Ivy Lane: Spring: (5 page)

Another hour on and the earth was looking pretty good and fairly tilth-like, which was just as well because I had had enough for one day. I signalled to Charlie to turn off the motor when he got to the end of the far side and he gave me the thumbs-up.

‘Tea break,’ I yelled. Christine downed tools and Gemma emerged from the shed with a sullen Mia. I poured the dregs from the flasks and handed cups round.

‘Phew, this is hot work,’ said Charlie, peeling off his jacket. Underneath he was wearing a T-shirt, revealing a muscular chest, tanned arms and bulging biceps, one of which was adorned with a large tattoo of a dragon. There was an oestrogen-filled moment of gawping while we got an eyeful. All the man needed was a can of Diet Coke to complete the look.

‘Wow,’ whispered Mia in hallowed tones.

Gemma and I exchanged looks.

’Nothing wrong with checking out the menu,’ murmured Gemma with a sly wink, ‘even if I am married. What about you?’

She glanced at my left hand and I felt my face heat up.

‘Single.’ I said quietly. ‘And happy to stay that way,’ I added hurriedly as Gemma started to interrupt. ‘Anyway.’ I handed round the biscuits, smiling as Charlie took three. Time to change the subject. ‘Let’s talk tools. What, where and how much?’

‘If you’d got a shed,’ said Charlie, with a sidelong glance at Gemma, ‘I’d say spend as much as you can afford. But otherwise just get the basics.’

‘I’ve only got the basics,’ said Gemma, looking a bit pink. ‘Cheapo stuff. I borrow if I need anything special.’

I’d seen Gemma’s selection of gardening tools, they looked brand new. ‘You must look after yours very well, Gemma, they’re spotless.’

‘Well, I—’

A gravelly voice joined in the debate. ‘Look after your tools and they’ll look after you. That’s my motto.’ A silver-haired man with impressive ear-hair rocked backwards and forwards on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back on the path between my plot and the next. He was swiftly introduced as Alf and offered a biscuit.

Roy snorted in his sleep and woke himself up. ‘Any chance of a drink?’

‘I think I’d have to disagree with you there, Alf,’ said Christine, yanking Roy to his feet roughly. ‘I’ve been looking after this tool for nearly forty years and I’m still waiting for my end of the bargain. Come on, you great lummox.’

We watched Christine march a contrite Roy off towards the allotment gates. Charlie shook the drips from his cup and placed it back on the flask. ‘I’ll help you clean up and then I’ll make a move.’

‘Thanks again, Charlie,’ I said once we had scraped the worst of the mud off the rotavator and given it a wash. ‘If I can repay the favour, please let me know. As long as it doesn’t require any gardening skills.’

‘I’m sure I’ll think of something,’ he said, waggling his eyebrows and wiping the smile off my face. ‘I’ll return this for you, shall I? Bye then, ladies.’

Gemma and I watched as Charlie manfully manhandled the rotavator back along the road towards the pavilion.

‘I’m sorry you heard all that, you know, earlier, about Mia’s dad,’ said Gemma, twisting her sleeve round and round her finger until it threatened to cut off her circulation. ‘It sounds much worse than it is and I want you to think well of me. I want us to be friends.’

‘So do I,’ I said, patting her arm and chuckling at the way her smile immediately sparkled to match the spider in her hair. And the weird thing was, I meant it.

My good intentions to heed Charlie’s advice and ‘keep on top of the weeds’ had gone out of the window and it was two weeks before I made it back to Ivy Lane. Not entirely my fault; apparently, although I was doing a job share, according to my head teacher I didn’t have to share the task of writing twenty-nine mid-year school reports, I could do them all myself. Lucky me!

It was probably for the best. My job-share colleague was counting down the hours to retirement and was highly suspicious of the school’s online reporting system. In fact, she hadn’t got to grips with any of the wonderful technology we teachers had at our fingertips; I regularly spent the first twenty minutes of my week resetting the interactive whiteboard.

Anyway, doing the reports not only earned me Brownie points with the head, but the job kept me busy during the dark evenings, which prevented me from Dwelling On The Past. I did that a lot if I wasn’t careful.

Two weeks would appear to be a long time in growing terms. The allotment had really begun to come alive in my absence: there were more people in evidence, newly dug vegetable beds aplenty and an underlying feeling of vitality and hope.

Or that could just have been me, of course; I was having a Good Day.

I still had my share of bad days when I could achieve nothing more taxing than lying prostrate on the sofa wearing one of James’s old jumpers, watching
One Day
on a loop with only a bag of peanut puffs for company. But the ratio of good days to bad was on the increase. Today was such a day and I could go for . . . ooh . . . at least an hour without thinking about my old life, the one I had so carelessly let slip through my fingers.

I was even dressed in all my own clothes: jeans, gilet, hoody and wellies. I thought about taking a ‘selfie’ to send to my counsellor, but I was carrying my new hoe (cheapo as per Gemma’s advice) and for safety reasons, decided against it.

Plot 16A was deserted. Phew. She was a lovely girl, but I had been hoping for half an hour to myself in the fresh air. I took a moment to marvel at Gemma’s luscious leeks, the impressive onions and feathery carrot tops. I had to hand it to her – she ran her own business, looked after Mike and Mia and still found time to keep her allotment and herself in tip-top condition.

My plot, on the other hand, I noticed with a plummeting heart, whilst an enormous improvement on New Year’s Day, was already starting to sprout weeds again and I still hadn’t decided what to grow. If I didn’t hurry up and plant something soon, Mother Nature would decide for me and I would have several square metres of chickweed, fat hen, couch grass and horsetail, and while their names sounded quite fun, I didn’t imagine that eradicating them would be.

I retrieved my rake from behind the stumpy tree and spent a few minutes of quiet contemplation alternating between hoeing and raking and trying to remember which vegetables I used to like.

‘A shed. You’ll be wanting a little shed,’ Christine called as she waved at me from the road through Gemma’s trees. The bobble hat was off. Spring must be on its way.

The square of slabs left by the previous occupant was crying out for a shed. I hadn’t wanted to commit to the allotment, preferring to leave my options open, but in all honesty, it would be nice to have somewhere to keep stuff, not to mention a place to hide in when unwanted visitors came to call.

I waved back. ‘You’re right. I might ask for one for my birthday . . .’ Hell. I could have bitten my tongue off. I hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Now there would be balloons up everywhere, a cake with candles and sparklers, possible even a fly-by from the Red Arrows spraying ‘happy birthday’ in coloured smoke . . .

‘Your birthday, is it?’ said Christine, bustling over. Her eyes were already darting with excitement and she was nibbling on her lip. I could almost see her brain whirring with birthday plans.

I leant on my hoe and wagged a finger at her firmly. ‘No fuss.’

‘How about a drink in the pavilion, I’ve got some elderflower wine wants using up?’

I clamped my lips together and shook my head. ‘Don’t drink.’

‘Cake then, tea and cake?’

She was relentless, but on this matter, so was I. I decided to throw myself on my sword. ‘If you promise not to breathe another word about my birthday, I’ll take the minutes at the committee meeting on Monday. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ said Christine with a brisk nod. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She turned to go. Her jeans had escaped from her ankle-length wellies, and she bent to tuck them in, bum in the air, causing her gilet and sweatshirt to ride up. I was distracted from the view of her beige high-waisted knickers by the realization that we were identically dressed. Except I had a hood. A hood had to knock at least twenty years off, didn’t it?

‘Oh, see if Charlie is all right, will you?’ she panted from her bent position. ‘I just walked past him and he barely noticed me.’

I agreed, although I wondered whether that was just a smart move on his part. If I’d have done that, maybe I wouldn’t be spending next Monday evening in Wetdogsville.

It was my first visit to Charlie’s plot. It boasted a small tatty greenhouse, several panes of which were missing, the creosoted shed he’d pointed out to me before and two water butts. There didn’t seem to be much growing except a large bed of greenery that to my uninitiated eye looked like weeds.

Charlie was miles away; leaning on his spade staring into space.

‘You’ll take root if you stand like that much longer,’ I said.

He whirled round to face me and for a split second his face looked so full of anger that it took my breath away.

‘Tilly! Am I pleased to see you!’

Heavens, from one extreme to the other! Now he was grinning like Dougie after four cans of Red Stripe. Perhaps I had imagined it. Either way, I felt awkward.

‘So.’ I jammed my hands in my gilet and made a show of inspecting his plot. ‘What are you up to today?’

He smiled a forlorn little smile and sighed. ‘Supposedly digging in green manure, but my heart’s not in it.’

Urgh! I felt my breakfast make a bid for freedom. I wondered what sort of animal produced green manure and whether I would have to do that on my plot. I was hoping to get away with horse at the very worst; the smell of that was bad enough.

‘I’m not surprised!’ I said.

Charlie grinned and shook his head. I didn’t know what was so funny, but at least I’d cheered him up.

‘You ought to try it on part of yours,’ he said, lifting his spade up and throwing it javelin-style into his compost bin. ‘It would help control the weeds until you know what you want to grow.’

I pulled a face. ‘I don’t know where to start. I don’t even really eat vegetables.’

He laughed and held my gaze with his cornflower-blue eyes until I had to look away. He folded his arms, shifted his weight from foot to foot and seemed to be suffering from some sort of inner turmoil.

‘Anyway . . .’ I began.

‘Tilly,’ he said at the same time.

‘Go on,’ we said together and both laughed.

I nodded for him to continue.

He puffed his cheeks out and stared at the ground. ‘I’ve had a shit time at work,’ he mumbled. ‘We were responding to an emergency call this week and one of the men got his face blown off. A factory on an industrial estate. No one’s fault but . . .’

His shoulders sagged and he pinched his eyebrows together with his eyes shut tight. It would have been so easy to step over to him and hug him. It was what he needed; some simple human kindness. But I couldn’t do it. Instead, I reached out and touched his arm.

‘Sounds rough.’

His hand closed over mine and my heart started to beat frantically. I was itching to pull my hand away but it seemed churlish and unfriendly.

‘Tilly,’ he said, meeting my eyes. This time I didn’t look away. ‘You know what you said about returning the favour?’

I felt myself stiffen, but managed a nod.

‘I could really use some company today. How do you fancy coming for some lunch with me? Just as friends. There’s a café on Shenton Road does the best-ever jacket potatoes with leeks and bacon.’

Just as friends. That was how James and I started out.

Charlie must have sensed my reluctance. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘You’ll be saving me from a lousy fish-finger sandwich at home in front of
Loose Women
.’

That was one of my post-James favourites. On white bread obviously, with plenty of ketchup. My stomach rumbled.

‘Just friends?’ I asked, narrowing my eyes.

‘Scouts’ honour,’ he said, holding up three fingers. ‘And we’ll sort out what veggies you should grow.’

‘Deal,’ I said for the second time that morning.

Charlie was right; the café did serve a mean jacket potato as well as piping-hot tea in chunky no-nonsense mugs. All I had to do was concentrate on eating and drinking and not the fact that this was the first time I had eaten out since being without James.

‘So I was thinking,’ I began, watching Charlie tip a small pile of salt onto the edge of his plate, ‘there’s no point going to all that bother of growing vegetables that are as cheap as chips to buy.’

‘Like spuds?’ Charlie flicked his salad garnish out of the way and scooped up a forkful of steaming potato.

‘Exactly.’ I loaded my fork with lettuce leaves in an attempt to look healthy. ‘Or carrots and onions. Much better to focus on the expensive stuff. Things that I’m likely to enjoy eating.’

I chose to ignore the fact that this would also involve cooking. Let’s just say my cooking skills were a bit rusty.

‘I see,’ said Charlie, his head low and his voice muffled by a large mouthful.

He was trying not to laugh. I realized I’d put my foot in it.

‘Oh. Is that what you grow? Sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’ He held his hands up, grinning at me. ‘Go on, hit me with your fancy tastes.’

‘OK. Well. Just a thought, but how about asparagus, mushrooms, artichokes and broad beans?’

He snorted, choked and gulped at his tea. I waited for him to get his voice under control. His cheeks were red and contorted with the effort of keeping his face straight; he would be giving himself terrible indigestion.

‘I take it that’s a no?’

He nodded furiously, coughing and banging his chest. ‘Broad beans. Great idea.’

I wasn’t going to ask why not the rest of them; I already looked like a numpty. ‘All right, what else, then?’

‘Do you like sweetcorn?’

I shrugged. Everyone likes sweetcorn; that’s why you can buy it so easily in tins.

‘Stick the cobs straight on the barbecue, a bit of herb butter. Delicious,’ Charlie said, kissing his fingertips.

That
did
sound good.

‘What else?’