Page 67 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

She uttered a small, sad laugh, realising how silly she was being to even think he might ask in the first place.

When he left, it would be without her, and would be for good.

So telling her he loved her didn’t change a thing.

Ceri walked softly into the bedroom. Damon was still asleep, one arm above his head, his face turned to the side. He looked so peaceful that she was tempted to leave without waking him, but he stirred, opened one bleary eye and mumbled, ‘What time is it?’

‘Nine thirty-seven.’

‘Too early.’ He pulled the duvet over his head. In a muffled voice, he said, ‘Come back to bed.’

‘I can’t. Terry will be presiding over the allotment opening ceremony in a couple of hours, and I want to make sure everything is ready.’

Yawning, he sat up slowly. ‘At least let me make you breakfast.’

‘I’ve already eaten,’ she lied. She hadn’t been able to face food. Pecking him on the forehead, she told him she would see him later, and went home to get ready.

Over another cup of coffee, she tried to turn her thoughts to the day ahead.

Terry had allocated the plots and had informed everyone who was getting one. As soon as she had told him how many plots there would be, he had put the plot numbers in one bowl, the names in another and Betsan, who had worn one of those sleep masks to cover her eyes so she hadn’t been able to see, had randomly married up plotters with plots.

By half-past eleven, Ceri was pleased to see plotters beginning to gather. Most of them came prepared for gardening, and she noted the assortment of wheelbarrows, spades, shovels and rakes. One lady had even brought a tray of seedling tomatoes with her, which Ceri thought might be slightly optimistic, but she cheered the woman on anyway.

A white van pulled into the lane and two people began unloading a flat-packed shed and concrete slabs. They clearly intended to get a head start. There were several children amongst the assembled plotters, which also pleased her no end. If kids caught the gardening bug early enough, it would most likely stay with them for the rest of their lives, and in Ceri’s opinion the world could never have too many gardeners.

Someone – Terry, she presumed – had tied a length of ribbon across the gate before she’d arrived, but what was really lovely and had touched her deeply, was the wooden sign hanging from it that said, ‘Willow Tree Lane Allotment’. Seeing it had brought tears to her eyes and a lump to her throat. She couldn’t wait to tell Damon about it. She wished he was here for the ceremony, but they’d agreed it was better he stayed away in case anyone recognised him.

Ceri said hello to some familiar faces and chatted with one or two. The excitement and sense of anticipation was palpable, and it warmed her heart to think that she was, in part, responsible for it. Of course, Terry had played a vital role too, because without him the allotment would never have come into being. It was on his insistence that the field was being used for the benefit of the community, and although Ceri was regretful that she didn’t have it all to herself and that her nursery dreams had to wait a while longer, she was grateful to him nevertheless.

Eager for the ceremony to begin, she kept a keen lookout for the vicar. But when he arrived, Betsan at his side, Ceri blinked. What on earth were theywearing?

The pair of them had on what appeared to be large, upturned plant pots made of cardboard, from the shoulders to the tops of their thighs. Their legs were encased in a series of smaller plant pots, and they both had some weird hat thing on their heads.

‘Ooh, Bill and Ben, the Flower Pot Men!’ Mrs Moxley screeched. ‘I used to love them when I was a babbie.’

Ceri had no idea what she was on about, but Terry and Betsan certainly looked very garden-ish.

Terry called for silence, taking centre stage directly in front of the gate. ‘Friends, plotters, county folk, lend me your ears – of sweetcorn, that is,’ he chortled. His opening joke was accompanied by groans, as he continued, ‘God said, “Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds. And it was so.” Genesis, verse eleven!’ he thundered, cutting across the tittering, as he held his arms in the air and gazed skywards.

His wife nudged him. ‘That’s enough, Terry. You’re not in church now.’

‘All of the great outdoors is God’s Church,’ he replied, but when she shook her head and glared at him, his shoulders drooped. ‘Spoilsport. I’ve got a captive audience here,’ he hissed loud enough for everyone to hear; and Ceri got the impression that she was watching a comedy double-act.

‘Just get on with it,’ Betsan said.

‘Heathen.’ He turned his attention back to his impromptu congregation. ‘I declare this allotment well and truly open. God bless all those who garden in her.’ His wife handed him a pair of shears and he cut through the ribbon to the sound of cheers and clapping.

He had barely managed to get the gate open before people were barrelling through, eager to reach their plots.

Ceri hung back. ‘Bill and Ben?’ she asked him.

‘The Flower Pot Men. Watch with Mother?Wee-e-eed?’ Terry sang, in a rather alarmingly high-pitched voice.

‘Pardon?’

‘Wee-e-eed,’ he repeated, then more normally, ‘Weed. It’s what one of the characters was called. Weed.’

‘Right. Okaay…’ She hoped he hadn’t been helping himself to the communion wine.

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