Page 41 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Ivy yawned theatrically, stretching her arms above her head. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake outwith both of you. I want my bed.’
Fred’s face fell, but he rose obediently. He looked as if he was about to speak. Then, no doubt thinking better of it, he tossed his malt back in one swallow, and with a last glance at the fire, followed Omar out.
As Ivy locked up, she wondered if Omar had been reluctant to speak in front of Fred. She would try again, just the two of them. A walk, perhaps. Somewhere quiet.
Sunday flashed past in a haze of church services and chores. Ivy retired to bed after saying her prayers – tomorrow she and Trish would be decorating Prosecco & Prose. She kept forcing her mind onto that happy thought, but her thoughts churned like her restless body, feeding her images of Omar and Robby, then Helen’s pale face – who was Robby and what was the connection between the three of them?
After a sleepless night, she stumbled through her morning routine then dragged herself to the café where she immersed herself in decorating. She draped strands of gold tinsel along the customer side of the counter, enjoying the gentle crinkling noise which always reminded her of Christmas. In front of her sat a tempting plate of shortbread that she’d just baked, the biscuitsdusted with sugar. Trish’s crutches clicked softly against the wood floor as she hopped about the room, occasionally adjusting a decoration. Garlands of holly, heavy with scarlet berries, hung from every beam. Red tinsel speckled the brass reading lamps, while fairy lights wound through the shelves like captured starlight, pulsing over dog-eared paperbacks and first editions alike.
Near the door, Victor – who’d insisted on helping – stood tangled in tinsel, trying to maintain an air of authority despite the mess. Nearby, Mabel and Margaret had settled at a table, their sharp eyes keeping the vicar under steady surveillance, like patient governesses minding a particularly unreliable charge. Margaret looked up briefly, her eyebrows raised in annoyance
‘Honestly,’ Mabel muttered, her tone dripping with disdain, ‘he’s hopeless, isn’t he?’
As she finished fluffing out a garland, Ivy tracked Mabel’s eyes to the scene unfolding by the door. Victor was standing stiffly, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to untangle two strands of tinsel.
Margaret rolled her eyes at Mabel, then asked, ‘Are you coming early tonight to help set up for the whist drive?’
Victor abandoned the tinsel and approached the women’s table. ‘I’ve been looking at the village hall booking sheets,’ Victor began, his voice far too formal for the relaxed setting. ‘There’s no mention of your whist drive for tonight. You can’t expect people to know when events are happening. They must be properly booked. We can’t risk the place being double-booked.’
Ivy let out a soft sigh, wondering how much rope Margaret would feed out to Victor before letting him hang himself by his own petard. Not even bothering to look up from buttering a scone, Margaret winked at her companion.
‘Victor dear,’ Margaret said in her usual clipped tone, ‘I’ve been hosting the whist drive for years. It’s the first Monday ofevery month, at six o’clock. Everyone knows that. It doesn’t need to be written down in a little book every time.’
Mabel chuckled. ‘I told you, Victor,’ she said, her voice louder now, ‘around here, we don’t need to be told what we already know. You just have toremember.It’s tradition, this whist drive – for decades ... same time, same place.’
Yes, thought Ivy, traditions mattered deeply to Margaret – and she understood why.
Ivy remembered finding Margaret in the empty church one autumn evening fifteen years ago. The usually unflappable woman sat hunched in a pew, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Around her, the Harvest Festival display lay in ruins: smashed jars of jam, their contents pooling across the flagstones, and her late husband’s prize pumpkins scattered under pews like abandoned thoughts.
Ivy knelt beside her without a word, gathering glass and rescuing what she could.
‘Every one of those jars,’ Margaret croaked, swiping her tear-stained face, ‘has a label in Harold’s handwriting. The last harvest we had together. The last before ...’
Before the cancer took him, Ivy finished silently. They worked until dawn, piecing the display back together, the hem of Ivy’s robe sticky with jam. Those teenagers hadn’t just destroyed jars – they’d shattered pieces of Harold all over again.
Ivy understood what Victor needed to learn about Margaret; protecting village traditions – including the non-booking of the monthly whist drive – wasn’t stubbornness, it was love made visible.
Ivy smiled to herself; Victor’s face had turned a vivid shade of pink. He clearly wasn’t expecting to be challenged in front of the whole café. Victor spoke firmly: ‘Rules must be followed. People like you must set an example.’
Margaret seemed unbothered, picking up her scone and takinga nibble. ‘You don’t book a village hall like you’re reserving a table at a fancy restaurant. This is a village, for heaven’s sake.’
Ivy chuckled under her breath. She could practically hear the unspoken ‘city boy’ in Margaret’s words. Victor was trying to enforce rules that didn’t apply in Brambleton. He ran his hand through his hair, the tangled tinsel draped over one arm. ‘But if it’s not in the book, how do we avoid a clash?’
Mabel gave him a look as if he’d asked for directions to church. ‘That’s never going to happen, is it.’
‘Margaret,’ Victor repeated, more forcefully this time, ‘the rules are there to avoid a clash.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Victor,’ Mabel snapped, ‘I keep the bookings. I wouldn’t allow anyone to book something which clashed with the whist drive.’
Victor cleared his throat, his face a shade darker now, and pointed a shaky finger at Margaret. ‘Well, it’s still not on the schedule. Margaret, you should check with Mabel first. Thisisa matter of protocol.’
‘Protocol?’ Margaret scoffed, clearly incredulous. ‘You think the village whist drive needsprotocol? We’ve been playing for decades, and now you’re going to change that. For what? A booking form?’
Ivy snorted. She turned back to the garland, but not before catching Margaret’s eye across the room. There was a smug look on that face. Trish murmured to Ivy, ‘This never happened when you were our vicar. He’d be doing himself and the village a favour if he asked you how things really work before trying to lay down the law.’
By four o’clock, Ivy’s feet were aching, and the pair of festive reindeer antlers she had been wearing since lunchtime kept slipping sideways as she worked.
Trish had done her best, but Ivy had covered most of the rush,with her boss hobbling about beside her.
