Page 2 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Well now, Margaret, we must move with the times,’ huffed Mabel Cartwright, folding her stout arms over her thick, practical jumper. ‘A new vicar brings new ideas. Sustainability is very fashionable these days. Dried oranges and cinnamon sticks would be charming!’
‘I simply won’t stand for it!’ Margaret’s voice was sharp enough to pierce the thickest holly wreath. ‘Brambleton’sChristmas tradition is red and gold. It always has been. It always will be!’
Victor’s Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘I thought we could ...modernize?’ he ventured weakly, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose.
With the speed of a hawk, Margaret turned on him. ‘Modernize? Young man, Brambleton does notmodernizeChristmas! First, it’s dried oranges, next thing you know, we’ll be lighting the Advent candles with solar power!’
‘And why not?’ Mabel shot back, now sitting bolt upright in her chair. ‘We should be leading by example! This is God’s creation, and we must protect it. You, of all people, should understand that, Vicar.’
Ivy stifled a chuckle. Victor’s mouth was flapping like a fish gasping for air. He had been in Brambleton for four months and still believed that logic could win out over tradition. That might be true of the inner-city parish he’d come from, but not rural North Devon.
As if sensing weakness, Margaret pressed on. ‘Brambleton’s Christmas has been red and gold since my grandmother’s day, and I’ll not have it ruined by ... byfruit!’
‘Fruit is a gift from God, Margaret,’ Mabel countered primly. ‘Unlike that ghastly tinsel you insist on draping over every available surface.’
Ivy shuffled in her seat, the words of diplomatic intervention rising automatically before she swallowed them back. She used to chair these meetings. But she bit her tongue. The Church’s guidelines prevented any official involvement for two years. It was kind of Victor to invite her at all. Perhaps someone had suggested including her?She ran a hand through her silver hair, a habit she’d developed since ... well, since everything had happened.
Across the room, her neighbour Fred gave her the ghost ofa wink. It seemed he, too, was enjoying the sparks fly between Mabel and Margaret. Fred was in his early sixties, of medium height and with a surprisingly trim frame given his age – the result of countless hours tending to his beloved garden. Today, like every day, he wore a well-tailored suit with a white shirt which Ivy knew would be meticulously ironed – not just the front, but the sleeves and back too – complemented by a pristine navy blue tie. Her neighbour for nearly two years now, Fred had been a steadfast support, never pushing when she deflected questions about her early retirement with jokes that sounded like she was trying too hard. Encouraged by his presence, Ivy straightened in her chair, letting her feet drop until her toes touched the floor. The solid contact grounded her, giving her a small surge of confidence as she prepared to speak.
‘Maybe,’ Ivy ventured cautiously, ‘we could use both? The traditional baubles on the main tree, and Margaret, I think your grandchildren might enjoy helping Mabel and Victor make the orange decorations for the side altar?’
Victor seized on this suggestion like a vulture diving toward the last scrap in the desert. ‘Yes! Excellent! Very ... um,inclusive.’
Fred shot her an amused smile, before rising and reaching for the poker. ‘Vicar, it’s a bit chilly. Mind if I load some more wood on here?’
‘Chilly,’ trilled Margaret, shivering theatrically, ‘it’s positively glacial.’
Victor flapped a hand at the wood basket. ‘I haven’t got the knack of that fire yet.’
‘Let me help,’ suggested Fred, removing his jacket and confirming Ivy’s thoughts about his ironing. He shunted the fire to precisely the right spot in the grate, piled on more logs, then sat down next to Ivy and muttered, ‘Well done. If we’d waited for Victor to resolve that spat it might have ended in knittingneedles at dawn on the village green.’
She smiled dutifully, going through the motions. She’d been fighting off despondency all day after receiving three rejection emails that morning. That made ten jobs this week alone. She squared her shoulders, refusing to let them slump. She wouldn’t let this defeat her. God would guide her to the right employer – in His time not hers.
‘You look troubled, Ivy,’ murmured Fred. ‘What’s bothering you? Do you want me to raise it, if you think it’s too sensitive?’
The questions gnawed at her.What have I done? And where do I go from here?She plastered on a smile that used to come naturally. ‘Oh, nothing a cup of tea won’t fix,’ she said, hoping that the quaver in her voice didn’t betray her. She hated feeling so adrift. This wasn’t the Ivy who could fix failing marriages, persuade recalcitrant teens to spend more time with their family, cheer up poorly grandfathers. The Ivy who was the centre of the village and had been at the forefront of last year’s crucial planning battle. The Ivy who was famed for her relaxed attitude and easy smile. She hesitated, feeling she must say something, or Fred would think she’d gone dotty, then leaned in and whispered, ‘I’m a bit worried about people nicking from the collection box.’
Fred’s eyes widened. He stood up abruptly, steepling his hands.
‘My friends,’ he announced gravely, ‘we must pause to pray for victims of the erection pox.’
The room fell silent. Margaret clutched her pearls. Victor’s mouth opened and closed like a baby bird waiting for food.
Despite clamping her lips together, Ivy’s natural jolly disposition bubbled up and a snort of laughter escaped. Fred always insisted he didn’t need hearing aids, but Ivy begged to differ. Somehow, she found her voice. ‘I think Fred means to say we should remember those in need,’ she said, glancing atFred’s bewildered expression with the fond exasperation people reserve for old friends. Ivy pushed herself off the chair. ‘Vicar, perhaps this would be a suitable moment for refreshments?’
‘Not so fast,’Mabel said, raising a hand.’Before we break, can I run through the Christmas schedule?’She flipped a page and continued.‘Wreath making is on Saturday, 15 November. We’re selling them at the Christmas market the following weekend. After that, we’ve got the Christmas pudding race–same as always, the last Saturday in November, the 29th.’She paused, scanning down her list.‘The Christingle service is two weeks later on the Sunday, followed by the carol concert on the 18th–a Thursday,’she added, glancing up at Victor.‘And the Nativity play is on Christmas Day itself.’She set her notes down with a small sigh.‘Phew. Christmas at Brambleton seems to get bigger every year.’
‘Spot on,’ said Ivy, but her heart warmed at the thought. She adored preparing for a Brambleton Christmas: the scent of cloves and citrus as she pierced oranges for the Christingle service, the streets transformed for the Christmas market with twinkling lights strung from every eave, and the sweet sound of carol singers drifting through the crisp evening air.
Brambleton came alive, dressed up in festive finery to charm winter tourists. She even loved the garish army of flashing plastic angels that one villager always crammed into their front garden – tacky and over the top, but utterly beloved by everyone.
‘I’m terrifically excited,’ said Victor, beaming round the room. ‘My first rural Christmas. What fun! And before I forget, there’s a new supply teacher joining the school. We must include her in all our festive activities. Starting mid-term in a village school can’t be easy. She was supposed to come during half term week, but she’s been delayed. She’ll be here in early November.’
In the kitchen, Ivy watched Victor fumble with a jar of instant coffee, spilling granules across the counter.
‘Ivy always served proper coffee, not instant,’ scolded Margret waspishly.
A plate of chocolate digestives teetered precariously as the Vicar spun around, nearly knocking over the milk jug. ‘I’ve got this under control,’ he insisted, although watching him drop a third spoonful of coffee granules into the same mug, Ivy thought otherwise.
