Ivy Lane: Spring: by Cathy Bramley

My fellow plot holders had donated enough vegetable plants to stock a small supermarket and I still had four pots of sweet peas in my possession. It seemed word of my epic failure to cultivate had got round. Everyone was falling over themselves to come to my aid and wouldn’t take anything from me in return.
    But as well as donations, everyone had offered help with the planting, given me tips on protecting the young plants from predators and shared a story or two about their own disasters. Losing the odd row of seed to birds, mice and squirrels were so commonplace that I felt a bit of a diva for my strop yesterday.
    A surge of warmth infused my whole body. I felt overcome all of a sudden by the community’s generosity. People had been so kind and helpful and I couldn’t for the life of me work out what I had done to earn it. I would give it another go. We could do it, me and my plot. We might be battered and damaged, but we could start again and hopefully come back stronger.
    I took a deep calming breath.
    Gemma’s plot was still deserted. I missed my friend.
My friend
. My eyes filled with stupid tears and I tilted my head back to blink them away.
    The bench rocked precariously as a second bottom plonked itself down at my side. Christine patted my leg.
    ‘Where’s Gemma today?’ I sniffed, blotting the tears with my sleeve.
    ‘Shopping.’
    I was surprised; I would have thought that a social event like this would have been right up her street. Even if only as an opportunity to sell facials to the weather-beaten plot holders.
    ‘Would you say you were a cat or a dog person?’ said Christine, apropos of nothing.
    I thought hard about my answer, not least because, knowing Christine, it could be a trick question. Back in the ‘let’s buy a cottage in the countryside, have lots of babies and live happily ever after days’ with James, we had always dreamed about completing our perfect life with a golden retriever. Without that fantasy to fall back on I wasn’t sure what sort of person I was. And I wasn’t just referring to the pet preference.
    ‘Don’t know.’ I shrugged.
    ‘A dog is your best friend,’ said Christine, picking up the tray of pea seedlings and pinching a few bits off. ‘It’s loyal, it depends on you. Greets you when you come in, shares your emotions. Whereas as a cat is much more of a free spirit, far less needy and more of a taker.’
    ‘A cat person then, probably,’ I said.
    Christine tucked my hand through her arm. ‘Come with me. I’ve got something to swap with you. Bring the biscuits.’
    Why did I get the feeling I’d walked right into another one of her traps?
    She led me to her shed, pushed me inside and waited at the door. Roy was sleeping peacefully, head lolling on his chest. Curled up on his lap were two tiny kittens; grey stripy balls of fluff and utterly adorable.
    ‘Strays,’ said Christine. She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose. ‘We found them wandering around last night. No sign of the mother. Poor little mites.’
    I scooped up one of the sleeping kittens and held it to my face. Its heart was beating fast and furiously against its fragile ribcage. It woke up and pressed a miniature paw to my cheek.
    ‘Gemma’s taking one,’ said Christine, helping herself to a biscuit. ‘She’s out getting collars and bowls as we speak. Mia’s chuffed to bits.’
    No way. I could see where this was going. I deposited the kitten back on Roy’s lap. ‘And you’re having the other,’ I said firmly, meeting Christine’s eye.
    She dabbed at her nose. ‘I’m allergic, else I would. Mike has agreed to one, but won’t take both because of the vet bills.’
    ‘Have you asked around? Maybe they’re just lost.’
    Christine shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But in the meantime they need homes.’ She paused and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Animals bring out the best in people, I always think. They find a way into even the most resistant heart. And you’d be doing