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

‘I guess you would think that,’ the girl quips, glancing quickly at a blond Adonis-type who’s standing nearby. He’s concentrating on his phone, and doesn’t notice. The others all watch me walk by, blank-eyed, except one of the lads – a cocky, dark-haired boy – who treats me to a fake grin and blows smoke from his fag in my direction.

‘Thank you,’ I call back, and they snigger.

The cash point is working again, so I draw out the money and walk round to the side door which I assume leads to Sylvian’s flat above the village store. My stomach swoops as I ring the bell.

He greets me at the door in tracksuit bottoms, bare-chested except for a striped blue towel slung round his neck. The sheen of sweat on his brow and finely muscled upper torso makes me think I must have interrupted a work-out.

He smiles. ‘Thought it might be you,’ he says, flicking a catch on the carved wooden box he’s holding.

‘Yes, hi,’ I launch in. ‘I want to thank you again for rescuing me last night. It was so good of you. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along at that precise moment.’

I’m aware I’m babbling, but he’s caught me unawares. It’s not often a handsome man greets me in the semi-buff at eight in the morning, looking so … well, buff .

Unlike me, Sylvian seems completely at ease with his semi-nakedness. I hardly know where to look, but eventually settle on his startlingly vivid green eyes. When I hold out the money, he gives it a cursory glance then balances the box under his arm so he can stuff the notes in his jeans pocket.

‘You’re very welcome, Holly. I hope you had a good first night in the cottage?’

‘Thanks, yes, it wasn’t exactly relaxing, though.’

‘Oh?’

I shrug. ‘Oh, you know, unpacking … new surroundings. It’s a bit unsettling.’ I’m not about to bore him with a run-down of my disaster of a night.

‘You did seem a bit stressed yesterday.’ He hands me the open wooden box. ‘Can you hold this for me?’

Surprised, I take the box, glancing at it curiously. It has about twenty small compartments inside, each containing a tiny brown glass bottle. It’s like something you might find in an old-fashioned apothecary shop.

Sylvian locks eyes with me and hovers his hand over the box. Then he looks down and selects a bottle, unscrewing the lid. ‘Try this one.’ He wafts it under my nose.

Cautiously, I sniff. The scent is subtle yet sharp at the same time. ‘Lemons?’

‘A great mood lifter.’ He holds out another bottle and I lean forward to smell it.

A powerful floral scent fills my nose. I inhale then breathe out slowly. ‘Lovely.’

‘Ylang ylang. Good for relieving stress.’

I laugh. ‘Bring it on.’

‘It’s also an aphrodisiac,’ he murmurs and when I look up to see if he’s joking, he winks at me. ‘It’s true.’

Heat rises in my cheeks. Am I imagining the frisson between us? I’m not sure, because Sylvian is already moving on, giving me a comprehensive run-down on the health properties of sandalwood – also great for stress, apparently – and wafting it under my nose.

The woody smell is heavenly, like a forest after it’s been raining. ‘Mmm, that’s my favourite.’

He smiles. ‘That’s the one, then.’ He screws on the cap and hands it to me.

I hold up the bottle with a bemused look. ‘But I can’t …?’

He shrugs. ‘Of course you can. Tip a few drops in your bath or on a handkerchief when you need to relax.’

‘But I need to pay you for it.’

He gives me an amused look and says nothing.

I smile, already knowing there’s little point arguing. ‘Well, thank you, but you’re too generous.’

He brushes it off. ‘Look, I’d invite you in but I’m giving a talk and I have to prepare for it.’

‘Of course. No problem.’ I start beating a retreat. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’

‘I very much like you holding me up, Holly,’ he says seriously. ‘In fact, I propose you hold me up again while I cook you dinner some time.’

His invitation takes me by surprise. ‘Gosh. Well, maybe …’

‘I’m counting on it,’ he smiles.

I raise a hand and scuttle off around the corner.

I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and already a caring and generous man has offered to cook me dinner! He also happens to be very fit and easy on the eye.

A vision of Sylvian opening the door naked to the waist flashes into my mind, but I tell myself to get a grip. I’m in Appleton to concentrate on Moonbeam Cottage, for goodness’ sake, not a man. Even if that man does have hard abs and a giving nature. Phew, is it me or has the temperature suddenly soared?

Feeling more than a little discombobulated, I glance at the label on the bottle I’m clutching and unscrew the top. Sandalwood essential oil. Known for its calming properties.

A good sniff of this should do the trick …

Back at the cottage, I phone Ivy’s odd job man, Mike, and he says he’ll be round to look at the roof and the damage inside the house as soon as he’s dropped his daughter off at playgroup. He sounds genuinely cut up about Ivy and describes her as ‘bloody marvellous’, which brings a lump to my throat. I love him already!

While I wait, I unpack a few more things then sit in the living room, eating the banana I brought for the train journey and wondering how I’m going to pass the time in the evenings while I’m here. There’s a small digital TV and a DVD player that’s so old, it was probably the original prototype, but nothing fancier than that. Ivy loved reading, so her shelves are full of gardening books and thrillers. A cook book would have come in handy while I’m here – I quite like getting creative in the kitchen – but Ivy hated cooking with a passion, so there aren’t any. I smile, remembering. She preferred to just ignore the scales and throw into the pot whatever she felt like, which was usually a recipe for disaster. (She only made the beetroot and nettle omelette once, thankfully.)

Mike arrives, whistling up the path, and having looked at the roof and the bathroom, says he can fix it no problem, with a little help from a roofer friend of his. I hold my breath and ask what it will cost, and actually, it’s not as bad as I thought. But when he mentions the additional cost of re-tiling and painting, I swallow hard and suggest we just stick with the repair work for now.

I’ve laid bathroom flooring before. And done lots of painting. Surely I can throw a few tiles on the wall? I mean, how hard can it be? It doesn’t have to be perfect. This is the countryside, for goodness’ sake; the land of all things rustic. People round here laugh indulgently when they accidentally tread in a cow pat; and they practically expect whiffy manure smells with their freshly laid chucky eggs in the morning. Ergo, a little ‘rustic tiling’ is sure to be a big hit among potential buyers.

Mike says he has a job to finish but he can start work on Monday. My heart sinks because that’s five whole days away, but I smile and tell him that will be perfect. Actually, I have lots of clearing out to do, so the time will probably fly by. I stand at the door, watching him walk cheerily down the path to his white van.