The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass. Catherine Ferguson
looms large and scarily empty, and I haven’t a clue how I’m going to fill it. I never imagined I’d still be here in Appleton in the middle of May. I thought I’d be safely back home, with Vicki and Beth to help me get through the 15th. But then, I hadn’t banked on a leaky roof and a cottage in need of updating.
My blossoming friendship with Sylvian seems to have come to a grinding halt. I keep thinking I’m bound to bump into him in the village store but, so far, our paths haven’t crossed. And Connie is still away in Spain, although she’s due back tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to catching up with her and finding out if she’s had any romantic adventures, which she assured me she fully intended to do.
Another note of interest: I see Jack Rushbrooke, he of the impressive axe-wielding skills, most nights.
Now, that sounds a lot more interesting than it actually is.
What happens is that Jack sprints past Moonbeam Cottage most evenings about eight o’clock. In fact, it’s happened so often since I’ve been here that I now hold off drawing the curtains until I’ve seen him flash past. Not that I wait by the window. I’m really not that bored. (Although I am bored enough to have spent a rather disproportionate amount of time wondering where on earth he goes every night.)
Three weeks into my self-imposed exile, I am so starved of human contact, I’ve actually started musing aloud about life to Fred the Spider, aiming my pithy observations at the crack in the skirting board. (No come-back as yet, but I’m pretty sure he appreciates my dry wit.)
I spend the day in the local DIY store, buying paint, then attempting to obliterate the burnt orange walls in the kitchen with a neutral shade of beige. It feels sad and disloyal, as if I’m painting away Ivy’s personality.
Later, I’m just out of the bath, face scrubbed and gleaming, when I realise I’m out of milk, so I throw a jacket over my pyjamas and run along to the village store, hoping to catch it before it closes.
I’m just about to go in, when I spot Sylvian walking towards me.
‘Where have you been?’ He greets me with a smile. ‘Hibernating?’
‘Actually, I was thinking the same about you,’ I admit, feeling ridiculous in my stripy PJs and trainers.
He studies my face. ‘You know, your chakras are well out of whack.’
‘They are?’ How can he tell? Should I be worried? And where are my chakras anyway?
‘I was just off to my yoga class,’ he says, ‘but I can skip that for one night. Come up to my place. I’ve got just what you need.’
His flat is just how I pictured it. All lovely calming blues and pale greens, a huge squashy sofa covered in cushions, and an amazing display of crystals in a glass-fronted cabinet. It smells delicious, too. A cross between some kind of lemony essential oil and … chocolate. Yes, definitely chocolate.
‘What’s that gorgeous scent?’ I ask, hopeful there might be a family-sized bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk lurking under one of his many cushions.
He whisks something off a side table and wafts it under my nose. ‘Chocolate-scented candle. Lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Is it edible?’ I’ve never really been one for lighting candles everywhere. I always think I might set the place on fire.
He chuckles. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ His face lights up. ‘But wait a minute …’ He disappears into the kitchen and I hear him opening the fridge.
‘I’ve got some kimchee, if you’re hungry,’ he calls through.
‘Kimchee?’ I wonder what that is? A kind of yummy Japanese cake, perhaps?
‘Fermented cabbage,’ he shouts. ‘It’s delicious and very good for you. Like to try some?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Just eaten,’ I shout, rather too quickly.
He returns with a bowl of what I assume is the aforementioned ‘kimchee’ and starts tucking in. The smell of it is so rank, my eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. It puts me in mind of a burst sewage pipe.
‘Where do you live?’ I ask, while he eats his revolting snack. ‘When you’re not here, I mean.’
‘I’ve got a house in Cornwall, right by the beach. Big windows so the light pours in.’
‘It sounds lovely.’
‘It is. Being so close to the sea is good for the soul. I’ll take you down there some time.’ He rises to his feet from a cross-legged position in one smooth movement and takes his bowl into the kitchen.
My mind is whirring. Did he just offer to show me his house in Cornwall?
‘Now, a spot of meditation, I think,’ he says, coming back into the room. ‘For your chakras.’
‘Er, great!’
Five minutes later, I’m lying on the floor with my eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to empty my mind of all thoughts. Sylvian’s voice is soft and hypnotic in my ear: ‘Any time a thought finds its way into your head, see yourself blowing it away, like a dandelion clock. Pfft! Off it goes, leaving your mind beautifully tranquil.’
I’m trying my best but I keep getting a whiff of kimchee, which makes the ‘deep breaths in’ slightly nerve-racking, to be honest. Then I open one eye to find Sylvian lying on the floor next to me.
Thoughts pour in and I’m powerless to blow them away: Is this an elaborate chat-up line? Let’s meditate together. Ha! Good one, Sylvian!
But peering over at him, I decide his motives are probably pure. He has his eyes closed and he’s meditating with me, his lean diaphragm moving up and down with his deep breathing. It looks like the only reason we’re lying on the floor together is to get peaceful. On the other hand, he did offer to take me down to Cornwall. I can’t decide if I’d be disappointed or relieved if it turns out he only has friendship in mind.
After our meditation, he makes nettle tea and sits cross-legged on the floor while I try out the vast sofa and admire Sylvian’s suppleness. Any other bloke who sat like that I’d quite frankly think was a bit weird, but Sylvian manages to carry it off and look really rather sexy.
I tell him I feel much better for the meditation – which actually, I do – and he looks pleased. ‘You should try and do it every day if you can,’ he says. ‘It takes discipline, of course. Abby and Sara both found it really hard to apply themselves at first but they quickly got the hang of it.’
‘Abby and Sara?’ I ask, puzzled.
He looks perplexed himself for a second. Then he says, ‘Oh, I haven’t mentioned them, have I? They live in my house in Cornwall.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I can’t help feeling surprised at this. I’d imagined him living on his own in his lovely beach-side retreat. ‘So you have housemates, then.’
‘I suppose I do, yes.’
‘That … must be nice.’
‘It is. They’re lovely girls. You’d like them, I’m sure.’ He smiles warmly. ‘And I know they’d like you.’
I smile back, flattered he’s even thought about how I’d get on with his friends.
He tells me about the poetry workshop he’s doing in nearby Cirencester the next day and I take this as my cue to thank him for the tea and therapy and leave him to his preparations.
He comes down to the main door and leans round me to open it, and when I turn to thank him again, his nearness takes me by surprise. We’re squashed up close in the small space and his eyes are burning into mine. Then he leans forward a fraction and kisses me, full on the mouth.
It’s an attractively confident kiss. No messing about. His lips are firm and warm, and as kisses go, it’s a good