Catherine Ferguson - The Secrets of Ivy Garden - A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass

I have a feeling that with the repairs to do and the cottage to paint, my estimate of a fortnight to get the place on the market was way too optimistic. And then there’s Ivy Garden to sort out. My heart sinks into my boots. It will probably take a month at least …

Mike’s jolly whistle as he climbs into his van attracts the attention of two people locked together just inside the bus shelter over the road. They see me peering over and break apart. It’s that Adonis boy I saw earlier with one of the girls from his group of mates. The one with the extraordinary half-blonde, half-black hair. She stares haughtily back at me as if to say, You shouldn’t be looking – and anyway, it’s perfectly normal to be performing tonsil tennis at a bus stop in full view of the entire village!

Adonis just smirks at me.

I retreat inside and go straight upstairs to start on the job I’ve been dreading the most. Sorting through Ivy’s wardrobe.

By the evening, I’m drained, physically and emotionally – and facing a long night with nothing much to do. I can’t even summon up the energy to start sketching.

It’s been on my mind that I need to contact Ivy’s old school friend, Olive, who she used to meet up with from time to time. She wasn’t at the funeral because I couldn’t track down a contact number for her among Ivy’s belongings or even on her phone. I found Ivy’s old address book today but there’s no Olive in there, either, and I went through it page by page.

I haven’t made as much progress as I’d have liked with Ivy’s clothes, either. Almost every blouse or jacket of Ivy’s that I took out of the wardrobe, I couldn’t bear to part with because of the memories, so the ‘keep’ pile is like a small mountain. The ‘charity’ pile consists of a scarf Ivy never liked and a jumper that still had the tags on it. So basically, it took me all day to move Ivy’s clothes from the wardrobe to the bed, with some tearful reminiscing over old photos in between times.

At this rate, I’ll still be here at Christmas …

I sink on to the sofa, on the verge of tears, and stare at the blackness beyond the windows. Then out of the corner of my eye, I catch something move.

I whip around and the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life comes into view, moving at a fair old speed. Its legs are so long, it literally scampers towards me, before stopping suddenly, changing course and scuttling back through a tiny opening in the skirting board.

My legs are shaking. I’d forgotten about the wildlife that rampages about the countryside. I never see spiders in my modern, second-floor flat.

I eye the skirting board nervously. A book would be a good distraction, but I don’t fancy Ivy’s thrillers – it’s spooky enough just being alone in the countryside at night without wanting to deliberately scare myself. A thick blanket of darkness has descended beyond the window. I can see nothing except impenetrable blackness and my own reflection staring back at me, and I get that panicky feeling you have when you’re driving in a snow storm and suddenly it’s a total white-out.

I keep peering out, determined to see something , but it’s no use.

King Kong could be beating his breast on top of the Empire State Building out there and I’d be absolutely none the wiser …

When Mike arrives on Monday morning, I practically fall on the poor man with the sheer relief of having another human being to talk to. I make him a cup of tea and ask about his family, and it’s only when he starts edging apologetically out of the room that I remember the purpose of his visit is to fix the bathroom. Seconds later, his roofer friend arrives so I leave them to it.

After my false start, I’ve made a determined effort over the past five days to sort through the kitchen, putting all the stuff I want to keep in the spare room ready to be boxed up for removal. Ivy, bless her, was never great at throwing things out, and by the end of the second day, the dustbin was already filled to bursting. The only time I’ve been out is to the village store for groceries. (I always tidy myself up, just in case I happen to bump into Sylvian, but so far there have been no sightings. He’s probably busy with his poetry workshops.)

The best thing about the village store is – pause for effect – you can rent DVDs!

I know. Exciting!

Later, after Mike has gone, I make scrambled eggs and push my latest movie into Ivy’s old but reliable machine. Tonight’s entertainment is Castaway , starring a very young-looking Tom Hanks. It’s all about someone cast adrift miles from anywhere, with no way of getting in touch with the outside world, and who, in fact, makes a friend called Wilson out of a coconut husk just to have someone to talk to.

I don’t think they sell coconuts in the village store.

I keep thinking about Sylvian and wondering what he’s doing. It would be nice to see a friendly face. Looking on the bright side, though, the village store’s collection of movies isn’t bad at all, if a little limited by the shelf space. There’s a few classics I’ve never got round to watching. Of course, there’s also some real dross; several truly awful low-budget horror movies with titles like I Know What You Did Last Hallowe’en , and – my particular favourite – Slasher Santa’s Coming to Town .

I mean, you’d have to be really desperate to resort to that …

Mike is causing me problems.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s not eyeing up the silver or anything, and he definitely seems to know what he’s doing. He’s done an enormous amount in a week, and the rate at which he’s working, he’ll probably be finished the entire job inside a fortnight.

It’s just he’s so goddamn cheerful all the time.

He never stops whistling . He whistles from first thing in the morning right up until he packs his jolly haversack at five and heads jauntily off down the path to his van. Whistling . And you can tell it’s not embarrassed or awkward whistling. He just whistles because he’s happy ! And it’s driving me barmy.

Also, nothing seems to be the least little bit of trouble.

I swear if I asked him to clean out all the hairs and gunk that’s blocking the shower plughole, he’d actually enjoy doing it. He’d pull it all out – every nasty glistening clump – and dispose of it all while whistling a happy tune.

I mean, there’s just no need for it.

He packs up at five on the dot and his face appears round the door. ‘Family night tonight.’ He rolls his eyes cheerfully. ‘Pizza and a movie. Probably Toy Story again . Take my advice, pet. Enjoy the single life while you can.’

And he’s off, leaving me to relish my single life with a vast array of enchanting possibilities at my disposal. Embroidery night class in a neighbouring village. Cinema twenty miles away. Or another night in front of the telly.

I settle for the telly.

The spider pops out, clearly tempted by the Coronation Street theme tune, and I nod approvingly. A spider with taste. He has a bit of a scamper around, then he stands stock still, presumably having just clapped eyes on the giant and wondering whether to play dead or make a run for it.