Page 18 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Fred sniffed, straightened his jacket, and, with great dignity, walked off.
By noon, Ivy had been helping in the café for two hours and was beginning to feel like a clumsy understudy in a play she hadn’trehearsed for. The mid-morning coffee crowd had departed, and while it was quiet, Trish had allowed Ivy to take Jez off the lead where he’d been tied up near the counter. He’d quickly become an agent of chaos, nose twitching at crumbs she swore she’d swept up earlier, leaving a trail of discarded toys, including his new shiny wooden bone.
The bell above the door jangled, and Mabel’s voice, as jagged as a lightning strike, cut through the air. ‘Who’s that man I saw in your garden yesterday?’
Ivy glanced up from the till, a smile frozen in place. Mabel, wrapped in layers of knitted scarves despite the café’s warmth, leaned against the counter with all the glee of someone who’d sensed scandal.
‘Oh, that was Fred,’ she said, forcing a lightness she absolutely did not feel.
Mabel snorted. ‘No, it wasn’t. Too tall. Have you got a gentleman caller?’ She pointed to a slice of cake. ‘I’ll have that piece, please. Who is he then?’
‘That’ll be £3.50, please, Mabel. Cash or card?’ She all but danced on the spot, turning for the cake stand, reaching for a cloth, pretending the teapot needed rearranging. Anything to redirect Mabel’s attention.
‘Don’t you try and wriggle off the hook,’ Mabel cackled, clutching her handbag. ‘I know what I saw.’
Trish, stuck behind the counter, raised a knowing eyebrow as she juggled her crutches and tried to top up the sugar bowls one-handed. Jez, ever the opportunist, sniffed around the chairs with the exaggerated curiosity of a detective on a case.
‘Oh, look at the time!’ Ivy said brightly. ‘Must crack on.’
‘Crack on?’ Mabel eyed the two pensioners in the corner, nursing their tea like it was a sacred relic. ‘Go on, who is he?’
The truth teetered on the tip of her tongue. The only other person who knew was Fred. Ivy hadn’t even told Trish aboutOmar yet. Would it be so bad to come clean? Just say it? Admit that a man, a stranger, was staying in her shed? That she’d found him cold, hungry and desperate, and something in her simply hadn’t been able to turn him away?
Mabel tapped her fingers against the counter, a crooked grin on her face, waiting for an answer. She smirked, her eyes never leaving Ivy’s. Eventually, Mabel’s mouth quirked upward.
‘I knew it! A secret romance.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s not—’
And then, mercifully, Jez intervened.
With a purposeful little squat, he positioned himself beside Mabel’s shoe, his expression one of deep, unwavering concentration. Momentarily, Ivy wondered when he would start cocking his leg instead of squatting. Then, a horrified shriek reminded her where she and the puppy were.
‘Oh, that beastly little ... ! Oh, I can’t bear it!’ Mabel shrank back, clutching her handbag to her chest as if warding off evil. Jez, business concluded, trotted away, blissfully unbothered.
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry. The next coffee is on the house.’ Trying to hide her smile, Trish turned her back on the customer, hopping an escape into the storeroom.
‘That’s it!’ Mabel shrilled, backing away. ‘I shall eat my cakeat home!’
The door slammed behind her. Ivy sagged against the counter and exhaled.
Trish passed Ivy a bleach-soaked cloth and raised an eyebrow. ‘Jez really does need to be house-trained to be in the café, you know. I don’t want all my customers eating their cakes at home. Now, more to the point, are you going to tell me about your mysterious visitor, or do I have to stake out your garden?’
Ivy took a deep breath and told her everything.
The fire in Ivy’s former sitting room fizzled and died with anapologetic sputter.
Anticipating Victor’s dreadful fire-laying, Ivy had come dressed in a tweed suit. The material felt incredibly itchy on her wrists and around her waist, like a hair shirt from the old stories – coarse garments worn for penance, the constant sting against the skin reminding the wearer of their sin.
Victor’s tall frame ducked through the sitting-room doorway like a collapsible giraffe. His hair was still damp, and he was nearly fifteen minutes late. Again. One thing was certain, Ivy thought, the Vicar needed an alarm clock. If he wanted to keep the Church Council on his side, he couldn’t keep scheduling meetings, only to arrive late and unprepared. At thirty-two, he seemed absurdly young to Ivy, though she’d been even younger when she’d taken over the parish.
He fiddled around with the fire ineffectively until Fred rose from his armchair with a sigh. ‘Let me sort that out, Vicar. You’ve not got enough wood on there,’ Fred said, rolling up his sleeves and starting to pump the bellows, revealing surprisingly toned forearms for someone in his sixties.
‘Marvellous, yes ... thank you. Not got the knack of it yet,’ said Victor. His earnest face beamed down at Mabel and Margaret, who sat with teacups poised like weapons as he launched into his plans for the Christmas Day service.
‘Let’s do a living Nativity. With real animals, donkeys for the wise men, sheep for the shepherds! My friend in London did something similar in their church car park.’
‘What about a live Baby Jesus?’ suggested Margaret sarcastically.
