Page 37 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Race?’ Omar frowned.
‘It started in 1952, when food rationing ended,’ Margaret explained. ‘The village decided we should celebrate. And that’s when we started running around the village balancing a Christmas pudding on a tiny plate. What could be more celebratory?’
‘Many things,’ Omar said.
‘Last year, old Bill tripped over a dog!’ Mabel added, beaming.
‘Still came third,’ Margaret said proudly.
Omar exhaled, glancing over the rim of his mug at Ivy, as if inviting her to excuse him from this peculiar village event. But Ivy raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s compulsory. Like an initiation. Say no, and you’ll be deported back to wherever youactuallycame from—’
‘Birmingham?’ Omar replied with a deadpan expression.
‘Exactly.’
He sighed. ‘Fine. I will come.’
Mabel clapped her hands. Trish hobbled off with a tray.
And the tiniest, most imperceptible change passed through the café. Omar, once met with silence and suspicion, was now beingincluded.Even if it involved running through the village with a wobbly pudding.
The Smuggler’s Inn stood like a full stop at the edge of Brambleton, the last building before the harbour wall swept out to sea. It was a perfect winter evening: the sky fading to violet, stars pricking through the darkening horizon, and the beach beside the pub shimmering silver in the moonlight. The waves lapped softly at the shore, their hush almost lost beneath the villagers’ excited chatter. George and Rose, the proprietors of the pub, had transformed the outside space. The terrace glinted under blinking lights. Wall brackets, which during summer months hosted hanging baskets of vibrantly clashing flowers, now bore elegant garlands of holly and the nearby old fashioned cast-iron streetlamps wore necklaces of fat crimson bows. Strings of pulsing lights were slung around the pub’s low stone walls and wreaths sat on the window ledges, their deep green fronds studded with glistening red berries. Small lanterns shimmered on weather-beaten tables, their light dancing in the evening breeze.
Standing outside the pub, Ivy shivered as the wind cut through her jumper. She had dressed sensibly – jeans, trainers and an oversized jumper – knowing from experience that the annual Christmas pudding race was no occasion for elegance. She breathed in the salty air, the scent cutting through her nervous anticipation, reminding her how absurd this Christmas tradition was.
Hearing a chorus of laughter erupt from a table, Ivy spun around to see Omar hovering at the edge of a group, a grin on his face, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He peered about, as if unsure if he should joinin, but he was there all the same. The man next to Omar leaned across, laughing and gesturing up the street, no doubt explaining the rules of the rather silly Brambleton tradition.
Fred appeared beside Ivy, the knot of his silk tie showing beneath a V-neck jumper. ‘You could skip it this year, you know,’ he said. ‘Victor will be representing the church.’
Ivy laughed. ‘No chance. I’ve enjoyed every one of those races, and I intend to enjoy this one too. Who knows, I might run a PB.’
Fred crossed his arms. His face looked slightly pinched, as though the thought of participating in the race might cause physical harm.
She couldn’t resist teasing him. ‘Come on, Fred! You can’t stand there looking all proper forever!’
‘Everyone knows I don’t run. I am an enthusiastic supporter.’
Ivy spotted Omar elbowing his way through the crowd. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
To shouts and jeers of ‘Why not?’ and ‘Well said that man!’ Fred started shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘I’m not running a race when I’m dressed like this.’ He adjusted his tie and narrowed his eyes.
‘Iwouldn’tdream of running a real race in such fine clothes,’ Ivy teased, arching an eyebrow at him. ‘But it’s just the Christmas pudding race, Fred.’
‘How can you reject the lady’s challenge?’ asked Omar.
‘Everyone’s going to have a laugh, and no one’s looking at you anyway,’ added Ivy.
Fred shot her a wry smile. Omar stepped closer. ‘Youmustjoin,’ he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. ‘It is a great honour to be part of village traditions, no?’
‘Listen to the man.’ shouted a villager. ‘Come on Fred. Do it for Brambleton. Do it for Christmas!’
‘Do it for Jezreel,’ said Omar.
‘Do it for me!’ As soon as the words left Ivy’s lips, she wanted to swallow them back. She had got caught up with the spirit of the crowd, hadn’t meant to imply anything untoward. She saw the brief hesitation in Fred’s eyes. Then he nodded, peeled off his jumper and tossing it on a table. ‘Alright, alright,’ he muttered, half to himself. He removed his tie, folding it carefully and tucking it into a pocket. Then he elbowed his way through the competitors and stood beside Ivy, sandwiching her between himself and Omar. Fred leaned forward, and for a moment eyed the younger man. ‘But only because Omar here says it’s anhonour.’
The pub door burst open and Rose, George and their team appeared balancing trays of plated Christmas puddings. ‘Remember,’ shouted Rose, putting her tray down on a table. ‘Anyone who drops their holly sprig is automatically eliminated. And watch out – we have our spies along the route. No pocketing the holly and reattaching it at the end.’
The rich scent of spices wafted up from the trays. Victor’s impossibly long frame folded itself over a tray of puddings like a curious giraffe inspecting acacia leaves. His bony finger poked experimentally at the nearest pudding before standing tall.
