Page 21 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Ivy felt her face flush. ‘Oh.’
Fred filled the bowl, and Jez lapped eagerly, water droplets splashing onto the floor tiles.
‘You can’t fix everything for everyone,’ Fred said quietly, scratching behind Jez’s ears as the puppy drank. ‘Sometimes the kindest thing is to let the proper authorities handle things.’
Ivy sank into her armchair, the soft wheeze of old cushions offering little comfort. Through the window, she could see Omar’s figure, his shoulders hunched against the wind as he raked the fallen leaves, heaping them into the composting pile. The last rays of sunlight caught the edge of the shed, turning its weathered wood to gold.
‘He trusts me,’ she said finally. ‘Maybe he is wrong to, but he does. I can’t betray that. Promise me you won’t betray him either.’
Ivy looked over at Fred, who sighed but nodded. ‘Alright. I won’t say anything.’ He paused, watching the puppy nose hopefully around his empty food bowl. ‘Just as long as you don’t try to save any of his fellow passengers. You can’t save them all.’
‘No,’ she agreed, reaching down to ruffle Jez’s ears as he trotted over to her, water dribbling from his mouth. ‘But I can try to save this one.’
Staring out from behind the lace-curtained window the next morning, Ivy watched a brisk autumn wind whip a young woman’s scarf around her face – this must be Helen, the supply teacher. The woman strode up the path, dragging two smart suitcases behind her. She was slim, with long, dark blonde hairpulled into a high ponytail, a few loose strands curling around her pale face. Even in jeans and a fitted navy blazer, she moved with the ease of someone accustomed to being noticed. Her low-heeled ankle boots clicked smartly against the pathway before she paused to adjust the leather strap of a designer handbag slung over one shoulder.
‘Here’s another visitor’ said Ivy, beckoning Omar over. A small frown creased the teacher’s smooth brow as she surveyed the Virginia creeper-clad cottage, her lips – painted a bold ruby red – pressed together in assessment. Ivy wrinkled her nose, suddenly self-conscious of her shapeless jumper. This newcomer – this polished, self-assured creature – was going to be a surprise for Brambleton. Omar put down his mug and crossed to the window. Ivy was about to go and welcome Helen, when she noticed Omar staring at Helen with an expression Ivy had never seen before: something between recognition and fear. Before she could say anything, he scuttled off and out the back door, moving with the furtive quickness she associated with his early days. Poor Omar. He was probably terrified the new neighbour would report him.She must introduce them early, imply he was a village fixture, use herself as his shield like she’d done at the church meeting. Ivy hurried outside, her skin prickling under the persistent bite of the wind.
‘Good morning, and welcome to Brambleton. You must be Helen. Let me help you with those.’ Ivy introduced herself and grabbed the larger of the suitcases, its wheels clattering against the uneven ground. ‘How was the journey?’
‘Long,’ replied the woman, extending a hand. Ivy shook it, noting that her nails matched her lipstick. Helen laughed, shaking her ponytail. ‘But worth it. The village looks exactly like I imagined. So picturesque.’
‘Yes, although a bit wind-blown at this time of year. Why not unpack and get your bearings for an hour, then would you liketo come over to mine for tea? I’ll invite Fred too. He lives in the cottage between our two.’
Ivy glanced out at Helen’s back garden, expecting to see the bleak damage of autumn storms. She frowned. It was as tidy as her own: fallen leaves raked into a pile, shrubs pruned, and the lawn mown. That must have been Omar.
After helping Helen get her cases inside and showing her around the cottage, a mirror image of her own, Ivy headed out to her shed. The smell of exotic spices grew stronger as she approached. Omar was cooking again. She knocked on the wooden door.
‘I’ve brought that Afghan tea you mentioned,’ she said. She’d spent twenty minutes researching online before finding the right kind, and with delivery charges, it had cost £10, though she didn’t mention that. ‘The green one with cardamom? Please come in for a cup. It’s cold out here.’
Inside her cottage, Ivy watched Omar examine the tea packet, his fingers moving slowly over the familiar Arabic script. For a moment, his guarded expression slipped – not much, just a softening around the eyes – but it was enough. Seeing his reaction, she felt a small warmth rise in her. She hadn’t misjudged this. She hadn’t overstepped.
Just a packet of tea, but perhaps not such a small gesture, after all.
The scent of her baking filled the cottage’s open-plan living space. She had made scones, although they had turned out a bit hard.Another skill I’ve forgotten, she thought ruefully, remembering when she used to bake for the whole parish.
Her laptop screen caught Omar’s attention – job listings for part-time cleaning positions glowed softly.
‘You need money?’ he asked, frowning.
Ivy winced at the bluntness of the question. Perhaps Omar’s culture didn’t consider poverty shameful. She chastised herselffor her pride, but that wasn’t what sealed her lips. She didn’t want to divert people’s charity from those more deserving. ‘Not at all. I need purpose,’ Ivy replied, then wished she hadn’t when she saw his expression soften. She didn’t want his pity.
Ivy piled the scones on a plate, watching Omar’s eyes track her movements.
‘You have many books,’ Omar remarked, gesturing at her overflowing shelves.
‘Yes. I found them useful when I was the vicar ... references for sermons.’ Ivy replied, then hesitated. ‘A lifetime ago. You’re welcome to borrow them.’ Remembering his frequent poetry quotations, she crossed the room, easing out her battered copy of Amy Levy, a bold and pioneering poet from the Victorian era. After her death, Oscar Wilde praised Levy’s work inWomen’s Worldmagazine, calling her poetry deeply moving and full of ‘keen emotion’. She pushed the book back, thinking Levy might be a touch obscure for Omar, selecting instead a copy ofTennyson. ‘You might like to read this.’ she said. ‘I love Victorian poetry. I find it soothes me.’
‘From what?’ he asked.
She sighed.
Omar nodded, his eyes full of understanding despite her lack of explanation. ‘Why are you looking at these jobs?’
Ivy blushed and turned to pour boiling water over Omar’s tea, pushing the pot and a mug his way. Today he seemed talkative. Less reserved.
She changed the subject. ‘Was it you who tided the next door garden?’
‘I had some spare time.’
