Page 79 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly, ‘wine would be nice. As for help, yes to that too. You can use your accounting skills and bring me proof of what’s really going on at the Fowler Foundation – help me clear Omar’s name.’
Their eyes met, hers full of challenge, his full of something she couldn’t quite discern. Sorrow, maybe, tinged with resignation.
‘I’ll bring wine,’ Fred said, and without another word, he turned back to his path, shovelling once more. And Ivy, with a hollow ache in her heart, retraced her steps. Even now, he wouldn’t help them. The distance between them had never felt wider. And then, in the silence, Ivy heard the distant sound of carollers drift through the garden, hopeful, steadfast.
Christmas had a way of softening even the hardest hearts.
The little market town of Barnstaple was dressed up for Christmas. Shop windows sparkled with an infectious exuberance, each display a kaleidoscope of ribbons, baubles and tinsel. Winking fairy lights draped from shopfront to shopfront, as if embracing the High Street. Ivy stood amid the bustling crowd, her heart light, her nostrils filled with the rich smoky-sweet aroma of roasting chestnuts, intertwined with a buttery warmth oozing from an open bakery door.
Around her, people moved with an almost choreographed joy, arms laden with brightly wrapped packages, cheeks flushed with cold, voices bubbling with laughter and the delicious anticipation of magic about to unfold. Children skipped alongside their parents, eyes wide with the promise of the season, while elderly couples walked arm in arm, their smiles reflecting decades of cherished Christmas memories. The street seemed to pulse with possibility, with the pure, unbridled excitement that only the approach of Christmas could bring.
Ivy smiled. It was the same every year. Initially, the Christmas countdown triggered a wave of stress and impatience. With only a couple of weeks left, people panicked, realizing they hadn’t finished shopping, planned meals or wrapped gifts. Just like Ivy hadn’t. As the pressure mounted, the Christmas spirit vanished. Shoppers shoved past each other, drivers refused to give way,and everyone became a little more short-tempered. But then, as Christmas inched closer, something changed. And that change had happened. Last week these same people were probably honking in traffic and snatching the last turkey off the shelves. Now these strangers let each other out at junctions and gave up parking spaces with a smile. It was as if, at the last moment, the genuine spirit of Christmas finally settled in, reminding everyone what the season was really about.
Ivypaused in front of an outdoor activity shop.‘Right,’ Trish said, leaning on her crutches ‘What about looking in here for something for Fred?’
Ivy sighed, glancing at the display of thick woollen socks and hats. ‘Socks?’
Trish made a face. ‘Too personal.’
‘Aftershave?’
Trish snorted. ‘Way too personal.’
Ivy huffed out a breath. ‘I’ll go to the garden centre later, see if they’ve got anything interesting. Maybe order some dahlia crowns?’
Trish gave her a quizzical look. ‘Is that forhimor for you?’
‘He likes his garden. And he loves his dahlias.’Which meant she would probably order the wrong sort, or a variety he already had.
‘Let’s take a squint in here anyway,’ suggested Trish, hopping defiantly toward the door. A fellow shopper opened it for her and the two friends entered the fuggy warmth.
Ivy ran her fingers over a hand-knitted scarf, the wool thick and soft under her touch. Although soothed by the ordinary bustle of Christmas shoppers around them, the festive reds and greens of the scarves, and by the fake Santa beard one of the assistants wore, her mind kept circling back to last night. Had it really been Robby’s thugs in the graveyard? In the cold light of day, it seemed more likely that it was just kids messing about.
Trish’s voice pulled her out of her musing. ‘One of Helen’s London contacts has given her a name,’ Trish said, lowering her voice. ‘Someone in Kabul.’
Ivy gasped. ‘That’s what we need,someone on the inside,’ she said, feeling a glimmer of hope. Even if it was tangled with nerves, it was there.
Trish held up a bright red scarf, draping it over herself like a model. ‘Do you think this is too much?’
Ivy blinked at her, then laughed. ‘For you? No such thing.’
Trish smirked, looping the scarf around her neck. ‘That’s the spirit. I want to get you something special for Christmas this year, to say thank you for helping at P&P.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ said Ivy, ‘I’ve enjoyed it, and anyway, you’ve paid me.’ She wanted to add that it had been her anchor these last few weeks, but she suspected Trish already knew that. It was why she’d offered her the position.
‘Not inspired in here?’ asked Trish.
‘Nope.’
‘You’ll figure something out. If all else fails, get him a massive tin of dog biscuits, say they’re from Jez, and be done with it.’
Ivy laughed.
The pair tried the garden centre next, where vibrant poinsettias – crimson petals flaring against glossy green leaves – crowded beside stacks of wooden trugs. Nearby, baskets of flowering hyacinths, each tied with a bright bow, were arranged like ready-made gifts The space heaved with shoppers. It smelled of Christmas, cinnamon from scented ornaments near the checkout desk mixed with the resiny smell of pine trees. Festive jazz rang out, the brassy notes weaving through the bustle of last-minute shoppers.
Ivy stood in front of a display of handcrafted wooden dibbers, turning one over in her hands. She put it down and picked up a pair of secateurs, then replaced them too. Functional, butuninspired.
‘Something unusual maybe?’ Ivy muttered, eyeing a beautiful but wildly expensive copper watering can.
