Page 8 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Through the closed bifold doors, Ivy looked out at the terrace’s wrought-iron tables glistening with morning rain, abandoned to the weather. Trish, the café’s owner, looked up from behind the counter. ‘Morning, Ivy,’ she called.
Heaped on the counter were small mountains of Christmas decorations: pools of tinsel, tangles of fairy lights and boxes of glittering baubles. Among them stood three grey felt figures,each wearing a tall, pointed red hat and sporting a long, white beard – the Nordic equivalent of the mystical gift-bringer Santa Claus. In Sweden they were known as Tomtar, in Norway, Nisse. Ivy owned a set herself, and each Christmas Eve was mindful to leave out a bowl of porridge laced with butter, to prevent the threesome becoming mischievous. She’d given her friend Trish this set a few years ago.
Dear Trish, she thought. Her friend was always the first to think about Christmas decorations, but one of the last to complete the job.
Ivy unbuttoned her coat and weaved a path through an eclectic mix of deep velvet-backed chairs. Customers occupied most of the plush seats, hunched over steaming mugs, several reading books. Brambleton’s café-cum-bookshop was humming with gentle conversations and the soft rustle of turning pages. But there was an uneasiness in the air: voices were hushed yet strained. The discovery of the dinghy was less than twenty-four hours old, but the news had already spread through the village like wildfire.
Behind the counter, Trish worked with precise movements despite the morning rush, juggling orders, plucking sweet smelling homemade cakes and biscuits from display cabinets, her face tight with concentration.
‘They need to get a search party together,’ a man in a navy jumper announced. ‘The police aren’t bothering to investigate. Just left an abandoned dinghy on the beach. No questions asked about how it got there or where the passengers have gone.’
Ivy chewed her lip – she knew where one of them was. Her fellow villagers sounded about as hospitable as wolves circling waiting to pounce on prey. She exhaled slowly, telling herself to be more empathetic. The village was frightened. As their former vicar, she should understand. Her heart ached, wishing she was still the centre of the village – some parishioners had calledher ‘Brambleton’s spouse’, and for years Ivy had almost felt married to Brambleton. She longed to reassure everyone they were overreacting, but that was Victor’s role now. She mustn’t meddle, so she kept her lips sealed.
‘It’s disgraceful,’ a woman muttered, stirring her mug so forcefully that coffee cascaded onto the tabletop. ‘Were they rescued? Did they even make it? And are we safe, or overrun with migrants?’
Unless other villagers were hiding refugees in their sheds, it sounded like nobody other than Omar had been found yet. Ivy pictured Omar’s fingers curling around the thermos of coffee she’d taken him. Though his gratitude had been a mere grunt, a sound barely audible above the birdsong, she had felt a sense of accomplishment for not turning him away.
Mabel joined the conversation her voice haughty, ‘I had to use the tumble dryer, I didn’t feel safe hanging our washing out to dry. That’s not right.’
As if anyone would be interested in Mabel’s support tights or Hector’s polyester shirts, thought Ivy. ‘Hardly the weather for hanging washing outside Mabel, is it, in the drizzle?’
Mabel sniffed loudly. ‘I was speaking figuratively. We have a right to feel safe in our own homes.’
Ivy tried to keep her tone even. ‘I don’t think Brambleton has been invaded by marauding Vikings. I should think whoever was on that boat would hightail it into Barnstaple, not hang around waiting to plunder your washing.’
Mabel pushed out her chest, her bosom heaving with indignation.
Ivy turned her attention to Trish, a spry woman in her forties, with hazel eyes and a fountain of energy that reminded Ivy of Jezreel. ‘You look like you could use a hand back there.’
Trish startled slightly before forcing a smile. ‘Oh, just busy. You know how it is.’
Not anymore, she didn’t. Although finding her replacement had taken over a year,Ivy hadn’t been busy for eighteen months. It was the little things she missed most: the softening of eyes when she laid a gentle arm on a troubled soul; the sighs when her hand rested on someone’s head as she blessed them. These days, a week could pass without her feeling the touch of another human.
‘What can I get you?’ Trish asked. ‘And while you’re deciding, you can tell me why you’ve got the same worried face you wore at yesterday’s church meeting.’
That bothered Ivy. Had worry become a permanent look? ‘Job-hunting, you know. Bills to pay.’ Her pension covered the rent and utility bills, but food for her and little Jez had to come out of her savings, and there was worryingly little left.
‘Don’t give me that.’ Trish leaned closer, her voice dropping. ‘I’ve known you too long. Now spill!’
She wanted to confide about Omar but held back. Trish’s father wasn’t born in England, but he had arrived legally; Trish might have strong views about those who ignored the rules. ‘What are you hiding?’
A refugee!Ivy went pink. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
A bell chimed, saving her from having to finish that lie. Fred walked in, bringing a gust of chilly air with him. Today he wore a tie patterned with umbrellas, presumably to match the weather. He stopped to chat to Mabel before making his way toward the counter.
‘Are you alright, Ivy?’
Her relief evaporated. Had he seen her taking a tray of food to the shed?
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she asked cautiously.
‘It’s all this talk about refuges on the loose.’
‘I think everyone’s being a bit alarmist.’ Inspecting his face for clues, she added, ‘I mean, has anyone seen anything suspiciousapart from the dinghy?’
‘No, but if you’re feeling unsafe, I could pop over and reinforce your window locks?’
She let out a short, breathy laugh and shook her head. Unlike Mabel, Ivy wasn’t afraid of some unknown figure lurking in the shadows. She knew exactly who was there. And while Omar lived in her shed, she expected he would prevent any of his fellow passengers causing her to question her hospitality.
