Ivy Lane: Spring: by Cathy Bramley Page B

and it is good to show Mia where food comes from and all that jazz. But when it comes down to it, I can’t be arsed. Plus the fact no one wants a beautician to have skanky nails.’
    She looked at me solemnly, waiting for my reaction. I laughed and I laughed and she joined in and I can honestly say it was my happiest moment for months. Finally we wiped the tears away from our eyes and I gave her a hug. She smelt of flowers and coconut oil.
    ‘You’re brilliant, Gemma,’ I said.
    ‘You don’t mind about the shed?’
    I shook my head. ‘No, my new one is much nicer. No offence.’
    She shrugged good-naturedly. ‘None taken.’
    Through the shed window I caught a glimpse of Shazza and Karen, poring over the instruction leaflet for the shed. With any luck, they’d do it for me if I stayed out of the way for a long enough.
    ‘Hey, Gem?’ I said, settling into her spare deckchair. ‘Will you do me a manicure?’
    She clapped her hands with delight and reached for the nail file.
    Emmeline Pankhurst would be turning in her grave.

Chapter 8
    The late-March sunshine flooded my new pied-à-terre with shards of sparkling light, which made tacking the curtains up more like a game of Russian roulette with a hammer than DIY.
    Finished.
    I stood back with an audible ‘Ta dah!’ and admired my handiwork. The flowery fabric I had found in a charity shop gave the perfect finishing touch to the shed and together with the old shelf unit and the plastic patio chair the place looked quite homely. I stepped outside to admire the exterior view.
    It had been painted an uplifting shade of Wedgewood blue – a gift from Gemma (via Roy who she’d coerced into doing the actual painting) for stealing the shed that Mr Garton had left.
    The overall effect was magical; I may have been biased, but mine was surely the most beautiful shed at Ivy Lane allotments.
    Doing up the shed was the first step to making my plot look loved and doing it had given me, unexpectedly, an enormous sense of well-being.
    I missed home-making, I realized. My rented accommodation was quite adequate, but a little soulless. After selling our old house, I didn’t have the heart to make another home, so I got rid of most of the knick-knacks, the cushions and the pictures that I’d enjoyed collecting over the years. And although the place had seemed bare at first, it had been less painful not to be constantly surrounded by reminders of happier times. Maybe now was the time to do something to make the house mine, paint a room perhaps.
    Today, though, I was content to work on my allotment. It was a beautiful spring morning, I had a list of jobs to do here and then I was off to see Mum for the weekend. It was only a week until the Easter holidays and I had survived school for nearly a term. I smiled contentedly to myself; there was quite a lot to be happy about.
    Sitting in a tin on the shelf was a batch of homemade peanut flapjacks. I wasn’t the best baker in the world, but one thing I’d learned about allotment life was that most things could be traded. I had a box of teeny shallot sets to plant and I was hoping for some top tips and maybe even an offer of help.
    Flapjacks in hand, I went in search of willing volunteers.
    Neither of the neighbouring plots were manned today and the first person I spotted was Nigel in his greenhouse at a table constructed out of an old kitchen worktop. He was wrist-deep in velvety black soil, wiggling his bottom and singing ‘Copacabana’ by Barry Manilow. It seemed I wasn’t the only one with spring fever this morning. I cleared my throat and waited for him to notice me.
    Nigel’s plot was somewhat aspirational to a novice like me; a study in military precision – hardly surprising given that he was a retired army captain: raised beds, straight paths, a series of pristine compost bins and weeds strictly forbidden.
    ‘Tilly!’ He looked completely unabashed at being caught out singing the ‘Who shot who’ line in an American