Ivy Lane: Spring: (2 page)

‘Um . . .’

‘Gemma will be pleased to have someone her age sharing the plot. We’ve all been speculating who would take it over since the last lot got kicked off.’

Kicked off? I swallowed, wondering what misdemeanour warranted a ‘kicking off’. If it was incompetence, I would probably soon be joining their ranks. A woman my age sounded promising, though. Unless she was as nosy as Charlie.

‘You don’t say much, do you? Not that I’m complaining. My ex never shut up. It used to do my head in. I love peace and quiet. That’s why I’m down here now; I thought I’d be the only one without a hangover today. Looks like I got that wrong.’ He grinned at me. ‘Not that I’m complaining. Now I’m repeating myself. Oh, please say something, you’re making me nervous.’

I laughed at that and he wiped his brow with mock relief. He was very sweet and was trying so hard to be friendly. It wasn’t his fault that I had also chosen today to explore because I’d wanted to be alone.

‘This visit is just a recce.’ I straightened my beret and smoothed my elaborate side fishtail plait (the result of too many hours watching YouTube videos.) ‘To see what I have let myself in for.’

He raised his eyebrows.

I cringed. ‘I wanted a challenge but . . .’ My voice faded and I realized part of me was already planning on giving up.

Charlie stepped forward and kicked at the brambles with the toe of his boot. ‘You wait, you’ll soon lick this into shape. That’s the miracle of gardening. As soon as spring comes, stuff wants to grow, it’s nature, isn’t it?’ He shrugged.

He bent down and poked at the ground. ‘Look.’

I crouched down at his side to see what he had found. He smelt of woodsmoke and earth. This was the closest I had been to a man in eons. There was a chance I was blushing.

Charlie pointed at a clump of green spikes just visible above ground. ‘Green shoots. New life. No matter how badly this plot was treated last year, it still has hope, do you see? It’s still going to try again.’

I stood up quickly. ‘I see,’ I mumbled.

‘My plot’s over there.’ Charlie straightened up and pointed to the far side. ‘The one with the creosoted shed.’

I nodded politely.

‘I’ll leave you to it for a bit. But come over later and I’ll show you round.’

‘Sure.’

As soon as he was out of sight I planned to make my exit. I belatedly remembered my manners and thanked him as he strode away.

Now, where was I? As well as the plot that time forgot, I had inherited a dilapidated compost bin made from old wooden pallets, a scruffy slabbed area that might once have had a shed on it, a flaking wrought-iron bench and a stumpy tree. It seems everything on plot 16B needed some TLC, I thought, sitting briefly on the bench until the cold penetrated my coat.

Join the club.

I coughed. ‘Join the club.’ I hadn’t said it aloud the first time, I was sure of it. Phew.

Beyond my plot was the allotment boundary bordered by a swathe of trees. I wandered through them, brushing the low-hanging twigs back from my face. Ahead of me, two branches from neighbouring trees had entwined to form a natural archway and someone had placed a stone bench beneath them. I gasped. Even on a cold January day, it was totally enchanting and the romance of the setting brought unexpected tears to my eyes.

I turned hurriedly to retreat to the safety of plot sixteen and smacked straight into a wall of muscle encased in rough wool.

‘Don’t tell the committee, but I’ve had a key cut to the pavilion. Come on, I’ll make you a cuppa, you’re shivering.’

Jesus Christ. This chap was as stealthy as a ninja.

I stood my ground. ‘Charlie, if we are going to be friends,’ I instantly regretted my words as his face lit up, ‘you have got to stop creeping up on me. I can barely tolerate other people’s company at all, let alone surprise attacks.’

I shouldn’t have said that; now he was crushed.

‘Oh, go on then,’ I said, softening. ‘A hot drink would be lovely.’

The inside of the pavilion smelt of old socks and wet dog and it was only marginally warmer than outside, but it did have the major attraction of a kettle and as my feet had the onset of frostbite, I was glad to come inside. Apparently we had to sit in the dark, though.

‘Half the committee live in that row of terraced houses over there.’ Charlie nodded through a dirty window towards the back gardens facing onto the allotments. He lifted two chairs from a stack and set them next to the central table. ‘One sign of life from this place and they’ll be over like a shot with pitchforks and air rifles.’

Marvellous. Day One and I get attacked by an angry posse for breaking and entering. I could see the headlines already.

Charlie disappeared into the tiny kitchenette while I sat and waited. The room reminded me of a scout hut: wooden floorboards, lots of windows and zero insulation. I could imagine it all steamed-up during committee meetings. At one end of the room, above some cupboards, were a series of posters: rules (lots of), price lists (everything from Manure to Mars bars) and notices (AGM, contact details for the committee and social events). This allotment lark looked to be a full-time occupation for some, and I hoped that no one tried to rope me into social events. That was
so
not on my agenda.

Charlie handed me a mug of black coffee, added two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his own and offered me a slug of brandy from his hipflask, which I declined.

He waggled his eyebrows playfully as he sloshed some in his own. ‘Just a drop to warm the cockles. Shouldn’t really; it plays havoc with my medication.’ He crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out to one side as if to reassure me he was joking and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Sitting in the Palace of Pong with a complete stranger drinking the worst coffee of my life should have had me running a mile, but I was actually semi-happy. I felt proud of myself all of a sudden.

You’re doing it, Tilly, you’re actually moving on.

‘So,’ said Charlie, smacking his lips. ‘I’m thirty-five, single, a fireman, moved to Kingsfield five years ago. Took up allotment gardening as a form of stress-relief. You?’

I took a deep breath. This was the bit I hated. ‘I’m twenty-eight, new to Kingsfield, a teacher. Start a new job next Monday. I thought I’d start gardening to force myself out of the house, get away from marking books.’ It was partly true. I cradled the mug in my hands and let the steam defrost my nose. Charlie was nodding; he was a very good listener.

I sighed. ‘I’m a complete novice, though. Seriously, I don’t know my cucumbers from my courgettes. Goodness knows how I’m going to cope.’

He jumped up, rummaged through the cupboards at the far end of the room and returned with a packet of biscuits. We slurped and dunked for several moments before Charlie set his mug down and touched me lightly on the arm.

‘Don’t worry about it. That’s the beauty of this place. Everyone is so generous with their time and their knowledge.’ He chuckled. ‘Even their veg in the summer. There’s no shortage of expertise here; even after three years, I’m still learning from others. You’ll love it; we’re like one big family.’

I spluttered and choked and sprayed a mouthful of hot coffee all over Charlie’s face. We both jumped to our feet; my face red with embarrassment, Charlie’s red from scalding liquid. I slammed down the mug, grabbed my cycle helmet and ran from the pavilion.

‘What?’ pleaded Charlie from behind me. ‘What did I say?’

‘Sorry,’ I yelled over my shoulder. ‘Got to go.’

Family
. The tears streamed down my face as I cycled back home. I wasn’t ready – might never be ready – for another family.

It was six weeks before I dared show my face at Ivy Lane allotments again. I had been fully occupied with settling into my new job and, much to my surprise, I was absolutely loving being back in the classroom. It was only three days a week, a job share with another teacher, but it had been fifteen months since I had last worked and even getting up in the morning at seven a.m. had taken some getting used to, let alone the lesson planning, marking and interaction with hoards of strangers, big and small. The weather had also provided me with a good excuse to stay away by snowing heavily and then freezing and finally flooding; definitely not conducive to gardening. And besides, I was putting off facing Charlie again.

But it was February half-term, my school work was up to date and my meagre possessions were all unpacked and neatly arranged at home, and I had completely run out of excuses not to come.

This time as I cycled slowly down the road towards my plot, I noticed several other people dotted around: in greenhouses, bent over crops, pushing loaded wheelbarrows, and there was a gentle sense of industriousness about the place. I felt my spirits lift and took large nosefuls of fresh air.

It was simply a matter of making my wilderness tidy and orderly, and growing things to eat, I supposed. No need to stress or panic over it.

I discarded my bike at the bench, marched onto plot sixteen and prepared to make a plan. Two things struck me instantly: behind the sprouts on plot 16A was a newly dug bed of soft black soil, hundreds of little white lumps protruding from the earth. Whoever owned this half of the plot was clearly a very hard worker. Secondly, there was music coming from the shed.

I hesitated.

There was a good chance that I would have to make polite conversation with said ‘hard worker’. On the other hand, there was no time like the present for setting some ground rules. I would be polite but distant; on no account did I want to get embroiled in some ardent gardeners’ discussion about the merits of manure versus leaf mulch.

I knocked on the shed door with, I felt, the perfect amount of force: assertive but not unfriendly. The music stopped, followed by a yelp and a tinkle of glass. I swallowed. What was I interrupting exactly? Perhaps I should tiptoe away and come back later . . .

The door opened a fraction and one big blue eye stared at me through the gap. I caught a flash of blonde hair and an over-powering blast of . . . nail polish?

‘Heart attack dot com!’ squealed whoever it was.

The door flew open and the shed’s occupant grabbed me by the arm, hauled me inside and slammed the door shut. We both landed in deckchairs opposite one another.

‘I thought you were my mother!’

She rolled her eyes skywards, fanned her face and retrieved a bottle of clear nail polish from behind a plant pot. Then, worryingly, she did a double-take and gasped. ‘Oh gosh! You’re not a homeless person, are you?’

I glanced down at my outfit: brown waterproof jacket (James’s), grey jogging bottoms (James’s), brown and green check shirt (you’ve guessed it – James’s). Unflattering, yes. Baggy, certainly. Comforting sort of body armour, absolutely. But homeless?

‘No,’ I said, my voice aiming for casual. ‘I’m Tilly, I’ve taken over the other half of this plot. These are just my gardening clothes.’

‘Oh, you’re Tilly.’ My kidnapper smiled at me knowingly, nodding her head as if I had just solved a Sudoku puzzle for her. ‘Right. I’m Gemma.’

Gemma was roughly my age, or maybe a little younger. She had short blonde curly hair swept off her face and pinned to one side with a satin pink rose. She wore a pale pink velour hoody and matching pants. Her face appeared to be completely free of make-up but her skin was glowing, her bright eyes framed by long eyelashes and lovely eyebrows. I don’t think I’d ever noticed anyone’s eyebrows before. I bet she thought my face looked like an uncooked doughnut. But the most unusual thing about her – considering that she was sitting in a shed – was that she seemed to be in the final stages of a French manicure and was waving her nails in the air to dry them.

I didn’t wish to cast aspersions, but she didn’t look much like a gardener. And why was she worried about being caught by her mother at her age? I revised my motivations for knocking on the shed door; I was curious to know more and, anyway, Gemma didn’t seem the type to discuss fertilizer options.

‘Have you seen my mum?’

I shook my head. ‘Don’t think so. Who is she?’

Gemma grinned. ‘Christine. Allotment secretary, rosy face that looks like she scrubs it with Brillo pads and grey permed hair. I swear she’s the last person in Britain to perm her hair. Soon folks will be travelling from the four corners of the earth to look at her crinkly head. Feels like that seaweed you get at the Chinese. I love her to bits, though.’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I’m meeting her this afternoon, to officially welcome me to the allotments.’

‘I’ll warn you, though: she’ll have you signed up to some sub-committee or working party before you can say –’ Gemma looked at my feet – ‘new wellies.’

I made a mental note to get my new boots dirty before going home. Nothing screamed ‘newbie’ like immaculately clean Cath Kidston wellingtons.

‘Make yourself useful,’ said Gemma, pointing towards a stubby thermos flask. ‘Pour us a drink while these babies dry and you can tell me all about yourself.’

I did as I was bidden – it seemed easier – and gave the usual minimal details that I was now used to imparting before deflecting the conversation back to my new neighbour. The liquid in the flask was cranberry tea and utterly revolting.

‘Unusual place to give yourself a manicure,’ I said, raising an eyebrow and concentrating on not wincing at the taste of the tea.

The shed had two windows, shelves containing glass jars, tools, balls of string, plastic seed trays, a bottle of baby oil and nail varnish remover. Bigger tools were hung up on nails on the back wall and an open bag of compost sat in the corner. On the back of the door was a mirror.

‘Yes, well, seeing as I’d finished planting the onions, I thought I’d treat myself,’ said Gemma. ‘Let’s open the door, shall we?’ She stood up, dropped her nail polish into her handbag and propped open the door with a watering can.

There was something a bit shifty about her answer but I decided not to pry.

‘You’ve made a nice job of it,’ I said instead, inspecting the pearly white tips of her short nails.

‘I’m a beautician,’ she said, dismissing her handiwork with a shrug.