The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass. Catherine Ferguson
up, with an old cushion at her back. She never seemed to mind being interrupted.
Someone once referred to it as ‘Ivy Garden’ and the name stuck.
We were there that blisteringly hot afternoon to pick lavender so that Ivy could make her perfumed drawer sachets to sell at the Appleton summer fete. She would run up the tiny white muslin bags on her old sewing machine and then fill them with the evocatively scented dried herb, tying them up with silky pink ribbon. The proceeds would be donated to the village hall community fund.
After we picked the lavender that day, she set her old gardening trug on the mossy ground and we sank on to the wooden bench under the dappled shade of an oak tree, and drank chilled pear cider straight from the bottle. It was a relief to be out of the sweltering sun and we lingered there a long time, soaking up the birdsong and the buzz of nature, as Ivy Garden weaved its magic around us.
To our right, the glorious banks of aromatic lavender nestled close to a stone bird bath Ivy had discovered long ago in a local antique shop. Opposite the bench where we sat, on the far side of the little clearing, the tall privet hedge that bordered the road had been ‘scooped out’ to provide a shady place for a little wooden love seat that was Ivy’s pride and joy. She’d had that love seat for years and it was looking a little battered now. But it fitted perfectly in the space, as if it had been designed specially. Back then, at the height of summer, drifts of scented lilies and white foxgloves took pride of place in the garden.
The taxi slows and I hear the swish of rainwater as we drive through a flooded part of the road. I open my eyes. It’s getting dark, rain still lashing down outside and we’re motoring through another village, past a row of pretty cottages built from golden sandstone.
Moonbeam Cottage itself sits in a little row of properties just like these, directly opposite the gap in the hedge that leads to Ivy Garden. And in a lovely example of serendipity, the cottage came up for sale at exactly the time Ivy was thinking about selling the big house in Appleton, after my granddad died, and downsizing to a smaller place. She must have been so excited when Moonbeam Cottage, right over the road from her woodland garden, came up for sale. It probably seemed as if destiny had taken a hand.
During my last visit, she was keen to show off her new garden shed, a very pretty creation in shades of white and peppermint green. Fixed to the side of the door was a wooden placard with a verse carved into it:
If you long for a mind at rest
And a heart that cannot harden
Go find a gate that opens wide
Into a secret garden.
Ivy laughed and said the poem was a bit cheesy for her taste, but she wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment, so it was staying put.
I stare out of the taxi as the fields and houses flash by. When I get to the cottage, I’ll dump my bags and go straight over the road and through that gap in the hedge. If my grandma’s spirit is to be found anywhere, it will be there. In Ivy Garden.
It’s almost May, which is when the bluebells bloom.
A little stab of reality hits. I’m planning to clear the cottage and get it on the market in double-quick time so I can get back to Manchester as soon as I can. So I probably won’t be here when the bluebells come out.
A chill cloud passes over. But I shake it off and check my phone for messages. I can’t afford to be sentimental about Ivy Garden or Moonbeam Cottage or bluebells. They represent Ivy’s past, not mine.
The signs for Appleton are becoming more frequent now; I draw in a deep, slightly shaky breath. We’re almost there.
And that’s when my heart plummets.
Oh, bugger! I came prepared for a bus journey, not a taxi. I don’t have enough cash on me to pay the fare!
When I break the bad news to the driver, he says he thinks there’s a cash point outside the village store, and to my relief, when we draw up outside it, so there is. The driver escorts me to the hole in the wall, clearly worried I’m going to run off into the gloom without paying. And then, joy of joys, the bloody machine isn’t working.
I turn in a panic, as the wind swirls an empty crisp packet around my feet. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Oh God, what do I do now?
His arms are folded and he’s wearing a resigned expression, as if he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
Then a voice says, ‘Can I help?’
I swing around and a man steps out of the alleyway that runs alongside the village store. He arches his brows expectantly.
‘No, no, thank you, it’s fine,’ I tell him, although it quite obviously isn’t.
The taxi driver sniffs. ‘She can’t pay the fare.’ From his tone, this is obviously not the first time it’s happened.
‘No, I can!’ I protest. ‘It’s not that I don’t have the money. It’s just I need a cash machine and this one isn’t working.’ I glance at the stranger. He’s slightly taller than me, probably around five foot nine, with a wiry build and fairish hair. ‘Is there another one nearby?’
‘We’re not exactly awash with facilities here,’ he murmurs regretfully. ‘The nearest is probably five miles away.’
The driver hitches his sleeve and looks theatrically at his watch. ‘I have another job so I don’t have time to drive around looking for a frigging bank.’ He must be wearing hairspray because his crowning glory is standing upright in the wind at an unnatural angle.
‘Look, here’s the money,’ offers the stranger, drawing his wallet from his pocket. ‘I’m Sylvian, by the way.’ He holds out his hand to me and after a second’s hesitation, I quickly shake it.
‘You can pay me back tomorrow if you feel you need to,’ he tells me.
I glance at him to see if he’s joking. ‘God, no, I couldn’t possibly let you do that. I mean, you don’t know me. I could be any old confidence trickster.’
‘She seems all right to me,’ pipes up the taxi driver. (Even if I was wearing a devil mask with a bag over my shoulder marked ‘stolen property’, he’d probably still give me a nice character reference, just so he could be on his way.)
‘Look, it’s fine,’ says Sylvian with a shrug. ‘Really. Money’s nothing to me. I don’t even care if you pay me back. It’s the love and the trust that are important, right?’
I stare at him. Is he serious? He’s smiling, so either he really is that laid-back about money or he’s a mad psychopath, just biding his time until the taxi drives off and leaves us alone next to this conveniently dark alleyway.
When I still look anguished with indecision, the driver heaves a weary sigh. ‘Look, just take the money,’ he says to me. ‘Give him your watch as collateral.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ I say, perking up and slipping off my watch.
Sylvian chuckles. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need that.’ He rifles in his wallet and draws out some notes. ‘Keep the change, mate.’
The taxi accelerates off and, feeling like a complete idiot, I stand there on the pavement opposite Sylvian, who I can’t help noticing has a rather attractive smile.
I hold out the watch again as the wind whips at my hair.
‘I really wish you’d take it. I’m staying just along the road at Moonbeam Cottage for a few weeks. Do you want me to write my address down?’ I scrabble in my bag for a pen and paper.
He smiles down at me,