Ivy Lane: Winter: by Cathy Bramley

presentation of the awards and my shoulders slumped with relief. True to his word, he and Christine handed out the various trophies, cups and shields with efficiency and speed and even I got a mention for my prize-winning apples. The apples I hadn’t even entered.
    Before long there were just two prizes left on the table. A large shield and a small silver cup.
    Christine picked up the shield, opened her mouth and paused before speaking.
    ‘The Ivy Lane Committee trophy, as most of you know, goes to the plot holder with the most points awarded overall at the annual show. And this year . . . this year—’ Christine’s voice broke and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
    I felt a lump in my throat. I was pretty sure who had won.
    Peter stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Christine’s shoulder. ‘This year’s winner is Alf,’ he finished for her. ‘Would you all please raise your glasses to absent friends? Alf, we miss you dearly. Merry Christmas, old chum.’
    My eyes sparkled with tears as I and my fellow gardeners drank a toast to the lovely Alf.
    Christine dabbed her eyes with a tissue and took a deep breath. ‘We’ve decided that it’s only fair that Alf is crowned our winner and we’ll leave the trophy in the pavilion until someone else wins it next year.’
    ‘Hear, hear!’ said Nigel, sparking off another round of applause.
    ‘Which leaves us with just this one prize left,’ said Peter, collecting the silver cup from the table. ‘The committee has decided that in remembrance of Alf, we would like to establish a new award. The Alf Jackson award for outstanding contribution to Ivy Lane life.’
    This was news to me. Not that anyone needed my say-so to hand out awards, of course; I was very much the junior member of the committee. Even so . . . I sniffed and tried to maintain a neutral expression.
    ‘This prize will be awarded annually,’ continued Peter, ‘and from next year, each plot holder will vote for who they think deserves the title. But this year the committee has nominated a winner.’
    I folded my arms. Make that
most
of the committee.
    ‘This person has thrown herself into Ivy Lane life with gusto.’
    So it was a woman. Probably Christine. I couldn’t think of another woman more full of gusto than her.
    ‘She was instrumental in the success of the
Green Fingers
show and took one of the community service youngsters under her wing.’
    Christine again, although I was less sure about the community service bit. Not that I was one to boast, but I was fairly sure I’d made more of an effort with Hayley than anyone else after Alf died.
    ‘She has supported every Ivy Lane event this year and even organized our most successful one single-handedly, despite being new to our community and new to gardening.
    Now that definitely sounded like . . .
    ‘Congratulations to Tilly!’
    Me?
    Tears filled my eyes as everyone clapped and I stood there for a few seconds stunned. Then I leapt up to the front, threw my arms around Christine and Peter’s necks and hugged them until they begged for mercy.
    ‘I’m not sure that I deserve it, but thank you, thank you,’ I squealed, as Peter handed me the cup. ‘Oh, this has made my night. Thank you so much!’
    ‘Now if you’d all like to re-charge your glasses, we’ll be doing our Secret Santa in a few minutes,’ announced Peter.
    Nigel turned the music back up and everyone started milling around again.
    ‘Thank you again,’ I said to Christine, pulling her back towards me for another hug. ‘Truly. I’m overwhelmed.’
    She smiled indulgently at me. ‘You deserve it, love, now away with you and enjoy yourself.’
    I whirled round to share the moment with Gemma, but she was staring at her feet. The smile fell from my face and I pushed past assorted chairs, people and obstacles to get to her side.
    ‘Gemma?’
    The tone of my voice must have startled Mike. He turned to his wife and followed her gaze to the floor. ‘You all right, Gem? Oh