Ivy Lane: Autumn: (5 page)

The mood in the church had been sombre but pragmatic; Alf had had a good innings, it was what he would have wanted, he’ll be with his beloved Celia . . . and yes, that was all very true, but it didn’t stop me from feeling incredibly sad. The service had been much as I’d expected until the final song: the body left the church for the cemetery to the tune of ‘Spirit in the Sky’ by Doctor and the Medics, which had me and Gemma chuckling and sobbing in equal measure.

Most of the allotment crowd had been at the church. I nearly didn’t go but I was glad I did in the end. Hayley had begged me to go with her; she said that even though she’d only met Alf once, he’d made a big impression on her. He had that effect on people, I’d told her, remembering all the little stories he’d told me since I’d come to Ivy Lane. Hayley said that other than me and him, no one had been very welcoming. I’d flushed at this point; I had been just as guilty until I’d got to know her. She said the other people from Ivy Lane allotments shot her daggers and made her feel like she wasn’t wanted.

Which was another thing.

There had been more thefts at Ivy Lane. Some of Charlie’s butternut squashes had gone, Peter’s kohlrabi had vanished, stuff had been taken from Nigel’s greenhouse, Graham’s prize parsnips had all been plucked out and more of Brenda’s potatoes were missing, this time from her own plot. In fact, nearly everyone had lost something. It was only Liz and me who hadn’t been affected. If I hadn’t been quite so preoccupied, I might have taken umbrage at the oversight.

The atmosphere of mistrust had driven me to distraction over the last week. I was almost glad Alf wasn’t here to see it; he would have been so disappointed in them all. But at least now that most of us had suffered some sort of loss, everyone had stopped accusing each other. Unfortunately, the finger of suspicion was now firmly directed at the community service team, which was ludicrous. Even if they had wanted to, sneaking basket-loads of fruit and vegetables into the minibus without being spotted would be virtually impossible.

Hayley had slipped away after the burial, not wanting to brave the wake in the pavilion. Who could blame her? Gemma had given her a lift back into Kingsfield; she had a hot stone massage booked in later and wanted to get set up. I was surprised she still had willing clients; I wasn’t sure I would find it very relaxing having a beautician who clutched her side every few minutes and squealed, ‘Ooh, Braxton Hicks!’

So I was on my own. I took a cup of tea to a quiet corner, sat down and tried to avoid letting maudlin thoughts crowd my head.

A posse of moaning mourners had surrounded Peter by the tea urn. To start with, they had all been sharing happy memories of Alf, but now talk had turned to the future of their precious plots.

‘Padlocks,’ said Vicky. ‘I warned you.’ Vicky’s plot was nearest to the gate and she had been stolen from twice, the poor thing. No wonder she was agitated. She was looking very glamorous today in a black jersey wrap dress with a glittering purple brooch pinned to her left bosom. Alf would have approved, I felt sure. In her heels she towered over Peter who was smoothing his hair repeatedly in a sweeping motion.

‘Nothing has been taken from sheds, though, Vicky. So in theory extra security wouldn’t have helped.’ He gave her a reassuring smile and sipped at his tea.

‘I’m not taking any chances,’ said Dougie, shaking his head. ‘I’ve taken my new batch of scrumpy home. Just in case.’

‘Well, I think the probation service should be told,’ said Brenda. ‘That Mr Cohen. Either the committee phones him or I do.’ She pressed her red lips together and glared at poor Peter.

I had gone off Brenda a bit. After accusing me of stealing her spuds, she’d tried to lay the blame on Charlie, on the basis that he wanted her crop because he’d lost all his to blight. When that had failed to get a response, she’d harangued the community service supervisor, forcing him to interview the team about the thefts and to check their bags as they left.

Hayley had been really upset about it. ‘Made to line up, we were. It was so embarrassing,’ she had said. ‘And she didn’t even apologize when nothing was found in our bags.’

‘Why is she so bothered about a few potatoes?’ I’d asked.

Hayley had enlightened me. ‘She’s got a baked potato stall in Kingsfield near my old school. Packed at lunch time, she is. Home-grown, organic potatoes. Really nice, actually.’

So that was her catering business. And that was why she grew so many potatoes! Was it against allotment rules, I wondered, using council land to grow vegetables for commercial use?

‘We should never have allowed these people into Ivy Lane,’ Brenda was saying now, jabbing a finger in Peter’s direction. ‘I don’t know how they’re stealing from us, but we didn’t have any of this trouble before they arrived. I can’t abide dishonesty.’ She tutted and dunked a digestive biscuit into her tea.

I’d heard enough. I banged my cup and saucer down and marched over.

Cool and professional, Tilly.

I filled my lungs with a calming breath. I could actually be quite commanding when I chose.

‘Talking of dishonesty, when were you going to tell me that you’re using my plot to stock your catering business?’ I said, tapping her on the shoulder and staring her squarely in the eyes.

The colour drained from her face and she looked first at Peter then at me. ‘It’s not illegal,’ she stammered, sliding her eyes back to Peter, ‘is it?’

‘Er,’ said our committee chairman, ‘well . . .’

‘
These people
, Brenda,’ I continued, ‘are part of our community for the next few weeks. And quite frankly, I think you owe them and everyone else you have accused an apology.’

Brenda flicked her hair over her shoulder and flared her nostrils indignantly as if she was about to reply, but I hadn’t finished.

‘Alf made an effort to make friends with them, to trust them. And today of all days. . .’ My voice faltered and I swallowed. ‘Today of all days, we should perhaps have a bit more respect for others.’

Then I did what I seem to do best when faced with a confrontational situation: I walked away. I almost made it to the door unscathed.

‘Thank you for coming.’

I blinked and a tall man in his fifties with a chin-length black bob came into focus. Alf’s son, William. He held out a hand.

‘He was a lovely man, your dad,’ I said, as he clasped my fingers in a firm, dry handshake.

‘Very kind of you to say. Tilly, isn’t it? Dad talked about you.’

I nodded, flicking a glimpse over to the allotment crew. Brenda was dabbing her face with a tissue. Dougie caught my eye and rolled his eyeballs skywards.

‘Really, what did he say?’

He laughed nervously. I sensed he didn’t want to tell me, which made me even more curious. ‘Go on.’

‘He said he couldn’t understand why a smashing girl like you was on your own.’

Alf said that? My eyes brimmed with tears. William’s face dropped and he glanced around him with a grimace.

‘I’m so sorry.’ He reached towards me and then clearly thought better of it, plunging both his hands into his jacket pockets instead.

I hadn’t been to many funerals. I don’t think I spoke at all at the last one I went to, but perhaps some people react differently and say things they wouldn’t normally dare. Or perhaps William was flirting with me. He had certainly turned pink.

‘I spoke out of turn. None of my business,’ he stuttered.

‘I’m a widow.’

The word seemed to hang in the air and float between us. My mouth went completely dry and I stared at him. What on earth had I said that for?

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes. Well. So am I. For you, I mean.’

‘I’ve never been married.’

‘I meant for your loss. For Alf. He really was a lovely man. Excuse me.’ I squeezed out a wobbly smile and pushed past him. Suddenly I couldn’t bear to think about loss any more. Memories of the last funeral I’d been to came rushing back to me, my legs started to shake and I couldn’t breathe.

Open the door. Inhale the fresh autumn air. Walk. Keep walking. Keep breathing. Home.

I reached the safety of my little house in Wellington Street, closed the door behind me and slumped against it.

What time was it? Five o’clock. Was that all? One measly hour since I last checked. Hell.

Still four hours to go.

Cally meowed and wound himself around my legs. I cradled him in my arms and sank down onto the sofa. He purred for a while before springing off my lap haughtily. I didn’t blame him, the sobs I had finally allowed to surface weren’t exactly restful.

I couldn’t cope. I didn’t want to be on my own. My constant clock-watching was driving me mad. This time two years ago . . .

I needed Gemma. I had to talk to her. Tonight was the night. And anyway, what if William said something to someone about me being a widow? I’d feel terrible.

I punched her number into my phone and chewed the inside of my cheek while I waited to hear her bubbly voice.

Damn. It clicked through to voicemail and I thought I would expire with misery and frustration. I pressed the button to end the call and simply sat and stared at the screen, hoping that she’d call me back.

Yes! A text message flashed up at me.

Sorry, Tills, can’t talk at the mo. Am at Kingsfield General Hospital. Mia has broken three toes and we’re getting them strapped up. What did you want?

My chest heaved as I read her message. Good question. What did I want?

I typed a message back: Meet me later?

It would be hours before she was free. I didn’t care. I’d wait until midnight if I had to.

My stomach was growling but I didn’t want to eat. My body was tired, but I was restless and couldn’t bear to watch the TV. I dragged myself upstairs, ran a bath, lit some candles and turned on the radio.

I twisted my hair up into a bun, submerged my body until only my ears were above the waterline and allowed the smooth voice of the radio presenter to wash over me.

There was a talk show on that I’d heard before. The presenter always asked the interviewee when things had changed for them: When had the singer got her lucky break? When had the athlete realized he had Olympic potential? When had the drug addict decided to get help? The answer was invariably, ‘It was around the time when . . .’ And that always struck me as odd.

‘But when
precisely
?’ I wanted to ask. ‘Surely you must know?’

I
knew and I wished with all my heart that I could un-know it.

October the fourth two years ago. That was when my life changed.

I closed my eyes and slowly, gradually, let the memories flood in.

James had taken the afternoon off work to take me to hospital. We’d stared incredulously at the screen while our baby wriggled and waved back at us. We’d gasped at the speed of the ‘wow-wow-wow’ sound of his or her insistent little heartbeat.

We looked at each other and our happiness was so all-consuming it was almost palpable, and even the radiographer was beaming.

‘What do you think?’ I whispered to James.

‘I think our baby is beautiful,’ he said huskily, placing a kiss tenderly on my mouth. ‘Just like its mum.’

I had never loved my husband more than I did in that moment. Our future, the three of us, seemed so certain, so idyllic. I was going to be a mum and I was sure I had to be the luckiest woman alive.

It was his idea to drive straight over to his parents with the good news. We hadn’t been planning to tell anyone yet, but as we skipped across the hospital car park that afternoon, arms around each other, both of us with a finger and thumb on the scan photograph, we were too impatient to wait, too desperate to share our baby joy.

James’s dad wanted to open the champagne, of course. Just a small one, to celebrate, his mum had said. We ended up staying for dinner and at one point, I popped upstairs to a quiet room and phoned my mum. It didn’t seem fair to leave her out.

‘What shall we call you,’ I asked with a giggle, ‘next May when the baby comes, Nanny or Grandma?’

‘Nana,’ she’d replied instantly. ‘I’ll be Nana like in
Peter Pan
.’

We’d both cried and I didn’t remind her that Nana was the big dog. It had been a gloriously happy evening.

By nine o’clock we were in the car. James’s mum and dad waited on the doorstep to wave us off. It was pitch black and the windy rural road in Derbyshire where they lived was desperately lacking in street lights. I stuck my hand out of the car window and waved as James began to ease the car off his parents’ gravelled drive.

The impact was immediate.

A car, travelling at speed, wrong side of the road on the bend, came from nowhere. It hit us on James’s side, mounted our car, crushing my darling man while my hand was still in the air.

The thud, the spin, the airbags, screams, noise. My lungs screeching in terror, the blood racing through my body. And then nothing.

His parents had witnessed their only son’s death and when I gained consciousness an hour later everything was gone.

My husband. My baby. Our future. All gone.

My mobile phone rang and I nearly had a heart attack. I propelled myself out of the bath with such force that most of the water joined me on the bathroom floor and I slipped as I grabbed the phone.

‘Gemma,’ I gasped with relief.

Gemma had to be the world’s best ever best friend. When I said meet me at Ivy Lane allotments she didn’t question it. She just said she’d see me there.

I spread out a rug on my bench next to the shed, pulled my scarf tightly around my neck and waited.

The night air was still and incredibly clear.

Somehow, out here in the dark underneath a wide sky and a million glittering stars, James seemed tantalizingly close, his presence like a soft kiss, a warm breath on my face, a gossamer touch around my shoulders.

Love you for always, Tilly.

His voice swirled around me, filling my head, drenching my heart with an exquisite calm and even though I knew it was just the trees whispering their night-time lullabies, it felt wonderful.

I heard the approaching crunch of autumn leaves underfoot and then a blonde head appeared from behind her fruit trees.