Ivy Lane: Spring: (3 page)

If she wasn’t a stereotypical gardener, she wasn’t a stereotypical beautician either. Where was the orange make-up, the false eyelashes and the plunging neckline? I had a sudden urge to hold a forefinger over my eyebrows and another over my top lip. ‘Ungroomed’ – if there was such a state – didn’t begin to cover it.

‘But I firmly believe that beauty comes from within,’ she continued with a sigh. ‘That’s why I do this.’ She waved a hand over her allotment. ‘Growing your own veg, eating healthily, getting out in the fresh air . . .’

Inhaling acetone in a closed shed, I added mentally.

‘Talking of which, I should get on,’ I said, getting to my feet reluctantly. (I could hardly believe it – I was actually quite enjoying our chat. The ground rules seemed to have gone out of the window.) ‘I’ve got an incredibly bushy patch to sort out.’

‘I can help with that,’ said Gemma, following me out of the shed and past the trees, towards my half of the plot.

‘No,’ I said. Gemma flinched. I must have pulled my owl face. James used to say I was dead scary when I did that. ‘Thank you,’ I softened my voice, ‘but I can manage.’

Gemma shrugged and showed no signs of leaving me alone. I gave her ten out of ten for persistence. ‘OK, but if you change your mind, I’ll do mates rates. Fifteen quid for a bikini wax.’

I hooted with laughter. As if I would discuss my, er, lady garden issues in public.

‘No. That bushy patch!’ I said, pointing towards the bramble mountain of Kingsfield. ‘Oh!’

How bizarre, the weeds had almost gone. The entire rectangular plot looked like it had been given a very bad haircut. All that remained was a scruffy covering of stubble. But what an improvement! I stared at the ground, my brain trying to work out what I was seeing.

Gemma’s all-knowing smile was back.

‘Did you –’ I began.

She cut me off with a shake of her head. ‘Charlie did it. He said he frightened you off when he met you and felt really bad about it. He borrowed a strimmer and cleared the weeds by way of apology.’

I felt my face go bright red. Poor Charlie. Other than try to be friendly, he had done nothing wrong.

‘I thought at the time he was being very generous,’ said Gemma, her lips twitching. ‘It all makes sense now.’

I was saved further analysis of this turn of events by the appearance at the end of our plot of a small stout person of indiscriminate sex wearing a bobble hat, duffel coat and black wellingtons.

‘Gemma, love, there you are!’

A woman then, judging by the voice, with a soft Irish accent. She marched closer and beamed when she saw me.

‘You must be Tilly,’ she cried, picking up speed. She flung her arms round my waist (I don’t think she could have reached any higher) and squeezed me tightly, tickling the end of my nose with her bobble hat. ‘I’m Christine. Allotment secretary. Delighted, delighted,’ she said. ‘And what a grand start you’ve made. Grand, grand.’

‘Remember what I said. She’s tricksy,’ whispered Gemma.

I took a step backwards in a vain attempt to regain my personal space.

Christine turned to her daughter. ‘I thought you could give me a hand with the last of the potatoes. Between us we could make short work of that today.’

‘Sorry, Mum,’ sighed Gemma, ‘but I’ve been here hours already putting those onions in, my back’s killing me. I don’t think I could dig another spadeful.’

She placed her hands in the small of her back, stretched and pulled an ooh-the-pain face. I glanced down at her pink trousers: not a fleck of mud. Not one.

Christine tutted. ‘Ah well, ’tis a lovely job you’ve made of it, lovely. No matter, I’ll wait for your father.’ She started to stomp off. It seemed she did everything at top speed.

‘Christine,’ I called to her retreating hobbit-like form.

‘Yes, love?’ She turned and raised her eyebrows until they disappeared under her hat.

‘I think I’ll need to borrow . . . equipment . . . of some sort, for the next stage of my plan.’ I was out of my depth but loath to admit it after such a ‘grand start’. As soon as I got home, I would start that book that I’d borrowed from the library on the subject.

‘You will, you will.’ Christine nodded vigorously. ‘Meet me at the pavilion at six thirty this evening and I’ll show you the equipment list before the AGM.’

AGM? No thanks.

‘But can’t I—’ I pleaded.

‘Good opportunity to meet folk, too.’ Christine zoomed in on a sprig of green in Gemma’s new onion bed and whipped it out. A weed, I presumed. I heard Gemma huff beside me.

The very thought sent shivers down my spine. I changed tack. ‘I don’t think I’m free—’

‘My potatoes are calling, bye for now.’ Christine was already at the roadside as she raised her hand.

‘But, Christine?’

‘See you later.’ She was gone.

You can’t say I didn’t try.

‘I don’t want to go to the AGM,’ I said with a sigh.

‘Told you she was tricksy,’ said Gemma, rubbing her hands together merrily. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re coming, you can keep me company, not to mention lowering the average age by fifty years.’

‘Well, in that case, I can’t wait,’ I said with a grin. I zipped up my (James’s) jacket. The cold really began to bite when you stood still for a while. ‘Right, I’m off.’

‘Already?’ said Gemma, pouting. ‘You haven’t done anything yet!’

I stared at her perfect manicure pointedly and she tucked her hands under her armpits.

‘I’ve got a date with a very thick book this afternoon,’ I said airily.

‘Ooh, is it dirty?’

‘You could say that.’ I pressed my lips together as her eyes lit up. ‘
Allotments for Dummies
. I’ll see you later.’

As I cycled down the road and out of the gate, I could still hear Gemma’s tinkling laugh. If I was in the market for a friend – I wasn’t, but theoretically speaking, if I was – I could do a lot worse than Gemma.

At six twenty I reluctantly left the warmth and solitude of home and cycled along the wet streets through the dark and drizzle to Ivy Lane allotments. The pavilion lights were on and despite my arriving early, there was already quite a crowd inside. My hands felt clammy as I padlocked my bike to the bench and took off my helmet, and I wondered for the umpteenth time how Christine had managed to talk me into coming.

Tricksy, I reminded myself. I would have to be on my guard or else by the end of the night I’d probably find myself elected to the committee.

I took a deep, calming breath and went inside, determined to stick to my plan: hire rotavator; mend fences with Charlie, if he was there; leave as soon as possible.

‘You came!’ Gemma leapt out in front of me, grabbed me round the neck, kissed my cheek and ushered me past a group of people to a spot by the radiator.

‘Relief dot com! This is Mia.’

I followed her head-flick to a teenage girl who was sitting on the floor, knees up to her chin, completely absorbed in a mobile phone that appeared to be glued to the end of her nose. Judging by the slumped shoulders, the heavy frown and the thumbs stabbing at the screen, Mia was about as pleased to be here as I was.

Gemma leaned in closer. ‘My daughter. Fourteen with an attitude that can strip nail varnish.’

‘Crikey! You don’t look old enough to have a teenage daughter!’ I said, forcing a smile.

I’d thought she was like me, but she wasn’t. She was a mother. I felt unjustifiably let down and the urge to get out of here as soon as possible pressed heavily on my heart.

I would just find Christine and get it over with. I glanced over Gemma’s shoulder to seek her out.

Gemma shook her head. ‘Looking for Charlie? Never seen him at a meeting. He doesn’t like the aggro. Calls himself a pacifist.’ She twinkled her eyes at me. ‘Were you hoping he’d be here?’

The thing with Gemma was that she crammed so much information into every sentence that I was still reeling from the last revelation when she started again. So far she’d kissed my cheek, shocked me with her age (maybe I could get used to that cranberry tea after all) and seemed to think I was interested in Charlie. As yet, I hadn’t uttered a single word.

‘Not at all, I just need to thank him for—’

‘I take it back. The man himself. Well, well, well.’ She sucked her cheeks in and arched those lovely eyebrows. ‘I’ll get us a cup of tea. Oh and my mum wants to talk to you, she’s over there.’

Charlie stood in the doorway in a dripping-wet coat, his face shiny with raindrops. The weather had obviously worsened in the last five minutes; I’d get soaked cycling home if I left now. He knocked his hood back and scanned the room and when his eyes found me, he waved and began to walk towards me. Eek! I hadn’t planned what to say to him yet.

I spotted Christine sitting down with a laptop on her knee and sprinted towards her.

‘Christine, have you got a minute?’

Without her bobble hat on, I was treated to a close-up of The Perm. The tight grey curls looked as if the rollers were still in and I could see her pink scalp between the gaps. She was wearing a fuchsia-pink jumper that matched her cheeks perfectly and jeans that were too short.

‘Oh hello, love,’ she said distractedly. ‘This infernal machine.’ She shook her head, bashed at the keyboard, tutted and sighed.

Gemma appeared at my side and handed me tea in a cup and saucer.

‘I’ll save you a seat,’ she whispered and vanished.

‘Christine, would it be all right if I hired the rotavator for the day? I’ve done a bit of digging . . .’ I paused for Christine to appreciate my pun, but it fell on stony ground; she simply looked at me briefly before resuming her laptop abuse.

‘I thought I’d use that to break the soil up and then,’ I consulted the notes I’d written on the back of my hand, ‘then fork the top layer into a fine tilth.’

‘Good idea, love. You need to see Nigel about that.’

‘But—’

‘He’s not here yet. Are you any good with computers?’ She peered at me woefully and patted the empty seat beside her. Now, I might not have known much about growing vegetables but I did know my onions when it came to IT and it seemed a shame to see an older woman struggle with technology, so I sat.

She settled the laptop on my knee and began to explain her problem. I saw Gemma on the other side of the room trying to attract my attention but I couldn’t possibly leave now, it would look rude.

By the time I had shown her the difference between the insert and delete button and that there was a template especially designed for recording the minutes of meetings, everyone had taken their seats and a rotund man with a comb-over and a tweed jacket had called the meeting to order.

‘That’s Peter, our chairman, lovely man, so dedicated,’ sighed Christine. ‘He’s on the plot next to you and our Gemma. He’s into some exotic stuff.’

I so hoped that that was some reference to vegetables and not . . . anything else.

I tried to stand up to make my getaway and replace the laptop on Christine’s knee, but she barred my way with a surprisingly firm arm.

‘Good of you to take the minutes, darlin’, very good of you.’

I sank back down into my seat with a resigned huff. There was no point arguing, besides, judging by the drumming on the roof, the rain was now in full flow and I really did want to sort out the rotavator business before I left.

A middle-aged man dropped into the empty seat beside me, breathing heavily. His jeans, splatted with raindrops, had creases down the front and he had on a mustard-coloured shirt and tie under his V-necked sweater.

‘That’s Nigel,’ whispered Christine.

Well, that was something. At least I’d be able to nab him at the end of the meeting easily enough. Now all I had to do was try to blend into the background and keep my head down . . .

‘As you’ll all know,’ began the chairman, ‘we finally managed to evict Frank Garton from plot 16B last year—’

There were a few jeers and mutterings at the mention of my predecessor. I wondered again what he’d done.

‘And I’m pleased to welcome Tilly Parker to Ivy Lane allotments!’ Peter extended an arm in my direction and around thirty pairs of eyes swivelled my way.

Cringe city.

‘And bless her heart,’ Christine piped up, ‘she’s an expert at the computer, so she’s offered to take the minutes for our meetings.’

The room exploded with the sound of applause and I practically fainted with horror. Did she say meetings – plural? Not on her nelly. I glanced over to Gemma whose bemused expression and slow headshake said it all. Even Mia had looked up from her phone to smirk at me. And was it my imagination or did Nigel just emit a snort of mirth?

‘On behalf of all of us, I’d like to welcome you to our little community,’ said Peter with a bow. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell us a bit about yourself?’

The blood drained from my head, a giant lump formed in my throat and I felt my thighs tremble.

‘Actually, Pete,’ said a voice from further down my side of the room. It was Charlie. ‘My shift starts at eight; do you think we could stick to the agenda? Sorry, don’t mean to be rude.’

Peter cleared his throat. ‘Of course. Righto. Item one . . .’

I sent Charlie a grateful smile and silently mouthed my thanks. He grinned back and gave me the thumbs-up.

Fence mended.

One out of three wasn’t bad, I supposed, as I began to type the AGM notes furiously.

An hour later and it was all over bar the next round of tea. Everyone began to gravitate towards the kitchenette and a convivial buzz of conversation filled the pavilion.

‘Well done, love,’ said Christine, taking the laptop from me. She inserted a USB stick deftly and made a copy of my document.

‘No problem,’ I said, making a mental note never to sit next to her again. I stood up, circled my aching shoulders and turned to my neighbour. ‘Nigel, can I have a word?’

‘You fell for that, hook, line and sinker,’ said Gemma with a giggle as she approached and handed me yet more tea.

‘Your mother has turned delegation into an art form,’ agreed Nigel.

‘I don’t like to see people struggle,’ I said.

Gemma choked on her tea. ‘That one knows her way around a computer better than Mia. She’s a PA!’