Page 23 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Helen had changed for tea and was now wearing a fawn-coloured sweater which matched her loose hair, a colourful rope of beads and wide legged trousers in a shade of caramel. Ivy hoped that Jez didn’t lunge for any part of the expensive looking outfit. Helen’s voice filled the hallway as they walked back, thanking Ivy for her generous welcome basket. When they entered the living room, Omar was gone. Ivy stared at his abandoned mug, the smell of the cardamon like his ghost watching proceedings.
‘Where did he go?’ Ivy asked Fred.
‘Hmm?’ he said, looking up from fussing Jez. ‘Oh, didn’t notice. Probably went to pack for the move.’ But Fred didn’t meet her eyes and Ivy felt that familiar sense that everyone knew something she didn’t.
Unperturbed, Helen chatted about her teaching plans. Ivy nibbled at a scone, wondering if she’d missed something obvious. The warmth in Omar’s voice when, unguarded, he had talked knowledgably about teaching, his reaction to Helen’s arrival this morning, now his sudden disappearance ... She couldn’t weave the threads together, but she was sure they were linked.
Once, she would’ve trusted that instinct without hesitation. It had been second nature, reading people, noticing what others overlooked, so that she could help them – both as individuals, and as part of the community. She’d built a career on it.
But since stepping away, that part of her had learned to doubt itself, like a muscle left unused.
Now, it was flexing again. Not boldly. Just enough for her to feel its shape returning.
She sat back in her chair, the half-eaten scone forgotten, and let the thought mellow:
Maybe I’m not done. Not yet.
The stockroom of the café smelled of damp cardboard and something vaguely reminiscent of old potatoes, though Ivy had yet to find the source.
Flour-dusted shelves loomed around her, stacked high with jars of chutney, catering-sized bags of sugar and enough tinned tomatoes to see out a siege. Somewhere behind her, she could hear the soft rustle of paws scuffing along the floor, followed by an ominousscrape. Jez was up to no good.
‘Jez,’ she warned, turning just in time to see him, tongue lolling, gleefully dragging a bag of dried pasta across the tiles. How? It must be almost his body weight.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ She lunged, but he dodged, scattering fusilli in his wake like some chaotic Hansel leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.
‘That’s it! Prison for you.’ She picked him up, carried him to his travel crate, wrestled him inside – he went boneless in protest – and latched the door firmly shut.
A muffledwhimpercame from within.
‘Yes, well, you should have thought about that before raiding the pasta.’
Outside, through the half-open door, she could hear the café’s usual hum of chatter. But the words ... the words made her stop, a bottle of Prosecco in each hand.
‘Him!’ squeaked Margaret. ‘You know, the one lurking about—’
Then Mabel’s voice. ‘Oh, I know who you mean. Yes, I saw him, standing near the village green. I tell you, I hurried past, didn’t like the look of him at all. That long straggly beard.’
‘It’s a disgrace. Why’sshekeeping a refugee in her garden shed, of all places?’
She stacked the bottles on a shelf, gritting her teeth. Mabel andMargaret. Stalwarts of the Church Council, forever discussing roof repairs and hymn choices, yet utterly lacking in Christian charity when it mattered.
‘He should go back to where he came from, that’s what I say,’ Margaret huffed. ‘Can’t have these sorts turning up uninvited.’
Jez let out a little whine from the crate, as if evenhedisapproved.
Ivy was already moving before she’d decided what to do, out into the café, sleeves rolled up, jaw set.
‘Thesesorts?’ Her voice carried across the room, making both women start. ‘Do you mean a man who fled a war-torn region? A man who’s only asked for shelter and yet you talk as if he’s rifled through your biscuit tins and made off with the church silver?’
Mabel pursed her lips. ‘Well, I was only saying—’
‘No,I’lltellyou. With his gardening skills and carpentry, he’s more use to this community than half the people in it. And unless you’ve both decided to rewrite the Gospel according to St Mabel and St Margaret, I suggest yourememberwhat the Bible actually teaches.’
The hush was as sharp as shattered glass. Someone coughed.
Mabel looked indignant. ‘No need to be testy,’ she huffed. ‘We were merelydiscussing ...’
‘Discuss the weather instead.’ Ivy folded her arms, feeling her heart hammering beneath them. ‘Less chance of you embarrassing yourselves.’
