Page 52 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Seventeen
On Friday morning, after helping Trish with breakfast at the café, Ivy met Omar and Fred for a mid-morning walk. A pale winter sun slipped between scattered clouds, laying a cold silvery light across a snow-blanketed Exmoor. Snow dusted the ancient gorse bushes, their yellow flowers peeking through like tiny suns. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the rich scent of damp moss and fallen leaves mingled with the saltiness blown in from the Bristol Channel. Ivy wore her coat, Omar a jacket, curled up against the cold, while Fred sported an impossibly colourful tweed hat with a purple pompom that bounced with each step. A panting Jezreel zigzagged from one side to the other, leaving chaotic patterns in the snow. It felt like watching someone learning to drive a powerful car – despite the right actions, the coordination remained a work in progress.
Ivy’s mind raced, dredging for ideas of someone she hadn’t tried who could help Omar. She fingered the bunch of keys in her pocket, stroking the longest one – a key to the vestry, her talisman, a tenuous connection to her life at St Peter’s.
The path wound between weathered stone walls, their grey sides softened by caps of white. In the distance, the moor stretched endlessly, its usual browns and greens transformed into a monochrome wonderland.
‘What about speaking to Bill Mathews, our local councillor?’ suggested Ivy. ‘He might have heard of this sort of thing before.’
Omar’s response was a noncommittal shrug; his eyes fixedon the horizon. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath their feet and Jez’s occasional snuffle.
‘Drop it, Ivy,’ whispered Fred.
She squinted across at him, ‘I was only ...’
‘What a lovely day for a walk,’ said Fred with a forced cheerfulness.
They paused in a natural hollow, sheltered from the wind by ancient hawthorns. A cock pheasant landed a few feet away, its feathers a striking mix of iridescent greens, deep blues and rich chestnut, with a bold white ring around its neck and a shimmering copper breast.
It coughed a harsh, rasping call,kok-kok, followed by a loud, abrupt cackle that echoed around the hollow. With bated breath, Ivy watched Jez. Hesat calmly at her feet instead of charging after the bird. She adjusted her scarf, stealing glances at Jez’s distant expression. She must have done something different these last few days. Maybe a subtle change in routine, or could it be the change in his kibble? She couldn’t put her finger on anything significant.
Fred shrugged off a rucksack and produced a thermos of coffee, which he poured into plastic mugs.
And then Omar began to whistle – softly at first and then louder, a haunting melody that seemed to belong to the winter landscape yet somehow filled it with joy. It was unexpected, this cheering sound from someone so withdrawn. The sound was infectious, and Ivy started tapping her foot to the rhythm. Fred set down his coffee cup with exaggerated care. His eyes twinkled as he swept into a deep bow, extending his hand to Ivy.
‘Madam, might I have this dance?’ he asked in his best theatrical voice, already moving into an elaborate waltz step that sent snow flying.
Ivy stared at him, torn between embarrassment and delight. Fred’s cheeks were red from the cold, his hat askew and hewas grinning like a schoolboy. The absurdity of it struck her – dancing on Exmoor in the snow – and she felt laughter bubbling up. She took Fred’s hand, trying to ignore the bolt of electricity that shot through her skin, and concentrated instead on trying to waltz in her wellington boots with Jez nipping at her ankles.
Omar’s whistling grew stronger, more playful, and Fred held Ivy’s hand aloft, inviting her to spin, but that was a difficult feat given her footwear, and she stumbled, sprawling inelegantly in the snow. Fred looked alarmed and came to help her up, but Ivy waved him away, laughing, and then pushed herself up and stood aside, swaying to the music and clapping along while Fred, his pompom bobbing up and down, undertook a solo performance that nearly sent him sprawling too. Watching this man she’d known for decades transform a heavy moment into something light and joyful, Ivy caught herself thinking how different Fred was from her. His ability to find fun in this situation –as he did with so many others – both baffled and delighted her.
All afternoon, Prosecco & Prose buzzed with afternoon customers seeking refuge from the cold: walkers with flushed cheeks, muddy dogs sprawled contentedly at their feet, mothers with shopping bags, couples sharing cream teas. Busy behind the counter, Ivy hardly noticed any of them.
By four o’clock, the bustle was over. ‘Can I get you anything Trish?’ offered Ivy.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. She angled her head towards a corner table ‘Go talk to Helen. She’s been doing some marking for the last half hour.’
Ivy nodded and walked over to Helen’s table. The teacher’s expression was a conflicted mix of forcefulness and unease, like a job candidate striving to project confidence while battling nerves. Her usually carefully styled hair looked unruly, herblazer creased from the rush of trying to fit this conversation into her busy day. But there was something in her eyes, a glimmer of sincerity, which made Ivy pause.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Helen said. ‘You’re right. I was sent as a spy, and I understand why you don’t trust me. But I admitted the truth. Doesn’t that count for something?’
Ivy folded her arms, resting herself against the table, a reflex more than anything. Part of her wanted Helen’s help, but not if the price was betraying Omar’s secret – Ivy never betrayed a confidence. The other part questioned Helen’s motive – the teacher could be planning to report back to Robby. ‘How can you expect me to trust you? You were sent to spy on him. And you have been spying. I’ve seen you twice with that man Robby.’ Ivy watched her words hit their target. Helen winced, her fingers gripping the handle of her coffee cup a little too tightly. ‘I understand,’ said Helen, her gaze unwavering now. ‘But that’s not who I am anymore.’
Helen spoke rapidly. ‘I know. I know exactly what I told Robby I’d do. And I hate myself for it.’ She looked down at her hands, as if the weight of her own guilt was too much to bear. ‘Try to understand, I believed Robby, I thought I was doing the right thing tracking down someone involved in drug smuggling. But I can’t keep going along with what Robby wants. I’m not going to help him anymore. If Omar has a good reason not to return to Kabul, no one should make him, and I won’t try and change his mind.’
Ivy scoffed, unconvinced. ‘Robby knows where Omar lives, so he’s not going to leave him alone.’
Helen’s voice was firm, but there was a vulnerability in her expression that made Ivy pause. ‘Before I became a teacher, I was an investigative journalist. I uncovered corruption – some of the worst you could imagine. But the deeper I dug, the clearer it became that exposing the truth wasn’t enough. Powerfulpeople always found a way to bury it, twist it or smear anyone who stood against them. And the toll it took – the threats, the intimidation – it never stopped. After a while, it felt like I was fighting a war I couldn’t win. That’s why I left. I wanted to help people in a different way, one where I could see the impact. But I know how these organisations operate. I know how they crush the people who stand in their way. And I won’t stand by and let that happen to Omar. I have a hunch they want him to go back so they can bring him down.’
Her words resonated. The memories of the things she’d seen, how the Church had twisted itself, manipulated its own people. It wasn’t just institutions she didn’t trust; it was people, too. And yet here was Helen, offering help, asking Ivy to trust her.
Helen continued, her voice dropping to a more strained tone. ‘Robby still thinks I’m trying to convince Omar to go back to Kabul. But I’m going to tell him that Omar has gone. That he’s left Brambleton. I told you that I think Omar is innocent. He’s no more a drug smuggler than you or I. And I like him.’
Ivy noticed a blush spread across Helen’s face.
‘He’s a good man,’ said Helen.
‘He is.’
