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

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       TWO

      Whenever I think of the Cotswolds, where Ivy lived the last decade of her life, I think of the row of pretty golden stone cottages skirting Appleton village green and the gnarled old oak tree by the cricket pavilion. In my mind, it’s always summer there and the sky is always blue.

      But when I step off the train at Stroud – the nearest station to Appleton – I’m faced with a rather different view of the Cotswolds. Storms have been raging all week, causing destruction right across the country, and today appears to be no exception. I peer out of the station entrance at people scurrying for shelter from the steady drizzle and gusty wind.

      I can’t afford to hang around. There’s only one bus to Appleton every two hours – and the next one leaves in ten minutes.

      Grabbing a firmer hold of my suitcase, I start running for the bus station, dodging passers-by and puddles of rainwater. As long as the bus doesn’t leave early, I should just about make it.

      And then it happens.

      I round the corner a little too briskly, step to one side to avoid a man with a briefcase, and instead, cannon right into someone else.

      Momentarily winded, I register the black habit and white veil the woman is wearing and my heart gives a sickening thud.

       Oh God, I just nearly decked a religious person!

      But worse is to come.

      The nun, who I notice is remarkably tall, stops for a second to regain her balance. But she lists too far to one side and ends up staggering off the pavement into the water-logged gutter.

      To say I’m mortified is a vast understatement.

      ‘I’m so, so sorry!’ I reach out to her, then draw back my hand, just in case she’s taken some kind of vow that forbids any form of physical contact during high winds. ‘God, are you all right?’

       Shit, why did I have to say ‘God’?

      She’s bending to retrieve her glasses, which mustn’t fit very well because they seem to have gone flying when she over-balanced. Her attempts at picking them up are failing miserably – so, flushed and overcome with guilt, I dive in, swipe them off the ground then rub them clean on my coat before handing them back.

      She puts them on, almost stabbing herself in the eye, and that’s when I notice something odd. The glasses are attached to a large, false nose.

      She sways and I grab her arm to steady her, wondering what on earth is going on.

      ‘Seen a bunch of people dressed as monks and nuns?’ she slurs in a voice that’s surprisingly full of gravel and several octaves lower than I was expecting. ‘Disappeared. And it’s my turn to get the beers in.’

      Stunned, I shake my head. So not a nun, then. Not female either, come to that.

      I glance at my watch.

       Bugger!

      Thanks to this stag-do buffoon, I’ve now missed the bus to Appleton and there won’t be another one along for at least two hours.

      An arm snakes round my waist. ‘Hey, why don’t you come along? Join the pub crawl?’

      Actually, how it sounds is Heywhydntc‌mlongjnpubcrawl? I stare up at his stupid false nose and black-rimmed glasses, the lenses of which are like jam jar bottoms. I’m amazed he can see through them. No wonder he charged right into me.

      He sways closer and the booze on his breath almost knocks me flat.

      I feel like weeping. Today’s long journey from Manchester has been emotionally exhausting, to say the least, and now – to cap it all – I’m being propositioned by a drunk disguised as a nun?

      It can’t get any worse. Oh hang on, apparently it can.

      His hand just slipped lower and is clamped so tight, there seems to be no escape. The rest of him might be listing like a yacht in a force nine, but there’s nothing flaky about that firm grasp.

      I try to move away but the pavement is packed with people and I just keep getting pushed back against him. Then when I do manage to put a small distance between us, he staggers a bit and lurches forward. That’s when I realise he was probably just grabbing on to me in an attempt to remain upright.

      He grins and the cheap nylon veil slips down over one eye. ‘Dirt on your coat,’ he mumbles helpfully.

      I glance down. Sure enough, there’s a big splodge of muck from where I wiped his joke glasses on my otherwise pristine beige coat. The one I had dry-cleaned last week.

      ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, catching my look of horror and attempting to look contrite.

      ‘So you should be,’ I snap, thinking miserably of the two-hour wait ahead. ‘Pretending to be one of God’s holy sisters and making me miss my bus!’

      ‘Youdon’tapproveof‌mendressed’snuns?’

      Quick translation while leaning away to avoid beery breath. ‘No, I don’t approve of men dressed as nuns. Especially if they’re rat-arsed. If I were a nun, I’d be absolutely horrified.’

      He snorts, apparently finding it all very funny indeed. ‘Butyouaren’tanunareyou?’

      I grit my teeth.

      A six-foot-two fake nun is using me as a prop to remain standing and people are staring. Plus, I have a two-hour wait for a bus and a lovely reminder of my unholy encounter in the form of a nasty black stain on my coat.

      Just then, to add insult to injury, the bus to Appleton swooshes past, hurling a litre of gutter rainwater at me. Tears prick my eyes as I watch it accelerate off into the distance.

      ‘No, I am not a nun,’ I growl, and Maria von Trapp on growth hormones sniggers like a schoolboy. I fix him with my sternest look. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

      He blinks several times at me behind his glasses. At least, I assume that’s what he’s doing because I can’t actually see his eyes through the stupid joke lenses.

      ‘In fact,’ I add, enjoying his confusion, ‘I’m actually training to become a nun.’

      He snorts, nearly overbalances, СКАЧАТЬ