I’m here. There’s a small digital TV and a DVD player that’s so old, it was probably the original prototype, but nothing fancier than that. Ivy loved reading, so her shelves are full of gardening books and thrillers. A cook book would have come in handy while I’m here – I quite like getting creative in the kitchen – but Ivy hated cooking with a passion, so there aren’t any. I smile, remembering. She preferred to just ignore the scales and throw into the pot whatever she felt like, which was usually a recipe for disaster. (She only made the beetroot and nettle omelette once, thankfully.)

      Mike arrives, whistling up the path, and having looked at the roof and the bathroom, says he can fix it no problem, with a little help from a roofer friend of his. I hold my breath and ask what it will cost, and actually, it’s not as bad as I thought. But when he mentions the additional cost of re-tiling and painting, I swallow hard and suggest we just stick with the repair work for now.

      I’ve laid bathroom flooring before. And done lots of painting. Surely I can throw a few tiles on the wall? I mean, how hard can it be? It doesn’t have to be perfect. This is the countryside, for goodness’ sake; the land of all things rustic. People round here laugh indulgently when they accidentally tread in a cow pat; and they practically expect whiffy manure smells with their freshly laid chucky eggs in the morning. Ergo, a little ‘rustic tiling’ is sure to be a big hit among potential buyers.

      Mike says he has a job to finish but he can start work on Monday. My heart sinks because that’s five whole days away, but I smile and tell him that will be perfect. Actually, I have lots of clearing out to do, so the time will probably fly by. I stand at the door, watching him walk cheerily down the path to his white van.

      I have a feeling that with the repairs to do and the cottage to paint, my estimate of a fortnight to get the place on the market was way too optimistic. And then there’s Ivy Garden to sort out. My heart sinks into my boots. It will probably take a month at least …

      Mike’s jolly whistle as he climbs into his van attracts the attention of two people locked together just inside the bus shelter over the road. They see me peering over and break apart. It’s that Adonis boy I saw earlier with one of the girls from his group of mates. The one with the extraordinary half-blonde, half-black hair. She stares haughtily back at me as if to say, You shouldn’t be looking – and anyway, it’s perfectly normal to be performing tonsil tennis at a bus stop in full view of the entire village!

      Adonis just smirks at me.

      I retreat inside and go straight upstairs to start on the job I’ve been dreading the most. Sorting through Ivy’s wardrobe.

      By the evening, I’m drained, physically and emotionally – and facing a long night with nothing much to do. I can’t even summon up the energy to start sketching.

      It’s been on my mind that I need to contact Ivy’s old school friend, Olive, who she used to meet up with from time to time. She wasn’t at the funeral because I couldn’t track down a contact number for her among Ivy’s belongings or even on her phone. I found Ivy’s old address book today but there’s no Olive in there, either, and I went through it page by page.

      I haven’t made as much progress as I’d have liked with Ivy’s clothes, either. Almost every blouse or jacket of Ivy’s that I took out of the wardrobe, I couldn’t bear to part with because of the memories, so the ‘keep’ pile is like a small mountain. The ‘charity’ pile consists of a scarf Ivy never liked and a jumper that still had the tags on it. So basically, it took me all day to move Ivy’s clothes from the wardrobe to the bed, with some tearful reminiscing over old photos in between times.

      At this rate, I’ll still be here at Christmas …

      I sink on to the sofa, on the verge of tears, and stare at the blackness beyond the windows. Then out of the corner of my eye, I catch something move.

      I whip around and the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life comes into view, moving at a fair old speed. Its legs are so long, it literally scampers towards me, before stopping suddenly, changing course and scuttling back through a tiny opening in the skirting board.

      My legs are shaking. I’d forgotten about the wildlife that rampages about the countryside. I never see spiders in my modern, second-floor flat.

      I eye the skirting board nervously. A book would be a good distraction, but I don’t fancy Ivy’s thrillers – it’s spooky enough just being alone in the countryside at night without wanting to deliberately scare myself. A thick blanket of darkness has descended beyond the window. I can see nothing except impenetrable blackness and my own reflection staring back at me, and I get that panicky feeling you have when you’re driving in a snow storm and suddenly it’s a total white-out.

      I keep peering out, determined to see something, but it’s no use.

      King Kong could be beating his breast on top of the Empire State Building out there and I’d be absolutely none the wiser …

      When Mike arrives on Monday morning, I practically fall on the poor man with the sheer relief of having another human being to talk to. I make him a cup of tea and ask about his family, and it’s only when he starts edging apologetically out of the room that I remember the purpose of his visit is to fix the bathroom. Seconds later, his roofer friend arrives so I leave them to it.

      After my false start, I’ve made a determined effort over the past five days to sort through the kitchen, putting all the stuff I want to keep in the spare room ready to be boxed up for removal. Ivy, bless her, was never great at throwing things out, and by the end of the second day, the dustbin was already filled to bursting. The only time I’ve been out is to the village store for groceries. (I always tidy myself up, just in case I happen to bump into Sylvian, but so far there have been no sightings. He’s probably busy with his poetry workshops.)

      The best thing about the village store is – pause for effect – you can rent DVDs!

      I СКАЧАТЬ