Page 1 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Prologue
Thirty-nine years ago, Bristol
The rain had stopped, leaving King Street’s cobblestones gleaming under the streetlights. Across the harbour, the bells of St Nicholas were still echoing as Ivy slipped her hand through James’s arm – firm, steadying – relishing the sharp thrill of longing that shot through her. Even after six months together – her first real relationship at the age of twenty – she still felt a small thrill at his touch. They’d met the previous summer at a Christian retreat in Buckfast Abbey, in Devon, where she’d been helping in the kitchen and he’d been one of the student volunteers leading prayer groups.
‘Did you see Mrs Patterson’s face during the peace?’ James asked, his fingers working nervously at his seminary collar, twisting it askew. ‘I think she’s struggling more than she lets on.’
Ivy nodded, her hand finding his as their footsteps fell into rhythm.
‘Since her husband died, she’s been—’ Ivy paused, tutting softly. ‘Well, you saw how she gripped my hand during the prayers. I think she’s barely holding it together.’
They both stopped. Ahead, huddled in the doorway of a shuttered shop, a figure bundled in layers of clothing clutched a sleeping bag around his shoulders, cardboard spread beneath him against the cold stone. A young man, maybe Ivy’s age, with hollow cheeks and hands wrapped around a paper cup that steamed in the cold.
James was already reaching into his pocket. ‘Evening,’ he said gently, crouching down. ‘Rough night to be out.’
The young man looked up, eyes wary. ‘Just trying to stay warm, mate.’
‘Have you eaten?’ Ivy found herself asking.
What followed was an hour in a late-night café, Ivy buying tea and sandwiches while James sat across from John – only nineteen, brought up in care – who had been sleeping rough for two months. They listened to his story without judgement. No sermons, no conditions. Just company.
Once they had finally given John enough information about a shelter, and a promise to check on him tomorrow, they walked slowly through the empty streets toward Ivy’s flat.
‘You know what I love about this?’ James said suddenly, catching her hand, his fingers still cold from the night air. ‘How natural it felt. Like this is exactly what we’re meant for.’
Ivy squeezed his hand, feeling something settle in her chest; a certainty she’d never experienced before. ‘Together, you mean?’
‘Together, yes, but more than that.’ He stopped walking and turned to face her, his dark eyes serious in the lamplight. ‘Ivy, when I imagine our life – whatever God has planned for us – it’s this. Being there for people when they need it most. Never walking past someone who’s hurting.’
She could see their future then, as clearly as if it were written on the pavement, parishes and problems and late-night calls, but always side by side, always reaching out together.
‘Promise me,’ James said, his voice soft but insistent. ‘Promise me that whatever happens, we’ll never turn our backs on someone who needs us. That we’ll never be the kind of people who cross to the other side of the street.’
The promise felt like a sacred vow, passing between them in the Bristol night. Ivy reached up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw.
‘I promise,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s never turn away.’
He kissed her then, gentle and certain, and she tasted the future on his lips: a life of service and love and absolute faith that they would never let each other down, never let anyone down.
The harbour bells chimed midnight, and Ivy thought she had never been surer of anything in her life.
One
Ivy tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve. It kept pulling, kept fraying. Just like her life, coming apart, stitch by stitch. Strange how the world she’d carefully knitted together – first around him, then deliberately without him – could unravel so quickly. Twice she’d woven her future with conviction, and twice reality had sliced through it, leaving her with nothing but threads slipping through her fingers.
The familiar scent of beeswax and old books wrapped around her like a well-worn cardigan, stirring memories of when this comfortable sitting room had belonged to her. She had moved out nearly two years ago, yet she missed it. Not just its handsome proportions and cosy nooks and crannies, but the memories it held of a happy life, full of purpose. Still, this would have been a difficult place to train a wilful dog. She pictured her rented cottage, where her ten week old puppy wasloose, no doubtscampering through her open-plan reception area, creating as much damage and destruction as Storm Edna had done in her garden. What if he found the magazine rack? Or the bin ... Oh Lord, the food caddy! Could he open that? Could he reach the sofa? Puppies didn’teat cushions, did they? The article she’d skimmed didn’t mention that.
A man’s voice, clear and crisp, cut through her musings. Victor. He sounded absurdly young for a vicar. ‘Ivy, do you agree?’
She blinked and switched her attention to the speaker perchedawkwardly on the edge of her old fireside chair. The room’s Victorian proportions seemed to emphasize Victor’s tall, skeletal body. The seat used to be a snug fit even for Ivy’s five-foot stout frame, but Victor’s long limbs jutted out, making him look like a crane attempting to nest in a teacup. Why hadn’t he rearranged the furniture, chosen a more suitable chair for himself, like the one Ivy was sitting in? Her feet dangled, childlike, a few inches off the floor.
‘Oh! Yes, of course,’ she said.
What was she agreeing to? Who cared? She gripped her notebook. She shouldn’t have released the puppy from his travel cage. But he’d looked sohappyrunning free. Was probably still running. She peeked at her watch. If she was lucky, she’d be home before the afternoon post arrived, sparing any letters from his curious investigations. She swallowed hard, trying to recall if she’d put her slippers away. It didn’t matter. She had nothing planned for the rest of the day. Plenty of time to clear up any mess.
Drizzle spattered against the tall sash windows, and the weak October light did little to warm the space. Ivy’s fingers itched to reach for the poker and shift the fire six inches to the right, where the draw was better.
‘I really must insist,’ Margaret Pembroke’s shrill voice cut through Ivy’s thoughts, ‘that we use the traditional red and gold baubles. Vicar, this suggestion of ... of ... sustainable decorationsmade fromfoodstuffsis not very Brambleton!’
