The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass. Catherine Ferguson
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Название: The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass
Автор: Catherine Ferguson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
isbn: 9780008215736
isbn:
What was it she needed to tell me?
My heart fought with my head. ‘I’d love to stay another night, but I’m back at the café tomorrow morning, remember? And Patty’s already short-staffed as it is, with people off on holiday.’
Ivy nodded, seeming to recollect herself. ‘Of course. I’m being silly.’ She forced a smile and let go of my arms. ‘You have to get back.’
People were climbing aboard the train now, and the guard was walking along the platform, getting ready to blow his whistle.
I took her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘I’ll phone later and we can talk then?’
She kissed me on the cheek and shooed me into the carriage. ‘Quick, quick, or it’ll leave without you.’
I found a seat and sat on the edge of it, still gripping my bag, full of uncertainty. Ivy had held my arms so tightly when she asked me to stay. Perhaps I should slip off the train and phone in sick tomorrow?
But when I looked out on to the platform, she was smiling and waving, back to her normal self, and I thought maybe I’d imagined the flash of despair in her eyes when she begged me to change my plans. Ivy was forever saying the times we saw each other went by far too quickly. Perhaps she simply wanted to prolong our precious weekend together
At the exact same moment, we both realised she was waving with a paper bag full of chocolate orange cupcakes that were meant for me. A speciality of the village bakery in Appleton, where Ivy now lived, they were our all-time favourite cakes and Ivy brought some for me whenever she came to visit me in Manchester. So then, of course, I had to rush to the door and grab the bag before the guard blew his whistle and all the doors closed.
As the train drew out of the station, we were both laughing – me flopped back in my seat, breathless and giggling, and Ivy on the platform covering her face with her hands in mock horror.
She blew me a kiss as the train drew out of the station.
I never saw her again.
Eight months later
‘You can cut all the flowers but you cannot stop spring from coming’
– Pablo Neruda
I know I’ve cocked up again when Patty abruptly abandons the milk she’s frothing, and puts her arm around me.
I swivel my eyes at her in alarm.
My boss showers her dogs with love. But I’ve worked with her long enough – fourteen years to be precise, from being a Saturday girl at sixteen – to know that she’s fairly reserved when it comes to showing affection for actual people.
‘Oh, God.’ I bite my lip and throw a glance at the queue of lunch-time customers. ‘What did I do this time?’
Patty’s mouth quirks up at the corner. ‘You’ve just given poor Betty spicy tomato pickle with her fruit scone.’
I glance over in horror.
Betty, one of our elderly regulars, is removing her coat and settling herself at a corner table, clearly relishing the prospect of taking the weight off her bunions and tucking into a delicious home-baked scone with strawberry jam and cream.
She’s in for a nasty surprise.
Patty grabs me before I have a chance to charge over, and the empathy in her eyes almost floors me.
Ever since Ivy died, I’ve been walking around in a sort of stunned daze, doing things on autopilot. Which is why, I suppose, I gave Betty spicy tomato pickle instead of strawberry jam. And burned my hand on the coffee machine last week. As well as carefully spreading a mountain of rolls with gloopy baking fat before Patty noticed and stopped me. ‘Not sure our customers would appreciate the irony of having lard with their healthy salad sandwiches,’ she remarked dryly.
In all that time, I haven’t broken down in public even once, but all of a sudden, I’m perilously close to losing it in front of the entire café.
I dig my nails into my palms, which is meant to distract you from the emotion that’s threatening to knock you flat. It seems to work. And it’s also slightly less weird than crossing your eyes or rolling them around, other suggestions I found online.
I solve most of my practical problems online. Ivy was hopeless at DIY so I grew up tackling all the odd jobs around the house to save us money. I even fixed a leaky tap once with one of those step-by-step Wiki guides. As a result, I tend not to be daunted by tasks that other people would run a mile from.
My independent streak seems to baffle men. When they discover my parents died when I was four, they first of all think I must want to talk about it (which I absolutely don’t) and then they try to look after me and protect me from the big bad world. I should probably feel grateful. But instead, it makes me feel suffocated. That’s probably why my romantic history is peppered with fledgling relationships that I’ve ended because the guy wouldn’t give me the space I craved.
My latest doomed romance ended last summer after Adam, who I actually really liked and thought I might even be in love with, started hinting – after only three months – that we should move in together. He obviously took it as an affront when I said it was a little too early to think about that – because two weeks later, he left me for a glamour model he’d met at his local gym. I told myself I was fortunate to have found out about his shallowness so early on, and I tried not to mind when they got engaged a month after they met. Perhaps I was meant to be alone.
Ivy once told me I never gave romance a chance and she asked me if I thought I was running away from commitment. It would be natural, she said, after losing my parents so young, to fear the people I love might be snatched away from me.
Privately, I thought this was simply daft psychobabble. The guys concerned were just not for me, that was all.
‘Go and sort Betty out,’ Patty says. ‘And then go away and sort everything else out, okay?’
‘But …’ I glance at the queue of people, all staring at us expectantly.
She shakes her head, gently holding my wrists. ‘No buts, Holly. You were back at work the day after the funeral. Much too soon. And yes, I know the last thing you want to do is make the long journey back down to the Cotswolds and go through Ivy’s things …’
I swallow. ‘And get Moonbeam Cottage ready to sell.’
Just saying it makes my insides quiver. Moonbeam Cottage, in the heart of the Cotswolds, was such a huge part of Ivy’s life.
‘It has to be СКАЧАТЬ