Читать книгу The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 15

The next day is Wednesday and I’m feeling full of get up and go. This feeling is increased ten-fold when I arrive at Ivy Garden to tackle the nettles and find a surprise waiting for me.

A carpet of bluebells has transformed the little woodland clearing.

The ground is dotted with little clumps of the tiny lilac-blue flowers. They peep out from between the trees, like tiny precious jewels, and the scent of them brings back so many memories.

I thought I’d never see the bluebells again – but here they are!

Feeling inspired, I don Ivy’s old gardening gloves and set to work pulling up nettles.

As I work, it occurs to me that once all the nettles and weeds have gone, there will be a large expanse of earth available for planting, all along the hedge. An idea takes shape in my head. Before she died, Ivy kept talking about wanting to plant a wildflower meadow. Perhaps I could have a go myself? It can’t be that difficult. I seem to remember reading in one of her gardening books that wildflowers actually prefer soil that isn’t very fertile. In other words, they’ll probably grow anywhere. Sounds like my kind of plant …

By tea-time, I’ve cleared a large patch of nettles, and I head back to the cottage feeling tired and very grubby. As I sink gratefully into a hot bubble bath, I think about my life back in Manchester. Apart from watering my fairly indestructible umbrella plant, I’ve never gardened in my life. But I’ve just spent a whole day in the open air, getting all hot and sweaty, and aching everywhere, but actually rather enjoying it. Or at least enjoying the sense of accomplishment after a job well done.

Later, feeling ravenous, I’m hunting around in the fridge when the phone rings. I rush to answer it, chewing rapidly, having just popped a large piece of quiche into my mouth.

‘Hi, only me,’ says Connie. ‘Listen, I’m really, really sorry but I’m afraid we’re going to have to postpone our day out. It’s Dad’s birthday on Sunday.’

I actually stop breathing for a second.

‘Mum’s cooking a special meal and she’ll absolutely kill me if I’m not there for it. She’s always been big on family birthdays. Holly? Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ I draw in a gulp of air and a piece of quiche lodges itself in the back of my throat. I cough and splutter, trying desperately to swallow down the remains of the pastry, but my mouth feels dry as dust.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I gasp. ‘Bit of quiche went down the wrong way, that’s all. I just need to get some water.’

‘Off you go, then. Are you sure you’re all right?’

She sounds as if she feels really guilty for cancelling, so I force myself to say in an upbeat tone, ‘Actually, I’m planning a wildflower meadow at Ivy Garden. So now I’ll be able to do it on Sunday.’

‘Oh, good.’ Connie sounds relieved. ‘Because I felt terrible.’

She hangs up, and feeling oddly light-headed, I walk through to the kitchen and mechanically gulp down some water. Then, remembering what Sylvian told me, I sit down, close my eyes, draw in a deep breath and blow my worry away like a dandelion clock.

Perhaps it’s fate that Connie cancelled. Maybe I was meant to plant a wildflower meadow on Ivy’s birthday. It would certainly be a lovely tribute to her. And at least I’m busy on Saturday night, at Sylvian’s, which will mean I won’t have much chance to brood.

Later, I’m poring over Ivy’s gardening books, researching which wildflowers flourish best in a shady, woodland setting, when the doorbell rings.

It’s Sylvian in his yoga gear.

‘Hi, hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he says with that lovely, tranquil smile of his. ‘I just wanted to give you this.’

He dangles a delicate pendant necklace and I cradle it in my hands.

‘Rose quartz,’ he says. ‘It’s the stone of universal love. It opens the heart and promotes deep inner healing and feelings of peace.’

‘Oh, it’s gorgeous.’ I hold up the tiny, pale pink sliver of crystal, admiring its beautiful luminosity.

‘And don’t say you can’t take it.’ He smiles. ‘It’s a gift.’

I flush with a combination of awkwardness and pleasure.

I’m a little perturbed that he thinks I’m in need of ‘deep inner healing’. Is it really so obvious that my life is a wreck? Still, I very much like the idea of ‘feelings of peace’.

I’ve never met anyone like Sylvian; he’s so calm and giving and … spiritual. He has this mysterious aura of being at one with the universe which is really very attractive. I can’t imagine anything fazing him. Anything at all. If the roof were to suddenly slide off the cottage, Sylvian would probably step nimbly aside in a bendy yoga sort of way then prescribe a calming ‘downward dog’ pose, followed by a cup of herbal tea.

‘Do you want to come in?’ I ask, hoping I haven’t left any underwear drying on the radiators.

‘Tempting. But no.’ He looks genuinely regretful. ‘I need to be up early.’

I nod. ‘Let me guess. You’re going out at dawn to commune with nature?’ I say, thinking how wonderful to be so at peace with everything.

‘No, the gas man’s coming round.’

‘Oh.’

‘Here, let me …’ He takes the rose quartz pendant and slips it around my neck. His fingers are cool against my neck and I give a little involuntary shiver of pleasure.

He fumbles with the catch, clearly having trouble fastening it, and at one point, I turn and catch his eye. We smile at each other and it feels suddenly very intimate. His face is so close to mine, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me again.

Then he says, ‘Listen, I’m really sorry, Holly, but I think I might have to take a rain check on our dinner date.’

My heart drops like a stone. ‘Oh. Why?’

‘I’m booked to do poetry workshops at the weekend apparently. They got the dates wrong, so I’ve only just found out. I’ve asked them to try and rearrange but I doubt they’ll be able to. I’m really sorry. ’

I fix on a smile and give my head a little shake. ‘Hey, no problem. We can do it some other time, right?’

He nods. ‘It might still be okay for Saturday. I’ll let you know when I hear from the organisers, okay?’

Chain fastened, he turns me round to face him, slipping his hands behind my neck and lightly massaging the tops of my shoulders. ‘If we can’t do Saturday, I’ll make it up to you some other time,’ he says, looking deep into my eyes. ‘And that’s a promise.’

A noise distracts me and I glance along the road. A tall figure is running towards us. It’s Jack on his nightly jog.

He sees me and slows to a standstill at the gate. Then, observing that I’m otherwise occupied, with Sylvian’s arms draped around my neck, he raises a hand and walks on, with that same slightly puzzled expression, probably imagining far more than is actually happening.

‘See you, Holly,’ murmurs Sylvian, brushing my forehead with his lips. At the gate, he turns, touches his lips and sends me an imaginary kiss. ‘Love and light.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ I pat the crystal. ‘Er … love and light!’

I watch him as he walks off along the road. He’s staring up at the moon, and I can’t help having a look myself. It’s probably an ancient source of spiritual inspiration – or something …

I could certainly do with my spirits lifting tonight. My weekend is once again looking as empty as a fairground in a force nine gale.

Listlessly, I watch as Jack sprints along the road then turns down the next street. I glance at my watch. He’s early tonight. Perhaps the woman whose husband works in Dubai, and who Jack visits under cover of darkness because they don’t want the neighbours to catch on, got home from work early today? This is my latest theory on why he flashes past the cottage most evenings. (These long nights in the country play havoc with your imagination.)

Retreating slowly inside, I pick up the phone to call Vicki, and amazingly, I get a signal first time. She’s getting ready to go out with Beth and some other friends.

‘Why not come and stay for the weekend, Vick?’ I say it nonchalantly, as if I’ve only just thought of it, when what I really want to do is throw myself to the floor, weep copiously and plead with her to please, please, please come and rescue me.

‘A whole weekend? In the country?’ She laughs. ‘Love, you know me. I’d totally die of boredom. Come back to Manchester. We miss you so much. Please, Holly!’

‘You miss me?’ Tears well up.

‘Of course we do. When are you coming back?’

I can hear her rushing around getting ready as she talks into her phone, excited about her forthcoming night out with the girls.

‘I can’t yet. I’m doing up the cottage, and Ivy Garden’s in a hell of a state.’

I pause then try again. ‘Why don’t you just come down for the day?’

She sighs. ‘But you know I absolutely hate sheep, right? It’s definitely a phobia.’

‘So I’ll give Shaun his marching orders. I promise, you’ll have the bedroom all to yourself.’

‘Shaun?’ She perks up. ‘Have you got yourself a new man already?’

‘No. I mean Shaun the sheep …’

‘Oh … Tell you what, Hols, I’ll get myself some wellies then we’ll see …’

My heart dives into my slippers.

Message understood.

No-one wants to visit me in the back of beyond. And seriously, who can blame them?

‘But listen,’ she says, ‘I was talking to Beth yesterday and we decided that when you get back, we’re going to have this amazing—’

The phone goes dead.

The stupid phone has actually cut me off!

I slam around crossly in the kitchen, making tea. Honestly, I’d probably get better reception if I moved to Mars! I carry my tea upstairs along with one of Ivy’s weightier gardening encyclopaedias, deciding to bury myself in wildflowers to take my mind off everything.

I snuggle under the duvet for a minute, giving in to gloomy thoughts, then I glance at my phone which I’ve thrown onto the pillow on the other side of the bed. I grab it and find Ivy’s number in my contacts. Then I click and wait, with a lump in my throat ,for her familiar message to begin.

I know I probably shouldn’t do it, but it makes me smile every time.

I toss the phone back on the pillow and start flicking through the huge hardback encyclopaedia. It has a musty smell and the pages are stuck together in places.

Something slips out.

It’s an old blue exercise book, like the sort we used at school. There’s nothing on the cover, but when I open it at the first page, I see the familiar handwriting and my heart lurches. Ivy must have written it a long time ago because the ink has faded. With hands that are trembling slightly, I flick through the pages. About a dozen have been written on and the rest is blank.

It looks as if it might be a diary of some sort.

Heart pounding, I begin to read.