Free Ivy Lane: Spring: by Cathy Bramley Page A

Tilly; it’s the spirit in which it’s given that counts.’
    I made vague noises about seeing how the carrots had turned out which satisfied her and pushed my bike onwards. Charlie was loitering at the end of his plot, arms folded. Even though I was cryogenically storing my emotions for the foreseeable future, I must admit to casting an appreciative eye from his chunky boots, past his multi-pocketed army trousers and up to his white T-shirt, stretched tantalizingly across his broad chest. The petulant facial expression sort of ruined it, though.
    ‘You’re back, then.’ He turned and stomped off to his greenhouse.
    I was never going to make it to my own plot at this rate, I thought with a sigh, and followed Mr Sulky Pants up the path.
    ‘Wow!’ I said to break the ice. ‘You’ve been busy!’
    Every surface, every shelf and all the available floor space was crammed with seed trays brimming with bushy baby plants. I’d never really given greenhouses much thought, considering them only useful for growing tomatoes. If I was still here next year, I might get one.
    ‘I thought we were friends,’ said Charlie, not looking at me. He picked up a tray of seedlings and started transferring them one at a time into individual pots.
    ‘Ah,’ I said, nudging him teasingly, ‘we are friends. Have you missed me?’
    ‘I haven’t seen you for weeks.’
    ‘I’ve been ill.’
    He stared right at me then, his eyes like searchlights checking my face for the truth as if he didn’t believe me. I felt the hairs stand up on the back of neck; he was making me feel uncomfortable.
    ‘That’s all right then.’ He suddenly grinned, and instantly he was back to friendly Charlie, the one with the twinkly eyes and the cheeky smile. I felt myself relax a bit and changed the subject.
    ‘They look healthy little chaps,’ I said, nodding at his seedlings.
    ‘Broad beans,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got tons, I might donate some tomorrow.’
    So that’s what mine would look like with any luck. It struck me belatedly that he had sown his indoors, in the safety of his greenhouse. I had a pang of worry for my double row, left to battle with the elements.
    ‘Do they suffer from the rain if you plant them straight in the ground?’ I asked, unsure that I wanted to hear the answer.
    He flicked a bean from a pile of unplanted seeds towards me and I picked it up. ‘Mice. That’s the main problem. A seed is like a golden nugget to them.’
    ‘They eat them?’ I swallowed. I didn’t think I could cope with another loss so soon after the sweetcorn fiasco.
    ‘Yep.’
    I fled.
    There was no sign of life on Gemma’s half – human, that is – though the plot itself was burgeoning: her raspberries were starting to sprout leaves, plump onions protruded from the soil and a variety of greenery poked through a sheet of netting.
    One glance at my half confirmed that my fears had been valid.
    This was a nightmare, after all my hard work. I had been so happy with my modest success and everything was ruined. Instead of an immaculate double row of broad bean shoots, there was just bare earth, punctuated by mouse-sized holes. Not a speck of greenery in sight. I ran to unlock the shed and grabbed my trowel. The path was dotted with dead patches; the weeds had gone, but so had half the grass. I must have trodden in the weedkiller and walked it up the path.
    With a sinking heart I dropped to my knees and began to dig, hoping to prove myself wrong. Maybe they simply hadn’t germinated yet, or were just on the cusp of pushing their way skywards.
    I had to hand it to the mice; they were thorough. I skimmed the earth with my trowel from one side of the plot to the other and didn’t find a single bean.
    I sat back on my heels, knees caked in mud, panting with exertion, and tried to hold back the tears.
    Only then did I notice the shallots, or rather lack thereof. I must have planted a hundred, easily. Now there were . . . I did a rough count . . . no more than