The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass. Catherine Ferguson
garden gate, pausing to give Ivy’s old silver Fiesta, parked right outside the cottage, a quick once-over. It’s ancient and getting a little rusty but last time I spoke to Ivy, Florence the Fiesta, as she called it, was still going strong.
I dash over the road. Then I stop short.
The gap in the hedge isn’t where I remember it. In fact, it isn’t there at all.
It seems that in the short time since Ivy died, the prickly twigs have somehow locked themselves together, obscuring the gap. As if the entrance was there purely for Ivy. And now that she’s gone, it’s no longer needed.
I’m just about to switch on the torch when the moon slides into view again, and in the feeble light, the gap magically reappears. Holding my breath, thorns scraping at my hands, I divide the woody tangle, determined to get to the tranquil, mossy-floored haven with its bench and bird table, love seat and cute garden shed that I know lies on the other side.
A second later, I make it through – and my feet land squarely in a pool of ice-cold rainwater.
What the hell?
The shock makes me yelp out loud. Stepping gingerly out of the muddy pool, I flick on the torch and shine it around. And my heart sinks into Ivy’s sodden moccasins as I take in the utter chaos that confronts me.
The recent storms have truly done their worst. A tree has splintered almost in two and the top half is hanging right across the centre of the little woodland glade. With a pang of horror, I realise it’s crash-landed on to Ivy’s little wooden love seat, which now lies in bits in the mud. The jolly garden shed lies on its side, no competition at all against the strength of the recent gales, and the mossy floor is flooded with muddy puddles that float with twigs and all sorts of debris.
It looks as if a giant ogre has lost its temper and rampaged about the small space, wrecking everything in sight. The only survivor of the storm seems to be the bird table, which lies at an angle against the trunk of the broken tree, but is miraculously still in one piece.
I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. A mix of anger and grief surges up inside me. I thought when I got here, I’d feel closer to Ivy. But instead, all that confronts me is ugliness. I’m just glad she didn’t have to see it like this.
When I try to reverse my way back through the hedge, the heel of my moccasin slides in the mud and I feel myself falling. Frantically grabbing for the nearest support, a handful of hedge thorns slice deep into the tender pad of flesh near my thumb, and I yelp and let go, then land on my bum in a squelchy mass of mud.
For a few seconds, I sit there stunned, experiencing the weird sensation of cold water seeping into my pants. And then I start to laugh. A giggle at first that escalates into wails of laughter, but then gradually turns into wails of a different kind. For the first time since I got the news about Ivy, I lose it completely. Great, anguished, gasping sobs, as if I’ll never be able to stop. I’m competing with the angry roar of the wind, which has started up again, and I’m grateful for that because it means I can cry as loudly as I want and no-one will hear me.
I sob until I’m soaked through with tears and muddy water. And all the time, the wind goes on raging as if it, too, is incensed by the train of horrible events that has led me to this broken wreck of a place.
After a while, my sobs lessen and some sort of stoic survival instinct kicks in. I feel slightly better having let it all out. It even seems a little comical now. But when I try to lever myself up, I promptly slip right back down into the smelly, muddy sludge. A second try also fails.
Then the rain starts again, peppering hard against my face, driven sideways by the wind, and I sit there shivering, wondering what other indignities the universe can possibly have in store to hurl at me.
I hold my face up to the rain in helpless surrender.
Then I yell at the broken tree. ‘So what the bloody hell am I supposed to do now?’
Its branches shake in the wind. But as a reply, I can’t help thinking it falls a little short of helpful. I wipe my face roughly with wet hands and anger surges up. I’m angry at my mum and dad for dying when I was only four. I’m angry at Ivy for buggering off and leaving me all alone in the world. And I’m angry at life in general for delivering this latest cruel blow.
‘This is supposed to be a frigging magic garden, isn’t it?’ I croak. ‘So where’s the magic? And tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do!’
No answer. Obviously.
I scramble up and push my way back through the hedge and over the road, just wanting to put the desolate scene behind me. Lifting the latch on the gate, I glance towards the row of shops, thinking of my gallant rescuer, Sylvian, in his flat above the village store. It gives me an odd sort of comfort to know he’s there. A friendly face.
Back in the cottage, I fumble for my mobile and dial Ivy’s number, pressing the phone to my ear as her message kicks in.
Hello, my lovers. Ivy’s answering machine is sadly broken. You’re currently talking to the refrigerator. Please speak very slowly and don’t mention power cuts.
I smile at her message – even though I’ve heard it a hundred times before – and a familiar warmth spreads through me. It’s the best I’ve felt all day.
A heartbeat later, I dial the number again.
When Patty first worked out what I was doing a few months ago, she took me to one side in the café and said, very gently, ‘Holly, love, isn’t it time you let the phone company know?’
She was right, of course. But the idea that I might never again be able to listen to Ivy’s voice? That was just too terrible to imagine.
I climb the stairs, still listening to the message. When it’s finished, I throw off my outer layer of clothing and get straight into bed, shivering and pulling the quilt right up to my chin. Then I decide I need another pair of socks so I get out again with the quilt still wrapped around me.
I peek through the open curtains.
The storm is passing over and stars are beginning to appear. I watch a wisp of cloud wind itself around the milky white moon, thinking back to the day of the funeral.
I felt numb, as if all the chilly formalities were happening to someone else and not to me at all. It was almost as if I sleep-walked through it – waking in the B&B, dressing carefully and opening the door to a kindly man dressed all in black, who guided me into the car to drive me the short journey to the church in a neighbouring village; seeing Ivy’s friends and acquaintances at the church; receiving their kind words and touches in a daze.
For some reason, I can only remember fragments of the day, as if I wasn’t completely there. The handsome elderly woman, her skin deeply grooved, who gently cupped my face and told me Ivy always said that I was her sunshine. The kind, white-haired man who shepherded me to a chair when I was feeling wobbly and pressed a clean handkerchief into my hand when I couldn’t find my tissues. The fresh-faced vicar, who talked about Ivy as though she were a friend, when I knew full well my grandma hadn’t been to church in years.
I keep thinking how odd it is that I can remember in vivid detail the intricate web of lines on the woman’s face and the kind man’s freshly ironed handkerchief – which I must still have somewhere – and yet, however hard I try, I can’t recall the drive back to the B&B. I suppose I was in a daze of grief.
Now, as I stare at the moon, emotion swells in my chest until I can hardly breathe.
I might be selling the cottage and returning to my life in Manchester, but I have a precious connection to this village, through Ivy. I will always think of Moonbeam Cottage and Ivy Garden with such huge affection.
I swish the curtains closed and climb back into bed, and in the darkness, I dial Ivy’s number again. But this time, all I get is silence; my phone has no signal. A single tear leaks into my pillow. The lump in my throat feels as big as a tennis ball.
Then