Page 30 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Kabul. That’s when I learned English.’
‘They taught you well. Your English is excellent.’
‘When I left university, it was only adequate.’
‘What did you study?’
‘Education.’ He said it matter-of-factly, but his shoulders had stiffened again.
‘That explains why you know so much about teaching methods,’ Ivy said. ‘And Helen?’ she asked, too diplomatic toask if he found her attractive. ‘Were you chatting to her about teaching?’
The warmth vanished from his voice. ‘No.’
His curt answer took her aback, but she turned her attention to another garden’s worth of Christmas decorations ahead of them, which had just been switched on.
Ivy felt Fred’s hand grasp her elbow as she navigated an icy patch. Her skin hummed in response. The simple contact sent shockwaves through her. Such an insignificant gesture, yet her entire body seemed to thrum with awareness. The electricity of it lingered, travelling up her arm like a current she’d forgotten her body could conduct. Such a powerful thing, this simple human connection. She had forgotten how much she missed it.
A memory surfaced, from beneath decades of hiding, of the way a man’s hand had rested against her back once, pulling her close in the dark. Then he’d taken a decision which steered him in one direction and forced her onto a different life path. When she’d had the distraction of her job, she hadn’t missed the romantic love she lost back then. But now she allowed herself a tiny pang of regret for the solitary future she had unwittingly assigned herself. She pictured sharing quiet evenings with someone, cooking regularly for them and caring for them – and being cared for in return. It would be wonderful.
Fred had his arm by his side again, and she reminded herself it would also be impossible.Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself firmly.Romance doesn’t happen to retired vicars.
She spotted Omar watching, saw that knowing look cross his face. ‘Rumi viewed love as an “infinite ocean,” he said as if reading her thoughts. ‘Human love is just a ripple in that ocean, not separate from it.’
‘He sounds quite profound. This Rumi ... an Afghan philosopher?’ asked Fred.
‘He was a Persian poet,’ replied Omar, a pensive look on hisface.
He must be lonely too, thought Ivy, far from family, friends and homeland. Omar understood solitude.
The threesome walked on, and worry burned in Ivy. If Omar had come here illegally – and everything pointed that way – weren’t she and Fred breaking the law by sheltering him?
The cold air carried the scent of approaching snow and Ivy wondered if prison cells were as chilly as Devon winter nights.
‘You’re thinking too loudly,’ Omar said unexpectedly.
‘I’m worried about you,’ she admitted.
‘Don’t be.’ But his voice was gentler than usual, almost fond. ‘I’m not worth the trouble.’
‘Everyone’s worth the trouble,’ Fred said firmly, and Ivy felt a rush of affection for them both.
They passed the village hall, where Victor had tangled the Christmas lights so thoroughly, they now spelled out ‘Leon’ instead of ‘Noel’. The sight made Omar snort with unexpected laughter.
‘I could fix that,’ he said, almost wistfully.
‘You could fix a lot of things,’ Ivy said carefully. ‘If you decide to stay.’
But Omar was already withdrawing, his walls going back up as unmistakable as a curtain drawn against the cold. Still, Ivy had seen it – that moment of openness. She heard his words again in her mind:love as an infinite ocean andhuman love just a ripple.Maybe it was foolish, perhaps even dangerous, but something in her trusted that idea. Trusted him, despite his secrecy.
They didn’t eat until after nine o’clock. Omar insisted on cooking after making an incredulous face at Ivy’s suggestion of making a pasta bake with the chicken thighs she’d removed from the freezer, combined with and a can of supermarket sweetcorn. By the time they sat down, Ivy’s cottage was steeped in warmth,not just from the fire roaring in the hearth – which Fred had built after declaring the room was cold enough to make his teeth chatter – but from the rich, spiced scent of roasted garlic, slow-cooked tomatoes and sizzling chicken. A heavy pan ofMorgh Torsh, as Omar had called it, sat in the centre of a rug he had laid on the carpet. The pan was full of a deep red sauce thickened with ground walnuts and tangy dried plums (that duffle bag of Omar’s was like a Tardis) pooling around golden, pan-fried chicken thighs. The dish glistened invitingly, the air fragrant with whispers of cinnamon, while beside it, pillowy flatbreads, homemade and still hot from the griddle begged to be torn and dipped.
‘We’re eating on the floor?’ Fred asked, eyeing the low arrangement of cushions and the spread of dishes placed haphazardly on the rug.
Omar settled cross-legged with the ease of someone who had done it his entire life. ‘This is how you eat properly, with your hands, close to the food, close to the people. Sitting at a table isunnatural.’
Ivy hesitated, before lowering herself onto a cushion, adjusting her position several times before realizing there was no elegant way to sit. ‘I think my knees disagree.’
Fred gave in with a groan, stretching his legs out in front of him. ‘I’m too old for this.’
