The Secrets of Ivy Garden

by Catherine Ferguson

  Then he confounds my suspicion by saying, ‘So, Holly, will you do it?’

  I’m so surprised, I find myself saying, ‘Well, yes. Okay. I will.’ Drawing in a deep breath, I smile at Prue. ‘I’d be happy to help out. On a temporary basis.’

  Prue seems delighted. We make arrangements for me to call by the house the following week so she can show me the gardens, then Prue and Jack start heading back to the car.

  ‘I have to warn you, though,’ I call, with a sudden attack of conscience. ‘I’ve never done any gardening professionally.’

  ‘Oh, we won’t worry about that, Polly.’ Prue flutters her fingers back at me. ‘See you next week, dear.’

  I watch her go.

  ‘The first job I want to tackle is those dreadful leylandi things,’ she’s saying to Jack. ‘Why on earth we planted them, I’ll never know. They block out all the sunlight. But thankfully, we’ve got Polly to sort all that out now.’

  I feel a bit dazed. I’d like to confess that ‘Polly’ doesn’t even know what ‘leylandi things’ are, never mind how to get rid of them. But I doubt if it would make any difference to Prue Rushbrooke. I appear to be hired, whether I like it or not!

  Layla gives me a sly grin. ‘Well done. Those green fingers of yours have just landed you a job.’

  I laugh. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you just engineered all of that yourself.’

  She shrugs. ‘Maybe. But everyone’s happy, aren’t they? You need the money. Plus, Mum will never employ anyone from the village and Jack will just get even more grumpy if he has to mow the lawns throughout the summer in his free time.’ She frowns. ‘Not that he has any free time. But that’s sort of the point. So you see, it’s the perfect solution all round.’

  ‘Layla?’ Jack calls from beyond the hedge.

  ‘Wish I could stay here instead,’ she mutters.

  ‘Come on, Layla,’ calls Prue in a sing-song voice. ‘Auntie Joan will be expecting her Earl Grey tea.’

  Layla rolls her eyes. ‘Auntie Joan will be snoring her head off in the armchair after overdosing on triple helpings of sherry trifle.’

  She tramps wearily off to the car.

  THIRTEEN

  The following week, I invite Connie round for a girls’ night in.

  She brings a bottle of champagne on the pretext of toasting my arrival in Appleton, and we end up telling each other our life stories, the good bits and the bad. (It’s probably the champagne, but the bad bits seem even more hilarious than the good.)

  ‘By the way, you’ll like this,’ she says, diving in her bag at one point and bringing out a copy of the local newspaper. ‘Don’t ever tell me village life is boring,’ she laughs, showing me the front page.

  The headline reads: Who’s Stealing Our Garden Gnomes?

  I raise my eyebrows at her, and we both burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s the talk of the village,’ she says. ‘Some nutter is going round pinching everyone’s garden ornaments.’

  ‘Nutter, eh? They might be no less sane than you or me.’ I shrug. ‘It could just be their idea of entertainment round here.’

  Connie grins and takes another glug of wine. (We’ve moved on to chardonnay.) ‘You really don’t like the countryside, do you?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not much.’

  ‘But why? We’ve got acres of space, amazing country walks right on the doorstep, and lovely pure air, as long as you don’t mind breathing in the occasional disgusting farmyard smell. What’s not to love?’

  I force a smile. ‘It’s those evil bastard cows, if you must know.’

  I tell her I like painting and sketching caricatures, and her eyes light up. ‘Do caricatures of those two awful model-types who were in the café that time. Moira and Selena.’ She emphasises the first syllable in a comical high-pitched voice and we fall about laughing.

  I embrace the challenge and Connie goes into ecstasies over the result. Even I have to admit it’s rather good. I’ve caught Selena’s likeness especially well, exaggerating her mane of thick, glossy hair to mammoth bouffant proportions and making her fantastic cheekbones as sharp as knives. I’d noticed her gleaming white teeth had a tendency to protrude ever so slightly, so I give her proper rabbit’s gnashers, which makes Connie laugh so much she nearly falls off the sofa.

  I feel a bit bad that we’re having a chuckle at Selena’s expense, but I reason that the sketch is for Connie’s eyes only. No-one else will see it.

  When she’s gone and I’m tidying up the kitchen before heading for bed, I pick up the caricature of Selena, remembering back to when I realised I had a real talent for sketching.

  It was on one of our many trips to Blackpool.

  I had a friend called Rhona, whose family booked the same week as us, at the same guest house, regular as clockwork. Rhona was the same age as me. If the weather was good, we’d spend our days on the beach, throwing a Frisbee, splashing in the sea and running away, squealing, from the suncream-brandishing grown-ups. We ate the packed lunch doorstep ham sandwiches and wedges of fruitcake provided by the guest house, kids of all ages huddled on the same sandy tartan rug, the adults reading their newspapers in deck chairs. If it was overcast, we went to the cinema or walked along the pier and went on the fairground rides.

  One year, when I was about eleven, a big, ginger-haired girl called Jessie joined the group with her parents. Jessie took an instant dislike to me and decided Rhona was going to be her friend and not mine. She had bushy eyebrows and pillow-like lips, which she had a habit of hitching to one side in a sneer, especially when she was lording it over me. Rhona must have been flattered by Jessie’s attention because she stopped speaking to me for a while and I remember being utterly heartbroken. I’d been so looking forward to seeing Rhona and now the holiday was in ruins.

  It was a miserable grey day and Ivy took me to a café for an ice-cream to cheer me up. She said all the right things about Jessie being nothing but a bully and that Rhona would come to her senses eventually, but I couldn’t so much as raise a smile.

  Then Ivy pushed a pen and a white paper napkin across the table. ‘Draw her.’ Her eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Go on, Holly. Do Jessie.’

  So I thought for a moment, then I drew a caricature of my tormentor, making her generous eyebrows look like jungles and sketching her big lips in a pronounced sneer that made Ivy’s eyes widen with glee when I passed it back.

  Doing that drawing made me feel a whole lot better, as Ivy knew it would.

  I lay the sketch down on the table, thinking about my plan to apply for a place at art college once I’ve sold Moonbeam Cottage. I’ve been looking at colleges online and there are some really good ones. But before I can think about leaving Appleton and doing something new with my life, I need to decide what I’m going to do about Bee.

  I keep thinking perhaps I should just leave it all in the past, which seemed to have been Ivy’s intention. Maybe I should respect her wishes and leave well alone.

  But what if it wasn’t her intention to keep the secret from me? What if she’d been going to tell me but then she died before she had a chance? I keep remembering that last time I was with her, on the station platform in Stroud. She was waving me off on the train, and just before I boarded, she gripped my arms and said there was something she needed to tell me.

  I should have stayed and talked to her. But Patty had needed me back in the café.

  What if that had been my one chance to find out the truth – and I’d blown it?

  What on earth do I wear for a gardening job ‘interview’?

  I’ve already been hired, of course, but even so, I feel I should make an effort when Prue shows me around for the first time.

  My normal smart suit that I wheel out for formal occasions is hanging up in my wardrobe back in Manchester. But in any case, surely something more casual would be more appropriate?

  In the end, I settle for my work outfit at the café – black, slim-fitting trousers, a white shirt and black loafers. Smart bu
t casual. The trousers feel a little more ‘snug’ than usual, which I was kind of expecting. (All this fresh country air makes a girl ravenous for carbs. That’s my excuse, anyway.) I examine my reflection in the mirror. As long as I’m breathing in, the trousers aren’t too tight. I’m due at Rushbrooke House for ten and I plan to use Jack’s shortcut through the woods.

  I was up very early reading gardening manuals, as if cramming for an exam, hoping I could absorb some crucial facts that would make me sound impressively knowledgeable. Actually, that’s a ridiculous hope. Just knowing a little bit more than zero would make me happy at this stage.

  I’m crossing my fingers that Layla’s working a shift at the garden centre this morning, well out of the way. I have a feeling my ability to blag my way through the ‘interview’ with Prue will be a hundred times more challenging if her teenage daughter is standing there, grinning away, thoroughly enjoying my discomfort.

  I set off through the trees, knowing roughly the direction I’m going in, and after a few minutes, Rushbrooke House comes into view.

  Now, should I cross the field or walk all the way round?

  As I stand by the fence, debating, a squawking noise catches my attention.

  Four ducks are waddling under the fence close to where I’m standing. I watch them, fascinated, having rarely been up so close and personal to wildlife – except for pigeons in the city.

  Three of the ducks have flamboyant jewel blue plumage, while the fourth is plain and brown, obviously female. The male ducks are vying for her attention, in a very jostling, un-gentlemanly way. It puts me in mind of my Manchester local of a Friday night. One of the males just walks right over the female’s head. I suppose that’s as good a way as any to get a girl’s attention. I’d love to know if her animated squawks mean, ‘Come and get me, big boy,’ or ‘Bugger off.’ But it’s impossible to tell.

  Still, she does have three guys – er, birds – after her, which can’t be bad, can it?

  It’s pretty deflating for me, though. Apparently even Jemima Puddleduck’s social life is racier than mine.

  I pause by the fence to watch their antics.

  ‘So what’s it to be?’ says a deep voice behind me.

  I spin round.

  Jack is standing there, lazily observing me, a glint in those deep blue eyes.

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

  He shrugs. ‘Wriggle underneath or just go for it and clamber on top?’ he drawls.

  Huh?

  My eyes swivel to the ducks and back again.

  ‘At a wild guess, I’d say you were a clamber-on-top sort of person.’ His wicked smile brings the colour charging into my cheeks.

  Crikey. I knew the grapevine was bound to be constantly a-buzz in a small village like Deepest-Marsh-on-Bog, but is speculation about my sexual preferences circulating already?

  ‘The fence?’ He says it slowly as if any faster and my poor over-taxed brain might be unable to take it in. ‘Holly, I’m talking about the fence. You could go under it or over.’

  Relief floods through me. ‘Ah, yes, I see what you mean.’ I laugh a little too raucously, and he says, ‘Need some help?’

  The thought of Jack manhandling me over the fence proves astonishingly motivating.

  ‘No thanks, I can manage,’ I squeak, before aiming my foot at the middle rung. There’s a ripping sound – as a dodgy seam in my trousers parts company – but when I haul myself up, hop down the other side and turn to face him, Jack’s face is poker straight, so I think I got away with it.

  I stand back, expecting him to vault athletically over the fence after me.

  Instead, he walks a few yards along, clicks open a gate that has mysteriously bypassed my attention, and coolly joins me on the other side.

  I roll my eyes and he grins, a little sheepishly. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist.’ He points ahead. ‘Can I escort you to Rushbrooke House?’

  I smile tightly, my cheeks aflame, and let him lead the way across the field.

  With legs about twice as long as mine, Jack sets a fair old pace and I have an awful feeling I’m going to pitch up for my ‘interview’ sweating like a racehorse that’s just won the Grand National. Not a great start.

  We join Prue in the garden. She’s bending over a flower bed, looking fresh as a daisy in beige linen trousers and a cool white shirt. I can see what Layla means about the lady of the manor thing. She’s not exactly dressed to get down and dirty pulling weeds.

  I’m so nervous, wondering what she’ll expect me to know, that I accidentally cannon into Jack.

  ‘Whoa!’ he says and reaches out to steady me.

  He grasps my hand for a second and I leap away immediately, as if I’ve collided with an electric fence.

  ‘Ah, Polly, good to see you,’ says Prue.

  ‘It’s Holly,’ calls Layla in a bored voice, and we all turn to see her marching out of the house.

  ‘Sorry, dear?’ says Prue inevitably.

  Layla sighs. ‘Mum, why don’t you get your ears checked out?’

  Prue bristles. ‘I do not need a hearing aid.’

  ‘Well, you do because it’s quite obvious you can’t hear a bloody thing …’

  ‘Layla!’ barks Jack.

  ‘It’s fine.’ Prue touches Jack’s arm. ‘Layla, dear, I’d like to have a little chat with Polly. Could you go in and put the kettle on, please?’

  Layla holds up her hands. ‘Okay, I know when I’m not wanted. I just thought I could help, seeing as I do actually work at a garden centre and have picked up a thing or two about horticulture. But pardon me for actually breathing.’ She stalks off into the house.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Prue looks upset. ‘Layla is so crabby these days, I don’t know what to do for the best. I blame the people she hangs around with. Especially that awful Josh boy she talks about. Have you met him?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. But I do get the impression he’s rather full of himself.’

  She sighs, looking anxiously back at the house. ‘I shudder to think what she’s getting up to, staying out so late. But will she listen to me?’

  I frown in sympathy, thinking Prue would be horrified if she realised her daughter knew Sylvian, a mature man practically twice Layla’s age. Perhaps best not to mention it. Sylvian’s lovely and I’ve got no reason at all to think their meeting in the alley beside his flat was anything other than perfectly innocent.

  ‘Anyway, let me show you the garden, Polly.’

  ‘Holly,’ I remind her, but she’s already walking off.

  We’re just examining the sun-blocking leylandi, when Jack joins us.

  ‘Come to spy on us?’ asks Prue waspishly. She leans closer to me. ‘Jack wants to make sure you’re value for money.’

  I bet he does!

  I glance at Jack, who says smoothly, ‘I have absolutely no intention of interrupting your cosy tête-à-tête with Holly, Mum. I was just going to offer you coffee.’

  She frowns. ‘But I asked Layla to …’ She stops. ‘Never mind. That would be lovely, Jack, thank you.’

  He strides back to the house, and a moment later, a female voice calls, ‘Coffee’s on, Prue.’

  I turn in confusion. That didn’t sound like Layla.

  ‘All right. Thank you,’ Prue calls back and we start to make our way round the side of the house, to the back door.

  ‘Have you met Jack’s girlfriend?’ she asks.

  My heart drops like a stone.

  Girlfriend?

  Jack has a girlfriend?

  ‘Gosh, no, I didn’t realise.’

  Prue nods. ‘She’s very ambitious. Has her own business. She’s a top interior designer. Very much in demand.’

  ‘Oh. Great.’

  I’m not sure why I’m feeling so … shocked. It’s weird. I mean, Jack is an attractive man; he probably has loads of female admirers. It’s hardly surprising that he has a woman in his life. I suppose I’m just feeling a little shaken because he never mentioned her to me.

  He loaned
me his strimmer but he never thought to say he was attached!

  ‘Are you all right, Polly?’ asks Prue. ‘You look a little … startled.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. Does she live in Appleton?’

  ‘Oh, no. Her parents live near here but she works in London. She and Jack met on the train a few months ago. Stunning girl. And quite the country-lover, too. She and Jack are really very well suited that way. You know how he detests London.’ She smiles. ‘Yes, if anything, I’d say she loves the countryside even more than he does.’

  There’s a tall, slim girl standing by the back door and when she sees us, she gives a little wave. I look over covertly, trying my best not to stare. She’s got long chestnut-brown hair that’s glinting in the sun

  Frowning, I peer closer.

  Hang on, I recognise her …

  At that precise second, her smile freezes and I can tell she recognises me, too.

  Oh my God, it’s Selena. Emphasis on the first syllable.

  ‘Hi, Prue,’ she smiles as we draw nearer. ‘I’ve just arrived.’

  ‘Lovely, dear.’ Smiling, Prue takes her hand and squeezes it before heading indoors.

  Selena and I lock eyes. I feel totally bewildered. This can’t be Jack’s girlfriend.

  She loves the countryside even more than he does, were Prue’s exact words.

  But I heard her in the café complaining about zombie sheep. This woman hates the countryside with a passion, just like her friend and the ‘evil bastard’ cows!

  Selena’s beautiful pale grey eyes narrow to dangerous-looking slits as I draw level. ‘You’re the gardener?’ she murmurs with a scornful little smile. ‘Pull the other one, sweetie. I was in that café, remember? I heard what you said.’ And she whisks inside, clacking down the hall in her high-heeled peep-toes, tiny bum swaying in her tiny pink skirt.

  I stare after her, stunned, as I recall my conversation with Connie. I vaguely remember telling her that I’d never gardened in my life.

  Selena’s message is loud and clear.

  Bust my cover by bringing up the zombie sheep, sweetheart, and Jack will find out you can’t garden to save your life …