Page 17 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
She reached out. It was a wooden chew toy, shaped like a bone. Ivy ran her fingers over the shiny surface. ‘Did you make this?’
‘I am a handyman,’ he replied, and she thought she saw the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
‘Thank you.’ She folded her arms, watching the way his fingers pressed against each other. A nervous habit, perhaps. ‘Are you sleeping alright?’
He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Better than some nights.’ He gestured vaguely to the trees. ‘It is peaceful here.’
Ivy exhaled, stepping closer but careful to leave a space between them. The musty sweetness of fallen leaves filled the air, mixing with the sharp tang of rotting apples from the recently pruned tree in the corner. She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. ‘I loved my previous garden, at the vicarage. I spent years making it what it was.’ She gestured at the tangled remains of her tomato plants and the ragged stalks of sunflowers bowed with decay. ‘I don’t know ... I lost the heart for it when Imoved, I suppose. It’s difficult starting somewhere new.’
For a long moment, Omar studied the patch. ‘It still has life,’ he said finally. ‘It’s justresting, like you.’
Ivy ran a hand through her silver hair and snorted, but not unkindly. ‘Is that what I’m doing? Resting?’
He glanced at her, eyes dark and unreadable. ‘You are searching.’
Without warning, her eyes pricked with tears. She didn’t want to be resting or searching. Retirement should have been a reward. A chance to exhale after decades of giving and doing. But instead, it felt like being gently edged out of the room while no one was looking. She gazed around at the wreckage of her garden – so different from the riot of colour and scents she had carefully cultivated at the vicarage. Had her sacrifice really been worth it?
She blinked to hide the tears and looked down at the ground. ‘And what about you? Are you resting?’
He exhaled, rubbing his hands together. ‘In a way, yes. But at the same time, I am trying to remember who I was. Before.’
‘Before?’ she prompted.
‘Nothing,’ he said, attacking the vegetable patch with renewed vigour. His words pressed against her conscience. She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw not a refugee, not a stranger in her garden, but another lost soul, set adrift by unknown forces beyond his control.
She huffed a laugh. ‘Well, it seems we have that in common, at least.’
Then Omar did something Ivy hadn’t seen him do before – he smiled, just a small, tired crinkle on his cheeks.
‘I could run you into Barnstaple if you want some winter clothes?’ she offered.
He shook his head. ‘Being busy keeps me warm.’
‘Well, you’re getting this garden under control.’
‘Not yet, but I was thinking I might trim the hedge bordering the churchyard.’
‘How kind.’
A sudden rustling at the fence made them both pause. Ivy twisted her head slightly, peering over at the sound. There, just visible through the gaps in the wooden slats, was Fred. Or rather, Fred’s forehead, and a very conspicuous tuft of white hair.
She tried to picture her neighbour’s garden. Was there a shrub that needed pruning in that spot? No, it was the pathway to his shed. There weren’t even any pots. Rolling her eyes, she continued her conversation, pretending not to see him ‘Omar, can you hear something?’
Omar, catching on, nodded solemnly. ‘Reckon it’s just the wind.’
The ‘wind’ rustled again, followed byclang! A loud metallic crash. A muffled curse followed. Then silence.
Ivy raised an eyebrow. ‘You alright over there, Fred?’
Nothing.
Omar folded his arms. ‘Pretty sure your fence just whispered, “Oh, bugger”.’
Ivy grinned. ‘Fred, if you’re going to eavesdrop, at least bring a chair. You’re not as sneaky as you think.’
Slowly, Fred’s head popped up, cheeks red. ‘I’m checking the structural integrity of my fence,’ he muttered. ‘I reckon it could use a coat of paint.’
Ivy chuckled. ‘Ah. Try not to knock yourself out when you do that job.’
