Ivy Lane: Autumn: Part 3

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘Why us? What has our little community done to deserve this?’ demanded Shazza, her lower chin wobbling indignantly. Karen patted her leg and Shazza gripped onto her partner’s hand, shooting her a grateful smile.

  ‘They will only be here for six weeks, starting from the last week in September and they will be supervised, I assure you,’ said Mr Cohen, in the calm, unflappable voice that had made me want to punch him two years ago.

  Shazza sniffed. ‘One foot,’ she said, pointing a finger at Peter, ‘they set so much as one foot on our plot and I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

  Peter, who at the start of the meeting had been quietly confident, was now sporting a sheen of perspiration over his bald head, a flush to his neck and a twitch in one shoulder.

  Helen raised her hand. ‘Mr Cohen, I bring my baby to Ivy Lane with me most of the time, what sort of criminals are we talking about? Will it be safe to bring Honey?’

  Mr Cohen stared at Helen and consulted his notes before answering. ‘Let me reassure you. These people are not criminals, they are young offenders. I can’t go into specifics, but there are some misdemeanours for which the court feels that community service is a more appropriate punishment than a custodial sentence.’

  I bet that came straight from a press release.

  ‘We call it Community Payback these days,’ he continued, flashing her the ghost of a smile. ‘Giving the offenders the chance to make reparation within the community they’re from.’

  As if a few hours digging weeds was enough to make amends. For anything.

  A sudden sharp pain made me look down at my hands; my fists had been so tightly clenched that my palms were crossed with fingernail marks.

  ‘Such as?’ said Brenda. ‘Nothing too dangerous, I hope? Murder, manslaughter, anything of a . . .’ she mouthed the next bit theatrically, ‘. . . sexual nature?’

  We all stared at Mr Cohen. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the ceiling and then continued, wafting his hands in a traffic-calming motion. ‘Not at all,’ he confirmed with a curt shake of the head.

  ‘Oh, good,’ she said, pressing a hand to her chest.

  Was it me or did she look a tad disappointed?

  ‘Well, I hope the committee will be providing us with adequate protection,’ said Vicky, shaking her head in disgust. ‘High-security padlocks for everyone’s sheds at the very least.’

  Christine got to her feet with an exasperated huff. ‘Look, we have two plots that have become so neglected that no one has wanted to take them on,’ she said, her glance falling upon me. My leg bounced up and kicked the chair in front by accident.

  ‘And whilst Tilly had assistance to clear her plot after Frank Garton left,’ she continued, ‘no one has volunteered to clear these two.’

  Heads swivelled. First to Charlie and then to me. Rather awkward. I didn’t know where to look.

  ‘Working with the probation service kills two birds with one stone,’ continued Christine firmly. ‘The plots will be worked on this autumn ready to be let next spring and a group of young people will learn a new skill. Not to mention benefiting from the community spirit that we pride ourselves on in Ivy Lane. Don’t we?’ Christine nodded vigorously around the room, her grey curls bobbing, cheeks aflame. ‘Don’t we?’ She continued to nod until someone joined in.

  Alf did.

  He got to his feet unsteadily and linked his hands behind his back.

  I’d not seen him for a few weeks and I was a bit shocked. He looked droopy and a bit sad and not unlike my courgette plant, which had seen better days.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I was a bit of a tearaway when I was a kid. My mother was at her wits’ end until my granddad gave me my own vegetable bed. First bit of responsibility I’d ever had. I learned to respect the ground, to grow my own food and to understand the seasons.’ He stopped and rubbed his nose in a slow circular motion. I tried to imagine Alf as a teenager. Flat cap, baggy trousers and one of those shirts with the button-on collar. I bet he was a right lad.

  ‘And it set me on the right track for life.’ His eyes softened and a smile crept over his face. Thinking of his wife Celia, more than likely. ‘Nowadays kids don’t always have someone to show them the way. I reckon it’s a good thing this community service. You’ve got my support.’

  He sat back down. Peter looked like he might kiss him.

  Charlie cleared his throat. ‘I’m with Alf. Everyone deserves a second chance.’

  He looked my way and I felt my face heat up. We hadn’t spoken much since the day of the show in August.

  ‘Here, here,’ said Nigel.

  An air of victory settled on the top table and Peter and Nigel began shuffling papers officiously. Most of the plot holders, however, still had their arms folded tightly.

  Dougie stood up. ‘Do you think any of these offenders will know how to grow cannabis?’

  The room erupted into groans, which more or less signalled the end of the meeting.

  Gemma leapt to her feet. She was quite sprightly considering her shape.

  ‘Don’t go yet!’ she said, waving her arms above her head. ‘Helen and I have brought you free drinks to try.’

  She and Helen produced two large pump pots and some cups and the atmosphere in the room lifted considerably. The Ivy Lane folk were suckers for a free drink, even one that included beetroot juice.

  ‘Hi, Tilly.’

  I turned my gaze from the pop-up juice bar to meet Charlie’s smiling face. My glass, which I liked to think of as half-full, slopped a few drips at the sight of him.

  Gemma wasn’t the only person I’d been dodging throughout late summer. In the grand scheme of things, Charlie entering my fruit and vegetables in the annual show without my permission was nothing. But the rest – the whole him-and-me thing – was not nothing. It was definitely something. Something that I didn’t want.

  I’d missed him these past few weeks and I did want us to be friends, but the question was, was that do-able if Charlie’s feelings ran deeper?

  His smile threw me, though. It was as if our August heart-to-heart had never happened. Not that I was complaining.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Charlie! You look well. Been away?’

  He rubbed his suntanned face self-consciously. ‘Yeah. Mountain biking in Austria. What an adrenalin rush! I know why you go everywhere by bike now.’

  Actually, I was quite adrenalin-averse. I smiled encouragingly anyway.

  Off he went, describing in enthusiastic detail with added hand-actions the ravines, the sheer drops, the banked turns, and the thrills and spills of mountain trails.

  I drifted off.

  James and I had loved our holidays. I would book the flights – just cheapo airlines – and he would sort out the itinerary. That was his forte. Left to me we would have spent two weeks on the beach with maybe a half-day trip round the local market. Not him. We went truffle hunting in Italy, wine tasting in Croatia and sat through a toe-curling exotic show in Amsterdam, which to this day neither set of our parents knows about.

  Aidan would be in Peru now. Peru sounded exotic. I wondered what it was like. Would he be thinking of me? I blinked and touched my cheeks to check I wasn’t blushing. Warm but not flaming thankfully.

  Charlie was grinning at me. He seemed to be waiting for some sort of acknowledgement.

  ‘Great!’ I said weakly.

  ‘Really? Great!’ His grin widened.

  What? What had I agreed to?

  ‘I’ll set it up. Peak District, something like that. You’ll love it,’ he said, gripping my arm. ‘Ha. I was convinced you’d say no.’ He walked away, shaking his head to himself.

  Had I just agreed to go cycling with Charlie? Nooo! Buggeration. Had he seen my Little Shopper with its double panniers? It was to off-road riding what Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was to Formula One: big on charm but sadly lacking in the oomph department.

  A large hand touched my upper arm.

  As my eyes travelled up from its fingertips to its
adjoining torso, my stomach disappeared in the opposite direction. Mr Cohen.

  ‘Might I have a word, Mrs Parker?’ he murmured. His intense gaze under thick black eyebrows made my body tremble.

  ‘Of course,’ I stammered, gesturing towards the door.

  Poker face, poker face, poker face.

  My heart was thundering so loudly that I doubted I’d be able to hear a word he said. I cast my eye around the room. Everyone was too busy slurping juice and listening to Gemma’s sales patter to notice me. Good.

  He opened his mouth to speak but I silenced him with a hand.

  ‘Please,’ I said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Whatever it is, I’d rather not know.’

  He shook his head and smoothed the lapels on his jacket. ‘I understand your concerns,’ he said in low voice, ‘but this is about the community service clients.’

  I blinked at him, dry-mouthed.

  ‘No obligation or anything on your part,’ he continued, ‘but I wondered whether I could ask a favour?’

  I took a deep breath. Too inquisitive for my own good that was my problem. ‘Go on.’

  ‘One of the offenders is female, eighteen, not been set the best example in life so far. All I’m asking is for you to take her under your wing, you know, show her an alternative path. With your background you could make all the difference to her right now. A steadying influence, if you like.’

  Me? Steady? I was flakier than a Greggs Cornish pasty. She must be desperate.

  ‘I’m not asking you to go out of your way but . . .’

  There was something dodgy about this. I treated him to my special owl stare. ‘What was her offence? Anything to do with drink-driving?’

  And there it was: the slightest dilation in the pupils. I had him. If I ever needed a break from teaching conjunctions, contractions and connectives to small people, I’d be a shoo-in for MI5. How dare he?

  I squared my shoulders and tilted my chin. ‘Over my dead body.’

  Cue lull in conversation, and my words ricocheting around the hall.

  There was a communal intake of breath and all eyes were suddenly on me.

  I flung back the pavilion door and ran.

  Chapter 3

  Apparently I had been a bit of a talking point after my dramatic departure. Not that I’d had the guts to go back yet and find that out for myself.

  Instead, I sat quivering at home like one of those Japanese dogs that has to wear a coat even when it wasn’t snowing. I only found out because Gemma sent me a text. She told me that I should be pleased; it was a definite improvement on my original reputation, she informed me, which unbeknownst to me had been an unflattering mix of meek and mild.

  In the end my cabbages forced me to return. It was late September and although the weather had cooled, we hadn’t had any rain for a while. Those brave little soldiers needed me if they were to survive. Well, if not me specifically, then water and protection from slugs at any rate. And after all the effort I had put in to getting them this far, it would have been a shame to leave them orphaned now.

  The fact that I had chosen the start date of the community service group to tend to my cabbages was completely and utterly coincidental.

  For someone who claimed to keep herself to herself, I was, I realized, as I dragged my bike out of the hall and onto my front path, incredibly nosy and sneaking a peek at our resident ‘crims’ was too much of a temptation. It was a misty damp sort of September day, almost mitten weather, and I had purposefully donned my full safety gear of helmet and hi-vis jacket for the occasion.

  Oh yes, never let it be said that Tilly Parker was not a sensible, law-abiding citizen.

  The gates to Ivy Lane were locked when I got there and I had to fiddle about inside my pocket to find the key – not easy astride a bike. I hardly ever had to wrestle with the padlock these days and it made me wonder: were we keeping people out or certain people in?

  Vicky scurried straight over. ‘They’re here,’ she said, nodding up past the pavilion. ‘Six of them. Got dropped off in a minibus.’

  I scanned the car park for evidence. Nothing.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Vicky. ‘The supervisor had a chat with Christine, gave some orders and buggered off. Tell you what,’ she went on, tapping her nose, ‘don’t leave anything lying around. . .’ She made a whistling noise. ‘They’ll nick it before you can say Midsomer Murders.’

  I liked Vicky. She was an unlikely gardener – although to be fair, most of us fitted that category – she smoked thin cigars, wore low-cut tops and kept a hipflask of gin in her shed.

  I thanked her for the advice and tried not to stare as I approached them.

  My heart sank.

  The group was easy to spot as, rather embarrassingly, they were all wearing neon jackets. Just like me. The only difference was that theirs had COMMUNITY PAYBACK on the reverse.

  They were huddled in a group on the overgrown plot opposite mine and Gemma’s, waist-high in weeds and laughing at something.

  Not me, thankfully. Yet.

  Bugger. One of them looked over as I was shoving my safety jacket into my rear pannier.

  ‘Coming to join us, miss?’ He was taller than the rest, as thin as my rake and had a massive smirk on his face.

  I fumbled to undo the straps of my cycle helmet and the huddle unfolded as they all turned to stare at the red-faced nerd on a bike. Alf stood at the centre of the group, his hands full of soil that he was crumbling in front of them.

  I softened instantly.

  Most of the Ivy Lane community were nowhere to be seen today. So far, other than Vicky, I’d only spotted Nigel and Liz and they were both keeping their heads down. But not Alf. As promised, there he was, in the thick of it, sharing his wisdom, showing them the way.

  I loved Alf. I wanted to grab hold of his big whiskery face and kiss him.

  ‘Morning, everyone.’ I arranged my features in a welcoming not-at-all-fazed-by-the-fact-you’re-here smile and disappeared down the path to plot 16B.

  I’d watered the cabbages and removed the bamboo canes from my runner beans by the time Alf ambled towards me, leaning heavily on a walking stick. He had a girl in a hi-vis vest with him. I scanned the rest of the group.

  The only girl. So she was the one.

  Act cool, Tilly, ice-cool, I advised myself, as my nostrils flared in readiness.

  Unfortunately, my knees went all wobbly and I inadvertently curtsied before the pair of them.

  ‘Tilly, I’ve been teaching Hayley about enriching the soil,’ said Alf in his gravelly voice.

  Well, that would be useful next time she got behind the wheel of a car after a few Barcardi Breezers.

  ‘Really.’ I flicked a surreptitious eye over her, ripped a handful of runner bean stems up out of the ground and threw them behind me.

  Hayley had thick blonde hair, darting green eyes and barely reached Alf’s shoulder. It was doubtful whether she would even be able to see over a steering wheel, let alone reach the pedals.

  Alf scooped up my dead beans with a grunt and tottered over to the compost bin.

  ‘You get out what you put in,’ he said, giving me a pointed look, ‘with gardening.’

  ‘Are these broad beans?’ asked Hayley. I couldn’t help it; I glared at her and she flushed. Then I felt ashamed. She had sounded genuinely interested.

  I coughed. ‘Yes,’ I mumbled, ‘I’m just about to dig them up for the compost too.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘My absolute favourite vegetable. What did you do with them?’

  She didn’t sound like a criminal. Not that they were easily identifiable by their voices, of course. Otherwise the police wouldn’t have such a tricky job catching them.

  ‘I ate them.’

  She blinked at me. ‘Well, yeah . . .’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ My turn to blush. ‘Boiled. With a pork chop.’

  She raised an eyebrow and didn’t look impressed. ‘I like to fry them off with garlic and pancetta. Huh, although you’d b
e lucky to find as much as a rasher of streaky bacon in our house.’

  Well, that put me in my place.

  Alf took a knife out of his pocket and stooped to the broad beans.

  ‘Take the stalks off, leave the roots in,’ he panted and cut through the first couple of plants. ‘Here you go.’ He passed the knife to Hayley and straightened up to catch his breath. ‘You do the rest.’

  There was an offender on my plot. With a knife. Surely this had to contravene at least fifty European health and safety laws?

  ‘What for?’ asked Hayley, slicing through the bean stalks with far too much relish for my liking. I could see the top of her thong when she bent down. I glanced at Alf. That would do his blood pressure no good at all.

  ‘Nitrogen,’ said Alf as I ushered him to the bench where Hayley’s underwear was less visible. ‘The roots will add nitrogen to the soil. Next spring, when Tilly plants a new crop, it’ll have super powers.’

  ‘Safe,’ said Hayley with a solemn nod.

  Alf frowned at me.

  ‘It means cool,’ I whispered, proud that I knew that. ‘Shouldn’t you be working with your group, Hayley?’

  She shook her head and flicked the blade of the pocket knife in and out. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. ‘Tea break.’

  She stared at me defiantly. ‘You want to know what I’ve done, don’t you? I can see it in your face. You don’t trust me, do you?’

  ‘Noooo,’ I said, trying to laugh off my embarrassment. ‘I mean, yeeees.’

  Nicely handled. In fact, what did I mean? I wished I could see my face. Was this the steadying influence that Mr Cohen had hoped for? I wondered. Unlikely.

  ‘None of our business, is it, Tilly?’ said Alf, slapping my knee.

  ‘Well, the answer is, I didn’t do nothing.’

  I winced internally at the double negative. I almost corrected her but she did still have the knife.

  ‘What it was was,’ she huffed impatiently, ‘my mum’s idiot boyfriend said we’d taken his car without consent. I hate him, the pervert,’ she added under her breath, bending down to hack her way through another clump of my broad beans.