Ivy Lane: Spring: (10 page)

‘Hello, little one. I’m your new mummy,’ I said, rolling my eyes as Christine and Roy exchanged smiles and my new kitten snuggled into my neck.

From my spot at the picnic bench outside the pavilion, nursing a mug of tea, I was in a prime position to enjoy the sun on my face and the heated debate between Nigel and Peter, who were in the throes of organizing this morning’s Easter Egg Hunt for the children. The doors to the pavilion were open and the old-fashioned curtains flapped in the breeze. The table in the centre of the room was heaving with chocolate; we had all donated small chocolate eggs to be won as prizes and the committee had supplied a giant egg for the overall winner.

I sipped my tea and chuckled to myself at our esteemed chairman and treasurer squabbling over everything from where to hide the clues to who was going to explain the rules.

I was ready for a drink after an hour on my plot; I’d hoed diligently between the vegetables to remove the weeds and checked the netting for infiltrators. A week after Seedling Swap Sunday and, touch wood, everything was still alive. The straight lines and right angles that I had envisaged had all but disappeared, but I was getting used to the pretty patchwork effect created by small quantities of each variety. Anyway, there was only one mouth to feed in my house, large crops would probably just have gone to waste and I couldn’t imagine the kitten would want to join me in a bowl of lettuce.

A check-up at the vets had revealed that it was a male, in rude health and about eight weeks old. I’d called him Cally, after Dougie’s callaloo, because he adored the heat and had quickly located all the warmest spots in the house; from my recently vacated chair to the box I’d lined for him under the kitchen radiator. He had only been in residence for one week and already had me completely besotted.

I glanced at the gates looking out for Gemma; she was due to meet me here any minute and I couldn’t wait to compare notes about our new arrivals.

It looked as if the Easter Egg Hunt would be well attended; Peter’s wife, a glamorous granny with long hair twisted into a bun, heavy mascara and several gold rings on each finger, had brought their three grandchildren who were currently climbing trees with Shazza and Karen’s two nephews. All of Brenda’s eight grandchildren were here too. Brenda was looking a little frazzled; she reminded me of the woman who lived in the shoe today, constantly herding children from other people’s plots and trying to find them all jobs to do. She had been down to the pavilion twice already and asked Nigel rather desperately if he could hurry up and start the game.

Gemma arrived then, wearing a very Eastery yellow tunic with huge white buttons over navy leggings, instantly making me feel frumpy in my jeans and check shirt. She was just in time to witness Peter blowing a very loud whistle and announcing that the fun would commence as soon as the rules had been explained.

‘About as much fun as a maths test, if they’ve got anything to do with it,’ she muttered, kissing my cheek. She poured herself a cranberry tea from a flask in her bag and settled next to me on the bench.

A crowd of children quickly gathered in front of the pavilion steps and bounced on their toes. They looked hyperactive before they had consumed half their body weight in chocolate, which didn’t bode well for the future.

At the last second they were joined by Liz, with two dainty toddlers by her side.

‘My neighbour’s children, such a blessing,’ she whispered to Gemma and me, and the hippy, pak choi, no-sugar family complete with papoose.

Two thoughts struck me: I must make an effort to learn their names, it was getting ridiculous; and why were they entering an Easter Egg Hunt when the baby was too small and too unlucky in the parent department to eat chocolate?

Peter set up a flipchart on the steps of the pavilion and Nigel handed out clipboards and crayons.

Gemma and I exchanged looks; it appeared to be very complicated. The children fell silent as Nigel, regularly interrupted by Peter, explained that hidden around the allotment were wooden clues (the news elicited groans; I grinned, imagining that the children were poised for a cocoa-solids blowout without anyone noticing), they were to take a rubbing (Gemma snorted at this) from each shape and jot down the letter written on the shape, which would join together to make a word at the end. Then they should follow the clue to the next one. There then ensued a litany of rules as to what constituted cheating and the children, somewhat less bouncy, ambled off to start the hunt.

‘I thought your mum would be here today, overseeing the men?’

‘She and Dad go to church on Easter Sunday. Mum will be here later, to hand out the prizes. She doesn’t trust the Chuckle Brothers to do it properly. Oh and she says we’re to wait here until she comes because she’s got an announcement.’

‘Exciting!’ I said, arching an eyebrow.

‘Possibly,’ said Gemma, sighing so emphatically that I felt her breath on my face.

‘What’s up with you, you seem down?’

‘Mia is spending Easter with her dad. I miss her.’

Which reminded me, I still hadn’t heard the story of Mia’s conception. It didn’t seem right to pry when I was so aloof about my own history.

‘You’ve got Mike,’ I said, nudging her playfully.

‘Yeah but he was off working at the crack of dawn this morning. I feel like I’ve been doing a sponsored silence.’

On Easter Sunday? He had to be the hardest working mechanic I’d ever known. No wonder Gemma was lonely. ‘Never Knowingly Quiet’ would be an apt motto in her case.

‘Hey!’ She whirled to face me, suddenly perky again. ‘Join us for lunch!’

My natural response was to refuse. I had a perfectly decent lunch of spaghetti hoops on toast lined up with no conversation required.

She sensed my hesitation and pounced. ‘It’s roast lamb.’

I did love lamb and the nearest I came to a roast dinner these days was a frozen ready meal.

She smiled a smile that could only be described as triumphant and upped the ante. ‘You can bring the kitten.’

Well, I couldn’t refuse that, could I? Denying Cally an opportunity to play with his sibling would have been selfish.

‘Go on then, I’d love to. So, kitten news,’ I said, already looking forward to a good gossip now that the area was empty again.

‘Aw.’ Gemma’s face went all gooey. ‘Fur ball dot com! It’s a boy and we all love him to bits.’

‘Same here!’ I said.

‘Even Mia puts her phone down occasionally now, except when she’s posting pictures of him on Instagram.’

‘Name?’

‘We can’t agree. I want Smudge, Mike wants McQueen and Mia says if he isn’t called Odell after her current pop crush, she’s phoning ChildLine.’

We were still laughing about the indignation of youth when a boy, Brenda’s eldest grandson, reappeared with his clipboard and a very disgruntled face.

‘We can’t find any of the clues,’ he shouted in to the pavilion, slapping the clipboard down on the table and sitting down in protest. Other children trailed behind, several on the verge of tears.

Nigel and Peter appeared hastily with mugs and mouthfuls of food.

‘What? You can’t give up that easily,’ said Nigel. ‘If it was too easy it wouldn’t be a hunt, would it?’

Liz materialized beside me. ‘It’s true,’ she said, chewing on her lip. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance but—’

‘Fix!’ shouted one of the older girls.

The hippy family returned too. ‘Might be a bit of a mix-up with the clues,’ said the dad, raising his hand.

‘And we’re desperate for chocolate,’ said his wife. ‘We gave up sugar for Lent.’

‘That’s Helen and Graham and baby Honey,’ whispered Gemma.
Vegetarians
, she mouthed, raising her eyebrows knowingly as if that explained everything.

Peter and Nigel put their heads together, muttering in strained tones. There seemed to be a lot of finger-pointing at each other going on and the children were getting mutinous.

I sensed a busman’s holiday coming on . . .

‘Who’s ready for a drink of orange juice?’ I cried, jumping from my seat, unbalancing the bench and sending Gemma lurching backwards.

Yells of ‘Me please!’ filled the air and the men, shooting me looks of pure gratitude, disappeared behind the pavilion, presumably to solve The Case of the Missing Clues.

Between us, we managed to cobble together some refreshments for the children: I had the remains of my Betty’s biscuits, Liz (randomly) had half a Victoria sponge and Dougie, who I’d found asleep in the pavilion, ransacked the cupboard in the kitchenette for the committee’s emergency stash of custard creams.

By the time the men came back, Peter’s comb-over now dangling in long sections over his ear and Nigel running a frantic finger round his collar, I had the situation under control.

Nigel held his hands up to attract the children’s attention. ‘Er, there seems to be a cross-mogrification in the clues.’

‘What?’ said Brenda’s eldest, looking like he wished he’d stayed at home with his Xbox.

‘It means, they’ve cocked it up,’ cried Dougie from the pavilion steps, hooting with laughter.

‘Right,’ I said, turning to a clean page in Peter’s flipchart. ‘Who wants to play name the kitten? The winning name gets a massive Easter egg.’

I left Dougie in charge of the marker pen and the children taking it in turns to write down kitten names while I organized the rest of the assembled adults. ‘Has anyone got a basket?’

A motley assortment of bowls, buckets, baskets and trugs was assembled in minutes and distributed amongst the children, while Nigel, Peter and Gemma ran round the entire allotment site hiding all the small chocolate eggs.

‘Play nicely, help the younger ones and don’t eat too much chocolate,’ I said, declaring the Easter Egg Hunt back on. ‘Don’t come back until you’ve found them all!’ I added.

The children charged off and we all sighed with relief. Gemma and I resumed our seats.

‘Now, where were we?’ I said, closing my eyes and tilting my face up to the sun. ‘This is nice.’

‘You were amazing,’ said Gemma. Even with closed eyes I could sense she was staring at me. ‘You came from nowhere and just . . . Mia will love the name Jake for the kitten. She’s mad about Jake Bugg.’

‘Good.’

‘You remind me of an onion,’ she said.

I opened one eye and snorted at her. ‘I’m listening. This is going to be a compliment, I take it?’

‘Just when I think I’ve got to know you, another layer peels off and I learn something new. There are still more layers, though, aren’t there, Tilly Parker.’

‘Do I make your eyes water?’ I said, trying to make light of her observations. Gemma’s probing was making me uncomfortable. I was happy to listen, not so happy to reveal my own secrets. I hoped that that would be enough for her for now.

‘Mmm,’ said Gemma and presumably closed her eyes too because she went quiet for a few seconds.

‘Happy Easter.’ I opened my eyes to find Charlie by our bench. He handed me a box of truffles in an egg-shaped box and Gemma a bunch of daffodils.

It was the only Easter present I’d received and I was very touched. They looked expensive, the daffodils by comparison were without packaging and, at a guess, I’d say he had just swiped them from his plot.

‘How come I don’t get chocolates?’ Gemma pouted with a sly sideways grin at me.

I was thinking the same thing; Charlie and I were meant to be friends, the last thing I needed right now was to be singled out for special attention. My face, already pink from the sun, felt like it was sizzling.

‘I was just thinking of your figure,’ he said, holding out his arms, his face a picture of mock-innocence.

‘I’ll thank you not to think of my body at all, Charlie, I’m a married woman.’

Thirty minutes later all that was left of the Easter Egg Hunt was discarded silver foil and sticky faces. Christine had arrived and herded all of us to the pavilion steps.

Peter began a speech about the successful start to the year, the forthcoming events and one or two housekeeping notices and I found myself drifting off in the sunshine.

Easter already. Spring was flying by; it would be summer before too long and then I’d be kept busy on the allotment! I thought back to New Year’s Day and how daunted I had felt on that first visit to Ivy Lane. So much had changed for me since then. My counsellor had been right; moving to Kingsfield, taking on the plot . . . A fresh start had been exactly what I had needed. And although it had taken time, I had also adopted a fresh attitude: letting people get close to me again; making friends like Gemma and Charlie (although the latest Easter gift development was a bit of a worry). I was a part of this community now, whether I liked it or not. I opened my eyes and glanced round the assembled crowd, and actually, I realized, I did like it. And as long as I could continue to remain in the background, gradually gaining confidence, that would suit me just fine.

I tuned back into the speeches as Christine took centre stage.

‘Let’s give a round of applause to Nigel and Peter for organizing the Easter Egg Hunt. Another successful event.’

Everyone clapped politely. I caught Gemma’s eye and shook my head as I saw a ‘But’ form on her lips. No public recognition for me, thank you very much. She rolled her eyes and folded her arms in a huff.

‘And now to our exciting news,’ Christine’s eyes sparkled; she was quivering so much she could barely pull the envelope from her handbag. ‘We’ve had a letter from the BBC! They are going to film an allotment special for the
Green Fingers
programme and they have chosen to feature Ivy Lane. Suzanna Merryweather, the TV gardening celebrity, will be joining us here in Kingsfield.’

There was a collective gasp; shoulders were straightened, hair patted and lots of oohs and ahhs. I was grinning at how strong Christine’s Irish accent became when she was excited until Gemma squeaked and gripped my arm so tightly that I cried out in pain. Christine flapped her hands at us to be quiet.

‘We’ll all be in it, of course,’ she said, her eyes searching me out in the crowd. ‘But they specially want to follow someone’s first year on the allotment.’