Ivy Lane: Spring: by Cathy Bramley Page A

Charlie carrying a large tray of healthy, un-eaten broad bean plants. My cheeks burned with shame and I took a deep breath. Better get the worst bit over with and move on.
    ‘I’m sorry about yesterday.’
    ‘No worries. I know what you women are like. My ex was always losing her rag. “Emotional”, she used to call it.’ He smiled and his eyes twinkled at me. ‘Come on, let’s get these plants in.’
    He strode onto my half of the plot purposefully and I followed. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be compared to his ex, but at least he didn’t seem to be holding a grudge. It appeared to be a regular thing in our friendship: me apologizing to him.
    Charlie paused outside the shed and nodded towards the pocket of his tight jeans, his hands still full with the tray. ‘I’ve got your shed key in my pocket, help yourself.’
    Was it me or had it gone incredibly warm all of a sudden?
    He burst out laughing and held his hand out with my key in it. ‘Only kidding, you should have seen your face!’
    I let out a breath and laughed with relief. Good job Gemma wasn’t here, I’d never have lived it down.
    ‘Pass me a trowel and I’ll put them in for you now.’
    I opened the shed and found him a trowel, but when he asked for bonemeal, my face must have gone blank because he rolled his eyes and jogged back to his own shed to fetch some.
    I went over to examine my remaining shallots while I waited, but I soon had a visitor.
    ‘Callaloo,’ sang Dougie, producing a tray of spindly green shoots from behind his back, ‘a taste of Jamaica. Better than all your boring English rubbish.’
    ‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the tray from him. Whatever callaloo was. ‘Can I swap you for some sweet peas?’
    ‘No, but you can swap them for a kiss,’ he said, pushing his cap up and leaning in, lips already puckered.
    ‘Biscuit?’ I pressed the tin towards him to ward him off.
    ‘Spoil sport,’ he said with a wink, but took a biscuit anyway. ‘Keep them warm till the weather heats up,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Callaloo likes it hot, like me.’ He sauntered off, cackling to himself.
    Next to appear was Liz, hovering nervously on the path holding a pot. Her hair was pulled back into a rough ponytail and I could see her grey roots growing though the blonde highlights. She took a piece of shortbread from the tin and nibbled the edge.
    ‘I’ve brought you marigolds.’ She was so quietly spoken that I had to strain to hear her. ‘For companion planting. Put them near your carrots, they’ll ward off pests and help with pollination.’
    It was very kind of her. I handed her a pot of sweet peas, which she declared to be delightful and of a variety she didn’t have. She was just leaving as Charlie returned, and when he said hello, she seemed to shrink into herself and tiptoed away as fast as she could.
    He frowned as he watched her leave. ‘Something I said?’
    ‘Perhaps she’s allergic to testosterone,’ I said with a wry smile.
    He seemed to like that. I left him chuckling away, planting the broad beans while I took some sweet peas to Shazza and Karen next door and came back with a handful of onions to supplement my meagre shallot crop.
    Charlie’s method of planting was diametrically opposed to mine; no string and no straight lines, in fact, it was more of a patch than a row. I itched to intervene, but in the interests of inter-plot relations, I opted to fetch us both tea from the refreshment stall instead.
    Peter was in charge of the teapot and poured me two mugs of builder-strength brew. He smoothed the flap of hair across his balding head and coughed.
    ‘As chair of the committee, it grieves me to see new plot holders suffering any setbacks,’ he whispered gruffly.
    I murmured my thanks as I spooned sugar into Charlie’s tea, my cheeks flaming. It seemed news of yesterday’s meltdown had spread further than I’d imagined.
    ‘Plenty of lettuces going spare in my greenhouse, Tilly. I’ve done you a little