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

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      Ivy laughed and said the poem was a bit cheesy for her taste, but she wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment, so it was staying put.

      I stare out of the taxi as the fields and houses flash by. When I get to the cottage, I’ll dump my bags and go straight over the road and through that gap in the hedge. If my grandma’s spirit is to be found anywhere, it will be there. In Ivy Garden.

      It’s almost May, which is when the bluebells bloom.

      A little stab of reality hits. I’m planning to clear the cottage and get it on the market in double-quick time so I can get back to Manchester as soon as I can. So I probably won’t be here when the bluebells come out.

      A chill cloud passes over. But I shake it off and check my phone for messages. I can’t afford to be sentimental about Ivy Garden or Moonbeam Cottage or bluebells. They represent Ivy’s past, not mine.

      The signs for Appleton are becoming more frequent now; I draw in a deep, slightly shaky breath. We’re almost there.

      And that’s when my heart plummets.

      Oh, bugger! I came prepared for a bus journey, not a taxi. I don’t have enough cash on me to pay the fare!

      When I break the bad news to the driver, he says he thinks there’s a cash point outside the village store, and to my relief, when we draw up outside it, so there is. The driver escorts me to the hole in the wall, clearly worried I’m going to run off into the gloom without paying. And then, joy of joys, the bloody machine isn’t working.

      I turn in a panic, as the wind swirls an empty crisp packet around my feet. ‘I’m so sorry.’

       Oh God, what do I do now?

      His arms are folded and he’s wearing a resigned expression, as if he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

      Then a voice says, ‘Can I help?’

      I swing around and a man steps out of the alleyway that runs alongside the village store. He arches his brows expectantly.

      ‘No, no, thank you, it’s fine,’ I tell him, although it quite obviously isn’t.

      The taxi driver sniffs. ‘She can’t pay the fare.’ From his tone, this is obviously not the first time it’s happened.

      ‘No, I can!’ I protest. ‘It’s not that I don’t have the money. It’s just I need a cash machine and this one isn’t working.’ I glance at the stranger. He’s slightly taller than me, probably around five foot nine, with a wiry build and fairish hair. ‘Is there another one nearby?’

      ‘We’re not exactly awash with facilities here,’ he murmurs regretfully. ‘The nearest is probably five miles away.’

      The driver hitches his sleeve and looks theatrically at his watch. ‘I have another job so I don’t have time to drive around looking for a frigging bank.’ He must be wearing hairspray because his crowning glory is standing upright in the wind at an unnatural angle.

      ‘Look, here’s the money,’ offers the stranger, drawing his wallet from his pocket. ‘I’m Sylvian, by the way.’ He holds out his hand to me and after a second’s hesitation, I quickly shake it.

      ‘You can pay me back tomorrow if you feel you need to,’ he tells me.

      I glance at him to see if he’s joking. ‘God, no, I couldn’t possibly let you do that. I mean, you don’t know me. I could be any old confidence trickster.’

      ‘She seems all right to me,’ pipes up the taxi driver. (Even if I was wearing a devil mask with a bag over my shoulder marked ‘stolen property’, he’d probably still give me a nice character reference, just so he could be on his way.)

      ‘Look, it’s fine,’ says Sylvian with a shrug. ‘Really. Money’s nothing to me. I don’t even care if you pay me back. It’s the love and the trust that are important, right?’

      I stare at him. Is he serious? He’s smiling, so either he really is that laid-back about money or he’s a mad psychopath, just biding his time until the taxi drives off and leaves us alone next to this conveniently dark alleyway.

      When I still look anguished with indecision, the driver heaves a weary sigh. ‘Look, just take the money,’ he says to me. ‘Give him your watch as collateral.’

      ‘That’s a good idea,’ I say, perking up and slipping off my watch.

      Sylvian chuckles. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need that.’ He rifles in his wallet and draws out some notes. ‘Keep the change, mate.’

      The taxi accelerates off and, feeling like a complete idiot, I stand there on the pavement opposite Sylvian, who I can’t help noticing has a rather attractive smile.

       THREE

      I hold out the watch again as the wind whips at my hair.

      ‘I really wish you’d take it. I’m staying just along the road at Moonbeam Cottage for a few weeks. Do you want me to write my address down?’ I scrabble in my bag for a pen and paper.

      He smiles down at me, arms folded, the nearby street lamp picking up the vivid green of his eyes. He’s wearing a sweatshirt in the same shade. It bears a slogan that reads: Minds are like parachutes. They only function when they’re open.

      ‘Stop worrying,’ he says. ‘It’s no big deal.’

      ‘But it is!’

      ‘Tell you what, you can buy me a drink some time.’

      ‘Dinner at a good restaurant, you mean,’ I correct him, thinking of the eye-wateringly expensive taxi fare.

      ‘Well, if you absolutely insist.’ He raises an eyebrow and I find myself blushing. Bugger, I wasn’t asking him out!

      ‘So do you live here? Just so I know where to bring the cash,’ I add hurriedly, in case he thinks I have another motive for asking.

      He nods, digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Temporarily. I’m poet in residence here for a year so I’ve moved into the flat above the village store.’ I follow his gaze as he glances up at the windows. ‘The council’s paying me to encourage talent and stimulate folks’ interest in poetry. I’m running a series of workshops.’

      ‘Wow. What sort of poems do you write?’ I gaze at him in awe. He looks so young to be a successful poet – early thirties, at a guess.

      He grins. ‘Well, I have a feeling this year’s output will feature sheep, orchards and idyllic cottages fairly heavily. The Cotswolds is certainly great for creative inspiration.’

      ‘Yes, it certainly is,’ I murmur fervently, while what I’m actually thinking is: Help! I’m a city girl. Get me out of here!

      ‘I’m giving a poetry reading in Hayworth next week,’ he says, mentioning СКАЧАТЬ