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

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 after a while, I hear Ivy’s voice in my head.

Sleep tight, my love. Everything will seem brighter in the morning …

I’m woken early by the sound of someone being murdered.

As the bloodcurdling wails continue, I clutch at the duvet in fright – before realising it’s a cockerel, straining its vocal cords in an attempt to wake the whole of Gloucestershire.

I glance at the clock. Four-thirty in the morning .

Really? I mean, really ?

Naming him Colin, I lie there listening to him busting a gut and thinking I’ll never get back to sleep now. Then I promptly doze off, and next time I wake, it’s light outside. I swim slowly to full consciousness, aware of a vague panicky feeling inside.

I’m in Ivy’s spare room.

I’ve thought about this moment many times; how I’d feel being here in Moonbeam Cottage, without her to shout through that she’s making some tea, or coming to sit on the bed to chat. And now that moment is here, and the place feels horribly empty without her.

I take some deep breaths and start to feel calmer. Then a farm vehicle rattles past the cottage, shaking the very foundations and making my heart race at ninety miles an hour. I hug myself, rubbing my arms hard. It’s not going to be easy, this enforced stay in the country, but it has to be done.

With the bathroom wrecked by the leak, I don’t want to risk the shower until I know it’s safe, so I have a quick wash in cold water at the sink, then dive into some warm clothes, clean my teeth and apply a little make-up.

It’s after eight by then. The village store is sure to be open, and maybe the cash machine will be working again so I can repay Sylvian. Every time I think about how he saved my bacon last night, handing over all that cash to the taxi driver without even taking my mobile number, I’m amazed all over again.

I pull on my coat and head out into a calm but chilly April morning. There’s a definite feel of ‘the morning after the night before’. The storms that raged have passed over but there’s a reddish tinge to the sky, which isn’t a great omen.

‘Red sky in the morning … shepherds’ cottages on fire,’ I say aloud, since Ivy isn’t there to say it.

‘Hey, talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, didn’t you know?’ calls a voice.

A group of teenagers are languishing in and around the bus shelter just ahead of me. One of the girls, presumably she of the ‘witty’ comment, is staring at me as if I’m completely insane. The thick, ghostly pale foundation she’s wearing contrasts sharply with her heavy black eyeliner, and her asymmetric hair style looks like she’s hacked at it herself, while no doubt costing a fortune in some trendy salon. The short side is bleached blonde and the longer side dyed black.

Drawing level with them, I remark casually, ‘If you ask me, madness is highly under-rated.’