The Secrets of Ivy Garden

by Catherine Ferguson

  Passing the village store, I glance up at Sylvian’s windows. He’s probably in some kind of complicated yoga pose. I wonder if he watches the soaps at the same time to offset the boredom? Probably not.

  I turn right into Farthingale Lane, following in Jack’s wake. It’s eerily dark away from the main street and I’m suddenly having trouble seeing my feet. This makes hurrying along the potholed lane, while also trying to keep Jack in sight, a little treacherous. I pass a row of cottages on my left, fields on the right, and I’m just about to shout Jack’s name when the gloom seems to swallow him up altogether.

  Where’s he gone?

  There’s a large house beyond the cottages, with what looks like a huge glass conservatory extending into the garden. Maybe he’s gone in there. I stand by the gate, peering over. The house seems to be in complete darkness and there’s no sign at all of Jack.

  Suddenly, the conservatory space is flooded with light. I shuffle closer to the camouflage of the hedge. The extension houses a long swimming pool, the sort that encourages you to swim lengths (not splash around doing the odd width and trying to convince yourself this constitutes exercise, which is what I tend to do).

  My eyes widen. Jack is standing at the edge of the pool, adjusting his goggles. He’s stripped down to his swimwear.

  I gulp, which sounds quite loud in the silence. Maybe he does a lot of tree chopping, then, because you don’t get a taut, hard-muscled body like that lounging around watching Castaway.

  But budgie smugglers? Dear, oh dear. Although he wears them very well, I have to admit. I cock my head on one side as he dives in and starts powering his way along the pool. Great technique. Perhaps I’ll just hang around for a bit and watch …

  ‘Oh, hello, dear,’ says a rich, plummy voice right next to me, and I actually shout out, it’s such a shock.

  Oddly, when I spin around, there’s nothing there except a large bush.

  Next minute a woman’s head pops up from its depths, attached to a set of binoculars. ‘Doing your Neighbourhood Watch thing, too?’ she asks in a dramatic stage whisper. ‘Great minds think alike.’

  ‘You gave me a fright,’ I say weakly, grasping my chest and staring at her in alarm. A large woman with a red-lipsticked mouth, she has lots of bright auburn hair tied up in a jolly, patterned scarf.

  ‘Oh, did I?’ She emerges fully, swishing her enormous, floral-patterned dressing gown back into place. ‘Sorry, dear. I’m Henrietta. The villagers are quite used to me, popping up here, there and everywhere.’ She gives a loud, throaty chuckle, and I glance in alarm at Jack, who’s still front crawling up and down the pool like an Olympic athlete. He won’t hear us, with the water in his ears, but Henrietta’s flamboyant appearance might well attract his attention through the glass walls of the conservatory, scarily only a few yards from where we’re standing.

  Henrietta sways closer and murmurs confidentially, ‘I’m head of the Community Watch committee.’

  ‘Ah, right.’

  She trains her binoculars on Jack. ‘It pays to be vigilant, don’t you think?’

  A giggle rises up and I turn it into a cough. ‘Oh, absolutely. You can’t be too careful.’

  She puts the binoculars down and peers approvingly at me. ‘That’s just what I say to my darling Henry when he tells me I’m far too community-spirited for my own good. But where’s the joy in life if you can’t sacrifice your time to help others?’

  I nod, keeping a firm eye on Jack. The last thing I need is to be caught spying on him with the exuberant Henrietta.

  ‘So what are you doing here, my love?’ she booms, like she’s voice-trained to reach the person in the back row.

  ‘I wanted to have a quick word with Jack,’ I whisper, hoping this will encourage her to lower her voice, too. ‘But he’s obviously busy, so—’

  ‘Ah, yes. Jack,’ she booms. ‘Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Do you know, he’s here just about every night doing his physical jerks.’ She holds the binoculars aloft again.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘His exercise. In the swimming pool? The house belongs to his friend who works abroad. Jack keeps an eye on it for him. Have a gander, m’dear.’

  She pushes the binoculars into my hands, just as it occurs to me that, weirdly, I was half-correct about Jack’s mysterious nightly visits: they do actually involve a man who works abroad …

  ‘No, honestly, it’s fine,’ I say hurriedly, trying to hand the binoculars back. But Henrietta is pushing open the garden gate, apparently on a mission.

  ‘You can’t go without seeing Jack,’ she announces. ‘Here, let me grab his attention for you.’

  Before I can stop her, she’s sailing across her neighbour’s lawn towards the conservatory, waving her arms about and calling, ‘Coo-ee! Ja-a-ack!’ Her bat-wing sleeves flap up and down, making her look like a giant, exotic bird attempting to take flight.

  ‘What’s your name, dear?’ she calls back.

  ‘No! Honestly, it’s okay.’ I signal frantically for her to stop – but oh God, Jack is even now emerging from the pool and appearing at the door of the glass-walled extension, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

  ‘I say, lovely Speedos.’ Henrietta’s throaty approval carries back to me on the cool night air and I flinch with shame. I have a violent urge to flee the scene, but it’s too late. Jack has already spied his eager fan club of two and is looking past Henrietta in my direction. ‘Holly? Was there something you wanted?’

  ‘No! I mean, yes.’ Oh God, I have to give him some sort of explanation for my being there. I walk over the lawn towards him. ‘You kindly said you’d lend me gardening tools,’ I improvise swiftly, ‘and well, I need something to dig up nettles?’

  He nods. ‘A spade? Or a strimmer? Of course. No problem.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll leave you two to your … chat,’ says Henrietta in the nudge-nudge-wink-wink tone of a Carry On movie. ‘Toodle-ooh!’ The exotic bird gives Jack a coy little wave and starts flapping back across the lawn.

  ‘I see you’ve met our most colourful villager,’ says Jack, wrapping the towel round his waist.

  I laugh, full of relief that the amount of taut, lightly tanned body on show has been reduced somewhat, at least to broad chest, strong arms and hairy calves. ‘Does she always watch you swimming?’

  His lips twist in wry amusement and I notice how different he looks when he smiles. He seems calmer and more relaxed, too. The swimming obviously does him good. ‘Henrietta’s lovely,’ he murmurs. ‘She takes her Neighbourhood Watch responsibilities a little too far, that’s all.’

  ‘But spying on you, though? I couldn’t believe it!’ I say, desperate for him to know I wasn’t in any way involved in Henrietta’s saucy antics with the binoculars. (Me? Eye up a gorgeous buff male body in sporty action? Perish the thought!)

  ‘Oh, Holly?’ Henrietta is sailing back towards us. ‘I think you still have them, dear.’

  I frown at her, confused, and she laughs heartily.

  ‘The binoculars, dear. Or would you like to hold on to them for a bit longer?’

  ‘What? God, no!’ I off-load them as if they’ve just been microwaved then shoot a furtive glance at Jack. But he’s rubbing at a mark on the conservatory door with an expression of concentration, and thankfully doesn’t seem to have heard.

  ‘Thank you!’ trills Henrietta, swooshing off, her gown billowing around her. ‘Good night. Sleep tight, my dears.’

  Jack looks down at me, a suspicion of a smile on his well-shaped lips. ‘So, anyway, a strimmer?’

  I flush and laugh rather awkwardly. ‘Yes. I saw you run by the cottage, so I thought, No time like the present! And here I am.’

  He nods. ‘Actually, I run past Moonbeam Cottage most nights, although usually I’m a bit later than this.’

  ‘Do you really? Gosh, I’ve never noticed.’ I adopt what I hope is an innocent expression.

  ‘It’s generally after seven. I don’t normally get back from London till
then but I managed a half day today.’

  ‘You commute to London every single weekday? That must be at least two hours by train each way.’

  He gives a curt nod. ‘Look, do you mind if I just grab some clothes?’ He pushes the door wide for me. ‘Come in. James won’t mind. And anyway, he’s in Singapore.’

  Ah, not Dubai, then.

  I stand by the pool, breathing in the chlorine, while Jack nips into what I assume is a changing room, re-emerging a few minutes later in jeans and a black sweatshirt. He runs a hand through his hair. ‘So. Gardening tools. We could go and get them now, if you like.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble …’ I begin, feeling a bit of a fraud. The tools were just an excuse. I really want to ask him about Ivy, but now that he’s here, I’m not sure how to begin.

  He shrugs. ‘It’s no trouble at all. Let’s go. Do you mind doing the shortcut through the woods?’

  ‘Er, no, not at all.’

  We start off walking side by side, although I have to do an extra skip every now and then to keep up with Jack’s long stride. I ask him about his job and his long commute, and he tells me he works in the City but that it’s not practical for him to stay in London during the week. I want to ask why – does he have a wife and kids he needs to get back to every day? But we’ve crossed the road by then and are having to walk in single file as we approach the entrance to Ivy Garden. Once through the gap in the hedge, I follow Jack on what is clearly a well-trodden path through the woods. Twigs cracking underfoot, I breathe in the evocative scent of wood smoke as up ahead, the path opens out into a field.

  Jack holds a fallen branch to one side so that I can walk through. ‘The field’s still a bit boggy from the storms.’ He glances at my footwear. ‘Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have brought you this way.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I assure him, the second before stepping into a muddy pool that soaks right through to my socks.

  Jack opens a gate and there is Rushbrooke House ahead of us.

  It’s a substantial Georgian farmhouse with a very pleasing symmetry, large windows and lots of ivy climbing up the walls. You can tell it was a handsome house in its day. Actually, it still is – except that it obviously needs a complete overhaul, including a whole new roof and window frames, to keep it from turning into the kind of dilapidated haunted house you see in old horror movies with lightning flashing behind it for extra thrills.

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe. ‘It’s – erm – big.’

  He laughs. ‘Yes, it is. But old farmhouses like these need a lot of upkeep.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ I think of my modern flat that’s so easy to maintain and heat. How many rooms (and radiators) does Jack have here, at Rushbrooke House? The bills must be enormous. But I suppose if the house has been in his family for years, it would be hard to let it go.

  ‘In reality, it’s a draughty, leaky old monster that eats cash for breakfast,’ says Jack bluntly, sounding anything but sentimental about his proud heritage.

  Curious, I ask, ‘Wouldn’t you rather sell the house than have it hanging round your neck like a millstone?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I want. You can’t be selfish when the happiness of people you care about is at stake.’ He smiles grimly. ‘Your feet are wet. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t want to talk about the house any more. For some reason, selling up is obviously not an option, however much Jack seems to want to. I can’t help wondering whose happiness he’s protecting.

  We walk along a path that skirts the mellow red brick boundary wall of the house and enter the grounds at a set of wrought iron gates. A tarmac drive leads up to a gravelled parking area at the front of the house, but we veer off to the right, towards a gate that I assume leads to the gardens at the back.

  Jack stops at the gate. ‘Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee? Wine?’ He pauses and gives me an odd look. ‘Well, maybe not wine.’

  I stare at him, confused. Maybe not wine? Why on earth not? Because he hasn’t got any? Because he’s driving later? Or because I look like someone who might get overly frisky after a glass or two? Very strange.

  ‘That would be lovely but I should be getting back. And I’m sure you’ve got things to do as well.’

  He grins. ‘With a family like mine, there’s always plenty to do.’

  My heart gives a funny little skitter. Perhaps he has a wife and a whole brood of kids, then. Or a live-in girlfriend who’s obsessed with putting her mark on the décor and is always on at him to do DIY.

  I follow him down a path that skirts an enormous, fairly well-kept lawn, to a garden shed that’s in a similar state of dilapidation to the main building. Jack holds the door for me and I walk in. The delicious scent of wood shavings tickles my nose.

  ‘It’s my mother’s house,’ he says, as if he’s read my curious mind. ‘I live here with her and my sister.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’ He brings a long-handled gardening implement from the dark depths of the shed. I assume it’s what’s called a strimmer.

  ‘Surprised? No, not at all. That’s – erm – really nice for you, living with your family like that.’

  He raises an eyebrow, as if he’s about to come back at me with a sarcastic quip.

  Then he looks at me and his face softens. ‘Living on your own has its merits, too,’ he murmurs. ‘No-one to please but yourself.’

  ‘That’s true.’ I smile up at him. He’s only saying this to be kind and my heart swells at his thoughtfulness. ‘It’s just sometimes I can’t help wishing I’d spent more time with Ivy while I could. Talked more about her past and her memories. It’s so true that you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.’

  We lock eyes and he nods slowly.

  Now is my chance to ask about Bee. But for some reason I’m feeling a little light-headed and I’ve completely forgotten what I planned to say. My mouth is dry, too, when I try to swallow. It’s probably nerves because I feel like I’m wasting Jack’s time. And actually, I think he might be a bit suspicious of my motives for talking to him because he’s looking down at me with that slightly quizzical expression again.

  I draw in a deep breath and break the spell. ‘Anyway, Ivy was the best. I couldn’t have wished for a happier, more loving upbringing. So you see, I’m really very lucky.’

  ‘You are,’ he agrees, balancing the strimmer over his shoulder. ‘We can drive this over now or I could drop it off on Saturday night when I get back from London?’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ That’s when I might be having dinner with Sylvian. He hasn’t confirmed yet whether it’s on or off, but I need to keep it free in case. ‘I’m – er – out on Saturday. Dinner with a friend.’ Oddly, I don’t think I want Jack to know about Sylvian, although I’m not sure why. ‘It’s not a hot date or anything,’ I add quickly, while at the same time flushing to the roots of my hair. The temperature in the shed is suddenly tropical. Honestly, I might as well have tipped him a wink and joked, ‘Can’t wait to rejoin the ranks of the sexually-active, know what I mean?’

  He’s looking at me slightly askance. ‘I never imagined it was,’ he says calmly. ‘A hot date, that is.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ That told me, then! I’m clearly nowhere near attractive enough in Jack Rushbrooke’s eyes to warrant a man asking me out with amorous intentions in mind!

  I feel ridiculously crestfallen.

  Not that I care what Jack thinks about me. It’s just I’ve been wondering myself what Sylvian has in mind for Saturday. And now I’m thinking maybe his intentions are purely platonic.

  ‘Let’s take it round now, then,’ he says, patting his pocket for his car keys.

  We’re about to go out again, into the night, when something catches my eye. There’s a workbench at the back of the space and lying on its side on top is what looks like a wooden chair.

  ‘That’s my latest project,’ says Jack, following my gaze. ‘I make furnit
ure. It’s a dying art and if I could, I’d be doing my bit every day to keep it alive.’ He hefts the chair off the table with one hand and sets it down in front of me.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I tell him honestly, running my hand over the smooth, polished grain and admiring the tall, ladder-back effect. It’s a simple design but very stylish.

  ‘Another five to go, plus a matching table,’ he says smiling broadly.

  ‘Wow. How long will that take?’

  He laughs ruefully. ‘Probably longer than my customer would like. But the day job takes up so much time.’

  ‘Can’t you give up your work in London and do this instead?’

  ‘If only. I need the big salary to keep this place going.’ He nods in the direction of the house. ‘Really, it needs a complete overhaul, but that’s out of the question. And Mum refuses to even think about selling, so …’ He shrugs and glances down at the sawdust on the floor.

  I study his profile thoughtfully. He should be making furniture full-time. It’s such a waste of talent.

  Ivy would say working with wood was Jack’s calling. When he talks about it, you can see his passion, the way he’s right there ‘in the zone’. His face really comes alive.

  ‘So you’re stuck in a job you don’t particularly like, with a time-consuming commute to London every day.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s about the size of it.’ He shrugs. ‘But I guess there aren’t many of us privileged enough to be working at something we really love. Not when the bills need paying, anyway.’

  ‘How true.’ I smile sadly, thinking of how Ivy always wanted me to do art, the thing I loved best. ‘My grandma knew what my “calling” was even before I knew it myself. It’s taken me a long time to realise I should probably stop resisting and do something about it.’

  It’s odd. This thought has only just crystallised in my mind, standing here talking to Jack. It suddenly seems very clear that now is the time for me to get serious and take my talent for art to the next level. Apply for college, maybe …

  A little thrill of excitement rushes through me at the thought.