The Secrets of Ivy Garden Page 8

  It’s a big cliché, I know, but Bee understands. He worries about me and he wants to confront Peter, tell him what he thinks of him – and this, from someone so gentlemanly and mild-mannered! – but I keep telling him it’s not Peter’s fault the way he is. Not entirely. He had a terrible upbringing, deserted by his mother when he was five and brought up by an alcoholic father who was bitter about life and much too handy with his fists. It’s no wonder Peter is terrified I will run out on him, too. It’s all so horribly sad.

  I can’t leave Peter, however much Bee’s silences tell me I should. (Isn’t it funny how a silence really can speak louder than words?)

  I married Peter. I promised to love him – in sickness and in health. And Peter is sick. His early experiences have damaged him. I’d never forgive myself if I left him and he did something terrible. I only wish he would agree to get help, but the times I’ve dared to hint at this, his furious reaction has made me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. His rages scare me so much but I can see no way out.

  I thank God for Bee …

  Stunned, I stop reading.

  Bee?

  Who was Bee?

  I never knew any of this. Ivy had obviously chosen to keep it to herself – that she’d fallen in love with a man she nicknamed Bee.

  Bee must have been a pet name. It didn’t sound like the sort of name you’d be given at birth. A real name. Ivy had obviously given him a codename, I suppose because she wanted to keep him a secret.

  But what had happened to Bee? Is he still alive? Does he live in the village? Did he and Ivy stay friends until the end?

  Why didn’t she tell me about him?

  So many questions.

  And only Ivy could answer them …

  TEN

  When I wake the next morning, my first thought is: Did I really find Ivy’s old diary last night? Or did I dream the whole thing?

  The blue exercise book is lying on the bed. I pick it up and flick through it, as if to make myself believe it, because it all feels unreal and I’m having trouble getting my head around it.

  All the astonishment from the previous night floods back.

  Ivy had another life she never told me about!

  In a daze, I go through the motions of getting ready, then I sit in the kitchen with a piece of toast in front of me going cold and inedible, just staring into space. Thinking about Ivy and Peter’s troubled marriage. And the man who seemed to have brightened up Ivy’s life.

  Bee.

  Is he still alive? Does ‘Bee’ mean the letter ‘B’? In which case, am I looking for a Brian or a Bill or a Barney? There’s Bill next door but he’s nearly ninety, almost twenty years older than Ivy. She was twenty-two when she wrote the diary, so Bill would have been around forty at the time. But maybe he was kind to her, listened to her troubles and she found herself drawn to this understanding, mature man who made her feel safe. Helped her feel good about herself again.

  I’ll have to talk to Bill. But what will I say? ‘I think Ivy might have been in love with someone other than her husband, and I was wondering if it was you?’

  Bill has been married for nearly sixty years to Sheila, who has dementia. He takes the bus into Stroud several times a week to visit her in the home where she’s being cared for. He has quite enough on his plate without me asking awkward questions. And anyway, there’s no mention of Bee having a wife in the diary. Knowing Ivy as I did, she’d have felt really guilty if she’d found herself in the role of ‘the other woman’. She would have mentioned Sheila, I’m certain, even if it was just to say how bad she felt about taking up so much of Bee’s time. But there’s no mention at all. Her only guilt in the diary seems to be over Peter.

  But if it isn’t Bill, who can it be? Someone in the village? The trouble is, I don’t know anyone in Appleton well enough to talk to about it. Jack Rushbrooke seems to have known Ivy fairly well. It’s possible she may have confided in him over a cold beer in Ivy Garden one time, I suppose.

  But no, why would she tell Jack – or anyone else for that matter – about the feelings she had for Bee, if she never even told me about him?

  My head is spinning with random thoughts that aren’t making a whole lot of sense. I need to do something. Otherwise I’ll end up sitting here all day, staring at the wall and driving myself mad dreaming up all kinds of theories about the mysterious Bee.

  Wildflowers.

  I need to buy wildflowers so that I can plant a meadow on Sunday.

  Garden centre it is, then. Let’s hope Florence is up to it.

  Driving into the car park, I’m surprised at how big the garden centre seems to be. Most things round here tend to be on a doll’s-house scale – as in limited stock in the village store and scant-bordering-on-mythical public bus service (I’ve only sighted it twice since I’ve been here). Then there’s the one taxi (and that’s only on days Eric the taxi driver isn’t doubling as Black Bull pint-puller in a neighbouring village or cleaning at the local school).

  But this garden centre is huge. I suppose in the absence of a reliable broadband signal, people in the country spend an awful lot of time in their gardens growing things.

  I start wandering curiously through the plant section, up and down the rows, admiring shrubs and flowers of all colours and varieties. They even have mini trees, which are obviously not necessary for me since mine is a woodland garden. There’s a whole section devoted to Grecian urns, statues of Buddha and semi-naked people. A whole new world to me. Fascinating!

  The only time I’ve ever been in a place like this was the time Ivy and I bought our Christmas tree from a gardening emporium near where we lived in Manchester. (We were so rubbish at tying the tree to the top of the old Mini she had in those days, this great Norwegian spruce ended up slewed half across the windscreen, and Ivy, in hoots of laughter, had to put her foot to the floor and drive at a gear-burning fifty miles an hour to evade police.)

  After a while, I decide I’d better get some advice so I look around and spot an assistant, slouched over a book at one of the tills. I’m about to walk over to her when I find myself distracted by the garden furniture and take a detour to where it’s all on display.

  There’s a wooden bench very similar to Ivy’s – which was destroyed beyond repair by the storms – and I pause for a moment, picturing it in the exact spot where the old bench used to be. It would look perfect there, I think, sitting down to try it out and running my hand dreamily over the arm rest, admiring the lovely grain of the wood. It’s reduced in price, too … very reasonable …

  A logical thought struggles to the surface.

  What on earth am I thinking?

  I’ll be heading back to Manchester soon. I definitely do not need a new garden bench!

  Rising swiftly to my feet, I leave the furniture area behind and head over to safer territory – a rack full of packets of seed, each bearing a colourful picture of a flower in full bloom. Some of the packets seem to contain a mix of wildflower seeds.

  Perfect! Call off the dogs. This is exactly what I need.

  Five packets, maybe, or a straight half dozen, to be on the safe side? I glance at the instructions on the back. They seem fairly straightforward. I go to the till with my spoils, feeling pleased with my choice. Apparently all I need to do is prepare the ground then scatter these seeds all over it and Bob’s your uncle! A wildflower garden!

  The girl on the till is deep in her well-thumbed book, which has a gory image of a glinting knife and lots of blood spatter on the cover. I clear my throat and she glances up. To my surprise, I know her. It’s the girl with the blonde-black hair who hangs around with the crowd at the bus shelter. The girl I spotted in a cosy conflab with Sylvian round the back of the village store.

  She picks up one of the seed packets, turns it over and says in a bored monotone, ‘Is your soil rich or poor?’

  ‘Er, sorry?’

  She sighs and holds up the packet. ‘Perennials like these prefer poor soil. Otherwise the coarser grasses take over.’ />
  ‘Oh, right.’ Is my soil rich or poor? Golly, I haven’t the faintest idea.

  She stifles a yawn and says in the same bored tone, ‘Has the land been used for gardening before?’

  I nod eagerly. At last a question I can answer. ‘Oh, yes. Ivy used to garden there. Ivy’s my grandma – was my grandma. She died, you see. So I’m staying in her cottage and trying to get it ship-shape, you know, so that I can sell it.’

  The girl stares at me with mild disbelief as if I’ve just announced I’m visiting the Cotswolds on a day trip from Mars.

  ‘Anyway, Ivy was the gardener in the family, not me,’ I gabble on to fill the awkward silence. ‘Of course, I’d know Alan Titchmarsh if I saw him. Probably. In a decent light. But that’s as far as my gardening knowledge goes. Ivy was great, though. You probably knew her, actually. Ivy Grainger?’

  There’s a moment’s silence, during which the check-out girl continues to stare at me. Although, oddly, her gaze now seems to be fixed intently on my left shoulder.

  I glance at it, checking for bird poop.

  Then I realise she’s got her beady eye on a couple of boys, who are giggling together over by one of the stands.

  She gathers up the seed packets and hands them back to me. ‘Right, well, you’ll need the cornflower annual mix, not those.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ I walk back over to the seed stand. ‘I’m Holly, by the way. Do you live in the village?’

  She doesn’t seem to have heard me. Her posture has gone rigid and she’s leaning forward, kohl-rimmed eyes piercing the backs of those two boys. I start to ask if she could point out the cornflower seeds. But she silences me with a raised hand and continues to watch them, on high alert, like a well-trained pet waiting to be told it can snaffle its doggy snack.

  ‘Right, you little bastards!’ Without warning, she leaps out of her seat, and before you can say, The customer is king, she has both boys in a firm stranglehold, yelping for mercy.

  As I watch, open-mouthed, she barks, ‘Well, well. If it isn’t Freddy Collins and Ryan Biggs. Do you think I’m blind? Well, do you?’

  She tightens her hold and they reply weedily in the negative.

  ‘Excellent. I’m going to let go of you now, boys, and you’re going to empty out your pockets. And there’s no use making a run for it because I know who your parents are,’ she mutters darkly.

  The two boys surrender up their spoils, which seem to be a couple of small plastic water pistols.

  She points at the door. ‘Out. And you’re on a warning. Do it again and the police will be knocking on your door.’

  They disappear faster than ice-cream on a hot day.

  A dark-haired boy who looks to be in his late teens appears. He must be staff because he’s wearing a green uniform with the garden centre’s logo on the sweatshirt.

  ‘Everything okay, Layla?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ She sticks up her thumb.

  I glance at her in surprise. So this is Layla, who Jack Rushbrooke told me to ask for? What’s the connection between them? Maybe it’s just that in a village as small as this, everyone knows everyone else.

  The boy peers at her book, reads the title and quickly dismisses it. ‘A bit amateurish,’ he comments, adjusting his glasses. ‘Have you read The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows? Great thriller. I can lend it to you if you like.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ Layla continues reading. ‘Thanks,’ she adds as an afterthought.

  ‘No probs.’ The boy grins at her back and walks out.

  I approach the till and Layla looks up. ‘Sorry about that. Little buggers. They’ve bloody brightened up my day, though, I can tell you.’

  ‘I doubt you’ll have any more trouble from them,’ I smile, and she gives a fierce grunt, which could either mean she wholeheartedly agrees with me or wholeheartedly disagrees. I really can’t tell.

  ‘Bloody parents have a lot to answer for,’ she says. ‘If they took more interest in their kids, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen.’

  She scowls and I get the distinct impression she isn’t just talking about the two boys’ parents.

  ‘You’re right. Family support is everything if you don’t want your kid wandering off the track.’

  Layla studies me for a moment, looking up through her blonde and black fringe.

  ‘Anyway, the cornflowers?’ I prompt.

  She points to a metal stand nearby and gets back to her killer-on-the-loose novel.

  I replace the seed packets and collect half a dozen of the cornflower variety. They look lovely. There’s a picture of blue cornflowers and brilliant red poppies on the front. I remember the nettles and turn back to Layla, but she’s deep in her book and I find myself hesitating, not wanting to incur more teenage displeasure. But she is the shop assistant, her job being to assist shoppers …

  ‘Excuse me, Layla.’

  She glances up.

  ‘I’ve got a garden full of nettles to get rid of. Any suggestions?’

  She frowns. ‘Strimmer.’

  ‘I was thinking more of weed killer for the nettles?’

  ‘Not very organic. I’d use the strimmer if I were you.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s dead easy once you know how.’

  Great, thanks. That’s really helpful.

  Why do people keep banging on about strimmers? First Jack Rushbrooke and now Layla. Perhaps strimmers are to people now what fridges were to people in the nineteen-fifties. In a few years, everyone will possess one.

  I make my purchase in silence, wondering if ‘the boss’ knows quite how off-putting his sales girl is with her surly manner and scary make-up.

  ‘Holly?’

  I spin round.

  Layla is staring over at me and, for a ridiculous second, I panic that maybe I’ve shoplifted something by accident.

  ‘I did know your grandma,’ she says. ‘Ivy was okay.’ She turns back to her thriller.

  I stare at her bent head for a second. Translated from teen speak, that probably means Layla liked Ivy a great deal.

  My heart lifts as I walk out to the car.

  I think about Layla on the way home and her comment about parents taking an interest in their kids. And for the millionth time, I find myself trying to imagine what it would be like to have a proper family. Of course, Ivy and I were a ‘proper family’ – just a very small one. And there were lots of advantages to being someone’s everything – like I was to Ivy – including the fact that you didn’t have to compete with brothers and sisters for attention.

  Nonetheless, I’ve always secretly longed for more family. I felt different to the other kids at school. At primary school, when they saw me being collected at the gates by a woman older than their mums, I told them it was Ivy, my grandma, who looked after me. So then they would ask me where my mum and dad were, and I used to lie and say they had a café in Spain and had to be there all the time, which was why I stayed with Ivy.

  I learned that it was easier to lie.

  If I told people the truth, the horror on their faces just amplified the tragedy and stirred up all the horrible visions in my head. The sympathetic faces were even worse. They’d often ask hesitant questions that I didn’t want to answer. Or couldn’t answer because actually, Ivy and I didn’t ever talk about the day it happened.

  It was a taboo subject in our house.

  Ivy would chat to me often about my parents – what they were like, what made them laugh, how much they absolutely adored me – but the day of their deaths was out of bounds. I sensed that early on, and I learned to keep my questions to myself. Hearing Ivy sobbing in her bedroom at night when she thought I was fast asleep made me really scared. I remember pressing my fingers to my ears and pulling the duvet over my head as hot tears of panic soaked into my pillow. There was no way I could risk upsetting Ivy by demanding to know exactly what happened that day.

  I’d finally learned the full story when I was about eight, sitting at the top of the stairs, accidentally eavesdropping on a conversation between Ivy and Maureen, our ne
xt-door neighbour in the row of terrace houses we lived in when we moved to Manchester.

  Later, I found myself wishing I’d never listened in. Then I would still believe the version Ivy told me when it first happened – a straightforward account of a road accident that a four-year-old would understand. That version, re-touched for my benefit, contained little of the horror and none of the terrible, graphic details. Nor did it haunt my dreams like the bald, unvarnished truth has done ever since …

  I can totally understand why Ivy would want to protect me in this way.

  But I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me about Bee. Unless he was simply a passing fancy, forgotten long ago, and it hadn’t even crossed her mind to mention him.

  Deep down, though, I don’t really believe this.

  Bee, whoever he was, had played a huge part in Ivy’s life, I was sure of it. And the fact that she kept him a secret from me all these years makes me feel sad. And a little annoyed, if I’m honest. I used to pride myself on how close we were, but I was obviously fooling myself because in the end, there was a part of her life she chose to keep hidden from me.

  And now that I know her secret, there’s another question I keep asking.

  Did Ivy hide anything else from me?

  ELEVEN

  I drive home from the garden centre and get into my painting gear. The kitchen needs another coat because the original orangey shade is still faintly visible.

  But instead of decorating, I find myself poring over the diary again, dissecting every phrase in a desperate bid to wring out more meaning and hopefully solve the mystery of Bee. I also spend a lot of time lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

  There must be someone in the village who knew about Bee …

  When Jack jogs past the window later, I decide maybe he can shed some light on the situation. Quick as a flash, I’m on my feet, pulling on my trainers and diving out into the night after him. I’m not usually so impulsive, but I’m desperate to have my questions about Bee answered. If I chicken out of asking Jack, I can always say I’d like to borrow some gardening tools. He did offer, after all.