Ivy Lane: Spring:
Authors: Cathy Bramley
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Humor, #Topic, #Marriage & Family, #Romance, #General, #Collections & Anthologies, #Family & Relationships, #Marriage & Long Term Relationships, #Love & Romance
Friendship blossoms at Ivy Lane . . .
Tilly Parker needs a fresh start, fresh air and a fresh attitude if she is ever to leave the past behind and move on with her life. As she settles in to a new town seeking peace and solitude, taking on her own plot at Ivy Lane allotments seems like the perfect solution. But the vibrant, friendly Ivy Lane community has other ideas and endeavour to entice Tilly into seedling swaps and Easter egg hunts. Can Tilly let new friends into her life, or will she stay a wallflower for good?
Ivy Lane is a serialized novel told in four parts – taking you from spring to summer, autumn to winter – which tell a charming, light-hearted and moving story you won’t want to put down.
Contents
Cathy’s Most Comforting Recipes
Cathy Bramley
For my mum, Sue Cope
I did up my coat, pulled on a woollen beret and wrapped an excessively long scarf around my neck until only my nose and eyes were left bare. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking that I was trying to exit my new little terraced house incognito. But I wasn’t. There was no need; no one knew me anyway.
It was the thing I loved most about it. Apart from the original tiled fireplace in the front room. That was unexpectedly pretty.
Here in Kingsfield, a small market town on the edge of Derbyshire, I could start afresh. Although I had only moved a paltry twenty miles, the simple joy of not facing pitying smiles and awkward silences would make a huge improvement to my life, I was sure of it.
The front door was sweet, too, with its stained-glass panel. I hadn’t noticed it when I came to view the house. That particular December day had whizzed by in a blur. I’d arrived for an interview at All Saints Nursery and Infant School with low expectations for my chance of success and somehow was offered the job on the spot. I called in to the local estate agent’s on a whim and was shown details of a ‘highly desirable property ideal for madam’s needs’. Ten minutes later I was viewing it. The decor was dated, the kitchen was tiny and the bathroom tiles were held on with mildew, but it was only five minutes from school and I liked that it was such a clear, empty space. There had also been a leaflet poking out from the letterbox advertising vacant allotment plots, which was when inspiration had struck.
Serendipitous to say the least. I’ve probably spent longer choosing a takeaway.
As I held the front door open I steered my bicycle carefully over the front step, past the remaining packing cases, taking care not to further damage the hall wallpaper after yesterday’s unfortunate accident with an anglepoise lamp, and stared at the sky.
If James was here . . .
My eyes welled up with instant tears and my step faltered. I really had to stop beginning my thoughts with that phrase, but as it was New Year’s Day, I let myself off this once.
But if James
was
here, he would look up at the clouds and say, ‘Ah Cumuly Cirruly [or something similar] – perfect conditions for a ten-mile stint up a hazardous mountain path.’
But as he wasn’t here, I would have to settle for simply knowing that the sky was an encouraging shade of blue and the clouds the merest of gossamer wisps. As New Year’s Days went, it was not bad at all.
I glanced back at the row of coat pegs in the hallway and decided against wearing my yellow hi-vis waistcoat. I would be home before it got dark and in all honesty, although my personal road safety was of paramount importance, it really did clash with my coat. I have some standards. My cycle helmet was a must, though, I decided, forcing it on over my beret.
I mounted the saddle, pocketed my front-door key and pushed off, glad for once of the padding on my rear-end, the result of sitting on it for a year and feeling sorry for myself.
‘Onwards and upwards, Tilly!’ as my dear old mum would say.
Although I didn’t quite have my bearings yet, I was pretty sure of the way; Ivy Lane allotments was less than a two-minute cycle from Wellington Street, where I lived. In fact, I could have walked. But these days I went everywhere I could by bike; I had learned that cycling past people with a cheery wave was far preferable to having to stop and chat.
Noon on the first of January and the streets were deserted. I didn’t pass a single car or person along Wellington Street. Hardly surprising given that most of my new neighbours had welcomed in the New Year enthusiastically with fireworks, loud parties and even, sometime after two if I recall, an outdoor drunken conga. I turned into the next road, past a little arcade of shops; the newspaper shop was open and the pub on the corner had all its lights on, but the café, estate agent and other small businesses were closed. I cycled past my new school; a few days and I would be there. Working. The thought gave me the collywobbles and I cycled a bit faster.
Ivy Lane was very similar to Wellington Street: larger semi-detached houses at one end and terraces at the other. The allotments were well hidden and I had to cycle up and down the street twice before I spotted a gap in the terraced houses. I put out my hand, indicating to no one that I was turning right, and followed the driveway to the end.
‘Thank you,’ I murmured to the wooden noticeboard welcoming me to Ivy Lane allotments.
Imposing metal security gates with an enormous padlock on the inside formed the entrance to the site, which made me feel both safe and slightly nervous. I braked in front of them and took the manila envelope from my pocket. All my dealings with the allotment committee had been done by email prior to my arrival in town and this was my first visit. I had a welcome letter from a lady called Christine, allotment secretary, a key for the padlock and a map showing me how to find plot 16B, which was technically half a plot as someone else rented 16A.
Undoing a padlock that weighed more than a Shetland pony and was on the far side of the gate whilst simultaneously supporting a bike between my knees was a mistake, but by the time I realized this, both my trembling arms were through the bars and I was committed. After twenty seconds of fumbling, the padlock fell to the ground.
I was in. David Blaine, eat your heart out.
Flushed with exertion and success, I hauled myself and my trusty bike inside and re-locked the gate.
A tarmacked road, wide enough to take a car, curved through the middle of the allotments. Either side of it, the ground was divided into neat rectangles of earth, each separated from its neighbour by a wide grass border. My heart soared at its symmetry and order. I loved a nice right angle. Back gardens of the terraced houses on Ivy Lane formed one boundary of the site and a mixture of hedgerow and trees formed the other.
I began to wheel my bike along the road, keeping an eye on the wooden stakes at the end of each plot, indicating its number. I didn’t see any As or Bs, though – how would I be able to tell which half of plot sixteen was mine?
The allotment site stretched further than my eye could see but I guessed there were around thirty plots. Surprisingly, there was a lot more to the place than just vegetable beds: nearly every plot had some sort of tree, bare now, of course, in the middle of winter, but I could imagine how lovely it would look in the summer. Sheds seemed to be very popular, from stylish little huts with net curtains at the windows to ramshackle affairs made from corrugated plastic and old doors. Greenhouses, patio furniture, picnic tables, water butts, even the odd barbecue . . . The place was certainly well-used, by the look of it.
I paused in front of a low wooden building like a cricket pavilion in the centre of the site. There were no lights on and, like the rest of the allotment, it was completely deserted. A couple of Portaloo-style toilets and a garage completed what I assumed to be official headquarters.
Quashing the feeling that I was trespassing, I continued my explorations and soon found myself at plot sixteen.
Oh.
Despite my horror, I couldn’t help a wry smile from escaping; I needn’t have worried about establishing which half was mine.
The end nearest the road had a splendid display of green tufts, which I recognized as leeks, reminding me of my previous headmaster’s dubious hair transplant, although his had been black, not green obviously. Behind them, I spotted fat red cabbages and huge green spikes – I squinted to focus my eyes. Sprouts! Goodness, I never knew sprouts grew on sticks like that! And right at the back was a complicated arrangement of canes and string, protecting what looked like bare twigs.
Beyond two trees and a neat wooden shed was my half. The contrast was, to put it mildly, shocking.
You know the story of Sleeping Beauty falling asleep for a hundred years and the forest outside the castle becoming overgrown and impassable?
That was my half.
I thought back to my collection of garden tools, which consisted of a pink hand fork, a trowel, matching gloves and a rake. Woefully inadequate. My gardening experience was limited to buying coriander by the pot and making cress egg-heads with my class two years ago. It had always been
James’s
dream to grow our own vegetables, whereas I had been more than happy with Birds Eye peas and a tin of sweetcorn.
I propped the bike up against a bench and tiptoed across the dewy grass towards my end for a closer inspection.
So this was to be my ‘new interest’. Hands on hips, I surveyed the brambles, nettles, thistles, dock leaves and some other trailing weed and tried to conjure up positive thoughts.
Neglected, unloved, desolate . . .
Stop right there, thank you very much. Deep breaths, Tilly.
I blinked and stretched my eyes to send a clear message to the tears.
New Year’s resolution number one: We are moving on.
OK, that was better.
I was here because I needed a fresh start, a fresh attitude and some fresh air, at least, that was what my counsellor had told me. And my mother had agreed, especially to the fresh air bit. Apparently I was beginning to acquire the complexion of Miss Havisham.
The undertaking of an allotment seemed an ideal place to tackle New Year’s resolution number two: Keep busy.
That shouldn’t be difficult; if I was to bring this patch of wilderness back to life, I would certainly have my hands full.
Plus, above all else, I craved peace and solitude, and what could be more peaceful than gardening? A bank holiday and this place was like a morgue! I shivered. Yes, I felt sure that New Year’s resolution number three would be easy to stick to here: Keep myself to myself.
And as maudlin as it sounded, if I was entirely honest, I thought if James somehow knew that I was getting down and dirty with Mother Nature, he would in some small way be proud of me.
What do you think, James, can I make a go of it?
‘Of course you can, love,’ came the reply, close to my ear.
I screamed.
My heart thumped. I clutched at my chest and lost my balance, slipping from the turf into a patch of thorns.
‘Steady!’ Two strong arms grabbed me from behind and yanked me to safety.
Miss Clumsy Oaf 2013 strikes again. And I still had my cycle helmet on. Great look, Tilly. Oh well, at least my scarf was covering the worst of my blushes.
I turned towards my assailant-cum-rescuer and bent to remove a prickly frond from my tights, buying time to get my breathing back under control. Assailant was perhaps a bit harsh. In front of me was a man, older than me, with close-cropped hair, blondish, and a very sheepish smile. Broad and beefy were the two words that instantly came to mind.
‘I was going to say you’ll fit right in here, you know, talking to yourself, but I guess I should apologize for frightening you. I came to introduce myself,’ he said, his blue eyes creasing with concern.
I didn’t know what was worse: the fact that I had been talking to myself or that I wasn’t aware that I had spoken out loud. I made a mental note to watch out for this worrying development in future.
He fiddled with the sleeves of his thick woollen jumper and seemed to be waiting for me to speak but I was still panting and clutching my chest.
He cleared his throat and stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Charlie. Pleased to meet you and, er, sorry again.’
I took my helmet off and shook his hand.
‘Tilly.’ My voice came out all rusty from disuse. Good. I couldn’t have been talking that much, after all.
‘So what are you up to today?’ he said, eyeing up the tangle of weeds behind me. ‘Clearing?’
Clearing
. The very word filled me with panic. I couldn’t possibly clear this patch of wasteland on my own. What had I been thinking? I wondered if it was too late to swap to another plot. Perhaps someone else would enjoy the challenge. Someone who owned a spade, for example.
