Ivy Lane: Winter: Part 4

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘It’s always a bit awkward trying to second guess who on the allotment will give you a Christmas present and who won’t,’ she added. ‘This is a much neater way of doing it.’

  ‘Thanks, Vicky. I’m glad you think so. And the soup kitchen will be delighted with all the gifts for their Christmas party tomorrow too.’

  The Secret Santa idea had gone down really well. I’d put everyone’s names into a hat and we’d all pulled one out and bought our recipient a present costing no more than ten pounds. I’d had to buy a present for Graham, Helen’s husband, and had found a little solar-powered radio that I thought suited his green ethos and would be perfect to bring to the allotment with him next summer. We’d all put our Secret Santa gifts on the table, clearly labelled for the recipient. There didn’t seem to be one for me yet. Not that I’d been checking, obviously.

  At a nod from Peter, Nigel turned down the volume to gentle background level and Peter asked us all to find a seat. Nigel had done an amazing job with the music. I’d been a bit sceptical at first when he’d offered to take charge of the party tunes, assuming we’d have nothing but Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra’s Christmas medley, but I’d been way off the mark. He had set up his iPad and wireless speakers and was blasting out a mix of everything from Beyoncé to Michael Bublé.

  Peter joined Christine in front of a table, which was groaning with trophies and shields, and cleared his throat. ‘Now for the formal bit of the evening: the presentation of the Annual Show prizes. And then we’ll all open our Christmas presents.’

  ‘Keep it short, Pete,’ cried Dougie, ‘I’ve got a lot of ladies to kiss under that mistletoe.’

  ‘Ladies, if you could kindly control yourselves, we’ll be as quick as we can,’ said Peter, tongue firmly in his cheek.

  ‘But before we present the prizes, we have some exciting news,’ announced Christine, clapping her hands together.

  I looked over at Gemma anxiously, wondering if the impending birth of her next grandchild was ‘the news’. Gemma waved back. She looked a bit flushed and fidgety but otherwise fairly calm. I gave her a thumbs-up, turned back to Christine and sipped my drink.

  ‘We’ve had an email from Aidan Whitby from the Green Fingers show.’

  My heart thumped wildly against my ribcage as I swallowed. The spiciness and heat of the mulled wine hit the back of my throat and the liquid somehow missed its target. I choked and coughed, turned puce and then I gasped for breath.

  I hadn’t been expecting to hear his name again. And if I’d been under the impression that I was over him, I now knew unequivocally that I wasn’t.

  ‘Sorry,’ I croaked to the thirty or so pairs of eyes that stared at me full of concern.

  Christine raised her eyebrows at me warily and I gestured for her to continue. ‘Our episode of Green Fingers has been nominated for an award for best TV documentary!’

  Everyone clapped. So I clapped too. They all smiled and I smiled too, so hard, in fact, that my cheeks ached. That was amazing news. I was pleased for Aidan, delighted even. And he deserved it, he was brilliant at his job, the whole team was brilliant. I felt proud to have been part of it.

  But my eyes were burning and my stomach was flipping over repeatedly like a performing seal. Aidan had emailed Christine. He was still in touch with Ivy Lane, but just not with me. Had he asked Christine about me? I wondered. Did he know I’d phoned him? Why, why, why had that girl answered? And why had I left it a whole month to call him?

  Suddenly I’d had enough of this party. I didn’t feel Christmassy any more. I felt cross and sad and fed up.

  Christine was still talking. The awards evening was a big posh do in London in the spring and Aidan had sent invitations for two people to attend.

  Please don’t expect me to go to that.

  I knew without looking that Gemma was sending me sympathetic vibes, but I didn’t meet her gaze. I stared at my toes and concentrated on not looking as miserable as I felt.

  ‘So to the prizes . . .’ Peter began the presentation of the awards and my shoulders slumped with relief. True to his word, he and Christine handed out the various trophies, cups and shields with efficiency and speed and even I got a mention for my prize-winning apples. The apples I hadn’t even entered.

  Before long there were just two prizes left on the table. A large shield and a small silver cup.

  Christine picked up the shield, opened her mouth and paused before speaking.

  ‘The Ivy Lane Committee trophy, as most of you know, goes to the plot holder with the most points awarded overall at the annual show. And this year . . . this year—’ Christine’s voice broke and she pressed a hand to her mouth.

  I felt a lump in my throat. I was pretty sure who had won.

  Peter stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Christine’s shoulder. ‘This year’s winner is Alf,’ he finished for her. ‘Would you all please raise your glasses to absent friends? Alf, we miss you dearly. Merry Christmas, old chum.’

  My eyes sparkled with tears as I and my fellow gardeners drank a toast to the lovely Alf.

  Christine dabbed her eyes with a tissue and took a deep breath. ‘We’ve decided that it’s only fair that Alf is crowned our winner and we’ll leave the trophy in the pavilion until someone else wins it next year.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ said Nigel, sparking off another round of applause.

  ‘Which leaves us with just this one prize left,’ said Peter, collecting the silver cup from the table. ‘The committee has decided that in remembrance of Alf, we would like to establish a new award. The Alf Jackson award for outstanding contribution to Ivy Lane life.’

  This was news to me. Not that anyone needed my say-so to hand out awards, of course; I was very much the junior member of the committee. Even so . . . I sniffed and tried to maintain a neutral expression.

  ‘This prize will be awarded annually,’ continued Peter, ‘and from next year, each plot holder will vote for who they think deserves the title. But this year the committee has nominated a winner.’

  I folded my arms. Make that most of the committee.

  ‘This person has thrown herself into Ivy Lane life with gusto.’

  So it was a woman. Probably Christine. I couldn’t think of another woman more full of gusto than her.

  ‘She was instrumental in the success of the Green Fingers show and took one of the community service youngsters under her wing.’

  Christine again, although I was less sure about the community service bit. Not that I was one to boast, but I was fairly sure I’d made more of an effort with Hayley than anyone else after Alf died.

  ‘She has supported every Ivy Lane event this year and even organized our most successful one single-handedly, despite being new to our community and new to gardening.

  Now that definitely sounded like . . .

  ‘Congratulations to Tilly!’

  Me?

  Tears filled my eyes as everyone clapped and I stood there for a few seconds stunned. Then I leapt up to the front, threw my arms around Christine and Peter’s necks and hugged them until they begged for mercy.

  ‘I’m not sure that I deserve it, but thank you, thank you,’ I squealed, as Peter handed me the cup. ‘Oh, this has made my night. Thank you so much!’

  ‘Now if you’d all like to re-charge your glasses, we’ll be doing our Secret Santa in a few minutes,’ announced Peter.

  Nigel turned the music back up and everyone started milling around again.

  ‘Thank you again,’ I said to Christine, pulling her back towards me for another hug. ‘Truly. I’m overwhelmed.’

  She smiled indulgently at me. ‘You deserve it, love, now away with you and enjoy yourself.’

  I whirled round to share the moment with Gemma, but she was staring at her feet. The smile fell from my face and I pushed past assorted chairs, people and obstacles to get to her side.

  ‘Gemma?’

  The tone of my voice must have startled Mike. He turned to his wife and followed her gaze
to the floor. ‘You all right, Gem? Oh look, clumsy, you’ve spilt your drink!’ he laughed. ‘Has anyone got a cloth?’

  Gemma puffed her cheeks out, gripped onto Mike’s arm and gave a low guttural moan.

  Mike winced as her grip tightened. ‘Hey, I was only joking.’

  Her drink sat untouched on the table next to her, which meant the water had to have come from somewhere else. I crouched down beside her and looked into her eyes.

  ‘Have your waters broken, Gemma?’ I whispered.

  She nodded but didn’t meet my eye.

  ‘I think it’s time to get you to hospital,’ I said.

  Mike’s eyes lit up. ‘Trust you to go into labour now, Gem! This is it then, babe, the big moment. How long do you think we’ve got – a couple of hours?’

  I shook my head. ‘Mike, she’s been this way for some time. She didn’t want to miss the party.’

  Gemma panted and flashed her eyes at me. I ignored her. Party time was over.

  ‘As soon as this contraction finishes, I think we should get her to the car,’ I added in as calm a voice as I could muster.

  Mike stood up and frowned at me. ‘You knew about this?’

  I nodded. Gemma tried to say something but I couldn’t make out what it was between the grunts.

  I gulped. ‘She made me promise . . .’

  Mike narrowed his eyes. ‘I have to say, Tilly, that was bloody irresponsible of you. What if it had snowed again? The roads are already treacherous.’

  His voice was low and controlled but there was no mistaking the anger in it. I felt terrible for keeping quiet, but I’d been so excited to see Gemma and she had seemed fine, not to mention adamant that she wanted to come to the party. I could kick myself now, though. But the main priority was to get Gemma to hospital as soon as possible.

  ‘Phew, that was a strong one!’ She blew her cheeks out and looked from me to Mike sheepishly.

  ‘Shall I fetch Karen?’ I asked, feeling the need to redeem myself and do something sensible.

  Karen was dancing with Shazza and so far hadn’t realized what was going on.

  Gemma shook her head. ‘I don’t want to draw attention to myself.’

  All three of us looked at each other and laughed and the tension between Mike and I eased a little.

  Mike rolled his eyes and kissed her forehead. ‘What are you like?’

  ‘Don’t blame Tilly,’ she said, leaning her head against his arm.

  I chewed my lip anxiously. ‘Gemma, your contractions are coming faster now, we should get you to the car before the next one comes.’

  She squeezed my hand and nodded. ‘You’re right. Come on, Mikey, let’s go,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Tilly, hold my arm.’

  Between the two of us, with her parents fussing behind, carrying bags and coats, we half-carried her the short distance across the icy car park, which thankfully had been sprinkled with grit, and into the passenger seat of the car.

  ‘You take care, now,’ said Christine, hugging her daughter. ‘And phone us as soon as you have news.’

  ‘And don’t worry about Mia, we’ll make sure she knows what’s happening,’ said Roy, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  I bent down and kissed Gemma’s cheek. I placed a hand gently on her tummy.

  Safe journey, little one, see you very soon.

  ‘I’ll come with you, if you like,’ I said hopefully.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Mike, giving me a smile. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  ‘Sure. Well, good luck.’ I shut Gemma’s door and tried to organize my wobbling features into an encouraging smile.

  ‘Bye!’ Christine, Roy and I shouted together.

  What had I said that for? Obviously they wouldn’t want me there. This was their moment. Their baby. I knew that.

  But did that not stop tears springing to my eyes as I watched them drive out of the car park?

  No, of course not.

  I swallowed the large lump that had wedged itself firmly my throat and followed Christine and Roy back to the party.

  Chapter 10

  Charlie was waiting on the steps of the porch. He was directly under the mistletoe but he looked so fidgety and distracted that I don’t think he’d even realized.

  ‘Come back inside,’ he said, beckoning us in with an impatient arm wave. ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘All right, all right, where’s the fire?’ tutted Roy, helping his wife up the steps chivalrously.

  Charlie was peering over my shoulder, his brow furrowed.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ I said, following his gaze. ‘I hope they get there without Gemma having too many more contractions. Or giving birth in the car.’ I gulped at the thought.

  ‘But we’re all waiting to do Secret Santa,’ he said.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Charlie, you’re a grown man,’ said Christine, giving his arm a chastising tap. ‘Anyone would think you’d never had a Christmas present before.’

  Charlie grinned sheepishly. ‘I know. I’m a bit excited, that’s all. And anyway, it’s better to give than receive.’

  He winked at me as he held the door open for us all. I let Roy and Christine go in first and caught Charlie glancing around the car park again.

  ‘I hope you’re not expecting a visit from the real Santa,’ I said, cupping my hand to my mouth in a stage whisper, ‘because if so I’ve got some bad news.’

  He rolled his eyes and gave me a gentle nudge back inside.

  Just in time. The music had been lowered again and Peter’s eyes sought me out in the crowd.

  ‘After that dramatic interlude, I think we’ll do Secret Santa. Tilly, over to you.’

  Goodness, from delivering babies (well, almost – thank heavens her waters had broken when they did) to delivering presents, tonight was fast becoming one of the most eventful parties I’d ever been to, I thought as I took my place in front of a table heaped with gifts.

  ‘Hello, everyone. Well, firstly thank you all for the gifts for the children’s soup kitchen, they’re having their party tomorrow complete with a visit from Santa. And thank you for indulging me in the Ivy Lane Secret Santa. Now then . . .’ I stared at the pile of presents, unsure how to proceed. Should I just make it a free-for-all or should I hand each present out separately? And what if someone ended up without a present? Decisions, decisions.

  Shazza was standing next to me. I looked at her and pulled a help-me-out face. She beamed at me, picked up the parcel nearest to her and read the label. ‘Dougie,’ she called and threw the package in his direction.

  Within seconds parcels were flying all over the place and grown adults were ripping off paper and whooping with delight at their new gardening gloves or watering cans or kneelers or bird feeders (most of us had gone with allotment-themed gifts, it seemed) with unadulterated excitement.

  ‘Smell this,’ said Brenda, holding the back of her hand up to my nose.

  I sniffed obediently. ‘Lovely.’ Which was the truth, luckily.

  ‘Crabtree and Evelyn gardeners’ hand cream. What a treat! What have you had?’

  My hands were clasped behind my back and she tried to look over my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t know; I haven’t opened it yet. It’s still on the table.’ Which could possibly be the truth, although as far as I could tell, there was only one unopened present and I distinctly remember seeing Gemma’s name on that. I’d take it home for her and put it under my tree.

  I felt a bit conspicuous standing near the present table, present-less, so I went over to the makeshift bar and poured myself a glass of wine with a dash of lemonade and told myself I didn’t mind not having a present. Not one bit. I gulped at my drink.

  Graham was really chuffed with his little radio, so that was the main thing, and as Charlie had said, it was better to give than to receive. I sank down, resting my bottom on the edge of the table and sighed. All the same, I thought, taking another large restorative sip of alcohol, I couldn’t help but wonder why I hadn’t got a gift.
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  Unless, of course, I’d forgotten to add my own name to the hat. That was bound to be it! No one would have pulled my name out of the hat and not bought me a present, would they? So that had to be the answer. Everyone here was my friend. I smiled with relief and decided to keep my error to myself. If anyone asked about my gift, I would make something up. Easy peasy.

  I giggled to myself as I took another sip of wine. The alcohol was going down extremely well. Anyway, what was one more present? I was a primary school teacher and primary school teachers never went short of presents at Christmas, did they? In fact, I had thirty small gifts under the tree at home ready to be opened on Christmas morning.

  Mum was coming to stay with me for Christmas. Or should I say Mum and Clive! They would be arriving tomorrow afternoon and I was really looking forward to it. Nervous too. It had been just Mum and I for the last two Christmases and we hadn’t had much to celebrate. I’d decided to make a big fuss this year, though, and it was obvious that Mum was head over heels with Clive and wanted to spend Christmas with him, so it seemed the right thing to do. It would be different, but in a good way, I hoped. And when they left on Boxing Day, I would give Mum half of all the body lotions and chocolates and diaries and mugs that my class had given me.

  So really, one more present was neither here nor there . . .

  ‘Merry Christmas, Tilly.’ I blinked myself out of my reverie to find Charlie in front of me holding my coat out.

  ‘Oh, is the party over?’ I said, jumping to my feet and skidding slightly in my heels.

  His eyes twinkled at me and he took the glass out of my hand. ‘No,’ he chuckled, ‘but I think you should perhaps slow down on the wine.’

  ‘The floor’s slippy,’ I protested. Although he might have had a point. The glass was empty. Which was odd. It had been full a minute ago. The wine was beginning to make me feel all warm and fuzzy and I realized that I’d already drunk two glasses of mulled wine earlier and the last thing I’d had to eat was . . . I couldn’t remember. Which couldn’t be good.

  ‘Coat on,’ he murmured, still grinning at me.