can manage?’
‘Definitely.’
He grunts, not looking at all convinced, and I feel my hackles stir.
‘You’re welcome to borrow gardening tools. Have you got a strimmer to get rid of these thistles and nettles? Because that’s a big job,’ he points out, axe balanced over his shoulder, long muscular-–looking legs planted in the ground like twin oaks.
‘I’ve got the tools,’ I tell him shortly. ‘At least, Ivy will have. Somewhere.’
‘I could speak to Nick Wetherby. Local gardener. He’d have it whipped into shape in no time.’
I clench my teeth. Why is he so doubtful about my gardening skills? Do I look that clueless? I could be Monty Don’s second cousin twice removed, for all he knows, with green fingers by the shed load.
‘Right.’ He shrugs. ‘I can see you’re determined to do it yourself.’
‘Yes, I am actually. I’m a really good gardener, if you must know.’ Well, I will be, once I look up ‘strimmer’ in the dictionary. I’m absolutely certain of it.
He nods. ‘If you’re stuck, go to the garden centre and ask for Layla,’ he says, before turning back to the task in hand.
I watch him a while longer. Then he shouts, ‘Stand back!’ and with one more hefty stroke, the tree starts to capsize. It falls to one side with a crash and the birds flap noisily from their perches.
‘Thanks for that,’ I say, as he bends over to examine the tree stump that’s left.
‘No problem. I can take the tree away,’ he offers. ‘Unless it’s something you’d rather do yourself, of course?’
I glare at him as he rises up to his full height. Then I catch the tiny flicker of amusement in his blue eyes.
‘Thank you,’ I tell him pleasantly. ‘That would be wonderful.’
‘You don’t need the wood?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘Gas fire.’
He grunts. ‘Mind if I use it?’
‘Be my guest.’
He nods. ‘Right, I’m off. We live in the big ramshackle of a place over there,’ he says, nodding in the direction of the woods. ‘Rushbrooke House.’
We? Who’s we?
Perhaps there’s a Mrs Rushbrooke and two point four adorable kids.
He picks up the axe and swings it over his shoulder. ‘Ivy was a wonderful woman,’ he says, and we exchange a look of understanding. On this, at least, we’re in complete agreement.
‘Well, see you, Holly.’ He raises a hand and strides off through the woods, presumably back to Rushbrooke House. He turns and looks back at me with a slightly puzzled expression, as if he’s trying to work me out.
I look away quickly and pretend to be examining the tree stump in an Alan Titchmarsh, highly professional sort of way …
Colin the cockerel has been preparing since I arrived for his X Factor: The Birds audition. This morning, his enthusiastic practice begins at prompt five-fifteen.
Sometimes I can roll over and go straight back to sleep, but this morning, the smell of freshly painted walls tickles my nose and starts me thinking about how much work I still have to do in the cottage. And then, of course, I’m wide awake.
Two weeks have passed since my encounter with Jack Rushbrooke and his magnificent axe. But although the roof has been made water-tight and Mike has finished the repairs on the bathroom, I’m still no nearer heading back home to Manchester.
I spent a couple of days painting the bathroom after Mike left and it’s looking great. But I’ve shot myself in the foot, in a way, because the gleaming bathroom now stands out like a sore thumb and I can no longer ignore the fact that the rest of the rooms in Moonbeam Cottage are in urgent need of a make-over. I’ll need a fair few coats of magnolia to cover Ivy’s eye-catching teal blue and terracotta walls in the living room.
But actually, redecorating the cottage is the least of my worries.
I nip downstairs to boil the kettle. Then I bring my tea back to bed and sit there sipping it, trying not to think about Sunday May 15th, which has always been one of the most important days on my calendar. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s only a week away now and I’m dreading it.
I sigh. Colin the cockerel isn’t the only thing stealing my sleep right now.
It’s Ivy’s birthday next Sunday.
It looms large and scarily empty, and I haven’t a clue how I’m going to fill it. I never imagined I’d still be here in Appleton in the middle of May. I thought I’d be safely back home, with Vicki and Beth to help me get through the 15th. But then, I hadn’t banked on a leaky roof and a cottage in need of updating.
My blossoming friendship with Sylvian seems to have come to a grinding halt. I keep thinking I’m bound to bump into him in the village store but, so far, our paths haven’t crossed. And Connie is still away in Spain, although she’s due back tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to catching up with her and finding out if she’s had any romantic adventures, which she assured me she fully intended to do.
Another note of interest: I see Jack Rushbrooke, he of the impressive axe-wielding skills, most nights.
Now, that sounds a lot more interesting than it actually is.
What happens is that Jack sprints past Moonbeam Cottage most evenings about eight o’clock. In fact, it’s happened so often since I’ve been here that I now hold off drawing the curtains until I’ve seen him flash past. Not that I wait by the window. I’m really not that bored. (Although I am bored enough to have spent a rather disproportionate amount of time wondering where on earth he goes every night.)
Three weeks into my self-imposed exile, I am so starved of human contact, I’ve actually started musing aloud about life to Fred the Spider, aiming my pithy observations at the crack in the skirting board. (No come-back as yet, but I’m pretty sure he appreciates my dry wit.)
I spend the day in the local DIY store, buying paint, then attempting to obliterate the burnt orange walls in the kitchen with a neutral shade of beige. It feels sad and disloyal, as if I’m painting away Ivy’s personality.
Later, I’m just out of the bath, face scrubbed and gleaming, when I realise I’m out of milk, so I throw a jacket over my pyjamas and run along to the village store, hoping to catch it before it closes.
I’m just about to go in, when I spot Sylvian walking towards me.
‘Where have you been?’ He greets me with a smile. ‘Hibernating?’
‘Actually, I was thinking the
