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As the train drew out of the station, we were both laughing – me flopped back in my seat, breathless and giggling, and Ivy on the platform covering her face with her hands in mock horror.
She blew me a kiss as the train drew out of the station.
I never saw her again.
Eight months later
Spring (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5)
‘You can cut all the flowers but you cannot stop spring from coming’
– Pablo Neruda
ONE (#ub5c12577-79e7-555b-b857-87a4f19cf6e5)
I know I’ve cocked up again when Patty abruptly abandons the milk she’s frothing, and puts her arm around me.
I swivel my eyes at her in alarm.
My boss showers her dogs with love. But I’ve worked with her long enough – fourteen years to be precise, from being a Saturday girl at sixteen – to know that she’s fairly reserved when it comes to showing affection for actual people.
‘Oh, God.’ I bite my lip and throw a glance at the queue of lunch-time customers. ‘What did I do this time?’
Patty’s mouth quirks up at the corner. ‘You’ve just given poor Betty spicy tomato pickle with her fruit scone.’
I glance over in horror.
Betty, one of our elderly regulars, is removing her coat and settling herself at a corner table, clearly relishing the prospect of taking the weight off her bunions and tucking into a delicious home-baked scone with strawberry jam and cream.
She’s in for a nasty surprise.
Patty grabs me before I have a chance to charge over, and the empathy in her eyes almost floors me.
Ever since Ivy died, I’ve been walking around in a sort of stunned daze, doing things on autopilot. Which is why, I suppose, I gave Betty spicy tomato pickle instead of strawberry jam. And burned my hand on the coffee machine last week. As well as carefully spreading a mountain of rolls with gloopy baking fat before Patty noticed and stopped me. ‘Not sure our customers would appreciate the irony of having lard with their healthy salad sandwiches,’ she remarked dryly.
In all that time, I haven’t broken down in public even once, but all of a sudden, I’m perilously close to losing it in front of the entire café.
I dig my nails into my palms, which is meant to distract you from the emotion that’s threatening to knock you flat. It seems to work. And it’s also slightly less weird than crossing your eyes or rolling them around, other suggestions I found online.
I solve most of my practical problems online. Ivy was hopeless at DIY so I grew up tackling all the odd jobs around the house to save us money. I even fixed a leaky tap once with one of those step-by-step Wiki guides. As a result, I tend not to be daunted by tasks that other people would run a mile from.
My independent streak seems to baffle men. When they discover my parents died when I was four, they first of all think I must want to talk about it (which I absolutely don’t) and then they try to look after me and protect me from the big bad world. I should probably feel grateful. But instead, it makes me feel suffocated. That’s probably why my romantic history is peppered with fledgling relationships that I’ve ended because the guy wouldn’t give me the space I craved.
My latest doomed romance ended last summer after Adam, who I actually really liked and thought I might even be in love with, started hinting – after only three months – that we should move in together. He obviously took it as an affront when I said it was a little too early to think about that – because two weeks later, he left me for a glamour model he’d met at his local gym. I told myself I was fortunate to have found out about his shallowness so early on, and I tried not to mind when they got engaged a month after they met. Perhaps I was meant to be alone.
Ivy once told me I never gave romance a chance and she asked me if I thought I was running away from commitment. It would be natural, she said, after losing my parents so young, to fear the people I love might be snatched away from me.
Privately, I thought this was simply daft psychobabble. The guys concerned were just not for me, that was all.
‘Go and sort Betty out,’ Patty says. ‘And then go away and sort everything else out, okay?’
‘But …’ I glance at the queue of people, all staring at us expectantly.
She shakes her head, gently holding my wrists. ‘No buts, Holly. You were back at work the day after the funeral. Much too soon. And yes, I know the last thing you want to do is make the long journey back down to the Cotswolds and go through Ivy’s things …’
I swallow. ‘And get Moonbeam Cottage ready to sell.’
Just saying it makes my insides quiver. Moonbeam Cottage, in the heart of the Cotswolds, was such a huge part of Ivy’s life.
‘It has to be done.’ Patty’s tone is gentle but firm. ‘And the sooner the better, don’t you think?’ She pauses. ‘What would Ivy be saying to you now?’
I smile, tears filming my eyes. I can hear her in my head, speaking with that lovely West Country burr: ‘Don’t you stress yourself, my lover. Everything will be fine. Sooner you get down there, the sooner you’ll be back home again.’
I always trusted Ivy’s good sense above anyone else’s – except perhaps during those turbulent teen years when we fought as much as any parent and kid. She was a great mix of gentleness, modesty and steely inner strength, and I knew her better than anyone alive.
But now she’s gone …
I dig my nails into my palms until it hurts.
My grandma was special. I was so lucky to have had her in my life.
Actually, I never thought of her as ‘Grandma’. I always called her Ivy because, in reality, she was far more than just a grandmother; she was Mum, Dad and grandparent all rolled into one.
She scooped me up when I was four years old, after my parents died, and took us off to live in Manchester. Goodness knows why she chose Manchester. I once asked her why on earth she abandoned her beloved Moonbeam Cottage in the tiny village of Appleton to bring me to a big city where we knew no-one at all. She just laughed, tweaked my nose and said, ‘Isn’t that what fresh starts are all about, my lover?’
Ivy missed Mum so much – I’d hear her crying at night when she thought I was asleep – but she never ever dwelled on the day of the accident, at least not in my presence. She always said she preferred to look forward, taking me with her on our exciting ride into the future.
As a child, I piggy-backed on her zest for life; she never let fear get in the way of having an adventure – even though, on a supermarket check-out/school cleaner’s wage, the height of her walk on the wild side was our annual trip to the lights and magic of Blackpool.
Patty takes hold of my hands. ‘You don’t have to feel guilty about selling Ivy’s cottage, you know.’
I nod, unable to speak.
‘Would you want to live in Appleton? In the heart of the countryside?’ she asks gently.
‘No!’ My insides shift queasily at the thought. Visiting Ivy there occasionally I could cope with. But live in Appleton? With all the painful associations I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to push from my mind?
‘Look, love, Ivy just wanted you to be happy. She would be right behind you, whether you sold the cottage, rented it out or turned it into a refuge centre for cow-pat-hating city girls like you.’
I attempt a smile. It’s not the cow pats that are the problem, but I know that, in essence, Patty’s right. Ivy would have loved me to go with her when she moved back to the Cotswolds after she retired. But she understood that my fear of the countryside ran too deep for that. Ivy knew, as no-one else does, that the reason I cling tightly to my life here in the city is because I need to block out the past. It was why Ivy came to visit me in Manchester all the time. She wanted to make things easier for me. (Only rarely did I summon up the courage to go back to Appleton to visit her, and when I did, I could never totally relax.)
Selling Moonbeam Cottage really is my only option. I can’t drag my feet any longer. It’s now April, four whole months since Ivy died, and I’ve been putting off my trip down to the Cotswolds for far too long.
‘And don’t worry about leaving us short-staffed,’ Patty murmurs. ‘Olivia’s finished at uni and, as always, my delightful daughter is absolutely desperate for cash. So she’ll happily fill in while you’re away.’
‘She’ll do a much better job than me right now,’ I croak, feeling the familiar fears trickling in at the thought of returning to the countryside.
‘Maybe. But listen, Holly.’ Patty grips my shoulders and makes me focus. ‘Promise me you’ll take care of yourself? Take some time to get that beautiful head sorted.’ Gently, she brushes back a strand of honey-blonde hair that’s escaped from my ponytail.
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.
