The Secrets of Ivy Garden

by Catherine Ferguson

  Layla appears at the door, glued to her mobile phone, calling vaguely, ‘I’m going out.’

  She sees me and grins. ‘Have you had the tour of the grounds? Did Mum show you the cottage in the woods?’

  ‘The cottage in the woods? No, where’s that?’

  She points over the expanse of lawn at a little copse in the distance. ‘There’s a little cottage among the trees and Dad used to go there to do his inventing.’

  ‘His inventing?’ I ask in surprise.

  ‘Yeah. Dad was an engineer by day but he loved inventing things as well,’ says Layla, with a proud smile. ‘He patented a new type of screwdriver apparently.’

  ‘Wow, he must have been really clever, your dad.’

  She nods sadly. ‘I just wish I’d known him.’

  ‘I bet he’d have been really proud of you,’ I tell her.

  She snorts. ‘Yeah, right. Because I’ve achieved so much in my life.’

  ‘Layla, you’re only seventeen. Your life has barely started!’

  She shrugs. ‘Well, anyway, you should ask Mum to show you the cottage. It’s amazing. She’s preserved it exactly as it was when Dad was alive. It’s pretty creepy, really. Sort of like a shrine. I once went there at the dead of night and—’

  ‘Oh, you did, did you?’ barks Jack, making us both start. He’s standing at the door, frowning over at Layla. ‘I wish I hadn’t heard that. You know Mum doesn’t like anyone disturbing the cottage.’

  Layla looks guilty. ‘Sorry. I just don’t know why we’re not allowed to go there. It’s such a waste of a perfectly good place.’

  ‘Well, never mind that,’ says Jack. ‘Just try and think about how Mum feels in future, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Layla nods glumly and glances at her phone. ‘Right, I’m going.’

  Prue emerges from the house. ‘Not until you’ve tidied your room, young lady, and unloaded the dishwasher. And peeled the potatoes for tonight.’

  ‘I’ll do it later,’ Layla gestures, without taking her eyes off her phone.

  Prue marches after her. ‘And what time is “later”, may I ask?’

  When Layla ignores her, she shouts, ‘Make sure you’re back for dinner at seven-thirty. Layla? Layla!’

  But now, apparently, it’s Layla’s turn to have gone selectively deaf …

  FOURTEEN

  Connie and I have finally rescheduled our long-overdue drive out and pub lunch for today. When I pull back the curtains, it’s to a clear blue sky and not a breath of wind.

  It’s late May and I’ve managed a whole week working for Prue at Rushbrooke House without any major calamities. Thankfully, the work has mostly involved weeding the vast number of flower beds skirting the lawn. I’ve made sure to work really hard and the arrangement seems to suit both of us. I think Prue enjoys having someone else to talk to. And so far, I’ve given Jack no reason to think I’m not good value for money.

  As I head for the shower, I feel the old, familiar panic rising up in my chest. But I tell myself I’ll be fine with Connie there with me.

  She picks me up in her little Beetle at ten, as planned. As I slip into the passenger seat, she points behind her. ‘Goodies. Lots of.’

  I turn and nod my approval at the hamper on the back seat. ‘Full of deli delectables, then?’

  She nods firmly and I stick up my thumb. ‘Good work.’

  We drive out of the village, and almost immediately, the panic descends.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, trying to sound upbeat.

  Connie taps the side of her nose. ‘Aha! You’ll see. It’s a surprise but I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Not really. Ten miles or so. Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason,’ I say lightly. ‘It’s just the city girl in me panicking at the thought of getting lost.’

  I laugh to show her I’m joking.

  I really wish I were.

  Truthfully, I’d been hoping today might be the day I conquer my phobia once and for all, with Connie here to make things feel ‘normal’. Make me laugh. I’d convinced myself I’d be absolutely fine. But the fact that we’re a mere five minutes into the drive, and my insides are already grinding round and round, is not a good sign.

  We’ve left the houses and the shops far behind now, and I know without looking that on all sides, stretching away to infinity, are miles and miles of fields. Nothing else. The phone signal will be weak or completely non-existent. Not a house or another person in sight.

  Keeping my eyes fixed forward, I scramble in my pocket for my mobile and glance at it. One bar. We’re all right for now, but what if we drive into a dead area? And something bad happens? What then?

  It alarms me that my fear seems to be getting worse as the years go by. I really thought I was making progress in recent times, but now I seem to have regressed to my childhood days when all the troubles began.

  Then it clicks.

  Ivy.

  Her death hurled me into a pit of fear and loneliness. Despite doing my best to fill the void with activity, I still miss my grandma every single day. There is no-one left in my world to love and cherish me unconditionally, like family do. No-one to make me feel I really belong. The stark truth is I’m totally alone now, a tiny craft bobbing about on a frightening expanse of ocean. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to make peace with that.

  Beside me, Connie is chattering away about the village summer fete in a couple of months. She really relishes all these country events. I wish I could feel the same.

  But right this minute, all I can think about is getting the hell out of Appleton, and going back home to Manchester and everything that’s familiar. So I can feel safe.

  Connie is saying my name. And again. Louder this time.

  Dazed, I turn and she takes her eyes off the road for just a second, concern written all over her face. ‘Are you okay there?’

  I swallow down the nausea and try to smile. ‘I’m fine. Really. Just feel a bit sick, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh. Are you a bad traveller?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I shrug. ‘Maybe it’s something I ate.’

  ‘Do you need to stop?’ She sounds alarmed. ‘I can stop any time you want.’

  ‘No, no, honestly, I’m fine. It’ll pass.’ I take a deep breath to try and relax. It seems to work because thankfully I can feel my shoulders subside.

  ‘Okay. If you’re sure.’ Connie gives me a quick, appraising glance. ‘Not long now, actually.’

  ‘Right.’ I smile at her. ‘Fab.’

  I settle back in my seat, determined to calm down and conquer this ridiculous fear of wide open spaces. If I can only focus on how illogical the phobia is. Because the likelihood of something bad happening to me is really very slim indeed.

  But the trouble is, unlike a phobia of flying or spiders, which may not even have a relatable cause, my fear stems from something very real and catastrophic …

  ‘Wilf, my great-uncle, is eighty-five and he grows the biggest marrows you’ve ever seen,’ Connie is saying with a giggle, reverting to the topic of the village fete, I imagine to distract me. ‘He always wins prizes for his veggies, bless him.’

  Wilf. Despite feeling as if I might be about to throw up, I’m still conditioned to wonder about any new man I happen to hear about. Especially those over seventy. Was Wilf the mysterious Bee?

  ‘Did Wilf know Ivy?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘Don’t think so. He’s lived in Lancashire all his life.’

  ‘I haven’t told you about my new job,’ I say.

  She swings round. ‘New job? Where?’

  I grin, glad of the distraction. ‘At Rushbrooke House.’

  ‘Ooh, for hunky Jack Rushbrooke?’

  She grins across at me and I find myself blushing. ‘No, no, it’s his mother, Prue.’

  ‘Prue? Oh, God.’ She makes a face.

  ‘What do you mean? What’s wrong with her?’ I ask, alarmed.

  Connie back-tracks. ‘Oh, nothing.
She’s probably a very nice person. It’s just everyone in the village thinks she’s a bit of a toffee-nosed cow, to be honest, looking down her nose at everyone.’

  ‘Really? Tell me more.’

  Connie shrugs. ‘Well, she’s determined to hang on to Rushbrooke House, despite the fact that it’s literally tumbling down by all accounts. I think she enjoys being lady of the manor. I’ve never once seen her in the village, mingling with the locals. She never comes into the deli, which is a bit odd, don’t you think?’

  I concede that yes, I do think it’s weird. But I also know from Jack that she’s been through tough times.

  ‘I get the feeling there’s some mystery about her past,’ Connie says, ‘but I’ve no idea what. I just remember Mum and Dad making sort of weird faces at each other if ever she was mentioned. Like they knew something but didn’t want to gossip. And …’ She lowers her tone and leans towards me. ‘I was once in the village store and two women were chatting as I squeezed past, and I distinctly heard one of them say, “Well, of course, Prue Rushbrooke was a prostitute at one time.”’

  There’s a beat of silence.

  Then I bark with laughter and swing round to Connie, thinking I must have misheard her. ‘Prue? We are talking about the same person, are we?’

  Connie shrugs. ‘I know. Weird or what?’

  ‘Lady of the manor, most definitely. But lady of the night?’

  Connie giggles. ‘It does seem a stretch, I’ll admit.’

  ‘It’s probably just the rumour mill working at full throttle. These small villages …’

  ‘That’s such a cliché,’ accuses Connie.

  ‘What? That people in villages are all gossips?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I nod. ‘I’m sure you’re right. There’s actually only one gossip in every village and she’s usually called Ethel,’ I joke.

  I was trying – but failing – to picture Prudence Rushbrooke in a scanty get-up plying her trade in a seedy part of Cirencester. (Was there a seedy part?) It was too ludicrous for words.

  It was as bizarre as saying, Well, of course, the Queen was a man before she had her sex change.

  ‘Apparently, she was left with nothing but debts when her husband died,’ Connie adds.

  Now, that I could believe. ‘Poor Prue,’ I murmur, thinking how hard it must have been to find herself on her own with two young children to bring up, Layla a mere babe in arms.

  We’re silent for a moment, then I turn to Connie. ‘Did your parents once live in Appleton? Is that why they have the deli-café?’

  ‘Dad comes from Cirencester but Mum grew up here, in the flat above what’s now the deli-cafe. It was just a plain, old-fashioned bakery in those days, run by my granddad. When Mum and Dad took over, they turned it into the bakery/café that it is today. A few years ago, they opened another deli-café in Cirencester.’

  She grins. ‘I think they’re expecting me to follow in their footsteps – yet another generation of the Halstone family devoting their lives to feeding people!’

  ‘Except you’re going to be a teacher,’ I say, desperate to keep the conversation going so I can try and forget where I am. The vast acres of fields on either side of the road are making my head spin every time I glance to the left or right.

  Connie nods. ‘I do love baking and making people happy with my food, though. Last week, I made up this incredibly moreish recipe for chocolate mousse cheesecake, using chocolate digestives for the base and …’

  I stare ahead, a smile fixed to my face, as Connie talks on.

  And then I see it.

  Way ahead.

  I have to screw up my eyes. But it’s definitely there.

  A tractor.

  Orange with those giant black wheels.

  I shudder and grab hold of my seatbelt.

  It’s travelling the same way as us, about half a mile up ahead. Probably doing no more than twenty miles an hour.

  ‘You’d better slow down,’ I say, interrupting Connie’s description of the dark chocolate swirls on her cheesecake.

  She glances at me in surprise and peers ahead. ‘Oh, for the tractor?’

  I nod, not taking my eyes off it.

  ‘One of the downsides of living in the country,’ she remarks. ‘Farm machinery galore hogging the roads.’

  My insides shift queasily. I keep clenching the seatbelt at my shoulder, eyes glued to the giant orange contraption, as Connie continues to spin along happily, eating up the distance, closing in on the tractor.

  My heart rate goes into overdrive.

  ‘Please slow down.’ The words sound thick; my mouth is so dry.

  ‘Of course.’

  Connie brakes. But not enough. Not nearly enough …

  We’re sailing towards it, too close. Far too close …

  ‘Please stop the car.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Stop the car!’

  Connie gets the message, slows to a crawl and pulls on to the grass verge, cutting the engine.

  I watch the tractor lumbering away from us.

  Connie turns to me, her eyes wide with concern. ‘Hey, what’s wrong, love? You’re shaking. Aren’t you feeling well?’

  I shake my head and release my clutch on the seatbelt, my arms slumping at my sides.

  ‘Look at your poor hand!’

  I glance down. My right hand is resting on the gear box, palm up, deep nail imprints visible from where I was gripping the seatbelt.

  ‘Can we go back?’ I whisper. ‘I wasn’t ready for this.’

  Connie’s face is full of sympathy. ‘Of course, love. Let me just find a farm track to turn around.’ She moves off, scanning the road ahead urgently.

  We drive back in silence and I clutch my heart the whole way, waiting for my breathing to normalise. Connie keeps darting anxious looks at me. At last the village comes into view.

  I stare exhausted out of the window as we drive past the little row of shops. Relief at being ‘out of danger’ is coursing through my veins but I’m also devastated to the point of wanting to cry my eyes out. I thought I’d cope, facing my fears head on. But apparently I’m nowhere near being ‘cured’.

  Suddenly, my attention is caught by a familiar figure. Sylvian. He’s standing outside his flat door, talking to Layla. They’re laughing about something and just as we pass, he hands a small package to her and she slips it into her bag. It’s the secretive way she does it, casting a furtive look behind her, that strikes me as odd. What on earth is in the package?

  Connie draws up outside Moonbeam Cottage and asks if it’s all right for her to see me inside.

  ‘You’d better.’ I attempt a smile. ‘Otherwise you never know where I might end up sleeping tonight.’

  She grins at my feeble joke, gently takes the house key from my hand and walks ahead up the path to let us into the cottage.

  After ordering me to flake out on the sofa, she rootles through Ivy’s drinks cabinet and finds some brandy. The first swallow is like fire and makes me gasp, but it does make me feel a little calmer.

  ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ Connie asks, after a moment.

  I nod, but then my throat chokes up so I can’t speak.

  ‘Was it to do with your mum and dad?’ she probes gently. ‘I heard they died in a car accident.’

  I pick up the brandy glass and take a large, eye-watering swig.

  Then, after a few long shaky breaths, I tell her the whole story.

  ‘I was only four when they died so I don’t remember much about them. I grew up believing what Ivy told me – that they’d gone for a drive in the country while Ivy was looking after me and they’d crashed into a tractor. My parents and the tractor driver all died instantly and Ivy was always extra keen to emphasise that they wouldn’t have known anything about it.’

  Connie’s eyes are huge. ‘But that’s not what really happened?’

  I shake my head, staring at the floor. ‘I was ten when I found out the truth. One night Ivy had the next-door neighbour
round for a chat. It was a school night so I was supposed to be in bed but for some reason I couldn’t sleep, so I crept out of bed and sat on the top stair, thinking I’d shout down to Ivy that I was thirsty. The stairs led directly into the living room where they were sitting, so I could hear every word they were saying.’ I glance up at Connie, my heart beating fast at the memory. ‘They were talking about the day of the accident.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ breathes Connie. ‘Poor you. And Ivy had no idea you were there.’

  I take a big breath. ‘Ivy said the police told her that according to the tyre marks on the road, Mum and Dad must have been driving at some speed along a straight bit of road, with the tractor up ahead. Dad must have started to overtake, still at speed because the road ahead was clear. But just as he approached from behind, the tractor started turning right into a field, directly into Dad’s path. Maybe the farmer didn’t indicate or perhaps Dad just didn’t see him indicating. We’ll never really know. But anyway, Dad just couldn’t stop in time and he smashed right into the tractor.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Connie touches my hand. ‘You’re as white as a ghost.’

  I nod, although I’m feeling far from okay. But something is urging me on, making me relate what had happened for the very first time. I’ve had nightmares for years about what I heard, sitting on the stairs, but I’ve never, ever talked about it. Even Ivy never knew that I’d found out the truth, listening in to her conversation that night.

  ‘You don’t need to go on,’ Connie says.

  ‘But I want to.’ It’s odd, this sudden, overwhelming compulsion to get it all out. I suppose it’s way overdue …

  FIFTEEN

  I swallow audibly, psyching myself up to start talking about that day. Connie takes my hand and squeezes it gently.

  ‘A spike of metal from the wreckage of the vehicles drove through Mum’s abdomen, pinning her to the seat. My dad suffered trauma to his heart. He was obviously conscious for a while because he was clutching his smashed phone when the paramedics arrived nearly an hour after the crash.’

  ‘The paramedics took that long to get there?’ says Connie, horrified.

  I shake my head. ‘The paramedics weren’t to blame. It was the fact that the accident happened on a quiet road in the middle of nowhere. It was a good twenty minutes before another passing vehicle stopped and called the emergency services.’