Page 10 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Afghanistan.’ He spat the word like a challenge.
To Ivy, the name conjured images from the travel magazines she hoarded beneath her bed – pyramids of spices in ancient bazaars, mountains touching clouds, intricate carpets in sun-drenched courtyards. Such different pictures from the news footage of war and destruction; the haunting images of people trying to flee Kabul airport after the Americans pulled out and the Taliban surged back to power four years ago.
Ivy studied Omar in the weak light which filtered through the grimy windows. The haunted look in his eyes, the way he heldhimself – she’d seen the same in the news footage. He was lying about not being on that boat, she was certain, but it seemed he was not going to change his story now.
The words escaped before she could stop them. ‘What’s it like there? Really like?’
His expression softened. His fingers traced patterns in the air as he began speaking. ‘When I picture home, it is always when the valleys are painted purple with crocuses. That is in the spring. But all the seasons are beautiful there.’ He went on to describe the call to prayer echoing across a Kabul morning,
‘It begins before dawn with a single voice floating out over the sleeping neighbourhoods, “Allahu Akbar” echoes across the valleys and hills’ he said. ‘Then other mosques join, and dozens, then hundreds of voices create an overlapping symphony. The calls weave in and out of each other, like the complexity of faith itself.’
Ivy listened, transfixed as her guest described the taste of fresh naan bread pulled from clay ovens. The sweet scent of cardamom tea shared with neighbours under starlit skies. In thirty years of serving the parish, she’d never ventured further than Brighton. With her paltry pension and dwindling savings, travel would be an impossible luxury now.
Omar’s voice grew distant, lost in memory. ‘The melons ... so sweet, like honey.’
She set down the glass of water. ‘I brought you some food,’ she said, pulling out the sandwich and banana and offering them across.
He unwrapped the cling film and removed the top slice of bread, dipping his nose towards the filling and sniffing loudly. He poked his tongue out at the pickle and licked it, reminding her of Jez if she gave him a new brand of pet food. Omar made a sour face. ‘Sweet!’ he said in disgust. Using the cling film as an improvised glove, he wiped the pickle off the cheese. ‘What isthis?’ he demanded, indicating the cheese.
‘Cheese. Cheddar,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘You eat cheese in Afghanistan?’
‘How old?’
She’d been right. He was like every man she knew. They all liked a slice of mature cheddar. ‘At least a year.’
He recoiled as if she had revealed it was poisonous, then added the cheese to the cling film and nibbled the bread. ‘Nothing in your country tastes right,’ he said. He fell silent, his jaw clenched. Eventually, through gritted teeth, he said, ‘I am grateful for your effort.’
Ivy hid a smile.So, there was a polite side to this man after all. ‘Please be careful. The village is on high alert looking for the rest of you. My neighbour already suspects there’s something going on in this shed, so keep the light off.’
He scowled at her, then nodded. Just once.
‘I should go,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll bring you some more food later.’ She picked up the cling film with its package of cheese and pickle. ‘What would you like? What are you used to eating?’
‘Meat, rice, fruit ...’ He snapped the list in staccato fashion, sounding like a hassled businessman, clicking his fingers to attract a server’s attention.
Outside, she leaned against the shed and thought again about whether she’d made the right decision. The way his eyes had hardened when she mentioned the boat unsettled her. There was something dangerous there – something desperate. And yet, his descriptions of Afghanistan had moved her: the haunting chorus of the call to prayer, the dust and fire. He had risked everything to escape a land that he clearly loved, which evidently must have turned on him, only to find himself hunted here, in a country that was supposed to be safe.
The moment of decision came without warning, but Ivy felt something peaceful settle inside her. She no longer wanted tooffer him temporary shelter; she wanted to protect him. All her life, she had bent like a reed to accommodate everyone’s needs but her own, because that had been her job. This was different. This choice was hers alone.
Maybe this was her purpose until she found work? She wasn’t merely helping. She was risking something. And strangely, that didn’t scare her. It made her feel alive.
The shopping bag thumped against Ivy’s leg as she quickened her step. She couldn’t tell if her haste was driven by a desire to get home or simply to escape the village shop. Rose’s probing look when she’d asked for paneer was still freshin her mind. Ivy had laughed it off, muttering something about trying new, cheaper recipes, but the way Rose’s brow had furrowed had sent a shiver of unease through her.
The morning sleet had eased. Ivy suspected Fred would now be up a ladder clearing out her gutters. Looking ahead, she noticed a group of men gathered on the village green, beneath the majestic Scots pine. Planted by Brambleton two decades earlier, the tree now stood sentinel, its evergreen branches a defiant contrast to the surrounding autumn barrenness. The once-vibrant grass lay dormant beneath October’s decay, russet and amber leaves carpeting the ground like nature’s patchwork quilt. Soon, villagers would transform that towering pine with festive lights, bringing warmth to the approaching darkness of winter.
The men spoke in hushed but intense tones. Ivy slowed her step, straining to catch fragments of their conversation as the wind delivered their words to her.
‘Crisis . . .’
‘Can’t just turn a blind eye.’
‘Heard someone’s been seen near Fred’s place. Sneaking about.’
Ivy’s pulse quickened and she sped up. She knew every one of those voices. Everyone needed the Brambleton Vicar for something eventually: a christening, a wedding, or to sign their passport photographs or shotgun-licence application form.As she walked on, she spotted more of them pushing into spaces that weren’t theirs to investigate. She heard the rustle of shrubs and hedges as they poked under them, smelled the stench of rotting debris as they flipped open wheelie bins. She passed the village hall and glanced up the hill to her destination.
Ivy’s stomach knotted and her fingers flew to the cross at her neck. Outside his cottage, Fred stood rigid, ushering men inside like a reluctant Moses parting the Red Sea, but wishing it would close again before the Israelites had crossed. Muttering a prayer that the vigilantes hadn’t already searched her garden, she jogged the last few yards, slipped into the crowd and followed them into Fred’s back garden.
Fred took up guard by his shed, arms crossed, eyes dark with irritation. Peeking inside, Ivy watched two men pushing aside gardening paraphernalia, messing up the pristine shed.
