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

Patty takes hold of my hands. ‘You don’t have to feel guilty about selling Ivy’s cottage, you know.’

I nod, unable to speak.

‘Would you want to live in Appleton? In the heart of the countryside?’ she asks gently.

‘No!’ My insides shift queasily at the thought. Visiting Ivy there occasionally I could cope with. But live in Appleton? With all the painful associations I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to push from my mind?

‘Look, love, Ivy just wanted you to be happy. She would be right behind you, whether you sold the cottage, rented it out or turned it into a refuge centre for cow-pat-hating city girls like you.’

I attempt a smile. It’s not the cow pats that are the problem, but I know that, in essence, Patty’s right. Ivy would have loved me to go with her when she moved back to the Cotswolds after she retired. But she understood that my fear of the countryside ran too deep for that. Ivy knew, as no-one else does, that the reason I cling tightly to my life here in the city is because I need to block out the past. It was why Ivy came to visit me in Manchester all the time. She wanted to make things easier for me. (Only rarely did I summon up the courage to go back to Appleton to visit her, and when I did, I could never totally relax.)

Selling Moonbeam Cottage really is my only option. I can’t drag my feet any longer. It’s now April, four whole months since Ivy died, and I’ve been putting off my trip down to the Cotswolds for far too long.

‘And don’t worry about leaving us short-staffed,’ Patty murmurs. ‘Olivia’s finished at uni and, as always, my delightful daughter is absolutely desperate for cash. So she’ll happily fill in while you’re away.’

‘She’ll do a much better job than me right now,’ I croak, feeling the familiar fears trickling in at the thought of returning to the countryside.

‘Maybe. But listen, Holly.’ Patty grips my shoulders and makes me focus. ‘Promise me you’ll take care of yourself? Take some time to get that beautiful head sorted.’ Gently, she brushes back a strand of honey-blonde hair that’s escaped from my ponytail.

She glances apologetically at the waiting customers. ‘Sorry, folks. Staff crisis. Be with you in a sec.’

‘Go,’ she hisses, handing me a ramekin of strawberry jam. ‘Your job’s here whenever you decide you want to come back, okay? Whether that’s in a month or even in six months’ time.’

Her kindness is too much. I have to get away before I break down and make a complete fool of myself.

‘Thank you,’ I mouth. Then I rush over to Betty with the jam, collect my coat and bag from the cloakroom and step outside into the blustery spring day. It’s a wrench leaving the cosy warmth of the café behind, and as the bell on the door jangles behind me and a cool breeze lifts my hair, I wonder with a pang how long it will be before I cross the threshold again. With her daily dose of light chit-chat and practical good sense, Patty has almost single-handedly kept me sane.

Ivy died on 14th December from a massive heart attack.

My memory of the run-up to Christmas and beyond is a bit of a blur, but I do remember refusing to leave my flat, despite offers from my best friends, Beth and Vicki – and also Patty – to spend Christmas with them. After the funeral in early January, I went straight back to work, even though Patty told me I needed more time to grieve. I convinced her that work was good therapy. And so for the past few months, I’ve slipped into a safe routine: keeping busy all day at the café, going home to eat and mindlessly watch TV, then sitting in the darkened kitchen, with just the pool of light from an Anglepoise lamp, to do my sketching, hour after hour, often until well after midnight when my eyes are stinging. I know if I go to bed too early, I’ll only end up lying there, staring into the darkness, fretting about the future.

I’ve always loved painting and sketching, and now it’s proving to be an absolute life-line. Ivy’s big dream for me was to study art at college when I left school. She used to say being an artist was my ‘calling’ because my paintings made people think about life and gave them pleasure. But however much I might have wanted to pursue my art as a career, I knew it was never going to be a practical option because we didn’t have the money. When Patty offered to promote me from Saturday girl to full-time staff when I was sixteen, I jumped at the chance, and I’m still there.

I still sketch, though, especially now. When I’m focused on drawing the perfect foxglove, it’s easier to keep the dark thoughts at bay.

I’ve always been the sort of practical, clear-headed person people can count on in a crisis. But since Ivy died, I’ve felt vulnerable and far less sure of myself. My insides shift queasily every time I think of making that long train journey south, leaving behind everything that’s familiar. Even telling myself it’s just for a few weeks, and then I’ll be safely back home, doesn’t seem to make any difference.

How can I bear to stay in Moonbeam Cottage if Ivy’s not there?

And then suddenly a memory blazes into my head.

Ivy and me on the waltzer in Blackpool.

We booked the same week every year, staying in the same guest house and reuniting with some other families we got to know who did the same. I loved it when I was a kid because there was always someone to play with.

No holiday in Blackpool was complete without several rides on the waltzer. Spinning round and around, clutching on to each other as the blaring fairground music swallowed our squeals. Laughing helplessly at the thrill of it all.

Scream if you wanna go faster!

Ivy always went on it with me, even though I knew it scared her. I think she worried I’d slip out of the safety belt. When we got off, she’d exaggerate her wobbly legs, staggering around to make the little kids laugh. The other mums and dads stood watching, smiling at their children and waving.

I remember feeling really proud of my fearless grandma for not letting nerves stand in her way.

Now, hurrying for home, I mentally open my wardrobe and start picking out clothes to pack. I’ll catch the train tomorrow.

I can be brave, too.

Whenever I think of the Cotswolds, where Ivy lived the last decade of her life, I think of the row of pretty golden stone cottages skirting Appleton village green and the gnarled old oak tree by the cricket pavilion. In my mind, it’s always summer there and the sky is always blue.

But when I step off the train at Stroud – the nearest station to Appleton – I’m faced with a rather different view of the Cotswolds. Storms have been raging all week, causing destruction right across the country, and today appears to be no exception. I peer out of the station entrance at people scurrying for shelter from the steady drizzle and gusty wind.

I can’t afford to hang around. There’s only one bus to Appleton every two hours – and the next one leaves in ten minutes.

Grabbing a firmer hold of my suitcase, I start running for the bus station, dodging passers-by and puddles of rainwater. As long as the bus doesn’t leave early, I should just about make it.