Page 38 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Now then,’ his voice drifted down from somewhere near the streetlamps, ‘are these puddings ethically sourced? Free range eggs? Sustainable suet?’
Margaret’s voice sounded like a pistol shot. ‘Young man, my grandmother’s recipe has been feeding this village since Victoria was on the throne!’
‘But surely we could substitute—?’
‘Nothinggets substituted!’ Margaret’s shrill voice cut through the air. ‘That’s proper beef suet, as God intended!’
The vicar’s knees practically bent backwards as he crouched low, his nose nearly touching the pudding. ‘Perhaps hemp-based—’
‘Hemp?’ Margaret gasped, clutching her pearls. ‘In a Christmas pudding?’
A collective intake of breath rippled through the waiting runners. The vicar’s gangly shadow fell across three different puddings as he straightened.
‘On your marks!’ someone shouted desperately.
Theathletesgrabbed a plate, jostling and laughing as they formed a haphazard line. One-handedly, Ivy pulled her hat down over her ears barely containing a grin. Beside her, Omar stood slightly off to one side, plate in hand, his hiking boots hardly ideal for sprinting. But someone clapped him on the back, and he stepped forward, smiling shyly as he found his place in the line.
The pavements rocked with anticipation; shoes shuffled, muffled giggles burst into open laughter, and someone called out an exaggerated, ‘Steady now!’ sending a ripple of amusement through the crowd.
Rose and George raised a Christmas cracker high. The spectators counted down – ‘Three ... two ... one ...’ – and as Rose and George pulled their cracker with a bang, the couple shouted, ‘Go!’
Laughter and cheers erupted. Competitors lurched forward, plates wobbling precariously in their hands. Someone slipped, landing in a heap of laughter, while others took off in an ungainly sprint, scarves flapping wildly behind them. Ivy dashed forward, breathless and grinning, holding her plate carefully, balancing the Christmas pudding – still warm – in one hand. The heady scent of brandy-soaked fruit and sugar wafted from the pudding. She smiled to herself, looking down the line of competitors dodging one another and trying to keep theirprecious puddings from falling. She spotted Omar, awkward in his heavy boots but running all the same, grinning like a schoolboy.
Beside her, Fred stumbled, his plate swinging wildly, but miraculously retaining its cargo. Ivy laughed, her breath coming out in bursts. ‘Careful there, Fred! You’re supposed torunwith it, not land face first in it!’
Fred scowled, but there was a smile hidden underneath it. ‘I’m trying, I’m trying,’ he muttered. ‘But unlike you, I’m a novice.’
As the competitors rounded the corner and jogged towards the village green, the sight of the cottages and the blinking lights almost distracted Ivy from the race. A ship’s horn echoed across the harbour, low and resonant. She smiled. The sound felt like a signal – she wasn’t just drifting anymore; she was beginning to steer her own course.
And then, beside her, Ivy sensed Fred pulling ahead. She put on a spurt, until they were neck and neck, laughing between breaths, their feet pounding the street in rhythm. Her pulse quickened, and suddenly, she felt a strange tightness, a flutter of excitement that she didn’t quite understand.
Fred’s eyes caught hers, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away. They crossed the finish line, breathless from the race, their shoulders nearly brushing. As they stood there, panting and grinning, still holding their plates, the air between them seemed charged with something more than just the thrill of competition. And then, as she looked up at him, the thought struck her – she wanted him to kiss her. The realization was as ridiculous as it was intoxicating, yet she stayed, frozen to the spot, until Victor came flying in out of nowhere, his eyes glued to his pudding,his arms flailing as he collided into Ivy, knocking her to the ground. He let out an indignant yelp. The crowd burst into laughter; the young vicar lay sprawled out beside Ivy, blinking in confusion.
Ivy gasped for air between fits of laughter. Tears of mirth blurred her vision as Fred reached down a hand to help her up, his own chuckles mixing with hers. His palm was warm and slightly calloused, and when their fingers intertwined, she felt a spark that was more than static electricity. His skin against hers sent a subtle tremor through her body, like the first whisper of an approaching storm. Had he felt it too? Or was this a one-sided infatuation that, if she let it run, could ruin their friendship? Her mind was whirring as she stood and let Fred pull her into an awkward side-hug. He threw an arm around her shoulders like they were mates on a rugby team and gave her a quick squeeze. ‘See you in the pub?’ he suggested. Ivy’s heart skipped a beat, and she told herself not to be so silly. Fred was nothing more than an old friend.
After the biting chill outside, the pub felt stifling. Laughter and the hum of villagers reliving the race wrapped the space in a relaxed bubble. Ivy’s jumper was still damp from the tumble, so she made her way over to the hearth where a fire roared, its orange glow licking at the mantel. She glanced around the room. By the bar, a lone sprig of mistletoe hung unnoticed – or, more likely, deliberately ignored – by those who passed beneath it, catapulting her mind into a brief fantasy of Fred kissing her under that greenery. Then Ivy’s eyes landed on Helen.
The teacher sat at the far side of the room with the man Ivy had seen her with last Saturday at the Christmas market. Robby, Helen had called him. On that occasion, she had seemed wary, and Ivy recalled the man’s abruptness. Now, the stress between them was striking. Tonight, Robby wore a crisp designer jacket and a watch that caught the light whenever he moved his arm. She wondered why he sat with his back to the wall, and his gaze occasionally swept the room in patterns that had nothing to do with admiring the horse brasses and pictures. Old habits fromanother life, she supposed. The young teacher’s fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass, but she wasn’t drinking and the glass looked untouched.
Rose passed with a tray laden with drinks, and curious, Ivy put out a hand to stop the landlady. Gesturing at the far side of the room, she asked, ‘Who is that man with Helen?’
Rose squinted, ‘Oh, him? Think he’s from London. Not staying long. Something about visiting his sister who’s moved down ...’
Ivy shot another furtive look at Helen, noticing the teacher’s shoulders hunched up near her ears. Something wasn’t right.
The door banged open, breaking the pub’s easy rhythm. Fred and Omar stepped inside, shrugging off their jackets. As Ivy watched, Omar’s face turned the colour of unbaked dough. His jaw slackened. Fred nudged him towards the fire. Ivy’s arms started tingling and she swivelled to see what had rattled Omar. He was staring at Helen. Suddenly, the teacher shot to her feet, her face pale beneath her make-up. Her untouched wine glass wobbled before settling. Helen stalked past Ivy, a sharp trail of floral perfume slicing the air. Without a backward glance, Helen pushed through the door, the brass handle flashing like a blade in the light.
Speculation rippled through the pub.
‘What’s that about?’
‘Bit odd, wasn’t it?’
Ivy peered at the space where Helen and Robby had been sitting. He was still there, watching the door, his jaw working as if chewing over something unpleasant. A muscle ticked in his cheek before he swallowed the rest of his drink and set the glass down with a decisive smack. What had he said to upset Helen? A chill crawled up Ivy’s spine. She turned back; Omar was gone.
Her pulse quickened. ‘What happened to Omar?’ she asked Fred, now beside her.
He shook his head. ‘No idea. One second, he was there,next ...poof. Just turned and legged it.’
