Page 6 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
The disturbing parallel between her own dismissive attitude and the unwelcoming stance of her fellow Christians at the vicarage settled like a weight on her conscience.
She imagined the last few minutes of his inbound journey. Ivy had made that trip into Brambleton Harbour many timesherself. She could almost feel the boat gently bobbing on the approaching tide, the familiar sight of her village unfolding before her, the sandy beach she’d known for decades curving in a gentle crescent, its wet surface reflecting the late-afternoon light like burnished copper. Seagulls would have been overhead, their calls carrying sharply in the crisp air. Would the crowded dinghy’s passengers have felt frightened, nervous or even excited?
As he sidled past her, she told herself that she was doing the right thing, the sensible thing, but couldn’t dislodge the feeling that she should do more than simply protect herself. For decades, she had helped countless souls, comforted the lost, given sanctuary to the weary. But could she trust her own judgement anymore? What if this man meant her harm?
‘Wait. What’s your name?’
He stopped just outside the door. His response was reluctant, as if squeezed out of him against his will. ‘Omar.’
Ivy tried to make her voice sound more welcoming. ‘And where are you from, Omar?’
‘Does it matter?’ he spat.
‘You were on that dinghy, weren’t you? How many of you are there?’
For a few moments, he didn’t reply, and she assumed he was weighing up his loyalties, calculating if betraying others might secure him a respite. He shrugged. ‘What dinghy?’
She chuckled. ‘I see.’He was going to play it that way, was he?
Seeing her soften, he seized his chance. ‘Let me stay,’ he whispered. His eyes, recently so menacing, had a vulnerability in them, which pierced Ivy’s defences as effectively as the puppy’s. She was sure he had been on that dinghy; was some hot food and a night inside wrapped in a blanket so much to ask? ‘I am not planning to stay long.’
That was a complicated sentence. ‘How comes your English is so good?’
The seconds ticked past, and Ivy sensed he was not going to answer her question. She tried a different tack. ‘Are you alone?’
As if detecting he was gaining traction, he moved towards her, looking her directly in the eyes, just like Jez did when he wanted to play. ‘Yes. There’s no one else. Not anymore.’
Ivy swallowed.Not anymore?What did that mean?
‘Please. I won’t stay long.’
As she opened her mouth to tell him to go, she heard the faint strains of music, thin but certain, coming from Fred’s kitchen. It was ‘The Power of Love’. She hadn’t heard it in decades, but her bones knew it before her mind did. The air in the shed grew soft and golden. The melody curled around her like smoke.
The shed faded, and she was twenty again, standing on a Bristol street listening to the voice she loved. ‘Promise me that whatever happens, we’ll never turn our backs on someone who needs us. That we’ll never be the kind of people who cross to the other side of the street.’
‘I promise,’ said Ivy.
She had broken that vow once – just once – and had carried the burden of failure ever since.
She’d promised herself she would never do that again.
The floorboards creaked; she blinked, looking straight into Omar’s tired eyes. The music had stopped.
Ivy puffed out a sigh. ‘All right. Stay here. I’ll fetch you a blanket and some hot soup.’
He gave a toss of his head and spoke gruffly: ‘Thank you.’ Then he muttered some words she didn’t understand.
She arched her eyes at him. ‘I didn’t catch that.’
He spoke almost reverently. ‘I was quoting Rumi.’
‘I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know much about Rumi.’
‘He was a thirteenth-century Persian poet.’
She thought of her bookshelves crowded with volumes of Victorian poetry, and her voice softened. ‘I like poetry,’ she said. ‘Can you translate what you just said?’
He straightened slightly, shoulders squaring.
