Page 69 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Sorry about this, Margaret,’ said Ivy, unwinding Jez’s lead from the Labrador’s. ‘I’ll soon have everything under control.’
‘With me, yes,’ said Margaret. ‘With that young vicar ...’ Then she revealed the true source of her irritation ‘Victor is threatening tomodernizetonight’s Christingle service, make itsustainable,’ she spat.
Ivy smiled, imagining what sustainable measures Victor might have introduced for Margaret to find so offensive. Her mind spiralled into visions of horror: solar-powered LED glowsticks replacing candles. Children in virtual reality headsets experiencing the ‘carbon-neutral Nativity’, while Joseph and Mary arrived on a shared electric scooter made from recycled ocean plastic. Perhaps a drone powered by renewable energydelivering Baby Jesus to a manger made entirely of reclaimed wood, or wise men bearing gifts of lab-grown frankincense, fair-trade myrrh and ethically sourced gold from a mine that planted a tree for every ounce extracted.
Jez whined, seemingly sharing her distress.
‘What’s he done now?’ asked Ivy.
‘He mentioned interpretive dance,’ Margaret added grimly. Ivy grimaced – she didn’t want to go there.
‘He’s nowhere near ready for tonight, and frankly, I don’t think he’ll ever be, not unless you step in.’
Ivy laughed and promised to look in on him, then turned to head back up to the village. Behind her, Margaret called out her thanks, but Ivy was already floating towards the cottage, towards the future that seemed to shimmer before her like sunlight on water, golden and certain and entirely within her grasp.
Ivy hurried along the snow-dusted lane, clutching her scarf tight. The Christingle service would begin in twenty minutes, and she had to shower and change her clothes before meeting Omar and Fred. Behind her, the village, with its dazzling lights and shimmering decorations, seemed to fade into a blur as she picked up her pace. She had popped into the church an hour earlier to help, and as always had been struck by the beauty of the Christingle –the orange wrapped in red ribbon and studded with cloves and a candle –and the anticipation of the service, full of well-known hymns and children’s happy faces in the candlelight. It had been the usual chaos, with helpers dashing around madly in a hunt for cocktail sticks, Margaret muttering about fire extinguishers, and Victor managing to transpose the numbers on the hymn board, so that ‘Away in a Manger’ was accidentally listed as ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer’. Thankfully Margaret had spotted it, but then Victor couldn’t remember where he’d put the number cards, resulting in afrantic yet fruitless search through the vestry before Ivy found the box abandoned in the – fortuitously empty – font. At least the church stood ready now, each window with its Christmas flower arrangement and thick beeswax candle waiting to be lit, and the rows of Christingle oranges arranged neatly by the door.
Her heart was racing, thoughts swirling as she neared home. She had plans for this evening. After the service, when everyone else headed to the pub, she was going to feign tiredness and ask Fred to walk her home, then invite him in for a nightcap. Imagining the scene, Ivy felt a tingle of nerves shoot through her body. What should she say? ‘Fred, I’ve grown fond of you’ sounded like the sort of line someone would use for a faithful spaniel, but was ‘I love you’ too strong? She didn’t want to embarrass him, or worse, frighten him. Smiling, she shook her head to free herself of an image of him kissing her, the way he had under the mistletoe, and picked up her pace.
Ivy glanced at her watch. There wouldn’t be time to change from her practical clothes into something more fitting for a celebratory service, and that felt strange, but in a good way. After months of time stretching before her like an empty pulpit waiting for someone to preach a sermon, this rush of purpose, this race against the clock, was welcome.
Up ahead, she could see her cottage with the crimson velvet bow on her wreath. Her keys were in her hand when a figure in Fred’s cottage caught her eye. It was Omar with his duffel bag slung carelessly over his shoulder. Why was he bringing a duffel bag to church? The door opened, and Omar stood framed in the doorway, a hollow look on his face.
Her entire body went stiff, as if the air had turned to lead. Omar was leaving. Without saying goodbye. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.She ran back out through her gate and up Fred’s path, ‘Omar’ she called sharply, her voice quivering with equal parts hurt and determination.
He looked up, startled, his eyes dark and distant, and hurriedly stepped backwards into the cottage. She burst in after him.
‘Ivy—’ he began, but she cut him off, hurt bubbling to the surface.
‘How could you just go?’ she demanded, stepping closer. ‘After everything everyone’s done to help you, after everything we’ve shared ... where’s your goodbye?’ The distant sound of the church bells announcing the imminent start of the service punctuated each syllable. Omar’s eyes flashed with pain and defiance.
‘You don’t understand,’ he snapped, his voice rough. ‘You can’t save me. No one can!’
His words hit her like whip cracks. After all they had shared, after all the efforts she, Trish and Helen had made to clear his name, he was abandoning them. ‘But you can’t give up, not when we’re so close.’
Before she could press further, Ivy heard footsteps on the floorboards above. She felta wave of relief. Fred would stop him. Fred’s reassuring figure appeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Got everything, Omar?’ he asked, striding into the room, his tone deliberately casual though his quick glance at Ivy suggested he was bracing for her reaction. The metallic taste of panic rose in Ivy’s throat.
‘Fred?’ she croaked. ‘What’s going on?’
He spoke with a clipped tone, his words sounding like a command. ‘I’m taking Omar away, to somewhere safe.’
The words struck like a kiss from Judas; outwardly innocent but laced with a sting of betrayal she hadn’t seen coming. A jolt of shock and hurt surged through her. ‘Safe? Safe from what, Fred?’ Her voice rose, filled with anguish. ‘How could you?’
Fred’s face hardened, his jaw clenching as he took a step forward, but he spoke gently. ‘You’re not seeing the biggerpicture. After what Helen’s discovered, you must see that Omar is in serious danger. Whatever is going on at that charity, whoever is behind it, they think Omar knows what’s going on and they aren’t going to risk him exposing them. Robby has been told to get him back to Kabul where they can destroy him, and if Omar won’t go, these people will find another way to shut him up. Omar can’t fight people like that. I’m doing what’s bestfor him.’
Ivy stared at Fred, her mouth open, her mind whirring. A few minutes earlier, she had been planning to confess her love to him. Now all their shared memories – the meals, the snowy walks, the comfortable silences – seemed to mock her. Even the church bells pealing outside sounded like they were laughing at her foolishness.
‘Best for him? Or best for you?’ she cried, each word laden with raw emotion. ‘You think that by whisking him away, you’re protecting him? You’re taking the easy option, Fred. I had hoped you would help us, but I never expected you to work against us.’ She looked at Omar, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Omar,’ she pleaded.
Omar sighed, a deep gut-wrenching sound that tore into her heart and fuelled her frustration. She turned and took it out on Fred. ‘I thought,’ she continued, her voice trembling. ‘I thought you at least believed in justice for Omar, in the hope that we could all have a future together. But now it seems you’ve chosen self-preservation over justice.’
Fred’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s not about justice, Ivy. It’s about common sense. About not getting crushed under the weight of corruption. Robby’s told Helen he’s had investigators scour Truro and he is convinced that despite what she told him, Omar isn’t there. It’s not fair to expect Helen to risk lying to protect Omar. Anyway, it won’t take long before Robby comes to check himself, see if Omar is still here in Brambleton. Omar must go.By taking him away, he stands a chance.’
She could feel the sting of each word like needles pricking her skin. ‘You’re not saving him, Fred. You’re pushing him further away. I can’t believe you’d do this, not to Omar, not to me.’
His tone turned harsh. ‘All this talk of justice for a man who doesn’t believe in it himself. I’m doing the right thing. Sometimes, you have to let go, to set someone free, allow them to figure out their own way forwards. Now come on, Omar. Let’s get your stuff in the car.’ Fred tossed the keys to Omar, who caught them and left slowly. No hug, no kiss. He didn’t even look her way, just walked past as if she was a stranger, not the woman who had sheltered and befriended him for the last two months.
Her vision blurred as she fought to hold back tears. She felt so foolish. ‘I trusted you, Fred. And now, you’re proving that you’re just as cowardly as the rest of them. You’re scared by what we’ve uncovered, and you want to scamper back to your safe, dull life rather than let the rest of us stand up for what’s right.’
