Ivy Lane: Spring: by Cathy Bramley

None of your neutrals: mustard, avocado, brown . . . I staggered out of the car, dripping with paint, and knocked on the nearest door for help.
    ‘Christine answered wearing this flowery nightie. A vision, she was.’ He looked off into the distance and I had to stop myself from tittering. ‘“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” she said, all forceful. I couldn’t believe my luck. We were married six months later.’
    ‘That’s a lovely story, Roy,’ I said, placing a mug of coffee in front of him. And the longest speech I had ever heard him make.
    ‘Never said it to me again, mind you.’ He took a sip of coffee and winced. ‘Got any whisky?’
    ‘No.’
    He shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘So it just goes to show.’
    He was working up to something. ‘What does?’ I asked.
    ‘Sometimes bad things happen for a reason. Like you having a bit of bad luck on the allotment.’
    ‘Do you really think so?’ My eyes filled with tears and I stared down at my mug. It was so sweet of him to come and cheer me up.
    ‘Don’t let it get you down. All gardeners lose a few crops now and again, it’s a steep learning curve and—’
    ‘Roy,’ I held a hand up, ‘I lost everything except the carrots. Why did I have to learn the hard way?’
    ‘Ha!’ He jabbed a finger at me. ‘You see, you’ve learned. You make a mistake, you move on.’ He paused and then added softly, ‘Same in life.’
    I couldn’t respond to that. My throat felt tight and I hugged my mug to my chest for comfort. I couldn’t bear it when people were kind; it made it so much more difficult to control my feelings.
    ‘Come to Swapsies Day, or whatever the hell it’s called,’ said Roy.
    My mouth twitched with a tiny smile at that, but I shook my head. ‘No. I don’t belong, I’ve got nothing to swap and I embarrassed myself yesterday.’
    ‘Heavens above, don’t I embarrass myself every day of the week?’ He flapped a hand at me. ‘And you’re one of us now, Tilly; course you belong. And if you’ll accept them, I’ve half a dozen pots of sweet peas you can have.’
    His kindness was too much and big happy tears filled my eyes. I put my mug down smartly before I changed my mind. ‘Go on then,’ I said bravely. ‘Let’s go.’
    ‘You might want to get out of your pyjamas first,’ said Roy with one bushy eyebrow aloft.
    ‘Good point.’
    We grinned at each other.
    I handed him his coat. ‘Thanks, Roy.’
    ‘See you in an hour. Don’t be late.’

Chapter 10
    The rain had dried up and there was a festival atmosphere at Ivy Lane allotments. Long trestle tables had been arranged outside the pavilion, some with plants, one with second-hand gardening books (I might have a browse there later) and another with refreshments. At the roadside end of most plots were small tables laden with plants and handmade signs indicating the varieties. People were milling about, wandering onto each other’s plots, swapping notes, exchanging plants and generally having a good old chin-wag.
    Despite my mood, I was charmed by it. A chink of hope appeared in my veil of misery and for an anxious moment I thought I might let out a hiccuppy sob. Thank goodness Roy had persuaded me to come; this was so much better than flopping around ankle-deep in self-pity at home.
    I had brought a nice tin of biscuits with me that I’d bought in Betty’s in Harrogate. Not exactly the same as swapping a seedling, but it was better than nothing.
    At the end of mine and Gemma’s plot I found six pots with several plants in each. A piece of paper was tucked underneath them and ‘Sweet Peas’ was scribbled on it in pencil.
    My heart contracted with gratitude. Over on their plot, I caught sight of Roy and waved. He waved back, held his newspaper up and disappeared into the shed. No doubt there would be a can of beer with his name on it somewhere in there. Good for him.
    A cheery voice broke through my reverie.
    ‘You get first dibs on my beans, Tilly.’
    It was