Page 33 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Ivy debated telling Fred about Helen’s warning at the Christmas market. Wasn’t he entitled to know if he was harbouring someone dangerous? But the words stuck in her throat.
Instead, she admitted how fond she had grown of Omar, surprised by how easily the confession came. When had Fredbecome someone she could share such private thoughts with?
Fred’s voice became unusually serious. ‘Ivy, you need to be careful. Men like that – younger men – they can take advantage ...’
‘Oh!’ The idea was so absurd, she almost laughed. Did Fred think she was in love with Omar? ‘No, it’s not like that ... .’ she scoffed.
Fred’s response was comical. His shoulders dropped six inches all at once, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and a sound escaped him – something between a laugh and a hiccup. Ivy chuckled, too. Fred was right to find it funny – the thought of her, a plump ex-vicar in her late fifties, cavorting with a handsome, educated Afghan in his thirties was patently ridiculous. She and Fred fell into a companiable silence as they walked back to Brambleton through the white landscape, Fred holding the lead, the little puppy gambolling obediently by his side. The snow started to fall again, and two fat flakes caught in Fred’s hair. Ivy wondered what it would be like to brush those snowflakes away. Just as she was about to point them out, they melted, and she stayed silent. Ahead, Omar’s dark figure moved through the trees like a shadow, carrying his own silence like a shield.
The contrast hit her like a blast of icy air: Fred, open and jolly beside her, snowflakes melting in his hair like tiny blessings, while Omar moved alone through the cold, carrying his secrets like stones in his coat.
And here she was, drawn to one, trying to protect the other, unsure where either path might lead. Her instincts told her to ignore Helen’s warning about Omar. Helen – and Ivy suspected most of the other villagers too – didn’t trust Omar. But something was about to happen that would prove one of them wrong.
Eleven
The wind snapped at the windows like a dog shut out in the cold. Outside, the grey Devon sky pressed low against the glass, but inside,Prosecco & Prosewas warm and cinnamon scented. Behind the counter, Ivy watched steam curl from the coffee machine like breath in the stillness. It was four o’clock, and Helen sat by the window with a stack of papers, sleeves pulled over her hands, red pen poised mid-sentence. The bell above the door jangled, and Victor entered bringing the outside chill and his familiar confusion.
‘Afternoon, Ivy,’ he said, glasses misting.
‘Reverend,’ she nodded, already reaching for a cup. ‘Flat white?’
‘Yes, and ... a scone, if there’s one left.’
She slid the plate toward him as he patted his coat, his expression darkening.
‘Oh dear,’ he muttered. ‘I ... I must’ve left my wallet somewhere. Possibly the shop. Or did I leave it in the kitchen. Or—’
‘It’s alright,’ Ivy said, pouring the coffee. ‘Take it. Pay next time.’
He gave her a grateful smile and carried his tray to the table near the radiator, unwinding his scarf with the slow patience of a man used to giving sermons in draughty places.
The door opened again, and Omar slid inside, his shoulders curved forwardas if trying to make himself invisible.
From the corner, Helen’s red pen paused in the air. Her body went still, her shoulders pulling in, eyes narrowing just slightly toward Omar. Ivy clocked it without looking directly at the teacher.
Omar scanned the room; when his eyes landed on Victor, he approached, pulled something from his coat pocket, a battered tan leather wallet.
‘You dropped this outside,’ he said, his accent clipped but clear.
Victor beamed. ‘Goodness, thank you! You’re a lifesaver.’
Omar nodded once, glanced around again as if unsure if he was welcome, then turned toward the door.
Helen looked up. Her expression had changed. Softer. Embarrassed, maybe. She lowered her pen. ‘That was kind of you,’ she said, not quite smiling, but close. Omar gave a small nod, almost surprised, and left without a word.
The red pen returned to Helen’s paper. This time, it moved differently.
Later that evening, Ivy was wrestling with her artificial Christmas tree, trying to slot the colour-coded branches into place. In his own way, Jez was helping, his excited bounces sending baubles skittering across the floor, tumbling into each other with melodic tinkles.
‘The tree represents eternal life,’ she explained to Omar, who was patiently untangling a string of lights.
‘Like the cypress in Islamic gardens,’ he said, not looking up.
Ivy paused, a silver bauble dangling forgotten from her finger. ‘You know quite a lot about religious symbolism.’
‘I know quite a lot about many things.’ There was a hint of amusement in his voice as he rescued a length of tinsel from Jezreel’s enthusiastic mauling.
‘Jezreel, naughty dog, no!’ Ivy lunged for the puppy herfingers briefly grazing his silky fur before he darted away with a felt angel. ‘Oh, stop it, boy, please.’ She watched helplessly as the puppy shredded the decoration efficiently. ‘Honestly, I’m useless at this dog training lark.’
