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

Slowly, slowly, I rise from the sofa and we eye each other. Then, quick as a flash, he streaks back into his hole.

I feel quite disappointed. And definitely not scared.

‘It’s okay, Fred,’ I say out loud. ‘As giants go, I’m pretty harmless.’

Then I laugh at myself for talking to a spider and giving it a name. He probably doesn’t even speak the same language as me. Perhaps the girl at the bus stop was right and I really am going insane, being here all alone with only a friendly arachnid to converse with of an evening.

I picture Mike driving back to the bosom of his family, the kids dancing to the door to greet him. Cherry, his wife, smiling from the kitchen, face flushed from pizza-making, telling him to hurry up and shower because they need to get the film under way if the kids are going to get to bed at a decent time …

I need to get out!

Grabbing my coat, I escape from the cottage, slam the door behind me and start walking briskly towards the shops.

The teenagers are gathered at the bus stop and, as I pass, I can’t help noticing Adonis has his arm around a very pretty girl with long strawberry-blonde hair. The girl with blonde-black hair is nowhere to be seen. He sees me and brazens it out, treating me to a very sarcastic smile.

I frown to myself. Little scumbag! He’s obviously the sort who enjoys spreading his favours around.

The lights of the deli-café up ahead are warm and welcoming and I decide to pop in for a coffee. Passing by the village store on the way, I hear voices in the little alleyway that runs alongside it and turn to look. There are a couple of garages along there, and I spot Miss Blonde-Black leaning against one of them, talking urgently to a man.

I do a double-take.

It’s Sylvian.

Curious, I stop and lurk by the post box, pretending I’m reading the postal times, so I can observe the two of them together. (Boredom makes people act in very weird ways.) They’re deep in conversation and something in the way they’re angled towards each other makes me think they must know each other fairly well.

Sylvian hands the girl a small package. She glances quickly behind her, then she takes it and stuffs it into her shoulder bag. They do a quick thumbs up at each other and she walks away quickly without looking back.

As she passes me, I nod wisely at the post box times then straighten up and smile as if I’ve only just recognised her. She gives me an uncertain look, as if she can’t quite place where she’s seen me before, before marching over the road to join her mates at the bus shelter. As she joins them, I notice Adonis quickly withdraw his arm from Miss Strawberry-Blonde’s waist and shuffle away from her along the rail.

I feel a pang of sympathy for Miss Blonde-Black. She obviously has no idea she has a rival for his affections.

As I approach the deli-café, something in the window catches my eye.

Oh my God, of course ! This is where Ivy used to buy her gorgeous chocolate orange cakes. I stop for a moment, smiling wistfully at the single cupcake in the cabinet. There’s only one left and it definitely has my name on it. I slip into the shop and a girl behind the counter with a swingy brown ponytail looks up, smiles and says, ‘Hi. What can I get you?’

‘Can I have a chocolate orange cake, please?’

‘Just the one?’ She glances over. ‘Oh, there is only one.’ She grabs a bag and pops in the luscious-looking sponge cake. ‘Anything else?’

I shake my head. ‘No, just that, thanks.’

She seems familiar somehow, but she can’t be because I hardly know anyone here I must have seen her on one of the rare occasions I came down to spend the weekend with Ivy.

She frowns. ‘Pardon me for asking, but are you all right? You’re as white as a ghostly apparition.’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

She groans. ‘Sorry, have I put my foot in it? You’re probably just naturally pale, are you, with that lovely translucent skin? I’m always putting my foot in it. My mum says I should never, ever get a dog of my own because then my feet would be permanently in the shit, if you get my drift.’

She hands over the paper bag. ‘They’re my mum’s favourite, those chocolate orange cakes. Every time I go home to Cirencester I have to take her half a dozen.’

I try to smile, but tears well up.

‘Oh, what’s wrong?’ She looks horrified. ‘Have I put my foot in it again ?’

‘No, no, not at all. It’s me. It’s the cake.’ I stop and force myself to take a slow breath in and out. ‘Memories,’ I say eventually, in a calmer voice.

‘Ah, yes.’ She nods. ‘They can pounce at the most inopportune moment.’ She glances across at the only occupied table, where a dark-haired woman in a gold jumpsuit and heels sits nursing a cup, glancing from time to time at the door. ‘Listen, I’ll be closing up in twenty minutes or so. Why not have a cup of tea? On the house.’ She holds out her hand. ‘I’m Connie, by the way.’

‘Holly.’ We shake hands rather formally then, for some reason, we both laugh.

Frankly, I’m all tea-d out. It’ll probably be a decade from now and we’ll have had five new prime ministers before I have my next real urge for a cuppa. But I’m sensing the tea is not the point.

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ I smile at Connie and she ushers me through a panel on hinges to her side of the counter. ‘Is this your shop?’

She nods. ‘Sort of. It’s a family business that my granddad started up about – ooh, a million years ago.’ She grins. ‘And now my mum and dad manage it. They’ve left me in charge while they tackle the tax return.’

‘Well, I think it’s lovely.’ I glance around, admiring the décor. ‘So cosy and welcoming.’

Connie looks pleased. ‘Thank you. You’ve just moved into Moonbeam Cottage, haven’t you?’ She hands me a cup of tea and a little jug of milk. ‘I’m so sorry about Ivy. She was such a lovely woman.’

‘Thank you. Yes, she was. I’m only staying in the cottage temporarily.’ Then I grin. ‘The grapevine’s certainly alive and well, then. Does the whole village know who I am and when I moved in?’

She laughs. ‘Absolutely everyone.’

I assume she’s joking. At least, I hope she is. The door opens and we both turn.

A woman in a cute pink dress with long, shiny chestnut hair and enviably slim, tanned legs steps daintily over the threshold and glances around her. She spots her friend, breaks into a relieved smile and clacks over in her cream skyscraper shoes.

‘Selena? Are you all right?’ The gold jumpsuit woman peers up at her. ‘You look … harassed , if you don’t mind me saying?’

‘It’s Sel ena. Emphasis on the first syllable, remember?’ She gives a little tinkly laugh, as if it doesn’t really matter.

‘Oh God, of course. Sel ena. Sorry. I’ve been calling you Sel een a for ages. You should have said.’

‘No matter.’

‘What’s her name?’ whispers Connie in my ear.