Where Love Grows

by Cathy Bramley

Genres: Sea Adventures; Friendship; Small Town & Rural; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

New beginnings are in full bloom... Tilly Parker needs a fresh start, fresh air and a fresh attitude if she is ever to move on with her life. As she seeks out peace and quiet in a new town, taking on a plot at Ivy Lane allotments seems like the perfect place to hide away. But the friendly Ivy Lane community has other ideas and gradually draw Tilly in to their cosy, comforting world of planting seedlings, organizing bake sales and planning seasonal parties. As the seasons pass, will Tilly learn to stop hiding amongst the sweetpeas and let people back into her life - and her heart? *This book is published in the UK as Ivy Lane * *** Readers are captivated by Cathy Bramley's heartwarming stories: 'Funny and sweet and as satisfying as a homemade apple pie' Milly Johnson 'As comforting as hot tea and toast made on the Aga!' Veronica Henry 'A delicious tale of friendship, family and baking... I loved its warmth and charm' Cathy Woodman 'Delightfully warm with plenty twists and turns' Trisha Ashley

Release date: March 21, 2019

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 356

Sample

I did up my coat, pulled on a woollen beret and wrapped an excessively long scarf around my neck until only my nose and eyes were left bare. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking that I was trying to exit my new little terraced house incognito. But I wasn’t. There was no need; no one knew me anyway.

It was the thing I loved most about it. Apart from the original tiled fireplace in the front room. That was unexpectedly pretty.

Here in Kingsfield, a small market town on the edge of Derbyshire, I could start afresh. Although I had only moved a paltry twenty miles, the simple joy of not facing pitying smiles and awkward silences would make a huge improvement to my life, I was sure of it.

The front door was sweet, too, with its stained-glass panel. I hadn’t noticed it when I came to view the house. That particular December day had whizzed by in a blur. I’d arrived for an interview at All Saints Nursery and Infant School with low expectations for my chance of success and somehow was offered the job on the spot. I called in to the local estate agent’s on a whim and was shown details of a ‘highly desirable property ideal for madam’s needs’. Ten minutes later I was viewing it. The decor was dated, the kitchen was tiny and the bathroom tiles were held on with mildew, but it was only five minutes from school and I liked that it was such a clear, empty space. There had also been a leaflet poking out from the letterbox advertising vacant allotment plots, which was when inspiration had struck.

Serendipitous to say the least. I’ve probably spent longer choosing a takeaway.

As I held the front door open I steered my bicycle carefully over the front step, past the remaining packing cases, taking care not to further damage the hall wallpaper after yesterday’s unfortunate accident with an anglepoise lamp, and stared at the sky.

If James was here …

My eyes welled up with instant tears and my step faltered. I really had to stop beginning my thoughts with that phrase, but as it was New Year’s Day, I let myself off this once.

But if James was here, he would look up at the clouds and say, ‘Ah Cumuly Cirruly (or something similar) – perfect conditions for a ten-mile stint up a hazardous mountain path.’

But as he wasn’t here, I would have to settle for simply knowing that the sky was an encouraging shade of blue and the clouds the merest of gossamer wisps. As New Year’s Days went, it was not bad at all.

I glanced back at the row of coat pegs in the hallway and decided against wearing my yellow hi-vis waistcoat. I would be home before it got dark and in all honesty, although my personal road safety was of paramount importance, it really did clash with my coat. I have some standards. My cycle helmet was a must, though, I decided, forcing it on over my beret.

I mounted the saddle, pocketed my front-door key and pushed off, glad for once of the padding on my rear-end, the result of sitting on it for a year and feeling sorry for myself.

‘Onwards and upwards, Tilly!’ as my dear old mum would say.

Although I didn’t quite have my bearings yet, I was pretty sure of the way; Ivy Lane allotments was less than a two-minute cycle from Wellington Street, where I lived. In fact, I could have walked. But these days I went everywhere I could by bike; I had learned that cycling past people with a cheery wave was far preferable to having to stop and chat.

Noon on the first of January and the streets were deserted. I didn’t pass a single car or person along Wellington Street. Hardly surprising given that most of my new neighbours had welcomed in the New Year enthusiastically with fireworks, loud parties and even, sometime after two if I recall, an outdoor drunken conga. I turned into the next road, past a little arcade of shops; the newspaper shop was open and the pub on the corner had all its lights on, but the café, estate agent and other small businesses were closed. I cycled past my new school; a few days and I would be there. Working. The thought gave me the collywobbles and I cycled a bit faster.

Ivy Lane was very similar to Wellington Street: larger semi-detached houses at one end and terraces at the other. The allotments were well hidden and I had to cycle up and down the street twice before I spotted a gap in the terraced houses. I put out my hand, indicating to no one that I was turning right, and followed the driveway to the end.

‘Thank you,’ I murmured to the wooden noticeboard welcoming me to Ivy Lane allotments.

Imposing metal security gates with an enormous padlock on the inside formed the entrance to the site, which made me feel both safe and slightly nervous. I braked in front of them and took the manila envelope from my pocket. All my dealings with the allotment committee had been done by email prior to my arrival in town and this was my first visit. I had a welcome letter from a lady called Christine, allotment secretary, a key for the padlock and a map showing me how to find plot 16B, which was technically half a plot as someone else rented 16A.

Undoing a padlock that weighed more than a Shetland pony and was on the far side of the gate whilst simultaneously supporting a bike between my knees was a mistake, but by the time I realized this, both my trembling arms were through the bars and I was committed. After twenty seconds of fumbling, the padlock fell to the ground.

I was in. David Blaine, eat your heart out.

Flushed with exertion and success, I hauled myself and my trusty bike inside and re-locked the gate.

A tarmacked road, wide enough to take a car, curved through the middle of the allotments. Either side of it, the ground was divided into neat rectangles of earth, each separated from its neighbour by a wide grass border. My heart soared at its symmetry and order. I loved a nice right angle. Back gardens of the terraced houses on Ivy Lane formed one boundary of the site and a mixture of hedgerow and trees formed the other.

I began to wheel my bike along the road, keeping an eye on the wooden stakes at the end of each plot, indicating its number. I didn’t see any As or Bs, though – how would I be able to tell which half of plot sixteen was mine?

The allotment site stretched further than my eye could see but I guessed there were around thirty plots. Surprisingly, there was a lot more to the place than just vegetable beds: nearly every plot had some sort of tree, bare now, of course, in the middle of winter, but I could imagine how lovely it would look in the summer. Sheds seemed to be very popular, from stylish little huts with net curtains at the windows to ramshackle affairs made from corrugated plastic and old doors. Greenhouses, patio furniture, picnic tables, water butts, even the odd barbecue … The place was certainly well used, by the look of it.

I paused in front of a low wooden building like a cricket pavilion in the centre of the site. There were no lights on and, like the rest of the allotment, it was completely deserted. A couple of Portaloo-style toilets and a garage completed what I assumed to be official headquarters.

Quashing the feeling that I was trespassing, I continued my explorations and soon found myself at plot sixteen.

Oh.

Despite my horror, I couldn’t help a wry smile from escaping; I needn’t have worried about establishing which half was mine.

The end nearest the road had a splendid display of green tufts, which I recognized as leeks, reminding me of my previous headmaster’s dubious hair transplant, although his had been black, not green obviously. Behind them, I spotted fat red cabbages and huge green spikes – I squinted to focus my eyes. Sprouts! Goodness, I never knew sprouts grew on sticks like that! And right at the back was a complicated arrangement of canes and string, protecting what looked like bare twigs.

Beyond two trees and a neat wooden shed was my half. The contrast was, to put it mildly, shocking.

You know the story of Sleeping Beauty falling asleep for a hundred years and the forest outside the castle becoming overgrown and impassable?

That was my half.

I thought back to my collection of garden tools, which consisted of a pink hand fork, a trowel, matching gloves and a rake. Woefully inadequate. My gardening experience was limited to buying coriander by the pot and making cress egg-heads with my class two years ago. It had always been James’s dream to grow our own vegetables, whereas I had been more than happy with Birds Eye peas and a tin of sweetcorn.

I propped the bike up against a bench and tiptoed across the dewy grass towards my end for a closer inspection.

So this was to be my ‘new interest’. Hands on hips, I surveyed the brambles, nettles, thistles, dock leaves and some other trailing weed and tried to conjure up positive thoughts.

Neglected, unloved, desolate …

Stop right there, thank you very much. Deep breaths, Tilly.

I blinked and stretched my eyes to send a clear message to the tears.

New Year’s resolution number one: We are moving on.

OK, that was better.

I was here because I needed a fresh start, a fresh attitude and some fresh air, at least, that was what my counsellor had told me. And my mother had agreed, especially to the fresh air bit. Apparently I was beginning to acquire the complexion of Miss Havisham.

The undertaking of an allotment seemed an ideal way to tackle New Year’s resolution number two: Keep busy.

That shouldn’t be difficult; if I was to bring this patch of wilderness back to life, I would certainly have my hands full.

Plus, above all else, I craved peace and solitude, and what could be more peaceful than gardening? A bank holiday and this place was like a morgue! I shivered. Yes, I felt sure that New Year’s resolution number three would be easy to stick to here: Keep myself to myself.

And as maudlin as it sounded, if I was entirely honest, I thought if James somehow knew that I was getting down and dirty with Mother Nature, he would in some small way be proud of me.

What do you think, James, can I make a go of it?

‘Of course you can, love,’ came the reply, close to my ear.

I screamed.

My heart thumped. I clutched at my chest and lost my balance, slipping from the turf into a patch of thorns.

‘Steady!’ Two strong arms grabbed me from behind and yanked me to safety.

Miss Clumsy Oaf strikes again. And I still had my cycle helmet on. Great look, Tilly. Oh well, at least my scarf was covering the worst of my blushes.

I turned towards my assailant-cum-rescuer and bent to remove a prickly frond from my tights, buying time to get my breathing back under control. Assailant was perhaps a bit harsh. In front of me was a man, older than me, with close-cropped hair, blondish, and a very sheepish smile. Broad and beefy were the two words that instantly came to mind.

‘I was going to say you’ll fit right in here, you know, talking to yourself, but I guess I should apologize for frightening you. I came to introduce myself,’ he said, his blue eyes creasing with concern.

I didn’t know what was worse: the fact that I had been talking to myself or that I wasn’t aware that I had spoken out loud. I made a mental note to watch out for this worrying development in future.

He fiddled with the sleeves of his thick woollen jumper and seemed to be waiting for me to speak but I was still panting and clutching my chest.

He cleared his throat and stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Charlie. Pleased to meet you and, er, sorry again.’

I took my helmet off and shook his hand.

‘Tilly.’ My voice came out all rusty from disuse. Good. I couldn’t have been talking that much, after all.

‘So what are you up to today?’ he said, eyeing up the tangle of weeds behind me. ‘Clearing?’

Clearing. The very word filled me with panic. I couldn’t possibly clear this patch of wasteland on my own. What had I been thinking? I wondered if it was too late to swap to another plot. Perhaps someone else would enjoy the challenge. Someone who owned a spade, for example.

‘Um …’

‘Gemma will be pleased to have someone her age sharing the plot. We’ve all been speculating who would take it over since the last lot got kicked off.’

Kicked off? I swallowed, wondering what misdemeanour warranted a ‘kicking off’. If it was incompetence, I would probably soon be joining their ranks. A woman my age sounded promising, though. Unless she was as nosy as Charlie.

‘You don’t say much, do you? Not that I’m complaining. My ex never shut up. It used to do my head in. I love peace and quiet. That’s why I’m down here now; I thought I’d be the only one without a hangover today. Looks like I got that wrong.’ He grinned at me. ‘Not that I’m complaining. Now I’m repeating myself. Oh, please say something, you’re making me nervous.’

I laughed at that and he wiped his brow with mock relief. He was very sweet and was trying so hard to be friendly. It wasn’t his fault that I had also chosen today to explore because I’d wanted to be alone.

‘This visit is just a recce.’ I straightened my beret and smoothed my elaborate side fishtail plait (the result of too many hours watching YouTube videos). ‘To see what I have let myself in for.’

He raised his eyebrows.

I cringed. ‘I wanted a challenge but …’ My voice faded and I realized part of me was already planning on giving up.

Charlie stepped forward and kicked at the brambles with the toe of his boot. ‘You wait, you’ll soon lick this into shape. That’s the miracle of gardening. As soon as spring comes, stuff wants to grow, it’s nature, isn’t it?’ He shrugged.

He bent down and poked at the ground. ‘Look.’

I crouched down at his side to see what he had found. He smelt of woodsmoke and earth. This was the closest I had been to a man in eons. There was a chance I was blushing.

Charlie pointed at a clump of green spikes just visible above ground. ‘Green shoots. New life. No matter how badly this plot was treated last year, it still has hope, do you see? It’s still going to try again.’

I stood up quickly. ‘I see,’ I mumbled.

‘My plot’s over there.’ Charlie straightened up and pointed to the far side. ‘The one with the creosoted shed.’

I nodded politely.

‘I’ll leave you to it for a bit. But come over later and I’ll show you round.’

‘Sure.’

As soon as he was out of sight I planned to make my exit. I belatedly remembered my manners and thanked him as he strode away.

Now, where was I? As well as the plot that time forgot, I had inherited a dilapidated compost bin made from old wooden pallets, a scruffy slabbed area that might once have had a shed on it, a flaking wrought-iron bench and a stumpy tree. It seems everything on plot 16B needed some TLC, I thought, sitting briefly on the bench until the cold penetrated my coat.

Join the club.

I coughed. ‘Join the club.’ I hadn’t said it aloud the first time, I was sure of it. Phew.

Beyond my plot was the allotment boundary bordered by a swathe of trees. I wandered through them, brushing the low-hanging twigs back from my face. Ahead of me, two branches from neighbouring trees had entwined to form a natural archway and someone had placed a stone bench beneath them. I gasped. Even on a cold January day, it was totally enchanting and the romance of the setting brought unexpected tears to my eyes.

I turned hurriedly to retreat to the safety of plot sixteen and smacked straight into a wall of muscle encased in rough wool.

‘Don’t tell the committee, but I’ve had a key cut to the pavilion. Come on, I’ll make you a cuppa, you’re shivering.’

Jesus Christ. This chap was as stealthy as a ninja.

I stood my ground. ‘Charlie, if we are going to be friends,’ I instantly regretted my words as his face lit up, ‘you have got to stop creeping up on me. I can barely tolerate other people’s company at all, let alone surprise attacks.’

I shouldn’t have said that; now he was crushed.

‘Oh, go on then,’ I said, softening. ‘A hot drink would be lovely.’

The inside of the pavilion smelt of old socks and wet dog and it was only marginally warmer than outside, but it did have the major attraction of a kettle and as my feet had the onset of frostbite, I was glad to come inside. Apparently we had to sit in the dark, though.

‘Half the committee live in that row of terraced houses over there.’ Charlie nodded through a dirty window towards the back gardens facing on to the allotments. He lifted two chairs from a stack and set them next to the central table. ‘One sign of life from this place and they’ll be over like a shot with pitchforks and air rifles.’

Marvellous. Day One and I get attacked by an angry posse for breaking and entering. I could see the headlines already.

Charlie disappeared into the tiny kitchenette while I sat and waited. The room reminded me of a scout hut: wooden floorboards, lots of windows and zero insulation. I could imagine it all steamed-up during committee meetings. At one end of the room, above some cupboards, was a series of posters: rules (lots of), price lists (everything from Manure to Mars bars) and notices (AGM, contact details for the committee and social events). This allotment lark looked to be a full-time occupation for some, and I hoped that no one tried to rope me into social events. That was so not on my agenda.

Charlie handed me a mug of black coffee, added two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his own and offered me a slug of brandy from his hipflask, which I declined.

He waggled his eyebrows playfully as he sloshed some in his own. ‘Just a drop to warm the cockles. Shouldn’t really; it plays havoc with my medication.’ He crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out to one side as if to reassure me he was joking and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Sitting in the Palace of Pong with a complete stranger drinking the worst coffee of my life should have had me running a mile, but I was actually semi-happy. I felt proud of myself all of a sudden.

You’re doing it, Tilly, you’re actually moving on.

‘So,’ said Charlie, smacking his lips. ‘I’m thirty-five, single, a fireman, moved to Kingsfield five years ago. Took up allotment gardening as a form of stress-relief. You?’

I took a deep breath. This was the bit I hated. ‘I’m twenty-eight, new to Kingsfield, a teacher. Start a new job next Monday. I thought I’d start gardening to force myself out of the house, get away from marking books.’ It was partly true. I cradled the mug in my hands and let the steam defrost my nose. Charlie was nodding; he was a very good listener.

I sighed. ‘I’m a complete novice, though. Seriously, I don’t know my cucumbers from my courgettes. Goodness knows how I’m going to cope.’

He jumped up, rummaged through the cupboards at the far end of the room and returned with a packet of biscuits. We slurped and dunked for several moments before Charlie set his mug down and touched me lightly on the arm.

‘Don’t worry about it. That’s the beauty of this place. Everyone is so generous with their time and their knowledge.’ He chuckled. ‘Even their veg in the summer. There’s no shortage of expertise here; even after three years, I’m still learning from others. You’ll love it; we’re like one big family.’

I spluttered and choked and sprayed a mouthful of hot coffee all over Charlie’s face. We both jumped to our feet; my face red with embarrassment, Charlie’s red from scalding liquid. I slammed down the mug, grabbed my cycle helmet and ran from the pavilion.

‘What?’ pleaded Charlie from behind me. ‘What did I say?’

‘Sorry,’ I yelled over my shoulder. ‘Got to go.’

Family. The tears streamed down my face as I cycled back home. I wasn’t ready – might never be ready – for another family.

It was six weeks before I dared show my face at Ivy Lane allotments again. I had been fully occupied with settling in to my new job and, much to my surprise, I was absolutely loving being back in the classroom. It was only three days a week, a job share with another teacher, but it had been fifteen months since I had last worked and even getting up in the morning at seven a.m. had taken some getting used to, let alone the lesson planning, marking and interaction with hordes of strangers, big and small. The weather had also provided me with a good excuse to stay away by snowing heavily and then freezing and finally flooding; definitely not conducive to gardening. And besides, I was putting off facing Charlie again.

But it was February half-term, my school work was up to date and my meagre possessions were all unpacked and neatly arranged at home, and I had completely run out of excuses not to come.

This time as I cycled slowly down the road towards my plot, I noticed several other people dotted around: in greenhouses, bent over crops, pushing loaded wheelbarrows, and there was a gentle sense of industriousness about the place. I felt my spirits lift and took large nosefuls of fresh air.

It was simply a matter of making my wilderness tidy and orderly, and growing things to eat, I supposed. No need to stress or panic over it.

I discarded my bike at the bench, marched on to plot sixteen and prepared to make a plan. Two things struck me instantly: behind the sprouts on plot 16A was a newly dug bed of soft black soil, hundreds of little white lumps protruding from the earth. Whoever owned this half of the plot was clearly a very hard worker. Secondly, there was music coming from the shed.

I hesitated.

There was a good chance that I would have to make polite conversation with said ‘hard worker’. On the other hand, there was no time like the present for setting some ground rules. I would be polite but distant; on no account did I want to get embroiled in some ardent gardeners’ discussion about the merits of manure versus leaf mulch.

I knocked on the shed door with, I felt, the perfect amount of force: assertive but not unfriendly. The music stopped, followed by a yelp and a tinkle of glass. I swallowed. What was I interrupting exactly? Perhaps I should tiptoe away and come back later …

The door opened a fraction and one big blue eye stared at me through the gap. I caught a flash of blonde hair and an over-powering blast of … nail polish?

‘Heart attack dot com!’ squealed whoever it was.

The door flew open and the shed’s occupant grabbed me by the arm, hauled me inside and slammed the door shut. We both landed in deckchairs opposite one another.

‘I thought you were my mother!’

She rolled her eyes skywards, fanned her face and retrieved a bottle of clear nail polish from behind a plant pot. Then, worryingly, she did a double-take and gasped. ‘Oh gosh! You’re not a homeless person, are you?’

I glanced down at my outfit: brown waterproof jacket (James’s), grey jogging bottoms (James’s), brown and green check shirt (you’ve guessed it – James’s). Unflattering, yes. Baggy, certainly. Comforting sort of body armour, absolutely. But homeless?

‘No,’ I said, my voice aiming for casual. ‘I’m Tilly, I’ve taken over the other half of this plot. These are just my gardening clothes.’

‘Oh, you’re Tilly.’ My kidnapper smiled at me knowingly, nodding her head as if I had just solved a Sudoku puzzle for her. ‘Right. I’m Gemma.’

Gemma was roughly my age, or maybe a little younger. She had short blonde curly hair swept off her face and pinned to one side with a satin pink rose. She wore a pale pink velour hoody and matching trousers. Her face appeared to be completely free of make-up but her skin was glowing, her bright eyes framed by long eyelashes and lovely eyebrows. I don’t think I’d ever noticed anyone’s eyebrows before. I bet she thought my face looked like an uncooked doughnut. But the most unusual thing about her – considering that she was sitting in a shed – was that she seemed to be in the final stages of a French manicure and was waving her nails in the air to dry them.

I didn’t wish to cast aspersions, but she didn’t look much like a gardener. And why was she worried about being caught by her mother at her age? I revised my motivations for knocking on the shed door; I was curious to know more and, anyway, Gemma didn’t seem the type to discuss fertilizer options.

‘Have you seen my mum?’

I shook my head. ‘Don’t think so. Who is she?’

Gemma grinned. ‘Christine. Allotment secretary, rosy face that looks like she scrubs it with Brillo pads and grey permed hair. I swear she’s the last person in Britain to perm her hair. Soon folks will be travelling from the four corners of the earth to look at her crinkly head. Feels like that seaweed you get at the Chinese. I love her to bits, though.’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I’m meeting her this afternoon, to be officially welcomed to the allotments.’

‘I’ll warn you, though: she’ll have you signed up to some sub-committee or working party before you can say—’ Gemma looked at my feet, ‘new wellies.’

I made a mental note to get my new boots dirty before going home. Nothing screamed ‘newbie’ like immaculately clean Cath Kidston wellingtons.

‘Make yourself useful,’ said Gemma, pointing towards a stubby thermos flask. ‘Pour us a drink while these babies dry and you can tell me all about yourself.’

I did as I was bidden – it seemed easier – and gave the usual minimal details that I was now used to imparting before deflecting the conversation back to my new neighbour. The liquid in the flask was cranberry tea and utterly revolting.

‘Unusual place to give yourself a manicure,’ I said, raising an eyebrow and concentrating on not wincing at the taste of the tea.

The shed had two windows, shelves containing glass jars, tools, balls of string, plastic seed trays, a bottle of baby oil and nail varnish remover. Bigger tools were hung up on nails on the back wall and an open bag of compost sat in the corner. On the back of the door was a mirror.

‘Yes, well, seeing as I’d finished planting the onions, I thought I’d treat myself,’ said Gemma. ‘Let’s open the door, shall we?’ She stood up, dropped her nail polish into her handbag and propped open the door with a watering can.

There was something a bit shifty about her answer but I decided not to pry.

‘You’ve made a nice job of it,’ I said instead, inspecting the pearly white tips of her short nails.

‘I’m a beautician,’ she said, dismissing her handiwork with a shrug.

If she wasn’t a stereotypical gardener, she wasn’t a stereotypical beautician either. Where was the orange make-up, the false eyelashes and the plunging neckline? I had a sudden urge to hold a forefinger over my eyebrows and another over my top lip. ‘Ungroomed’ – if there was such a state – didn’t begin to cover it.

‘But I firmly believe that beauty comes from within,’ she continued with a sigh. ‘That’s why I do this.’ She waved a hand over her allotment. ‘Growing your own veg, eating healthily, getting out in the fresh air …’

Inhaling acetone in a closed shed, I added mentally.

‘Talking of which, I should get on,’ I said, getting to my feet reluctantly. (I could hardly believe it – I was actually quite enjoying our chat. The ground rules seemed to have gone out of the window.) ‘I’ve got an incredibly bushy patch to sort out.’

‘I can help with that,’ said Gemma, following me out of the shed and past the trees, towards my half of the plot.

‘No,’ I said. Gemma flinched. I must have pulled my owl face. James used to say I was dead scary when I did that. ‘Thank you,’ I softened my voice, ‘but I can manage.’

Gemma shrugged and showed no signs of leaving me alone. I gave her ten out of ten for persistence. ‘OK, but if you change your mind, I’ll do mates’ rates. Fifteen quid for a bikini wax.’

I hooted with laughter. As if I would discuss my, er, lady garden issues in public.

‘No. That bushy patch!’ I said, pointing towards the bramble mountain of Kingsfield. ‘Oh!’

How bizarre, the weeds had almost gone. The entire rectangular plot looked like it had been given a very bad haircut. All that remained was a scruffy covering of stubble. But what an improvement! I stared at the ground, my brain trying to work out what I was seeing.

Gemma’s all-knowing smile was back.

‘Did you—’ I began.

She cut me off with a shake of her head. ‘Charlie did it. He said he frightened you off when he met you and felt really bad about it. He borrowed a strimmer and cleared the weeds by way of apology.’

I felt my face go bright red. Poor Charlie. Other than try to be friendly, he had done nothing wrong.

‘I thought at the time he was being very generous,’ said Gemma, her lips twitching. ‘It all makes sense now.’

I was saved further analysis of this turn of events by the appearance at the end of our plot of a small stout person of indiscriminate sex wearing a bobble hat, duffel coat and black wellingtons.

‘Gemma, love, there you are!’

A woman then, judging by the voice, with a soft Irish accent. She marched closer and beamed when she saw me.

‘You must be Tilly,’ she cried, picking up speed. She flung her arms round my waist (I don’t think she could have reached any higher) and squeezed me tightly, tickling the end of my nose with her bobble hat. ‘I’m Christine. Allotment secretary. Delighted, delighted,’ she said. ‘And what a grand start you’ve made. Grand, grand.’

‘Remember what I said. She’s tricksy,’ whispered Gemma.

I took a step backwards in a vain attempt to regain my personal space.

Christine turned to her daughter. ‘I thought you could give me a hand