Читать книгу The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 11

I’m woken early by the sound of someone being murdered.

As the bloodcurdling wails continue, I clutch at the duvet in fright – before realising it’s a cockerel, straining its vocal cords in an attempt to wake the whole of Gloucestershire.

I glance at the clock. Four-thirty in the morning.

Really? I mean, really?

Naming him Colin, I lie there listening to him busting a gut and thinking I’ll never get back to sleep now. Then I promptly doze off, and next time I wake, it’s light outside. I swim slowly to full consciousness, aware of a vague panicky feeling inside.

I’m in Ivy’s spare room.

I’ve thought about this moment many times; how I’d feel being here in Moonbeam Cottage, without her to shout through that she’s making some tea, or coming to sit on the bed to chat. And now that moment is here, and the place feels horribly empty without her.

I take some deep breaths and start to feel calmer. Then a farm vehicle rattles past the cottage, shaking the very foundations and making my heart race at ninety miles an hour. I hug myself, rubbing my arms hard. It’s not going to be easy, this enforced stay in the country, but it has to be done.

With the bathroom wrecked by the leak, I don’t want to risk the shower until I know it’s safe, so I have a quick wash in cold water at the sink, then dive into some warm clothes, clean my teeth and apply a little make-up.

It’s after eight by then. The village store is sure to be open, and maybe the cash machine will be working again so I can repay Sylvian. Every time I think about how he saved my bacon last night, handing over all that cash to the taxi driver without even taking my mobile number, I’m amazed all over again.

I pull on my coat and head out into a calm but chilly April morning. There’s a definite feel of ‘the morning after the night before’. The storms that raged have passed over but there’s a reddish tinge to the sky, which isn’t a great omen.

‘Red sky in the morning … shepherds’ cottages on fire,’ I say aloud, since Ivy isn’t there to say it.

‘Hey, talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, didn’t you know?’ calls a voice.

A group of teenagers are languishing in and around the bus shelter just ahead of me. One of the girls, presumably she of the ‘witty’ comment, is staring at me as if I’m completely insane. The thick, ghostly pale foundation she’s wearing contrasts sharply with her heavy black eyeliner, and her asymmetric hair style looks like she’s hacked at it herself, while no doubt costing a fortune in some trendy salon. The short side is bleached blonde and the longer side dyed black.

Drawing level with them, I remark casually, ‘If you ask me, madness is highly under-rated.’

‘I guess you would think that,’ the girl quips, glancing quickly at a blond Adonis-type who’s standing nearby. He’s concentrating on his phone, and doesn’t notice. The others all watch me walk by, blank-eyed, except one of the lads – a cocky, dark-haired boy – who treats me to a fake grin and blows smoke from his fag in my direction.

‘Thank you,’ I call back, and they snigger.

The cash point is working again, so I draw out the money and walk round to the side door which I assume leads to Sylvian’s flat above the village store. My stomach swoops as I ring the bell.

He greets me at the door in tracksuit bottoms, bare-chested except for a striped blue towel slung round his neck. The sheen of sweat on his brow and finely muscled upper torso makes me think I must have interrupted a work-out.

He smiles. ‘Thought it might be you,’ he says, flicking a catch on the carved wooden box he’s holding.

‘Yes, hi,’ I launch in. ‘I want to thank you again for rescuing me last night. It was so good of you. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along at that precise moment.’

I’m aware I’m babbling, but he’s caught me unawares. It’s not often a handsome man greets me in the semi-buff at eight in the morning, looking so … well, buff.

Unlike me, Sylvian seems completely at ease with his semi-nakedness. I hardly know where to look, but eventually settle on his startlingly vivid green eyes. When I hold out the money, he gives it a cursory glance then balances the box under his arm so he can stuff the notes in his jeans pocket.

‘You’re very welcome, Holly. I hope you had a good first night in the cottage?’

‘Thanks, yes, it wasn’t exactly relaxing, though.’

‘Oh?’

I shrug. ‘Oh, you know, unpacking … new surroundings. It’s a bit unsettling.’ I’m not about to bore him with a run-down of my disaster of a night.

‘You did seem a bit stressed yesterday.’ He hands me the open wooden box. ‘Can you hold this for me?’

Surprised, I take the box, glancing at it curiously. It has about twenty small compartments inside, each containing a tiny brown glass bottle. It’s like something you might find in an old-fashioned apothecary shop.

Sylvian locks eyes with me and hovers his hand over the box. Then he looks down and selects a bottle, unscrewing the lid. ‘Try this one.’ He wafts it under my nose.

Cautiously, I sniff. The scent is subtle yet sharp at the same time. ‘Lemons?’

‘A great mood lifter.’ He holds out another bottle and I lean forward to smell it.

A powerful floral scent fills my nose. I inhale then breathe out slowly. ‘Lovely.’

‘Ylang ylang. Good for relieving stress.’

I laugh. ‘Bring it on.’

‘It’s also an aphrodisiac,’ he murmurs and when I look up to see if he’s joking, he winks at me. ‘It’s true.’

Heat rises in my cheeks. Am I imagining the frisson between us? I’m not sure, because Sylvian is already moving on, giving me a comprehensive run-down on the health properties of sandalwood – also great for stress, apparently – and wafting it under my nose.

The woody smell is heavenly, like a forest after it’s been raining. ‘Mmm, that’s my favourite.’

He smiles. ‘That’s the one, then.’ He screws on the cap and hands it to me.

I hold up the bottle with a bemused look. ‘But I can’t …?’

He shrugs. ‘Of course you can. Tip a few drops in your bath or on a handkerchief when you need to relax.’

‘But I need to pay you for it.’

He gives me an amused look and says nothing.

I smile, already knowing there’s little point arguing. ‘Well, thank you, but you’re too generous.’

He brushes it off. ‘Look, I’d invite you in but I’m giving a talk and I have to prepare for it.’

‘Of course. No problem.’ I start beating a retreat. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’

‘I very much like you holding me up, Holly,’ he says seriously. ‘In fact, I propose you hold me up again while I cook you dinner some time.’

His invitation takes me by surprise. ‘Gosh. Well, maybe …’

‘I’m counting on it,’ he smiles.

I raise a hand and scuttle off around the corner.

I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and already a caring and generous man has offered to cook me dinner! He also happens to be very fit and easy on the eye.

A vision of Sylvian opening the door naked to the waist flashes into my mind, but I tell myself to get a grip. I’m in Appleton to concentrate on Moonbeam Cottage, for goodness’ sake, not a man. Even if that man does have hard abs and a giving nature. Phew, is it me or has the temperature suddenly soared?

Feeling more than a little discombobulated, I glance at the label on the bottle I’m clutching and unscrew the top. Sandalwood essential oil. Known for its calming properties.

A good sniff of this should do the trick …

Back at the cottage, I phone Ivy’s odd job man, Mike, and he says he’ll be round to look at the roof and the damage inside the house as soon as he’s dropped his daughter off at playgroup. He sounds genuinely cut up about Ivy and describes her as ‘bloody marvellous’, which brings a lump to my throat. I love him already!

While I wait, I unpack a few more things then sit in the living room, eating the banana I brought for the train journey and wondering how I’m going to pass the time in the evenings while I’m here. There’s a small digital TV and a DVD player that’s so old, it was probably the original prototype, but nothing fancier than that. Ivy loved reading, so her shelves are full of gardening books and thrillers. A cook book would have come in handy while I’m here – I quite like getting creative in the kitchen – but Ivy hated cooking with a passion, so there aren’t any. I smile, remembering. She preferred to just ignore the scales and throw into the pot whatever she felt like, which was usually a recipe for disaster. (She only made the beetroot and nettle omelette once, thankfully.)

Mike arrives, whistling up the path, and having looked at the roof and the bathroom, says he can fix it no problem, with a little help from a roofer friend of his. I hold my breath and ask what it will cost, and actually, it’s not as bad as I thought. But when he mentions the additional cost of re-tiling and painting, I swallow hard and suggest we just stick with the repair work for now.

I’ve laid bathroom flooring before. And done lots of painting. Surely I can throw a few tiles on the wall? I mean, how hard can it be? It doesn’t have to be perfect. This is the countryside, for goodness’ sake; the land of all things rustic. People round here laugh indulgently when they accidentally tread in a cow pat; and they practically expect whiffy manure smells with their freshly laid chucky eggs in the morning. Ergo, a little ‘rustic tiling’ is sure to be a big hit among potential buyers.

Mike says he has a job to finish but he can start work on Monday. My heart sinks because that’s five whole days away, but I smile and tell him that will be perfect. Actually, I have lots of clearing out to do, so the time will probably fly by. I stand at the door, watching him walk cheerily down the path to his white van.

I have a feeling that with the repairs to do and the cottage to paint, my estimate of a fortnight to get the place on the market was way too optimistic. And then there’s Ivy Garden to sort out. My heart sinks into my boots. It will probably take a month at least …

Mike’s jolly whistle as he climbs into his van attracts the attention of two people locked together just inside the bus shelter over the road. They see me peering over and break apart. It’s that Adonis boy I saw earlier with one of the girls from his group of mates. The one with the extraordinary half-blonde, half-black hair. She stares haughtily back at me as if to say, You shouldn’t be looking – and anyway, it’s perfectly normal to be performing tonsil tennis at a bus stop in full view of the entire village!

Adonis just smirks at me.

I retreat inside and go straight upstairs to start on the job I’ve been dreading the most. Sorting through Ivy’s wardrobe.

By the evening, I’m drained, physically and emotionally – and facing a long night with nothing much to do. I can’t even summon up the energy to start sketching.

It’s been on my mind that I need to contact Ivy’s old school friend, Olive, who she used to meet up with from time to time. She wasn’t at the funeral because I couldn’t track down a contact number for her among Ivy’s belongings or even on her phone. I found Ivy’s old address book today but there’s no Olive in there, either, and I went through it page by page.

I haven’t made as much progress as I’d have liked with Ivy’s clothes, either. Almost every blouse or jacket of Ivy’s that I took out of the wardrobe, I couldn’t bear to part with because of the memories, so the ‘keep’ pile is like a small mountain. The ‘charity’ pile consists of a scarf Ivy never liked and a jumper that still had the tags on it. So basically, it took me all day to move Ivy’s clothes from the wardrobe to the bed, with some tearful reminiscing over old photos in between times.

At this rate, I’ll still be here at Christmas …

I sink on to the sofa, on the verge of tears, and stare at the blackness beyond the windows. Then out of the corner of my eye, I catch something move.

I whip around and the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life comes into view, moving at a fair old speed. Its legs are so long, it literally scampers towards me, before stopping suddenly, changing course and scuttling back through a tiny opening in the skirting board.

My legs are shaking. I’d forgotten about the wildlife that rampages about the countryside. I never see spiders in my modern, second-floor flat.

I eye the skirting board nervously. A book would be a good distraction, but I don’t fancy Ivy’s thrillers – it’s spooky enough just being alone in the countryside at night without wanting to deliberately scare myself. A thick blanket of darkness has descended beyond the window. I can see nothing except impenetrable blackness and my own reflection staring back at me, and I get that panicky feeling you have when you’re driving in a snow storm and suddenly it’s a total white-out.

I keep peering out, determined to see something, but it’s no use.

King Kong could be beating his breast on top of the Empire State Building out there and I’d be absolutely none the wiser …

When Mike arrives on Monday morning, I practically fall on the poor man with the sheer relief of having another human being to talk to. I make him a cup of tea and ask about his family, and it’s only when he starts edging apologetically out of the room that I remember the purpose of his visit is to fix the bathroom. Seconds later, his roofer friend arrives so I leave them to it.

After my false start, I’ve made a determined effort over the past five days to sort through the kitchen, putting all the stuff I want to keep in the spare room ready to be boxed up for removal. Ivy, bless her, was never great at throwing things out, and by the end of the second day, the dustbin was already filled to bursting. The only time I’ve been out is to the village store for groceries. (I always tidy myself up, just in case I happen to bump into Sylvian, but so far there have been no sightings. He’s probably busy with his poetry workshops.)

The best thing about the village store is – pause for effect – you can rent DVDs!

I know. Exciting!

Later, after Mike has gone, I make scrambled eggs and push my latest movie into Ivy’s old but reliable machine. Tonight’s entertainment is Castaway, starring a very young-looking Tom Hanks. It’s all about someone cast adrift miles from anywhere, with no way of getting in touch with the outside world, and who, in fact, makes a friend called Wilson out of a coconut husk just to have someone to talk to.

I don’t think they sell coconuts in the village store.

I keep thinking about Sylvian and wondering what he’s doing. It would be nice to see a friendly face. Looking on the bright side, though, the village store’s collection of movies isn’t bad at all, if a little limited by the shelf space. There’s a few classics I’ve never got round to watching. Of course, there’s also some real dross; several truly awful low-budget horror movies with titles like I Know What You Did Last Hallowe’en, and – my particular favourite – Slasher Santa’s Coming to Town.

I mean, you’d have to be really desperate to resort to that …