The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass

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.

TWO (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5)

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.

And then it happens.

I round the corner a little too briskly, step to one side to avoid a man with a briefcase, and instead, cannon right into someone else.

Momentarily winded, I register the black habit and white veil the woman is wearing and my heart gives a sickening thud.

Oh God, I just nearly decked a religious person!

But worse is to come.

The nun, who I notice is remarkably tall, stops for a second to regain her balance. But she lists too far to one side and ends up staggering off the pavement into the water-logged gutter.

To say I’m mortified is a vast understatement.

‘I’m so, sosorry!’ I reach out to her, then draw back my hand, just in case she’s taken some kind of vow that forbids any form of physical contact during high winds. ‘God, are you all right?’

Shit, why did I have to say ‘God’?

She’s bending to retrieve her glasses, which mustn’t fit very well because they seem to have gone flying when she over-balanced. Her attempts at picking them up are failing miserably – so, flushed and overcome with guilt, I dive in, swipe them off the ground then rub them clean on my coat before handing them back.

She puts them on, almost stabbing herself in the eye, and that’s when I notice something odd. The glasses are attached to a large, false nose.

She sways and I grab her arm to steady her, wondering what on earth is going on.

‘Seen a bunch of people dressed as monks and nuns?’ she slurs in a voice that’s surprisingly full of gravel and several octaves lower than I was expecting. ‘Disappeared. And it’s my turn to get the beers in.’

Stunned, I shake my head. So not a nun, then. Not female either, come to that.

I glance at my watch.

Bugger!

Thanks to this stag-do buffoon, I’ve now missed the bus to Appleton and there won’t be another one along for at least two hours.

An arm snakes round my waist. ‘Hey, why don’t you come along? Join the pub crawl?’

Actually, how it sounds is Heywhydntc‌mlongjnpubcrawl? I stare up at his stupid false nose and black-rimmed glasses, the lenses of which are like jam jar bottoms. I’m amazed he can see through them. No wonder he charged right into me.

He sways closer and the booze on his breath almost knocks me flat.

I feel like weeping. Today’s long journey from Manchester has been emotionally exhausting, to say the least, and now – to cap it all – I’m being propositioned by a drunk disguised as a nun?

It can’t get any worse. Oh hang on, apparently it can.

His hand just slipped lower and is clamped so tight, there seems to be no escape. The rest of him might be listing like a yacht in a force nine, but there’s nothing flaky about that firm grasp.

I try to move away but the pavement is packed with people and I just keep getting pushed back against him. Then when I do manage to put a small distance between us, he staggers a bit and lurches forward. That’s when I realise he was probably just grabbing on to me in an attempt to remain upright.

He grins and the cheap nylon veil slips down over one eye. ‘Dirt on your coat,’ he mumbles helpfully.

I glance down. Sure enough, there’s a big splodge of muck from where I wiped his joke glasses on my otherwise pristine beige coat. The one I had dry-cleaned last week.