‘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 a neighbouring village. ‘Why don’t you come along?’
‘Oh. Thanks, it sounds great, 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 slee
ves 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 to get to the tranquil, mossy-floored haven with its bench and bird table, love seat and cute garden shed that I know lies on the other side.
A second later, I make it through – and my feet land squarely in a pool of ice-cold rainwater.
What the hell?
The shock makes me yelp out loud. Stepping gingerly out of the muddy pool, I flick on the torch and shine it around. And my heart sinks into Ivy’s sodden moccasins as I take in the utter chaos that confronts me.
The recent storms have truly done their worst. A tree has splintered almost in two and the top half is hanging right across the centre of the little woodland glade. With a pang of horror, I realise it’s crash-landed on to Ivy’s little wooden love seat, which now lies in bits in the mud. The jolly garden shed lies on its side, no competition at all against the strength of the recent gales, and the mossy floor is flooded with muddy puddles that float with twigs and all sorts of debris.
It looks as if a giant ogre has lost its temper and rampaged about the small space, wrecking everything in sight. The only survivor of the storm seems to be the bird table, which lies at an angle against the trunk of the broken tree, but is miraculously still in one piece.
I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. A mix of anger and grief surges up inside me. I thought when I got here, I’d feel closer to Ivy. But instead, all that confronts me is ugliness. I’m just glad she didn’t have to see it like this.
When I try to reverse my way back through the hedge, the heel of my moccasin slides in the mud and I feel myself falling. Frantically grabbing for the nearest support, a handful of hedge thorns slice deep into the tender pad of flesh near my thumb, and I yelp and let go, then land on my bum in a squelchy mass of mud.
For a few seconds, I sit there stunned, experiencing the weird sensation of cold water seeping into my pants. And then I start to laugh. A giggle at first that escalates into wails of laughter, but then gradually turns into wails of a different kind. For the first time since I got the news about Ivy, I lose it completely. Great, anguished, gasping sobs, as if I’ll never be able to stop. I’m competing with the angry roar of the wind, which has started up again, and I’m grateful for that because it means I can cry as loudly as I want and no-one will hear me.
I sob until I’m soaked through with tears and muddy water. And all the time, the wind goes on raging as if it, too, is incensed by the train of horrible events that has led me to this broken wreck of a place.
After a while, my sobs lessen and some sort of stoic survival instinct kicks in. I feel slightly better having let it all out. It even seems a little comical now. But when I try to lever myself up, I promptly slip right back down into the smelly, muddy sludge. A second try also fails.
Then the rain starts again, peppering hard against my face, driven sideways by the wind, and I sit there shivering, wondering what other indignities the universe can possibly have in store to hurl at me.
I hold my face up to the rain in helpless surrender.
Then I yell at the broken tree. ‘So what the bloody hell am I supposed to do now?’
Its branches shake in the wind. But as a reply, I can’t help thinking it falls a little short of helpful. I wipe my face roughly with wet hands and anger surges up. I’m angry at my mum and dad for dying when I was only four. I’m angry at Ivy for buggering off and leaving me all alone in the world. And I’m angry at life in general for delivering this latest cruel blow.
‘This is supposed to be a frigging magic garden, isn’t it?’ I croak. ‘So where’s the magic? And tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do!’
No answer. Obviously.
I scramble up and push my way back through the hedge and over the road, just wanting to put the desolate scene behind me. Lifting the latch on the gate, I glance towards the row of shops, thinking of my gallant rescuer, Sylvian, in his flat above the village store. It gives me an odd sort of comfort to know he’s there. A friendly face.
Back in the cottage, I fumble for my mobile and dial Ivy’s number, pressing the phone to my ear as her message kicks in.
Hello, my lovers. Ivy’s answering machine is sadly broken. You’re currently talking to the refrigerator. Please speak very slowly and don’t mention power cuts.
I smile at her message – even though I’ve heard it a hundred times before – and a familiar warmth spreads through me. It’s the best I’ve felt all day.
A heartbeat later, I dial the number again.
When Patty first worked out what I was doing a few months ago, she took me to one side in the café and said, very gently, ‘Holly, love, isn’t it time you let the phone company know?’
She was right, of course. But the idea that I might never again be able to listen to Ivy’s voice? That was just too terrible to imagine.
I climb the stairs, still listening to the message. When it’s finished, I throw off my outer layer of clothing and
get straight into bed, shivering and pulling the quilt right up to my chin. Then I decide I need another pair of socks so I get out again with the quilt still wrapped around me.
I peek through the open curtains.
The storm is passing over and stars are beginning to appear. I watch a wisp of cloud wind itself around the milky white moon, thinking back to the day of the funeral.
I felt numb, as if all the chilly formalities were happening to someone else and not to me at all. It was almost as if I sleep-walked through it – waking in the B&B, dressing carefully and opening the door to a kindly man dressed all in black, who guided me into the car to drive me the short journey to the church in a neighbouring village; seeing Ivy’s friends and acquaintances at the church; receiving their kind words and touches in a daze.
For some reason, I can only remember fragments of the day, as if I wasn’t completely there. The handsome elderly woman, her skin deeply grooved, who gently cupped my face and told me Ivy always said that I was her sunshine. The kind, white-haired man who shepherded me to a chair when I was feeling wobbly and pressed a clean handkerchief into my hand when I couldn’t find my tissues. The fresh-faced vicar, who talked about Ivy as though she were a friend, when I knew full well my grandma hadn’t been to church in years.
I keep thinking how odd it is that I can remember in vivid detail the intricate web of lines on the woman’s face and the kind man’s freshly ironed handkerchief – which I must still have somewhere – and yet, however hard I try, I can’t recall the drive back to the B&B. I suppose I was in a daze of grief.
Now, as I stare at the moon, emotion swells in my chest until I can hardly breathe.
I might be selling the cottage and returning to my life in Manchester, but I have a precious connection to this village, through Ivy. I will always think of Moonbeam Cottage and Ivy Garden with such huge affection.
I swish the curtains closed and climb back into bed, and in the darkness, I dial Ivy’s number again. But this time, all I get is silence; my phone has no signal. A single tear leaks into my pillow. The lump in my throat feels as big as a tennis ball.
The Secrets of Ivy Garden Page 3