Page 12 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
The man glanced past her, his eyes swivelling upwards as if he could see through the ceiling. Then he shrugged. ‘Right. Fair enough. I’ll give the shed a thorough check for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said weakly, closing the door.
He retreated towards the shed, his boots clomping on the stone pathway. Ivy’s heart was pounding so hard it drowned out everything else: the rain, the washing machine, the hum of the shower pump.
Ivy caught a hint of detergent and stared at the swirling tangle of Omar’s clothes behind the glass front of the washing machine. A domestic comfort amid the tension. She turned away and watched the self-appointed Neighbourhood Watch prowl around her garden, not moving until the last flashlight blinkedout of sight. Alerted by a noise, Ivy dropped the curtain, her eyes flicking upwards towards the sound. She stepped away from the window and called up the stairs, keeping her voice low.
‘They’re gone. Coast’s clear.’
Omar padded down the stairs, wrapped awkwardly in her old dressing gown that hung above his knees, giving the impression that he wore a tartan mini skirt. Jez lunged for the belt.
‘Your dog needs discipline,’ Omar muttered.
She grinned. ‘I’ve only had him a couple of weeks. He’s still settling in.’
‘It’s your house, your rules, but the sooner you start the sooner he’ll learn.’ said Omar, pushing the dog away with a bare foot. It was a firm but gentle nudge – he didn’t kick the puppy.
‘He’s still learning,’ Ivy said defensively, although privately she agreed. ‘Rather like someone else who could use a bit of taming.’ She eyed his tangled beard. ‘You’re wasting good looks under all that hair.’
He grunted at her dismissively. ‘Keeps me warm.’
Ivy knew all about struggling to keep warm with heating bills the way they were. Thinking of her niece’s empty bedroom, and powered by Christian charity, she said, a little nervously. ‘There’s a spare bedroom you could use ...’
As if sensing her uncertainty, he spoke gently, ‘No. I’m happy in the shed.’
The back door banged open, letting in a swirl of freezing air, followed by Fred with his tie over a shoulder, his chest puffed out like an elderly rooster. ‘Ivy! Stand back!’ he ordered as he rushed past, nearly tripping over Jez. He positioned himself between her and Omar, his arms wide as if holding back an unruly crowd. ‘Have you called the police?’ he hissed.
Ivy sighed. ‘Of course not. He’s a guest, Fred. Why do you think he’s wearing my spare dressing gown.’
Fred spun around, his eyes large and questioning. ‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Omar, and he’s doing odd jobs for me.’
‘Odd jobs?’ Fred scoffed, straightening his tie. ‘Is he now? Well, I can do those! This young vagrant can push off and find someone else to prey on.’
‘I am not a vagrant. And I’m not young. I’m thirty.’
‘Thirsty? Ivy, get this man some water before he leaves!’ said Fred, fumbling with his hearing aid.
‘Oh, pipe down, Fred. I don’t need rescuing. Omar is staying with me, in my shed, for a few days.’
Realization crossed Fred’s face. He jabbed a finger at Omar. ‘You were on that boat, weren’t you. How many of you are there?’ He swung round to Ivy, giving her the sort of look she suspected he frequently used to give misbehaving pupils. ‘This is dangerous. You don’t know anything about this man.’
Fred glowered at Omar, who met his gaze with aristocratic indifference. Ivy watched them, noting Omar’s perfect posture, his unconsciously elegant gestures. She wondered again about his prickly ingratitude, his reluctance to talk about how he got here. Why was he so wary? What was he afraid of? And, more importantly, what was he hiding?
Five
Over the weekend, Ivy and Omar established a tentative routine that continued into half-term week and the first week of November. While Omar tidied the bedraggled garden – aided by Jezreel, who approached every tool as a potential toy – Ivy trawled the internet. First, she diligently checked the job websites, then she searched for recipes and started ordering ingredients she had never heard of: toor dal, mung beans, tamarind paste.
At lunchtime, Omar and the puppy would join her in the kitchen. Previously, Ivy would have made herself a sandwich and given Jez a bowl of kibble. Now she served a dal. The food was earthy and rich, with a mild nutty undertone. She liked the texture: thick, smooth and creamy, ranging from velvety and silky to chunky and hearty depending on whether she used lentils, urid beans or split peas. Each meal left her much fuller than a sandwich, and she was grateful for discovering this cheap source of protein. She was careful with the spice, but Omar soon took over, demonstrating how a touch of chilli could add a pleasant heat which lingered at the back of the palate but didn’t overwhelm. As they ate, she listened to Omar’s plans for the garden. He didn’t say much beyond that, but he didn’t scowl quite so often.
At the end of the first week of November, when Trish messaged, inviting Ivy to join her at the pub, Ivy paused before responding. It had been ages since she’d accepted these onceweekly outings. The week had passed so quickly, just like it used to when she was dashing from one parishioner’s house to the next. Omar had given a structure to her life, and for the first time in months, she hadn’t felt lost or lonely. She had also saved £10 by switching from cheese and pickle sandwiches and a glass of milk to pulses and a glass of water, so, thinking she might be ready to reintroduce an old habit, she accepted. Not for a meal, just a quick drink.
On Friday evening, Ivy met Trish outside the Smuggler’s Inn. The windows were foggy but behind the glass the pub glowed like a lantern in the dark. Ivy hesitated on the threshold. Trish gave her a gentle shove. ‘Just a quick one. When did you last join us? It’s not good for you holing up in that cottage of yours night after night.’
Ivy felt a surge of warmth inside her. Trish was right, itwasimportant to socialize. That was the advice she’d given to so many widows and widowers over the years. Maybe it was time she took a bit of it herself. No, she hadn’t lost a partner to death, not like they had, but still, the village had once been her constant, her comfort. And now someone else fulfilled her role. There was a gentle ache. Not the same kind of grief, no, but a kind of loneliness all the same.
She pushed open the door. A leather-tinged scentmet her, coming from the old horse tack decorating the walls, mingled with the salty tang of the sea.
