Ivy Lane: Spring: by Cathy Bramley Page B

tray, please help yourself.’
    Peter’s plot was on the other side of ours, although I’d rarely seen him do anything, he was always in the pavilion sorting out everyone else’s problems. People were so kind, I thought, as I weaved my way through the crowd back to Charlie, with a clump of radishes from Nigel in a bag looped over one arm and a full mug in each hand.
    By the time I got back the broad beans were in, as were the new onions, and my plot was looking a whole lot better than it had twenty-four hours previously, if slightly more chaotic. I felt a bubble of happiness rise in my stomach; maybe I had been a bit hasty to give up yesterday.
    Charlie downed his tea and tipped out the dregs. ‘Can you be left on your own for five minutes, while I swap the rest of these beans?’
    ‘Sounds like a line from a pantomime,’ I said. ‘What are you hoping for – a cow?’
    He rolled his eyes, hugged me to him briefly and left before I had chance to react. I felt my head lurch and my throat grow tight; how long had it been since I’d had a man’s arm around me like that? I sank down heavily on my bench and tried to ignore the tingling sensation that his touch had left on my body.
    Don’t panic Tilly, he’s just a friend.
    ‘Hiya!’
    Brenda, with her red hair and matching lipstick, stood before me, her arms straining under the weight of a hessian sack.
    ‘Miles away, you were. I’ve got a proposition for you.’
    Implausible as it seemed, Brenda was even more persuasive than Christine. By the time she left, I’d agreed that she could commandeer part of my plot to grow potatoes in exchange for a share of the crop. Apparently she was ‘going for gold’ this year and needed more space. Just what I’d always dreamed of – potatoes . . . However, given my track record so far it seemed like a good plan; the less space I had, the fewer mistakes I could make.
    I didn’t feel confident enough to wander around other people’s plots with my biscuits and sweet peas, so I stayed put and kept a beady eye trained on my broad beans in case the mouse burglar returned. Visitors came thick and fast and I rarely had a moment alone: pak choi from the Chinese-hippy-sugar-free mum, a spare piece of netting from Alfred who helped me make a broad bean-prison with it, and some pots of herbs from Vicky who had the plot nearest the gate.
    My favourite visitor was Colin. He waited until his mum was taking a turn manning the book stall and crept up bearing a gift of pea plants.
    ‘Can you keep a secret?’ he asked, glancing furtively over his shoulder. His check shirt hung off sloping shoulders either side of a concave chest and I couldn’t help but compare his with Charlie’s muscular physique.
    ‘I know about the modelling,’ I hissed, at the same time hoping he wasn’t about to reveal anything too risqué. It wasn’t that I was a prude, I was just, well, a little rusty in that department.
    ‘I’m not gay!’ he declared, pulling himself up tall.
    I was startled. That hadn’t entered my head. Until now.
    ‘Gemma says you’re a teacher.’
    I nodded, praying she hadn’t mentioned anything about the Easter card.
    ‘Would you help me with my reading in return for a bit of help with your allotment?’
    I had to stop myself from crushing him to my chest, I felt so sorry for him. I’d volunteered at an adult learning centre as a student; developing literacy skills in people who had struggled to cope with normal everyday tasks had been a massively humbling experience.
    Colin was waiting for my reply, chewing his nails and fidgeting from trainer to trainer. Designer. Modelling must pay well.
    ‘I’d be delighted,’ I said, meaning it from the bottom of my heart.
    He beamed at me and puffed out his chest. ‘Planting, weeding, anything; I don’t mind.’
    I sent him on his way with a bourbon biscuit, both of us richer from our chat.
    By lunchtime all the swapping was over. I sat down on the bench and cast an eye over my haul.