Read Ivy Lane: Spring: for Free Online Page B

myself. Lucky me!
    It was probably for the best. My job-share colleague was counting down the hours to retirement and was highly suspicious of the school’s online reporting system. In fact, she hadn’t got to grips with any of the wonderful technology we teachers had at our fingertips; I regularly spent the first twenty minutes of my week resetting the interactive whiteboard.
    Anyway, doing the reports not only earned me Brownie points with the head, but the job kept me busy during the dark evenings, which prevented me from Dwelling On The Past. I did that a lot if I wasn’t careful.
    Two weeks would appear to be a long time in growing terms. The allotment had really begun to come alive in my absence: there were more people in evidence, newly dug vegetable beds aplenty and an underlying feeling of vitality and hope.
    Or that could just have been me, of course; I was having a Good Day.
    I still had my share of bad days when I could achieve nothing more taxing than lying prostrate on the sofa wearing one of James’s old jumpers, watching
One Day
on a loop with only a bag of peanut puffs for company. But the ratio of good days to bad was on the increase. Today was such a day and I could go for . . . ooh . . . at least an hour without thinking about my old life, the one I had so carelessly let slip through my fingers.
    I was even dressed in all my own clothes: jeans, gilet, hoody and wellies. I thought about taking a ‘selfie’ to send to my counsellor, but I was carrying my new hoe (cheapo as per Gemma’s advice) and for safety reasons, decided against it.
    Plot 16A was deserted. Phew. She was a lovely girl, but I had been hoping for half an hour to myself in the fresh air. I took a moment to marvel at Gemma’s luscious leeks, the impressive onions and feathery carrot tops. I had to hand it to her – she ran her own business, looked after Mike and Mia and still found time to keep her allotment and herself in tip-top condition.
    My plot, on the other hand, I noticed with a plummeting heart, whilst an enormous improvement on New Year’s Day, was already starting to sprout weeds again and I still hadn’t decided what to grow. If I didn’t hurry up and plant something soon, Mother Nature would decide for me and I would have several square metres of chickweed, fat hen, couch grass and horsetail, and while their names sounded quite fun, I didn’t imagine that eradicating them would be.
    I retrieved my rake from behind the stumpy tree and spent a few minutes of quiet contemplation alternating between hoeing and raking and trying to remember which vegetables I used to like.
    ‘A shed. You’ll be wanting a little shed,’ Christine called as she waved at me from the road through Gemma’s trees. The bobble hat was off. Spring must be on its way.
    The square of slabs left by the previous occupant was crying out for a shed. I hadn’t wanted to commit to the allotment, preferring to leave my options open, but in all honesty, it would be nice to have somewhere to keep stuff, not to mention a place to hide in when unwanted visitors came to call.
    I waved back. ‘You’re right. I might ask for one for my birthday . . .’ Hell. I could have bitten my tongue off. I hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Now there would be balloons up everywhere, a cake with candles and sparklers, possible even a fly-by from the Red Arrows spraying ‘happy birthday’ in coloured smoke . . .
    ‘Your birthday, is it?’ said Christine, bustling over. Her eyes were already darting with excitement and she was nibbling on her lip. I could almost see her brain whirring with birthday plans.
    I leant on my hoe and wagged a finger at her firmly. ‘No fuss.’
    ‘How about a drink in the pavilion, I’ve got some elderflower wine wants using up?’
    I clamped my lips together and shook my head. ‘Don’t drink.’
    ‘Cake then, tea and cake?’
    She was relentless, but on this matter, so was I. I decided to throw myself on my sword. ‘If you promise not