Page 5 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
She stepped into her cottage and flicked on the lights. ‘Oh, good grief!’ It looked like someone had ransacked her home. The guilty culprit sat in the middle of the devastation, a crocheted woollen blanket, usually draped over the sofa back, covering him like a shroud. Jezreel, her ten week old puppy. Ivy’s first dog. This small creature was her attempt to inject purpose back into her life. The name had come to her when she’d watched him exploring the cottage, bounding from room to room withunrestrained joy. In the Bible, the Valley of Jezreel was a place of both promise and struggle, fertile land that had nourished generations while also witnessing historic battles. Similarly, this tiny companion represented both the potential for new beginnings and the inevitable challenges that would accompany them. The silence of the cottage used to weigh on her, but now Jezreel’s padding paws and high-pitched encouraging yaps filled it.
The blanket wriggled. A tiny snout poked out from beneath the fabric and a pair of gorgeous, intense black eyes stared up at her. Unable to contain his energy, the puppy jiggled, the shroud rippled, then a compact body emerged, the oversized paws hinting at future growth. Jez was no pedigree. Instead, he possessed an irresistible, scrappy, mischievous look.
His rough coat blended white with earthy shades of brown and was marked by a dark smudge on one ear, and a pirate’s patch over the eye beside it. His ears were floppy and oversized. She hoped he’d never grow into them.
Ivy pressed her hands to her temples. As she strode forward to scold the dog, she nearly tripped over an enormous Victorian pot which dominated the hall – every inch a riot of competing patterns in unfortunate shades of mustard and maroon. Last year’s Christmas present from Fred. ‘I said Victorianpoetry,’ she muttered, straightening the monstrosity. ‘Tennyson, not teapots!’
Ivy picked her way past damp, chewed cushions, gathering up pieces of shredded newspaper. ‘Jezreel!’ she scolded, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. The puppy responded with soft whimpering noises, delicate and high-pitched; half a sigh, half a whine. Between each whimper, the pup emitted little fragile huffs of breath. Instant forgiveness. ‘Oh, you are a naughty little boy, aren’t you?’
He replied by licking her face. His breath smelled suspiciouslyof apples. A quick glance confirmed her hunch – the food caddy lay upended on the kitchen floor: teabags, apple cores and a limp lettuce strewn across the tiles like discarded toys.
She knelt to gather the debris, her knees cracking as she did so. Jez followed her around as she tidied up, his nails clicking on the flagstone floor. The sound was a reminder that she wasn’t alone, that she had a companion, a purpose – at a time when she felt so adrift, Jez anchored her. Every so often he trotted up with a random offering – an apple core, a tea towel, a cushion – as if trying to tempt her into a game. As she reached for a banana peel, the puppy nuzzled closer, nibbling gently at her earlobes with his tiny teeth.
‘You’re lucky you’re cute,’ she told him, extracting her now-soggy prayer journal from under the sofa. Despite the chewed pages, she could still just about decipher yesterday’s job-hunting entry.
Jez bounded over to the puppy-training book that Fred had given her, which lay unopened on the window seat. She really should read it. But every time Jez misbehaved, she treated him like the children she’d never had, with gentle scolding and too many treats. Fred kept telling her she needed to be firmer, establish boundaries, but it didn’t seem fair to spoil his puppyhood.
A flash of movement caught her eye. Jez had a slipper in his mouth and was prancing away with his tail held high. ‘No, darling, bring that here,’ she called, knowing it was futile. Instead, he stood on his hind legs and dropped it into Fred’s hideous pot with a dullthunk.
Ivy laughed. ‘Well, at least you’ve found a use for that pot.’
When the cottage was tidy again, she collected the torch from its peg by the back door and went outside. Dusk had fallen quickly, darkness spreading through the garden like sin through Eden. The light from the shed glowed brightly. As she walked,the torch bobbed, casting erratic light over the stone path. She had only gone a few paces from the house, yet in the silent press of the evening it felt further.
When she reached the shed, – a building about the size of two shipping containers – she turned off the torch, then pushed open the door. A musty smell hit her; Ivy’s eyes roved around the haphazard collection of tools, broken flowerpots and bags of compost sagging under their own weight. She really should clean up in here. She muttered a small sigh of disapproval, reached for the string and turned off the single bare bulb overhead. Job done, Ivy turned to leave, and suddenly, she heard a sound.
It was just the faintest scrape, like a boot against wood. Her heart hammered against her ribcage. Listening more closely, she heard the rustle of breathing. Was an animal trapped in here? A fox or a badger? But that wouldn’t explain the light being on. A light she was certain she had not left on the last time she was in here – and wished she hadn’t just switched off now.
Her skin prickled, every nerve taut, her senses scrambling to tune into the dark. Her eyes darted round the space. The darkness swallowed her vision whole at first, shapes emerging slowly like ghosts as her pupils fought to dilate. She should have brought Jezreel. Dogs were excellent at sniffing out people.
She stabbed at the torch’s button, the beam wobbly in her unsteady grasp. Ivy swallowed, summoning courage from some hidden well. ‘Who’s there?’ In the stillness, her voice, though thin, sounded like a shout.
Silence.
She shone the wavering beam around the crowded shed. All the while her ears pricked up. A spade with a broken handle leaned against the workbench like an old man on a crutch. The light picked out bags of compost, a tangled hose, broken pots. But no signs of life. Then, from behind a ladder, something moved.
Startled, she dropped the torch, her heart pounding. Her hand flailed wildly for the cord to switch the light back on, then she fell to her knees, fingers scrabbling on the dusty floorboards, her eyes following the path of the torch beam. Boots. Sturdy hiking boots, their dark brown leather creased and burnished. Scuffs marred the toecaps. Someone had carefully reknotted a broken lace about three inches from the top. Those boots were built to last. She saw thick trousers, worn at the knees, but above that, where the light was dim, she could only make out the looming form of someone tall. Ivy picked up the torch and rose, shining the beam directly on the intruder.
A man emerged, slowly, deliberately. He wore rumpled, dirty clothes. The light caught his face – he looked about thirty, with sharp cheekbones, unkempt hair, a mouth set in a sullen line and a straggly beard. But it was his eyes which struck her, burning dark, unreadable, watching her with something approaching menace in his gaze. He was handsome, in a scruffy way, but there was nothing safe about him.
Ivy’s breath came in a quick puff. ‘What – what are you doing in here?’ she gasped.
He didn’t answer immediately. His fingers, long like a pianist’s, curled around the edge of the workbench as if testing its solidity. Then, at last, he spoke, his accent thick and unfamiliar, yet the response showed he understood English. ‘Nothing.’
Nothing? But he was here. In her shed!
Ivy clutched the torch, her fingers tightening round the base, wondering if it would be any use as a weapon. She suspected that if she hurled the torch, it would bounce off him just like her commands seemed to bounce off Jez. ‘Are you—?’ She hesitated. The word ‘refugee’ danced on her tongue. He had that look – an outsider, displaced, drifting between worlds. He could just be homeless. But she didn’t think so. There was somethingunnerving, something dark, coiled in his silence. And that accent. Was he alone?
He took a step closer. Only one. It was enough. Ivy’s throat tightened. She could see the muscles flexing beneath the fabric of his coat, the way his jaw clenched. There was a restlessness in him, something caged, straining for release. He had been on that abandoned dinghy. She was sure of it.
‘You should go.’ she said, her voice firmer now, though fear laced its edges.
He frowned. ‘Should I?’
Ivy’s mouth went dry. She thought of the phone still in her pocket. The authorities. A single call and he would be gone. But she detected something beneath his nastiness – something tender and raw he’d encased in spite, like a frightened animal that bites because it expects to be hurt. She could handle this herself.
Ivy squared her shoulders, lifting her chin. ‘You have five minutes to leave my property.’
His smile widened, all teeth and arrogance, but something glimmeredbehind his eyes – recognition, perhaps even respect. Ivy stood gripping the torch until her knuckles whitened, her breath shallow. He gave a slight nod, almost mocking, and without another word, he picked up a bag and slung it over his shoulder. As he sidled past, she caught the scent of unfamiliar spices, and she asked herself what it must be like to arrive in a strange country thousands of miles from home, seeking sanctuary, to discover the natives as inhospitable as she was being.
