Page 73 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Helen,’ came Fred’s voice, low and familiar. ‘He’s alright.’
Helen murmured something back, too soft to catch.
Ivy pursed her lips. It stung that Fred would tell Helen, and not her. Heat crept up her neck and she took a gulp of wine, using the moment to steady herself.
‘He’s safe,’ Fred went on, the same coaxing note in his voice that he used when he was trying to win someone over.
There was a pause. Then Fred spoke again, his voice softer: ‘I wouldn’t have ...’ Ivy concentrated, trying to hear the words. Fred wouldn’t have done what? Another pause. ‘Look, I know it’s been difficult, but it’ll be fine. Trust me.’
She felt something twist sharply in her heart. Fred was confiding in Helen now, not Ivy. But she shouldn’t be surprised, the pair had so much in common, and until Fred had run his proverbial hedge trimmer over their community by whisking Omar away, the five of them – Ivy, Fred, Trish, Omar and Helen – had been a wonderful little circle.
Trish wriggled beside her. ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered.
Ivy shook her head, straining to listen to the conversation on the doorstep. Helen’s soft laugh floated through. ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘If you’re sure. When?’
Ivy’s stomach dropped. They were planning something.Together, and without her.Perhaps her first instinct had been right after all, and they had chemistry despite their age gap? But no – that kiss between Omar and Helen had seemed real. Oh, if only everything were less tangled up.
She barely noticed Jez lolloping past until he was halfway to the door, tail whipping back and forth with the unstoppable enthusiasm of a metronome on double time.
‘Jez!’ she hissed, pushing back her chair.
Too late. A scramble of paws, followed by the dullthunkof him flinging himself into the hallway.
‘Jez!’ Helen’s voice sounded startled, but welcoming.
Then a single sharp bark, followed by ... silence. No excited yapping. Nothing. The quiet rang in Ivy’s ears. A stillness so unnatural it made her skin prickle. Ivy stood abruptly, Trish beside her. She took a step forward, but Trish caught her wrist.
‘Wait. I think Helen and Fred are talking about Omar. Leave them be.’
Ivy’s breath hitched. Their group of friends had shrunk to exclude Ivy. She swallowed, her pulse hammering. She had never felt so alone.
That night Ivy tossed and turned, as if trying to get comfortable in a bed full of toast crumbs. She woke feeling unrefreshed and determined to put all negative thoughts about Fred behind her. She would concentrate of the investigation. She still had Trish, and her friendship with Helen was blossoming too. Ivy would be sad when the supply teacher’s contract finished. She made a pot of tea, fed Jez and popped him into the garden, watching him bounce about chasing a leaf. Letting the puppy back inside, she stooped to dry his paws.
The clatter of the letterbox made her jump. She glanced at her watch. It was too early for the post. Leaving her mug of tea cooling on the kitchen counter, Ivy followed Jez as he skittered to the front door. His tail was wagging, but she noticed he didn’t bark, nor did he lunge for the post – another trick she hadn’t taught him. An envelope lay face down on the coir doormat, stark white against the brown. She stooped and gathered it before the puppy did, right siding it. There was no postmark.
Inside, the letter was pristine, the type precise and black against cheap copy paper that still smelled slightly of toner.
There was no introduction, just a bold chunk of typeface.
Your meddling has not gone unnoticed.
This has nothing to do with you. Stop. If you don’t, people you care about will suffer the consequences. So will you. This is your only warning A concerned party.
The taste of her morning’s tea turned metallic in Ivy’s mouth as an unbidden memory swept over her. That day, two years ago, the stone corridor of the diocese office had amplified every echo of Ivy’s footsteps. She remembered driving to the meeting buoyed by seeing the first daffodils of spring flowering on the roadside, their sweet scent drifting through her open car window. Ivy had arrived early for the quarterly meeting, the manila envelope of highlighted expense reports clutched in her moist hands. But Bishop Taylor’s assistant had smiled sweetly, head tilted like a bird.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Didn’t anyone tell you? The meeting’s at St Michael’s today.’
The lie hovered between them like incense, cloying and thick. Through the half-open door behind the assistant, Ivy could see the dark suits, hear the murmur of familiar voices, taste the tartness of defeat.
That evening, praying for guidance, one of her churchwardens had stumbled across her, patted her hand and told her firmly, but kindly. ‘Let it go, dear. The diocese has its ways. Remember what happened to that curate in Exeter who made waves?’
Ivy remembered. They’d reassigned him to the Outer Hebrides within weeks. That crystalised her decision to resign. The thought of being forced out of her beloved Brambleton.
Jez’s cold nose pressing against her hand, pulled Ivy back to the present. Perhaps, she thought, she should have accepted that God moved in mysterious ways. Staying in Brambleton butlosing all the people she cared about was infinitely worse than being sent away.
She plodded back to her tea, tossing the letter on the table. It lay accusingly, its edges sharp and white against the darker wood. The winter sun through her window shone on the toast rack, throwing a shadow across the letter that looked like iron bars. Ivy shuddered. She should stop. Fred had whisked Omar away to a safe house she didn’t know about. What was the point in pursuing this? The charity had connections, power. Just like the diocese.
Jez whined softly, pushing his head under her hand. His fur felt smooth against her palm, and she caught the sweet smell of puppy breath. At least she still had this comfort, this warm innocent presence beside her.
