Читать книгу The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 13

‘But I might not have wanted it chopped down.’

He continues to study me with a slight frown, as if I’m some sort of interesting plant life he’d thought was extinct.

‘You really think we should leave it standing?’ he asks at last.

‘No, of course not. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have chopped it down … eventually.’

His mouth quirks up at one corner.

‘I meant I’d like to have made the decision to chop it down myself.’ My cheeks feel so scorched, the raindrops are probably evaporating on landing. I shrug awkwardly. ‘This was Ivy’s special place.’

His expression softens. ‘You knew Ivy?’ He drops the axe on the ground and walks towards me.

‘She was my grandma. And I can’t imagine what she’d be saying if she could see this … mess.’

He looks down at me, his dark hair plastered wetly to his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. You must be devastated. Ivy was one special lady.’

I can’t trust myself to speak, so I just nod.

‘I’m Jack Rushbrooke, by the way.’

‘Holly Dinsdale.’ I hold out my hand and he grips it. A funny little shock runs along my arm, I guess because when you shake hands under normal circumstances, it tends to be rather less cold and wet than this.

‘Are you staying at Moonbeam Cottage?’ he asks.

‘Just till I get it on the market. Then I’ll be gone.’

He nods. ‘You’re selling up. Of course.’

I glance at him, puzzled. Why ‘of course’? Has he heard through the grapevine that I hate the countryside?

‘You won’t need Moonbeam Cottage, I suppose. Not where you’re going,’ he says.

‘You mean Manchester?’ Wow, news certainly gets around.

But he’s looking at me in slight confusion. I have a feeling we’ve got our wires crossed somewhere, but I haven’t the faintest notion how.

‘Right. Well. Do you mind if I finish the job?’

I shrug, still feeling stupidly emotional about the tree. ‘Yes, why not?’ I say flippantly, as if I really don’t care. ‘You’re already half way there.’

I can’t help noticing how tall Jack Rushbrooke is. In his jeans, lumberjack boots and heavy duty waterproof, he looks as solid and immovable as the trees surrounding the clearing. He just shouldn’t be here, that’s all, in my private place, making decisions about what happens to Ivy Garden. What if him chopping the tree down alerts the local council, who own the land, and they decide it can no longer be used as a public garden?

Emotion is making me illogical, I know, but I’m suddenly desperate for things to stay exactly as they are, just the way Ivy left them.

‘In future, I’m going to do the gardening myself if you don’t mind,’ I announce.

He nods slowly as he walks back to the tree and picks up his axe. ‘Okay. I’ll just get this done.’ He pauses then holds out the axe. ‘Unless you’d like to …?’

I stare at the axe for a panicked second. Does he really expect me to …?

Then I notice the gleam in his eyes. ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘I’ll see to the tree, then I’ll leave the rest of the gardening to you. All right?’

‘Whatever.’ I give a nonchalant shrug, while privately thinking, Thank God for that! At the risk of sounding horribly un-feminist, I’d probably end up chopping off something vital if I so much as picked up that ferocious-looking implement.

Jack gets on with the job, wielding the axe with power and precision, as I stand by admiring his – um – technique. Well, I’d be silly not to watch closely, wouldn’t I? Garner a few gardening tips, that sort of thing.

It’s really quite an art, this tree-felling stuff, I reflect, admiring the muscular flexing motion of Jack’s shoulder and back, clearly visible through the clinging and almost transparent cotton of his shirt …

He’s looking over at me.

Bugger. He’s obviously asked me a question but I was too busy concentrating elsewhere.

‘Sorry?’ Blushing, I tap my ear. ‘Can’t hear a thing with this rain.’

Jack frowns skywards. The rain has stopped.

‘I was saying if you need help tidying this place up, I’ll probably be around at the weekend,’ he says.

I shake my head. ‘Thank you but I’ll be fine.’

‘You can manage?’

‘Definitely.’

He grunts, not looking at all convinced, and I feel my hackles stir.

‘You’re welcome to borrow gardening tools. Have you got a strimmer to get rid of these thistles and nettles? Because that’s a big job,’ he points out, axe balanced over his shoulder, long muscular-–looking legs planted in the ground like twin oaks.

‘I’ve got the tools,’ I tell him shortly. ‘At least, Ivy will have. Somewhere.’

‘I could speak to Nick Wetherby. Local gardener. He’d have it whipped into shape in no time.’

I clench my teeth. Why is he so doubtful about my gardening skills? Do I look that clueless? I could be Monty Don’s second cousin twice removed, for all he knows, with green fingers by the shed load.

‘Right.’ He shrugs. ‘I can see you’re determined to do it yourself.’

‘Yes, I am actually. I’m a really good gardener, if you must know.’ Well, I will be, once I look up ‘strimmer’ in the dictionary. I’m absolutely certain of it.

He nods. ‘If you’re stuck, go to the garden centre and ask for Layla,’ he says, before turning back to the task in hand.

I watch him a while longer. Then he shouts, ‘Stand back!’ and with one more hefty stroke, the tree starts to capsize. It falls to one side with a crash and the birds flap noisily from their perches.

‘Thanks for that,’ I say, as he bends over to examine the tree stump that’s left.

‘No problem. I can take the tree away,’ he offers. ‘Unless it’s something you’d rather do yourself, of course?’

I glare at him as he rises up to his full height. Then I catch the tiny flicker of amusement in his blue eyes.

‘Thank you,’ I tell him pleasantly. ‘That would be wonderful.’

‘You don’t need the wood?’ he asks.

I shake my head. ‘Gas fire.’

He grunts. ‘Mind if I use it?’

‘Be my guest.’

He nods. ‘Right, I’m off. We live in the big ramshackle of a place over there,’ he says, nodding in the direction of the woods. ‘Rushbrooke House.’

We? Who’s we?

Perhaps there’s a Mrs Rushbrooke and two point four adorable kids.

He picks up the axe and swings it over his shoulder. ‘Ivy was a wonderful woman,’ he says, and we exchange a look of understanding. On this, at least, we’re in complete agreement.

‘Well, see you, Holly.’ He raises a hand and strides off through the woods, presumably back to Rushbrooke House. He turns and looks back at me with a slightly puzzled expression, as if he’s trying to work me out.

I look away quickly and pretend to be examining the tree stump in an Alan Titchmarsh, highly professional sort of way …