Page 3 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
She stepped forward, catching the plate of biscuits in freefall. ‘Victor, I think you’ll find one heaped teaspoon per cup is plenty. Why don’t you make the tea? Margaret can carry the tray for you, and I’ll finish making the coffee.’
Victor smiled sheepishly. ‘Yes, yes, good idea. I’m a tea man myself. I’ve no idea how to make proper coffee. Is that really what I should serve?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows quizzically.
‘Instant coffee won’t hurt anyone,’ replied Ivy.
The meeting resumed. Ivy’s phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably another job rejection. Let them say no – she only needed one yes. Somewhere out there was an employer who would value her skills.
The door burst open and in rushed Rose, the landlady of the Smuggler’s Inn. She was panting and her cheeks were pink, suggesting she had run all the way from the pub.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ puffed Rose. Ivy suppressed a laugh.Late?Hardly! They had only just moved past the first agenda item. A series of setbacks had delayed the start of the meeting. First, Fred had to embark on a full-scale manhunt to track down Victor, who he eventually discovered mid-serenade in the shower, bellowing ‘Jerusalem’ like a one man choir. Second came the ten minute search for the missing agendas, which they finally unearthed from beneath a pile of tea-stained minutes. And then, just when they thought they were ready, Victor declared himselfcompletely unfit to read anythingwithout his glasses, which had been right there on the end of his nose allalong.
Rose shrugged off her coat, releasing the smell of spilled beer and fried food. Ivy tried to recall the last time she had joined her friends at the Smuggler’s Inn on a Friday night. Weeks ago. When she was the vicar, she used to go all the time – buying rounds, holding court at the bar. But now the pub felt like a minefield: every pint was a luxury she could not afford, and she dreaded the inevitable questions about why Reverend Ivy was suddenly plain ‘Ivy’.
‘But you’ll never believe what kept me,’ said Rose, her eyes widening. ‘Something’s been found on the beach.’
A ripple of anticipation shot through the room.
‘An inflatable dinghy,’ Rose said, drawing out the words for dramatic effect. ‘An abandoned one.’
Silence settled for a beat as imaginations leaped ahead, then the whispers began.
‘Migrants,’ muttered Margaret, glancing nervously toward the darkening sky outside. ‘It’s happening all along the coast.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ scoffed Fred. ‘This is North Devon, not Dover. It’s a long way across the channel to Brambleton.’
‘That’s the point. No one’s looking for them here, are they?’ said Margaret, wagging a warning finger at Fred. ‘It’ll be the sort who stand no chance of being granted asylum. The desperate ones.’
Mabel’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Thedangerousones, you mean. My sister had asylum seekers move near her. Do you know what happened? Break-ins started the very next day.’
Ivy shot a look at Victor, but when he didn’t intervene, she did. ‘Mabel, your sister lives in Hackney. It’s not the safest part of London, is it?’
Fred shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘Could just be kids messing about? Tourists bringing their teenagers down for the weekend,they hire a boat, tie it up badly, it washes ashore?’
Rose sighed, ‘Maybe, but it’s still a week until half term. We don’t have many tourists.’
‘Or smugglers,’ Mabel added, eyes widening. ‘People still run booze, you know. Drugs too. I read about it intheDaily Mail.’
Victor cleared his throat. ‘Um, perhaps we could turn our attention to item two? The roof fund?’ he ventured, his voice cracking.
Undeterred, Rose crossed her arms, surveying her audience. ‘No footprints in the sand, no sign of anyone. Whoever arrived on that boat, they’ve covered their tracks well.’
‘What if they’re still here?’ Mabel asked, her voice slightly wavering.
‘They could be watching us right now,’ Margaret added. ‘Planning God knows what.’
‘Margaret, please,’ intervened Victor.
Fred rolled his eyes. ‘Next you’ll be telling me they’re hiding in Mabel’s garden shed.’
‘Don’t joke about such things,’ hissed Mabel.
More whispers spread through the room. Someone muttered about needing to mount a search party, another suggested a night patrol. A nervous energy crackled in the air. In the silence that followed, Ivy could almost sense each person visualizing the threat. A sudden crash from outside made them all jump.
Victor seized his moment, speaking with forced brightness, ‘Why don’t we form a neighbourhood welcoming committee? I’ve some lovely pamphlets about cultural sensitivity I kept from my previous diocese ...’
His words trailed off as several pairs of eyes fixed on him with identical stares of incredulous horror.
Ivy agreed with Victor – they should welcome refugees, not turn them away –but again, she bit her tongue. She folded her hands together, a habit from years at the pulpit. She thoughtabout the empty dinghy, the absence of footprints on the shore. Perhaps the rain had simply washed all the footprints away? From across the room, Victor’s eyes met hers, his expression grave. He seemed to be the only other person concerned about the passengers’ fate.What could she possibly do to help them anyway?She’d once been the type of person who would have made calls, demanded action. But that version of herself felt like a stranger now. She caught Victor’s eye again and quickly looked away, certain he could see right through her, see the uncertainty that had replaced the confidence she’d once worn like armour.
