Ivy Lane: Spring: Read Online Free

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 with the last of the potatoes. Between us we could make short work of that today.’
    ‘Sorry, Mum,’ sighed Gemma, ‘but I’ve been here hours already putting those onions in, my back’s killing me. I don’t think I could dig another spadeful.’
    She placed her hands in the small of her back, stretched and pulled an ooh-the-pain face. I glanced down at her pink trousers: not a fleck of mud. Not one.
    Christine tutted. ‘Ah well, ’tis a lovely job you’ve made of it, lovely. No matter, I’ll wait for your father.’ She started to stomp off. It seemed she did everything at top speed.
    ‘Christine,’ I called to her retreating hobbit-like form.
    ‘Yes, love?’ She turned and raised her eyebrows until they disappeared under her hat.
    ‘I think I’ll need to borrow . . . equipment . . . of some sort, for the next stage of my plan.’ I was out of my depth but loath to admit it after such a ‘grand start’. As soon as I got home, I would start that book that I’d borrowed from the library on the subject.
    ‘You will, you will.’ Christine nodded vigorously. ‘Meet me at the pavilion at six thirty this evening and I’ll show you the equipment list before the AGM.’
    AGM? No thanks.
    ‘But can’t I—’ I pleaded.
    ‘Good opportunity to meet folk, too.’ Christine zoomed in on a sprig of green in Gemma’s new onion bed and whipped it out. A weed, I presumed. I heard Gemma huff beside me.
    The very thought sent shivers down my spine. I changed tack. ‘I don’t think I’m free—’
    ‘My potatoes are calling, bye for now.’ Christine was already at the roadside as she raised her hand.
    ‘But, Christine?’
    ‘See you later.’ She was gone.
    You can’t say I didn’t try.
    ‘I don’t want to go to the AGM,’ I said with a sigh.
    ‘Told you she was tricksy,’ said Gemma, rubbing her hands together merrily. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re coming, you can keep me company, not to mention lowering the average age by fifty years.’
    ‘Well, in that case, I can’t wait,’ I said with a grin. I zipped up my (James’s) jacket.