Ivy Lane: Spring: (9 page)

His kindness was too much and big happy tears filled my eyes. I put my mug down smartly before I changed my mind. ‘Go on then,’ I said bravely. ‘Let’s go.’

‘You might want to get out of your pyjamas first,’ said Roy with one bushy eyebrow aloft.

‘Good point.’

We grinned at each other.

I handed him his coat. ‘Thanks, Roy.’

‘See you in an hour. Don’t be late.’

The rain had dried up and there was a festival atmosphere at Ivy Lane allotments. Long trestle tables had been arranged outside the pavilion, some with plants, one with second-hand gardening books (I might have a browse there later) and another with refreshments. At the roadside end of most plots were small tables laden with plants and handmade signs indicating the varieties. People were milling about, wandering onto each other’s plots, swapping notes, exchanging plants and generally having a good old chin-wag.

Despite my mood, I was charmed by it. A chink of hope appeared in my veil of misery and for an anxious moment I thought I might let out a hiccuppy sob. Thank goodness Roy had persuaded me to come; this was so much better than flopping around ankle-deep in self-pity at home.

I had brought a nice tin of biscuits with me that I’d bought in Betty’s in Harrogate. Not exactly the same as swapping a seedling, but it was better than nothing.

At the end of mine and Gemma’s plot I found six pots with several plants in each. A piece of paper was tucked underneath them and ‘Sweet Peas’ was scribbled on it in pencil.

My heart contracted with gratitude. Over on their plot, I caught sight of Roy and waved. He waved back, held his newspaper up and disappeared into the shed. No doubt there would be a can of beer with his name on it somewhere in there. Good for him.

A cheery voice broke through my reverie.

‘You get first dibs on my beans, Tilly.’

It was Charlie carrying a large tray of healthy, un-eaten broad bean plants. My cheeks burned with shame and I took a deep breath. Better get the worst bit over with and move on.

‘I’m sorry about yesterday.’

‘No worries. I know what you women are like. My ex was always losing her rag. “Emotional”, she used to call it.’ He smiled and his eyes twinkled at me. ‘Come on, let’s get these plants in.’

He strode onto my half of the plot purposefully and I followed. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be compared to his ex, but at least he didn’t seem to be holding a grudge. It appeared to be a regular thing in our friendship: me apologizing to him.

Charlie paused outside the shed and nodded towards the pocket of his tight jeans, his hands still full with the tray. ‘I’ve got your shed key in my pocket, help yourself.’

Was it me or had it gone incredibly warm all of a sudden?

He burst out laughing and held his hand out with my key in it. ‘Only kidding, you should have seen your face!’

I let out a breath and laughed with relief. Good job Gemma wasn’t here, I’d never have lived it down.

‘Pass me a trowel and I’ll put them in for you now.’

I opened the shed and found him a trowel, but when he asked for bonemeal, my face must have gone blank because he rolled his eyes and jogged back to his own shed to fetch some.

I went over to examine my remaining shallots while I waited, but I soon had a visitor.

‘Callaloo,’ sang Dougie, producing a tray of spindly green shoots from behind his back, ‘a taste of Jamaica. Better than all your boring English rubbish.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the tray from him. Whatever callaloo was. ‘Can I swap you for some sweet peas?’

‘No, but you can swap them for a kiss,’ he said, pushing his cap up and leaning in, lips already puckered.

‘Biscuit?’ I pressed the tin towards him to ward him off.

‘Spoil sport,’ he said with a wink, but took a biscuit anyway. ‘Keep them warm till the weather heats up,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Callaloo likes it hot, like me.’ He sauntered off, cackling to himself.

Next to appear was Liz, hovering nervously on the path holding a pot. Her hair was pulled back into a rough ponytail and I could see her grey roots growing though the blonde highlights. She took a piece of shortbread from the tin and nibbled the edge.

‘I’ve brought you marigolds.’ She was so quietly spoken that I had to strain to hear her. ‘For companion planting. Put them near your carrots, they’ll ward off pests and help with pollination.’

It was very kind of her. I handed her a pot of sweet peas, which she declared to be delightful and of a variety she didn’t have. She was just leaving as Charlie returned, and when he said hello, she seemed to shrink into herself and tiptoed away as fast as she could.

He frowned as he watched her leave. ‘Something I said?’

‘Perhaps she’s allergic to testosterone,’ I said with a wry smile.

He seemed to like that. I left him chuckling away, planting the broad beans while I took some sweet peas to Shazza and Karen next door and came back with a handful of onions to supplement my meagre shallot crop.

Charlie’s method of planting was diametrically opposed to mine; no string and no straight lines, in fact, it was more of a patch than a row. I itched to intervene, but in the interests of inter-plot relations, I opted to fetch us both tea from the refreshment stall instead.

Peter was in charge of the teapot and poured me two mugs of builder-strength brew. He smoothed the flap of hair across his balding head and coughed.

‘As chair of the committee, it grieves me to see new plot holders suffering any setbacks,’ he whispered gruffly.

I murmured my thanks as I spooned sugar into Charlie’s tea, my cheeks flaming. It seemed news of yesterday’s meltdown had spread further than I’d imagined.

‘Plenty of lettuces going spare in my greenhouse, Tilly. I’ve done you a little tray, please help yourself.’

Peter’s plot was on the other side of ours, although I’d rarely seen him do anything, he was always in the pavilion sorting out everyone else’s problems. People were so kind, I thought, as I weaved my way through the crowd back to Charlie, with a clump of radishes from Nigel in a bag looped over one arm and a full mug in each hand.

By the time I got back the broad beans were in, as were the new onions, and my plot was looking a whole lot better than it had twenty-four hours previously, if slightly more chaotic. I felt a bubble of happiness rise in my stomach; maybe I had been a bit hasty to give up yesterday.

Charlie downed his tea and tipped out the dregs. ‘Can you be left on your own for five minutes, while I swap the rest of these beans?’

‘Sounds like a line from a pantomime,’ I said. ‘What are you hoping for – a cow?’

He rolled his eyes, hugged me to him briefly and left before I had chance to react. I felt my head lurch and my throat grow tight; how long had it been since I’d had a man’s arm around me like that? I sank down heavily on my bench and tried to ignore the tingling sensation that his touch had left on my body.

Don’t panic Tilly, he’s just a friend.

‘Hiya!’

Brenda, with her red hair and matching lipstick, stood before me, her arms straining under the weight of a hessian sack.

‘Miles away, you were. I’ve got a proposition for you.’

Implausible as it seemed, Brenda was even more persuasive than Christine. By the time she left, I’d agreed that she could commandeer part of my plot to grow potatoes in exchange for a share of the crop. Apparently she was ‘going for gold’ this year and needed more space. Just what I’d always dreamed of – potatoes . . . However, given my track record so far it seemed like a good plan; the less space I had, the fewer mistakes I could make.

I didn’t feel confident enough to wander around other people’s plots with my biscuits and sweet peas, so I stayed put and kept a beady eye trained on my broad beans in case the mouse burglar returned. Visitors came thick and fast and I rarely had a moment alone: pak choi from the Chinese-hippy-sugar-free mum, a spare piece of netting from Alfred who helped me make a broad bean-prison with it, and some pots of herbs from Vicky who had the plot nearest the gate.

My favourite visitor was Colin. He waited until his mum was taking a turn manning the book stall and crept up bearing a gift of pea plants.

‘Can you keep a secret?’ he asked, glancing furtively over his shoulder. His check shirt hung off sloping shoulders either side of a concave chest and I couldn’t help but compare his with Charlie’s muscular physique.

‘I know about the modelling,’ I hissed, at the same time hoping he wasn’t about to reveal anything too risqué. It wasn’t that I was a prude, I was just, well, a little rusty in that department.

‘I’m not gay!’ he declared, pulling himself up tall.

I was startled. That hadn’t entered my head. Until now.

‘Gemma says you’re a teacher.’

I nodded, praying she hadn’t mentioned anything about the Easter card.

‘Would you help me with my reading in return for a bit of help with your allotment?’

I had to stop myself from crushing him to my chest, I felt so sorry for him. I’d volunteered at an adult learning centre as a student; developing literacy skills in people who had struggled to cope with normal everyday tasks had been a massively humbling experience.

Colin was waiting for my reply, chewing his nails and fidgeting from trainer to trainer. Designer. Modelling must pay well.

‘I’d be delighted,’ I said, meaning it from the bottom of my heart.

He beamed at me and puffed out his chest. ‘Planting, weeding, anything; I don’t mind.’

I sent him on his way with a bourbon biscuit, both of us richer from our chat.

By lunchtime all the swapping was over. I sat down on the bench and cast an eye over my haul. My fellow plot holders had donated enough vegetable plants to stock a small supermarket and I still had four pots of sweet peas in my possession. It seemed word of my epic failure to cultivate had got round. Everyone was falling over themselves to come to my aid and wouldn’t take anything from me in return.

But as well as donations, everyone had offered help with the planting, given me tips on protecting the young plants from predators and shared a story or two about their own disasters. Losing the odd row of seed to birds, mice and squirrels were so commonplace that I felt a bit of a diva for my strop yesterday.

A surge of warmth infused my whole body. I felt overcome all of a sudden by the community’s generosity. People had been so kind and helpful and I couldn’t for the life of me work out what I had done to earn it. I would give it another go. We could do it, me and my plot. We might be battered and damaged, but we could start again and hopefully come back stronger.

I took a deep calming breath.

Gemma’s plot was still deserted. I missed my friend.
My friend
. My eyes filled with stupid tears and I tilted my head back to blink them away.

The bench rocked precariously as a second bottom plonked itself down at my side. Christine patted my leg.

‘Where’s Gemma today?’ I sniffed, blotting the tears with my sleeve.

‘Shopping.’

I was surprised; I would have thought that a social event like this would have been right up her street. Even if only as an opportunity to sell facials to the weather-beaten plot holders.

‘Would you say you were a cat or a dog person?’ said Christine, apropos of nothing.

I thought hard about my answer, not least because, knowing Christine, it could be a trick question. Back in the ‘let’s buy a cottage in the countryside, have lots of babies and live happily ever after days’ with James, we had always dreamed about completing our perfect life with a golden retriever. Without that fantasy to fall back on I wasn’t sure what sort of person I was. And I wasn’t just referring to the pet preference.

‘Don’t know.’ I shrugged.

‘A dog is your best friend,’ said Christine, picking up the tray of pea seedlings and pinching a few bits off. ‘It’s loyal, it depends on you. Greets you when you come in, shares your emotions. Whereas as a cat is much more of a free spirit, far less needy and more of a taker.’

‘A cat person then, probably,’ I said.

Christine tucked my hand through her arm. ‘Come with me. I’ve got something to swap with you. Bring the biscuits.’

Why did I get the feeling I’d walked right into another one of her traps?

She led me to her shed, pushed me inside and waited at the door. Roy was sleeping peacefully, head lolling on his chest. Curled up on his lap were two tiny kittens; grey stripy balls of fluff and utterly adorable.

‘Strays,’ said Christine. She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose. ‘We found them wandering around last night. No sign of the mother. Poor little mites.’

I scooped up one of the sleeping kittens and held it to my face. Its heart was beating fast and furiously against its fragile ribcage. It woke up and pressed a miniature paw to my cheek.

‘Gemma’s taking one,’ said Christine, helping herself to a biscuit. ‘She’s out getting collars and bowls as we speak. Mia’s chuffed to bits.’

No way. I could see where this was going. I deposited the kitten back on Roy’s lap. ‘And you’re having the other,’ I said firmly, meeting Christine’s eye.

She dabbed at her nose. ‘I’m allergic, else I would. Mike has agreed to one, but won’t take both because of the vet bills.’

‘Have you asked around? Maybe they’re just lost.’

Christine shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But in the meantime they need homes.’ She paused and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Animals bring out the best in people, I always think. They find a way into even the most resistant heart. And you’d be doing me a big favour.’ She sniffed dramatically.

A pet. During the past week, I’d struggled to look after myself and failed dismally to keep even a few plants alive. I wasn’t sure I was fit to take on the responsibility of another life.

Roy opened his eyes and grinned. He was so wide awake suddenly that I suspected he had been listening all along.

‘So, Tilly, which one are you having?’

I smiled at him, remembering his earlier words.
You make a mistake, you move on.
If it hadn’t been for him and Christine, I’d still be moping around in my pyjamas. But what an unexpectedly successful day it had been instead; a replenished allotment, a willing assistant and new literacy student, and now it seemed a new member of the Parker family. Before I had chance to change my mind I scooped up the kitten again.