I sidled up to her and put my arm round her shoulders. ‘Gemma, how far gone are you exactly?’ I asked, unable to tear my eyes from her surprisingly round belly.
‘I feel such an idiot,’ she hissed. ‘I’ve been putting on weight for months and just put it down to lack of exercise. I reckon there’ll be a baby in the house by Christmas!’ She lifted another piece of cake to her lips and thought better of it, dropping it back in the tin.
‘Doctor’s for you this week, madam,’ said Christine, taking her daughter’s hand and leading her to a bench. ‘Now no more lifting. At least you’ve got Colin to help you on the allotment, so I don’t have to worry about that.’
She winked at me as Gemma’s mouth fell open. Gemma looked at me and pulled a how-did-she-know face. It was the first time I’d seen her speechless.
Christine set a box of silver trophies on the table in front of Gemma. ‘This will keep you occupied,’ she said, taking a seat beside her and handing her a duster.
A little car pulled into the car park and Alf climbed out.
‘It was a good show yesterday, the committee did us proud,’ he said, waving to me. He looked healthy enough; my cooking couldn’t have been too bad.
He lifted up his flat cap and scratched his head. ‘That’ll probably be my last show,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Getting too much for me, this gardening business.’
Christine swiped at him with a duster. ‘Get away, Alfred, you’ve been saying that since Mia was in nappies and now Gemma has another one on the way. You’ll see the lot of us off, I imagine.’
I picked up a silver trophy from the box and examined it.
‘The awards,’ said Christine, gesturing at them. ‘We collect them in from last year’s winners and then hand them out at the Christmas party to the new winners.’
Which reminded me . . .
I ran up the pavilion steps to the office. ‘Peter, can I have a word?’
He bristled initially but accepted my apology for accusing him of entering the show on my behalf.
‘Give my points to Alf, he came second in the apples. And it’s not like I did anything to the apple tree to deserve the win. Whereas Alf prunes his tree and feeds it. So by rights . . .’
‘Tilly, altering the winners’ points now would cause all sorts of problems.’ Peter glanced over his shoulder and then shut the door. ‘Between you and me, Alf is already our overall winner,’ he whispered. ‘He’ll get the big trophy and he’ll be delighted with that.’
I was delighted with that result too and as the produce that Charlie had secretly entered had been grown on my plot there seemed very little point in banging on about it.
Outside, Brenda and Christine, armed with silver wool and dusters, had sandwiched Gemma between them and were telling her how lucky she was to be giving birth now instead of thirty years ago. Judging by her glazed expression, I don’t think she was appreciating their anecdotes.
‘I’m off to peruse my pumpkins,’ I said, offering Gemma my arm. ‘Do you think you can waddle that far or shall I call for a wheelchair?’
‘Don’t you start,’ she hissed, springing up from her seat.
We walked down towards plot sixteen arm in arm and I listened to Gemma rabbit on about her plans for the nursery and how she was hoping to scale back on work but to keep going as long as she could until the birth. Twenty-four hours on and what a difference; from confused dot com to over-the-moon dot com and despite a tiny niggle of envy – I was only human – I was happy for her.
Phew. Thank goodness I hadn’t confided in her yesterday.
For a whole year after James went, I had people constantly asking me if I wanted to talk about it. It would make me feel better, they informed me confidently. But it never had made me feel better. In fact, it made matters worse, because all of a sudden the people who had encouraged me to talk about it didn’t know what to say or how to react. A problem shared inevitably turned out to be a problem doubled; their sadness joined forced with mine until eventually everyone in my circle was miserable. In Kingsfield I was a woman of mystery with my hidden onion-like layers, but at least I wasn’t a woman of woe.
I could so easily have ruined this exciting time for Gemma by sharing my past. Now at least by keeping everything to myself, she didn’t have to feel what I was feeling. At least, what I had been feeling.
Gemma plonked herself down on my bench and I nipped off to the tap to fill the watering can. A water butt would be a must for next year. All this fetching and carrying water was a pain. I returned with a full can and began dousing my pumpkin plant. It was huge now and spread the entire width of the plot. Tiny pumpkins had started to grow and I was hopeful for plenty to take into school for Halloween.
Gemma slipped her flip-flops off and flexed her toes in the grass.
‘So come on, then.’ She grinned at me. ‘The truth. Is there something going on between you two?’
I thought about playing it cool, but my cheeks had other ideas and when I met her inquisitive stare she squealed and clapped her hands over her mouth.
‘Tilly! That’s so exciting! You and Charlie. Oh! An allotment romance!’
‘Shush!’ I shook my head and huffed at her. ‘No, not Charlie. He’s just a friend.’
Gemma scrunched up her face. ‘Then . . .?’
I felt very coy suddenly. ‘Aidan,’ I said in a small voice. Me and Aidan. ‘I kissed Aidan last night.’
I dropped the watering can and went to join Gemma on the bench. Her mouth was hanging open. ‘Please breathe,’ I said, lifting her lower jaw up gently with my fingertip.
‘Aidan Whitby.’ She sighed, grabbing my hands and gazing off into the distance. ‘Oh God, your life will change completely.’ Her eyes snapped round to glitter at me. ‘It will be a social whirl of premieres and red carpets. You’ll need a stylist – me, obviously – and— She gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. ‘You might even meet Peter Andre!’
I frowned. ‘You’ve lost me there.’
‘Aidan does documentaries; he’s bound to know Peter Andre.’
‘Well, all that is highly unlikely because he asked me out and I said no.’
‘What? Are you mad?’ She stared at me open-mouthed again.
‘He gave me his number,’ I said airily. ‘I might phone him when he’s back from Peru. Or I might not. Who knows? I might even be going out with someone else by then.’
That was a lie, obviously. But I smiled serenely and kept quiet because I knew that if I closed my eyes a picture appeared of a handsome man with thick wavy hair and eyes the colour of conkers and a gentle smile. And that was enough for now.
Gemma gazed at me incredulously and then flinched. ‘Hello, have we met? I’m seeing a whole new Tilly Parker today.’
I giggled at that. I felt a bit different too to be honest and I quite liked the new me. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a busy summer coming up too. Loads still to do at Ivy Lane, obviously. Plus I’m off to spend a week in a holiday cottage with Mum in the Lake District next weekend. Pottering around stately homes, hilly walks and lots of cake no doubt. Can’t wait.’
‘Ah, that’s nice,’ Gemma nodded and then flinched. ‘Bugger. I need the loo. I’m sure my bladder has shrunk to the size of one of your puny pumpkins.’
I pretended to be insulted. ‘Urine is good for the garden, could you squat over the compost bin for me, do you think?’
She glanced from the compost heap to me and back.
‘Joke,’ I said, pulling her to her feet.
We linked arms and giggled all the way back to the pavilion. Life was great. My best friend was having a baby, there were still four more weeks of the school holidays and I had had my first snog in nearly two years. I felt full of hope and happiness and couldn’t wait to see what autumn would bring.
Ahead, just outside the pavilion, a thick-set man in a grey suit was talking to Peter. He had his hands clasped behind his back and looked very out of place at the Ivy Lane allotments in his work clothes.
Both men t
urned to face us as we approached.
I stopped abruptly as if an invisible forcefield had sprung up in front of us and the smile melted from my face.
I knew that man.
A bolt of fear shot through me from my stomach to my head and ricocheted round my skull, its vibrations making my head spin. For a second I thought I would faint. I gulped at the air and leaned against Gemma for support.
The man’s eyes narrowed and then widened as he realized who I was.
‘Ah, these lovely ladies are two of our plot holders,’ said Peter, blithely unaware of my sudden paralysis. He extended an arm towards us. ‘Ladies, may I introduce Mr Cohen from the Probation Service?’
Some faces were instantly forgettable. But some, for the most obvious reasons, haunted you for ever.
‘Tilly, are you all right?’ said Gemma. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine.’ My voice came out as little more than a croak and she held on tight to my arm. I looked into Gemma’s eyes and saw her concern reflected back at me.
Whatever life was about to throw at me, I was going to need her support now more than ever.
Aidan has helped Tilly finally turn a corner and embrace the chance of romance in her life, but is she moving on, or is she just running from the past? Sooner or later, things have a way of catching up with us. . .
As Tilly’s secret bubbles closer to the surface, new friendships and budding relationships are put to the test in the next part of Ivy Lane,
Autumn
Trust blooms at Ivy lane. . .
Life at Ivy Lane allotments is as hectic as ever. With crops to harvest and Hayley – a teenage girl on community service – to motivate, Tilly has little time for anything, but she can never resist chatting with Alf, an elderly widower with top-notch turnips and many a story to tell. Hayley’s appearance sends waves of doubt and suspicion through the Ivy Lane community when fruit and vegetables start to go missing. Tilly must persuade her new friends to trust Hayley, but can Tilly herself finally open up and trust others with her heart?
Cathy’s favourite summertime recipes
Risotto Primavera
Summer Pudding
Moroccan Chickpea Salad
Risotto Primavera (serves 2)
This is quite simply a bowl of summer! If you do grow your own summer vegetables this recipe is a great way of enjoying them at their best. Risotto is easy to make although it does require your constant attention. That said I have been known to pour half the stock in in one go and it didn’t seem to make a bit of difference!
You will need . . .
1 onion
1 clove garlic
A little olive oil for frying
200g Arborio rice
50ml white wine (plus extra for sipping while you’re waiting)
600ml vegetable stock
1 small courgette
50g sugarsnap peas or mange tout
4 baby sweetcorn
Pinch of dried mixed herbs
6 asparagus tips
A handful of spinach leaves (chard or callaloo will also do)
1 tablespoon of freshly grated parmesan
Salt and black pepper to taste
Preheat the oven to 180°C, fan oven 160°C, gas mark 4. Heat the vegetable stock in a small pan. Finely chop the onion and crush the garlic and add to a large heavy-based saucepan with a slug of olive oil. Heat very gently until soft. Slice the courgette into circles, chop the baby sweetcorn into chunks put them on a non-stick baking tray along with the sugarsnap peas. Drizzle with a little olive oil and sprinkle over the mixed herbs. Put into the oven to roast for 10-12 minutes and set to one side.
When the onion is soft, add the rice to the pan. As soon as the rice begins to sizzle add the wine and stir until the liquid evaporates. Add a ladleful of stock to the rice and let it simmer. Once the stock has been absorbed repeat with another ladleful and keep repeating, stirring occasionally to make sure that the rice doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan.
After the rice has been cooking for ten minutes add the diced vegetables and stir. Put the asparagus tips on the baking tray and roast for 8 minutes.
Check the rice after 20 minutes, it should have a bit of bite to it but not be too chalky. Add the spinach leaves and parmesan and season with black pepper and salt if required. Stir and remove from the heat. Allow the risotto to rest for a minute or two. Serve with the asparagus tips on top.
Summer Pudding
The first time I ever had Summer Pudding I was at my mum’s cousin Mary’s. It was summer – obviously – and I remember holding my breath as Mary cut into this ruby red dessert and a tumble of delicious fruit cascaded out. It seemed an impossibly glamorous pudding to my ten-year-old self, a fact which was compounded in my memory banks when Mary and her family moved to California only days later!
You will need . . .
175g golden caster sugar
1.25 kilos of summer fruit (a mix of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, redcurrants and blackcurrants works well)
7 slices of one-day-old white bread preferably from a square loaf
Gently heat the sugar with 3 tablespoons of water in a pan until the sugar dissolves. Allow to boil for one minute before adding all the fruit to the pan except the strawberries. Let the fruit cook over a very low heat for three minutes. Try to avoid stirring too much as the fruit will break up and it is much nicer to keep it whole. Put a sieve over a bowl and tip the fruit in. You will need all that lovely juice later!
Line a 1.25 litre pudding basin with cling film. You may find it easier to use two sheets overlapping in the centre. Leave at decent overhang so that it is easy to remove later. Remove all the crusts from the bread and save them for the birds. Cut four of the slices into lopsided rectangles by cutting across at an angle and cut two slices into four triangles. Leave the remaining slice whole.
Now the fun bit! First dip the whole slice of bread into the juice to coat it and place into the bottom of the basin. Then dip the lopsided rectangles into the juice one at a time and press around the sides of the basin, alternately placing wide and narrow ends together to help them fit. If there isn’t enough room for the last slice trim it to fit. Gently spoon in the softened fruit to the basin adding a strawberry or two after every spoonful. Finally add the remaining bread triangles to form a lid and trim off any excess. Pour any extra juice into a jug and refrigerate until serving.
Bring the edges of the cling film together and loosely seal. Now you need to find something heavy like a couple of tins of baked beans. Place a small plate over the pudding. Stand the tins on top and put the whole lot in the fridge overnight (or at least 6 hours if you can’t wait that long.)
To serve, remove the weights, peel back the cling film and place a serving plate upside down on the pudding. Turn the whole thing over, take the cling film off and serve with double cream and the extra juice.
Moroccan Chickpea Salad
I am a big fan of tabbouleh, a summery salad made with bulghur wheat. But when a friend of mine found she was no longer able to tolerate gluten, I came up with this alternative using chickpeas as an accompaniment to our barbeque menu.
You will need . . .
2 large ripe tomatoes
One tin of chickpeas, drained
Roughly a 10cm piece of cucumber, finely diced
1 small red onion, peeled and finely chopped
A handful of washed, chopped coriander leaves
A handful of washed, chopped mint leaves
A tablespoon of olive oil
Juice of half a lemon
Salt and black pepper to taste
Cut a small cross in the base of the tomatoes, place them in a bowl and cover them with boiling water. Leave them submerged for 45 seconds and pour away the water. As soon as the tomatoes are cool enough to handle remove the skins, cut into quarters, discard the seeds and chop the tomato flesh finely.
Add the tomato to a large bowl, add all the other ingredients, leaving the olive
oil and lemon juice until last. Stir thoroughly to combine the flavours and finally, season to taste.
About the Author
After four years of flinging herself round the dancefloors of Nottingham’s nightspots, Cathy somehow managed to get an honours degree in business. She then plunged herself into the corporate world of marketing, working on high-powered projects such as testing the firing range of SuperSoaker water guns and perfecting the weeing action of Tiny Tears. After making it onto Timmy Mallet’s Christmas card list, she realised it was time to move on and so in 1995 set up her own marketing agency.
She now lives in a Nottinghamshire village with her husband, two daughters and a dog called Pearl.
Random Facts about Cathy Bramley:
Lucky charm: pottery frog out of a Christmas cracker
Favourite tipple: Polish cherry vodka
Best ever Christmas present: potter’s wheel (toy version)
Hates the expression: ‘Compliments to the chef’
You can get in touch with Cathy via her website www.CathyBramleyAuthor.com, her Facebook page www.Facebook.com/CathyBramleyAuthor or on Twitter: @CathyBramley.
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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A Random House Group Company
www.transworldbooks.co.uk
IVY LANE: SUMMER PART 2
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473509696
First published in Great Britain
in 2014 by Transworld Digital
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Cathy Bramley 2014
Cathy Bramley has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Ivy Lane: Summer: Part 2 Page 9