Read Online Ivy Lane: Spring: by Cathy Bramley - Free Book Online Page A

pots of sweetcorn sitting on my spare bedroom window sill (the sunniest spot in the house) and a thick row of carrot seeds next to the beans.
    Secretly, carrots (even if they were a miniature variety, like mine) fell into the ‘pointless because of price’ category, but so many people had told me to give them a whirl that in the end, I’d capitulated. I’d chosen to ignore Charlie’s advice, though.
    ‘Make sure you get rid of all the stones. If a baby carrot hits a stone, it’ll split in two and grow legs,’ he had warned.
    I didn’t mind that; novelty carrots would be infinitely more interesting. Besides which, stone-removal seemed like ridiculously hard work for a bunch of carrots. Digging the ground over with my new fork had taken enough effort. In fact, the reason I was looking for help with the shallots was that my bum still ached from all the squatting I’d been doing recently.
    ‘I grow potatoes,’ said Brenda, pointing to a few straggly plants, which was all she seemed to be cultivating.
    Just potatoes? I was so glad I hadn’t shared my ‘cheap as chips’ philosophy.
    ‘Planting season starts on Good Friday, so I’ll have my hands full then,’ she said. Her nails were long and painted a dark red; Gemma would have been impressed.
    ‘Although I’m not so bothered about earlies; I concentrate on main crops. Took me a while to sort that out, though. The first season I was here, I grew these tiny little spuds. You could have put ’em up your nostrils,’ she mimed the action for me with her forefingers, just in case I couldn’t imagine it for myself, ‘and still have drawn breath.’ She mimed that too.
    I said goodbye and approached the plot opposite Brenda where a silky-haired girl in denim dungarees was hoeing between rows of an oriental-looking cabbagey thing. She had a papoose strapped to her front. I had seen that baby before, but this time it was awake and its two dark brown eyes gazed at me between the straps. My step faltered and my breath caught in my throat; what a beautiful face. It was such a perfect little thing, completely content in its snug surroundings. I ached to touch that velvety skin. The woman – mid twenties, I’d say – looked up, smiled and then resumed hoeing. If pressed, I would hazard a guess that she was Chinese.
    ‘Gorgeous baby,’ I said. ‘Boy or girl?’
    ‘Girl.’
    Clearly not one for small talk. Which was fine.
    ‘Would you like a flapjack?’ I held out the tin in her direction.
    She looked at me through her dark fringe and shook her head. ‘We don’t eat sugar.’ And after a second’s pause, added, ‘Thank you.’
    ‘OK, bye then.’ I shrugged and turned to walk away.
    There was a ‘H-hum,’ behind me followed by a quiet, ‘I do.’
    I turned to see the lady I’d thought was elderly smiling shyly at me from the edge of her plot. Today she was hatless and obviously no more than fifty at most. She was slight, had shoulder-length grey-ish-blonde hair and the body language of a mouse.
    ‘Eat sugar, that is,’ she said.
    Hurrah, an ally in unhealthy food! I held the tin out but she had her hands full with pots and gestured for me to follow her into the polytunnel.
    Inside was very warm and heaving with greenery.
    ‘Flowers,’ she said, waving a proud arm across the polytunnel. ‘My plot is entirely devoted to flowers. No point growing veg, I don’t eat much. Except cake. And my flowers bring me great joy.’
    ‘What are these?’ I pointed to a cardboard box marked ‘swaps’ filled with small pots of plants, all different as far as I could tell.
    ‘They’re for Seedling Swap Sunday.’
    I’d seen the poster outside the pavilion. From what I could gather, plot holders with a surplus of seedlings could swap them with each other. I hadn’t paid it much attention; it seemed a little advanced for me. Nice idea, though, if you were into community events.
    I swapped names with Liz, handed her a flapjack and pressed onwards to the far corner