Page 16 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Ivy chuckled. Time was something she was no longer short of. ‘Want me to pop down for a chat?
‘I’ll buy you a coffee.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
The bell jangled overhead as Ivy pushed open the café door. Her fingers tingled, still stiff from the cold, and she flexed them absently. Something felt off – it wasn’t as crowded now that half term was over, but it was more than that, a subtle change in the atmosphere that she couldn’t place. She scanned the space, but it looked the same as usual: the velvet chairs, the rows of bookshelves, the clutter behind the counter. The space smelled right – coffee and pastries. Everything appeared normal, yet a feeling of wrongness persisted.
Then she saw it. Trish was in her usual place, but the quick movements, the effortless grace with which she juggled plates and orders, were missing. Instead, her weight rested awkwardlyon a pair of crutches, one arm stretched to steady herself against the counter as she hopped about.
‘Trish!’ The concern in Ivy’s voice startled her friend. ‘Whatever happened?’
Trish rolled her eyes, but there was a wry smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. ‘Slipped on the pavement locking up last night. Stupid, really. Landed in a heap and now I’m paying for it.’ She tapped one crutch lightly on the floor. ‘I can still manage, but ... well, I thought of you. Of your offer to help Rose out over Christmas. I’ve a busy month coming up.’ She gestured at the crutches. ‘I’ve been trying to manage on these most of the day, but I’d love a hand. Minimum wage, it’s all I can afford.’
‘Of course!’ The words left Ivy almost too fast. Hesitantly, she added. ‘I might have to bring the puppy though.’
Trish raised an eyebrow. ‘Is he house trained?’
‘He is.’ Ivy hesitated a beat before adding. ‘Well, nearly. But I’m very swift with a bleach-soaked sponge.’
Trish snorted. ‘Fine. As long as he doesn’t terrorize the customers. So, when can you start?’
Ivy grinned, thinking of the long, aimless days she had endured over the past few months. ‘Now,’ she said, rolling up her sleeves. ‘Are you open this evening – should I get some bottles of Prosecco in the fridge?’
Six
Early on Monday morning, Ivy was sitting with Jez on her lap, struggling to reach her computer’s keypad around the wriggling puppy. Helping at Prosecco & Prose would only be temporary. No matter how long Trish’s recovery took, come January, business would slump and not pick up again until Easter. A tail flicked against her face, tickling her nose, and she pushed the puppy aside. ‘Come on now, Jez. If I’m to pay for all your destruction I must get a job.’ Earlier, Ivy had spotted someone advertising for a cleaner to help at a dental practice in Barnstaple. Surely that was something she could do. Suddenly a paw hit the keyboard, and the screen went blank. ‘Oh Jez! Off now, boy. I saidoff!’
She rose, shunting the puppy to the floor. Feeling a wave of self-pity she wanted to smother, she wandered over to her bookshelf, selecting a Tennyson volume and flicking through the pages until she found the poem she was seeking. With a finger marking the page, she sank onto the sofa and lost herself in Tennyson’s ‘Maud’.
After reading the length of the poem, she reread the penultimate stanza:
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near”;
And the white rose weeps, “She is late”;
The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear”;
And the lily whispers, “I wait.”
Ivy wiped a tear from her eye. The words were so poignant, and she shuddered with the ache of longing for a love she’d not enjoyed for decades. Instead, she had dedicated her life to divine love.
Through the kitchen window, she could see Omar pacing the garden. A bright pink beanie hat covered his hair, making his beard look friendlier, but it didn’t disguise the worry etched on his youthful face. Ivy thought pink was an odd colour and made a mental note to look for a more masculine shade. Then she caught herself and tutted. What was she doing? Omar wasn’t a child. He could find his own clothes. She must stop trying to mother him. He’d chosen that hat. Maybe he liked the cheerfulness of pink.
Ivy was certain that Omar was guarding a secret. He’d been living in her shed for over two weeks, but she barely knew anything about him. Omar had waxed lyrical about his homeland, but about himself he had reluctantly shared just three things: his name, age and nationality. A bit like her grandfather, a prisoner in the Second World War, bound to reveal only his name, rank and serial number. Each day, Ivy woke half expecting her guest to have disappeared in the night.
Ivy was beginning to wonder if Omar was hiding from someone. He seemed cultured, intelligent and well spoken – the kind of person who would be able to navigate the asylum system with ease, even if he had arrived as an illegal immigrant via a perilous boat journey. What if the villagers were right, and hewasdangerous? Suppose he was a criminal on the run? Or a drug addict who was skilfully concealing the evidence?
Ivy stepped outside. The morning was peacefully quiet, save for the wind whistling through the branches, dislodging the last shrivelled leaves, and the distant cry of a pheasant. She tuggedher hat down, feeling the cool air chilling her ears. Her focus was on Omar now at the far end of the garden, hunched over her vegetable patch. Fred had helped her prepare the beds, sieving the soil for stones, then forking in bags of compost.
She watched Omar raking away the thick mulch of autumn leaves. He paused, gazing out over the fields, as though searching for something beyond the barren trees. His coat looked too thin for winter, and she wondered if she should offer to drive him into Barnstaple to a charity shop. He claimed he had money, but she suspected it wasn’t a lot. Would he accept a gift of a second-hand coat, or would he feel insulted?
‘Morning,’ she said, her voice softer than she intended.
Omar turned but didn’t smile. Lines etched his face, making him look older than thirty. But perhaps his age was as fictional as his claim not to have been on that boat. He pulled something out of his pocket. ‘Here. This is for the puppy.’
