Free Ivy Lane: Spring: by Cathy Bramley

comfort snuggled up in front of the TV with the
Downton Abbey
boxset and a slab of milk chocolate.
    Over the course of the weekend I filled her in on my new life in Kingsfield: funny stories about the children in my class, tales of triumph at the allotment and I even embellished my role as minute-taker at the committee meetings to reinforce just how well I was integrating back into society. It all sounded very positive, even to my ears. It did the job, too: Mum only mentioned the lovely young single man from the local history association twice and thankfully kept her comments about the telephone calls she had had from James’s parents to a minimum. I missed them both dearly, but I wasn’t ready to get in touch – not quite yet.
    She waved me off on the Sunday-afternoon train with a promise that as soon as I had a bed for the spare room, she would come and visit. She might love her only daughter but clearly wasn’t prepared to compromise on comfort.
    No sooner had the train pulled out of the station than my ears started to burn, my head began to throb and by the time I was back in Kingsfield I was running a fever.
    I woke on Monday morning bathed in sweat and could barely speak to phone in to school to report my absence. Three whole days passed in a fog of sleep, pain and paracetamol but by Wednesday the worst was over and I made it back into school for the end of term, much to the relief of my job-share partner who hadn’t done a full week’s work since 1999.
    The fallout of this unexpected turn of events was that it was Saturday morning, the first day of the Easter holidays, before the thought of my allotment even entered my head. Goodness only knew how big my carrots were going to be by the time I got round there! The beans were bound to be up by now and even the shallots would have thrown up their first little shoots.
    I switched off the TV, shed my pyjamas and packed a hasty snack-bag of Pringles and orange juice. It was only as I picked up my bag, wheeled my bike over the front step and prepared to lock the door that I remembered what I had forgotten to remember.
    Eek, the sweetcorn!
    Those poor little pots in the spare room hadn’t been watered since before I’d left for Harrogate. I dropped my bike and dashed upstairs fearing the worst.
    There they were; twelve white plastic cups that I’d filched from the staff room at school. Abandoned. Ruined.
    The compost had completely dried out and shrunk away from the sides of the cups. Ten of the seeds had germinated but I almost felt glad for the two that hadn’t. All ten little seedlings were dead; shrivelled and crispy.
    I gathered them up and carried them downstairs to put in the dustbin. I was cross with myself. And disappointed. Now I would have to sow some more. What a waste of time and effort.
    I was still reeling from the effects of my illness, hence my over-reaction to a few withered seedlings. But I could sense the signs; it didn’t take much to send me into a spiral of gloom these days and I needed to nip this setback in the bud before it took hold.
    I cycled off to Ivy Lane, pep-talking to myself all the way. This was a blip, a classic beginner’s mistake, no need to beat myself up over it, plus there was always tinned sweetcorn in an emergency.
    ‘Morning, Tilly,’ called Dougie, from the picnic bench outside the pavilion as I rode past. ‘Nice to see a bit a’ sun, after all the rain this week!’
    ‘Absolutely!’ I called back. Had it rained? I’d been in no fit state to notice. Rain was a good thing, though, at least the rest of my crops wouldn’t have failed from water-shortage in my absence. I couldn’t wait to inspect them.
    Christine flagged me down with both arms as I passed her plot and I dismounted reluctantly.
    ‘Seedling Swap Sunday tomorrow, Tilly,’ she said in such a tone that implied my presence was a given.
    I shook my head. ‘Maybe next year. I wouldn’t insult anyone by offering them any of my plants!’
    ‘Community,