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

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СКАЧАТЬ but English wasn’t exactly my strongest subject at school.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘I never really understood poetry.’ I attempt to smooth my wind-blown hair behind my ears. ‘Maths and art. That was me.’

      ‘So you’re creative, too? Did you study art at college?’

      ‘No. It’s always been my dream, though.’

      He shrugs. ‘You should go for it.’

      ‘Maybe I will.’ I smile shyly at him.

      ‘Well, if you change your mind about the poetry reading, give me a shout.’ He grins. ‘We newcomers should stick together.’

      I nod, liking the notion that I’m not the only stranger here. ‘Right, well, I’ll drop that money in tomorrow. And thanks again.’

      ‘No problem. Need help with that case?’ He glances along the road in the direction of Moonbeam Cottage.

      ‘No, no, it’s fine. It’s got wheels. Thanks, though.’ I manoeuvre the case around, ready to go.

      ‘Right, well, lovely to meet you, Holly.’ He lifts a hand and disappears through the door.

      I walk the last few hundred yards of my journey feeling much lighter in spirit. Sylvian seems lovely. Open and friendly. And really very trusting.

      I push open the gate and fumble for my key. And at last, I’m standing in the familiar little hallway of Moonbeam Cottage, taking in the silence as memories start flooding in.

      Actually, it isn’t the complete silence I was expecting. I can hear a drip.

      I cock my head to one side.

      To be more precise, it’s a steady drip, drip, drip.

      Alarmed, I flick on the hall light, push open the door to the living room and stare in dismay at the devastation before me. The ceiling in the far corner of the room is sagging and water is dripping down on to the wooden floor.

      I glance upwards.

       The bathroom?

      I drop my bag and race up the narrow stairs, almost knocking several pottery plates off the wall in my haste.

      The bathroom is, indeed, a disaster area. The floor has partially caved in, and I stand there, staring in horror, remembering what Ivy’s next-door neighbour, Bill, told me at the funeral. She was apparently getting out of the bath when she had her fatal heart attack.

      Looking at the scene where she died, a whole host of emotions rush through me and I have to hang on to the doorframe because my legs are suddenly no use at all. As I fight to control the panic, my brain takes in the marks on the wall in the corner where water has been obviously been dripping all the way down from the ceiling and pooling on the floor. Over time, it must have soaked into the floorboards and brought part of the living room ceiling down.

      I glance up in dismay. There must be a leak in the roof. Oh God, I could have done without this!

      But it’s probably my fault.

      The house has lain empty for over four months. When I came here for the funeral, I booked myself into a local B&B because I couldn’t bear to even set foot in the cottage. It was all still so painfully raw. The memories would have knocked me flat. If only I’d thought to at least check things were okay.

      What am I supposed to do now?

      Bill’s cottage next door is in darkness and it’s too late to think about calling a tradesman. Tomorrow I’ll find the number for Mike, who was Ivy’s go-to handyman when she needed work done on the cottage. I’m too tired to even imagine what patching up the roof might cost. I’ll face that after a night’s sleep.

      For now, I need some heat. Unoccupied for months, the cottage is absolutely freezing. And luckily, when I flick the boiler switch, the system groans into life. It sounds just like a monster is waking up in the spare room. Hugging myself through the sleeves of my coat, I go downstairs in a daze into the compact country-style kitchen. Thankfully everything is fine in there. I find a bucket under the sink and take it into the living room, placing it to catch the drips.

      Back in the kitchen, Ivy’s hideous teapot in the shape of a ladybird catches my eye. A hot cup of tea is just what I need.

      The teapot hasn’t been emptied from the last time Ivy used it. With a pang of sadness, I tip the contents into the sink and squeeze out the teabags to put in the bin. Then I look at the teapot with its ladybird spots and grinning clown face and find myself smiling.

      Ivy loved ladybirds; they’re all over the cottage. Ladybird coasters, ladybird mugs, ladybird ornaments displayed all along the windowsill. I always used to joke that her ladybird teapot was a step too far.

      I pick it up with a wistful smile. Life is strange. I don’t know how many times I’ve laughingly threatened to have the thing recycled at the charity shop.

      But now I know I’ll never part with it …

      I’m about to put the kettle on when it occurs to me that the electrics might have been affected by the structural damage. Is it safe having the power on? I’ve no idea so I decide I’d better play safe and switch it off at the mains. I’ll just have to pile on extra layers. But I’m determined to stay in the cottage. There will be no more B&Bs because it’s time I stopped avoiding the bad stuff.

      A feeling of isolation engulfs me. I trail through to the living room and sit on the chair by the window, staring out into the darkness. How can I bear to stay here, all on my own, without Ivy to talk to and laugh with? Even a few weeks feels like forever.

      And then, as I gaze forlornly at the trees over the road, a milky full moon suddenly breaks through a gap in the rain clouds and shines down its silvery beams, illuminating the hedge opposite. I stare at it, and a little burst of hope breaks through the gloom.

      Here I am in Moonbeam Cottage and a moonbeam is actually showing me the way! I can’t see the gap in the hedge from here but it’s definitely there. Suddenly, I know what I need to do.

      The storm has abated slightly. I run to the front door and slide my feet into Ivy’s well-worn moccasins in the hall. They’re a size too big and they flap a bit but I reason they’ll do the job. Then I grab a torch that’s lying on the hall table and venture out again, through the creaky garden gate, pausing to give Ivy’s old silver Fiesta, parked right outside the cottage, a quick once-over. It’s ancient and getting a little rusty but last time I spoke to Ivy, Florence the Fiesta, as she called it, was still going strong.

      I dash over the road. Then I stop short.

      The gap in the hedge isn’t where I remember it. In fact, it isn’t there at all.

      It seems that in the short time since Ivy died, the prickly twigs have somehow locked themselves together, obscuring the gap. As if the entrance was there purely for Ivy. And now that she’s gone, it’s no longer needed.

      I’m just about to switch on the torch when the moon slides into view again, and in the feeble light, the gap magically reappears. Holding my breath, thorns scraping at my hands, I divide the woody tangle, determined СКАЧАТЬ