Ivy Lane: Autumn: (2 page)

Helen beamed and held out the bottle to top up Gemma’s cup, thus letting me off the hook nicely. ‘Carrot, apple and ginger.’

‘Delicious dot com,’ squealed Gemma, wide-eyed and wondrous. ‘Ginger, that’s my new favourite flavour. I need more!’

She grabbed the bottle out of Helen’s hand and put it to her lips.

Helen looked a bit shocked. But in a good way.

‘Mmm. Very fresh,’ I said diplomatically. ‘What’s in the other one?’

‘Blackberry, apple and beetroot,’ said Helen, proffering the second bottle.

I gulped and held up my cup; I had been with her until the beetroot.

The juice was a beautiful rich red. I consoled myself with the prospect of having consumed my five-a-day for the entire week in one go and took a tentative sip.

‘Lovely,’ I said, sort-of meaning it. I would probably in all honesty stick to my Tropicana. Call me old-fashioned, but I much preferred my beetroot pickled and sliced on a cheddar cheese sandwich.

‘I’m thinking of going into business so I can work around Honey. Open a little juice bar. Graham thinks it’s a great idea, but I’m still a bit nervous.’

‘Well, I’m a convert for starters,’ said Gemma. She had a bottle-top-shaped orange ring around her mouth. ‘Who’s your target market? Where are you going to sell? What’s your price point?’

‘Er . . .’ Helen shifted awkwardly and tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘I’ve been concentrating on getting the recipes right first.’

Suddenly Gemma wrinkled up her nose, then pegged it with two fingers.

‘Sorry,’ she said, sounding like a rail platform announcer. ‘Very sensitive olfactory organs at the moment.’ She pointed to Honey.

The toddler had adopted the stance of a sumo wrestler, arms and legs akimbo, knees slightly bent, her face set in studied concentration.

‘Whoops,’ said Helen, scooping up her daughter. ‘Nappy time. Thanks for the feedback.’

‘Going into business?’ hissed Gemma, releasing her nose as soon as Helen was out of earshot. ‘She’s away with the fairies, that one.’

‘She needs advice from a successful businesswoman,’ I said, nudging her with a well-intended elbow. ‘A mentor.’

Gemma’s eyes lit up. ‘You’re right.’ She stood up, pressed a hand to the small of her back and hurried off. ‘Helen! Wait for me.’

‘Tomorrow at the pavilion,’ I called to her retreating form. ‘Don’t forget!’

She gave me a thumbs-up and I let out a long breath.

I had to be there to find out exactly what Ivy Lane was letting itself in for, and she had to be there to catch me if I fell.

‘Criminals!’ gasped Liz, pulling the lapels of her cardigan up to her neck as if she was in danger of being ravished any moment.

‘At Ivy Lane!’ wailed Rosemary, clamping a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh no. Colin is at such an impressionable age. I won’t have him led astray.’

Breathe, Tilly. In and out.

I was a bag of nerves. Just being in the same room as Mr Cohen again brought back all sorts of memories that I’d rather forget. Every time a voice was raised my leg shot up like James’s used to do when he was watching
Match of the Day
and his team had a clear shot at the goal.

Roaring, high-pitched indignation, outrage . . . All types of raised voices had been aired so far and I was as tightly coiled as a well-laden mule in Buckaroo.

The last time we had gathered in the pavilion like this was in May to meet the director from the
Green Fingers
TV show.

Despite my current state of nervousness, the memory brought a flutter to my stomach and a flush to my cheeks. Then my fellow plot holders had been buzzing with excitement at the prospect of being filmed for the allotment documentary. I, however, had been totally unimpressed by Aidan and hadn’t wanted anything to do with him or his TV show, when in fact he was a perfect gentleman, talented, thoughtful and an excellent kisser . . .

Now I was definitely blushing.

This evening was a very different bunch of bananas. The layout of the room was the same: a top table with Peter, Christine and Nigel representing the committee and Mr Cohen from the probation service – looking as staid, steely and starchy as ever – but that was where the similarity ended.

There was more than a hint of hostility in the air, with most of the plot holders in uproar and the committee members endeavouring to keep order. Mr Cohen, meanwhile, looked as if he had seen it all before a million times. Which, of course, he probably had.

Nigel was speaking and waving his arms a lot. Something about people less fortunate than ourselves. For a second I wondered if I was back in Harrogate at Sunday school. The chairs had been uncomfortable there, too, and I had always been watching the clock until it was time to escape. I tried to focus and flicked a glance at Gemma. She rolled her eyes and feigned a yawn.

‘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.