Page 29 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Ivy stepped forward, and she dug deep for the voice of authority she’d developed over years of dealing with difficult parishioners. It wavered slightly as she spoke. ‘Is everything alright, Helen?’
The man’s head snapped around. Up close, she could smell expensive aftershave and see the quality of his wool coat. His eyes were cold as the December wind.
‘This is a private conversation,’ he said curtly. ‘Move along.’
‘Helen?’ said Ivy, her eyes searching the younger woman’s face for clues.
Helen’s voice was oddly strained. ‘It’s fine. Really. We were just discussing ... a school matter.’
But her smile was too bright, too forced. Ivy remembered similar smiles on the faces of women who’d come to her for help, women whom when she’d seen them later with their husbands had insisted everything was fine while their eyes screamed otherwise. Ivy felt as if a weight was crushing her.How had she ever managed to help those women?
She took a step forward, then doubt crept in.
‘Well, if you’re sure ...’ Ivy let her voice trail off uncertainly. ‘I’m headed home if you’d like to walk with me. Finish off your work conversation on Monday?’
‘She said she’s fine,’ snapped the man, but Helen was already backing away from her companion, smoothing her jacket with trembling hands.
‘I’ll see you later, Robby,’ she said firmly. ‘I have some marking to do.’
The man released the teacher’s arm slowly. ‘We’ll continue this discussion another time.’
Ivy waited until he turned and walked away, his expensiveshoes clicking against the pavement. Only then did she notice she’d been gripping her house keys so tightly they’d left indentations in her palm.
‘Helen . . .’ she began.
‘I said I’m fine.’ Helen’s voice sounded cold, clipped at the edges like she was holding something back. ‘Please, just leave it.’
Ivy watched the teacher hurry away, swallowed up by the bustle of the market crowd. The cheerful Christmas music jarred now, too bright, too false. The twinkling lights only deepened the sense of unease settling around her.
What kind of school matter, she wondered,required a man like that.
Ten
Walking up through the village, Ivy marvelled at the way that Brambleton transformed itself for Christmas every year. She peered through windows, their curtains drawn back to frame each private celebration of Jesus’ birth: Christmas trees shimmering like constellations in twilight-cloaked sitting rooms, tinsel-draped pictures, Advent calendars waiting for the first of December, and quirky individual items – a crocheted robin, a two foot high wooden statue of Santa Claus – each spoke of a family’s character.
She caught up with the men outside Margaret’s house, where a Japanese maple looked enchanting, its graceful branches outlined in subtle golden light that made Ivy think of stars caught in a spider’s web. Ivy understood why Margaret guarded Brambleton’s Christmas traditions so fiercely. It wasn’t really about matching the baubles to the wreaths – it was about keeping the memories from slipping away.
‘Pretty,’ murmured Omar.
‘That’s part of the reason the market is so popular,’ explained Fred. ‘The way everyone makes a special effort to decorate their patch of the village in time for the day.’
Strolling upwards, strains of ‘We Three Kings’ serenading them home, they paused to comment on a garden where a delicate strand of white lights wound through the skeletal winter branches of a beech tree. The tiny bulbs hung suspended like stars against the indigo night canvas.
And then there was Number 27.
‘Good grief,’ Ivy laughed, as a mechanical Santa suddenly burst into ‘Jingle Bells’. The front garden was a riot of competing illuminations. A giant inflatable snowman bobbed next to a life-sized sleigh complete with a reindeer whose nose flashed an aggressive, fiery red. Blue icicles clashed with multicoloured bulbs hanging from every available surface, while a projector cast swirling snowflakes onto the house front in lurid green. A plastic choir of angels, their halos pulsing neon yellow, competed for space with a family of neon penguins wearing Santa hats.
‘It’s ...festive,’ Fred offered diplomatically.
‘It’s an assault on the senses,’ Omar muttered, surprising Ivy into a laugh.
‘Let’s crack on!’ said Fred, striding off.
Ivy noticed Omar move to the outer edge of the pavement, positioning her between him and Fred. She wasn’t quite sure what he thought she needed protection from, but she budged along anyway. ‘Your customer service skills were impressive today, Omar,’ she said. ‘Where did you learn them?’
The streetlamp caught the soft smile on his face as he chose to reveal a small piece of himself. ‘University shop. Had to pay my way somehow.’
‘University?’ Ivy tried to keep her voice casual, though her heart leaped at this minor revelation. ‘Where did you go?’
