Page 71 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Those words echoed round the cottage. In that moment Ivy was twenty again, standing on the slick wet streets of Bristol, having just fed sandwiches to a homeless man in a café, vowing to James that she would never turn away from those in need.
She looked at Trish. ‘No. We don’t cross to the other side of the street. We don’t walk away from this.’
Not just for Omar, but for all the people that charity was supposed to help. Something bad was happening at the Fowler Foundation, and it had to be exposed.
The weight of her decision felt heavy, yet somehow right. This was her moment to stand.
Twenty-four
The café was heaving, the kind of busy that filled Ivy with energy, making her feel truly alive. Chaos, noise, the heat from a room full of people, orders shouted across the counter, trays wobbling under precarious stacks of plates, the door jingling every thirty seconds.
‘Latte, two sugars, oat milk!’ Ivy called, sliding the cup across to an elderly man in a bobble hat. Thank goodness she still had Prosecco & Prose to keep her busy, stop her dwelling on that ghastly five minutes with Fred, and all the ‘what might have beens’ which kept playing in her mind like a loop. She was going to miss this. In January, even on crutches, Trish would be able to cope alone, and Ivy would be back to her job-hunting.
‘Just dropped the kids off with Mum,’ Rose announced, flopping onto a chair and adding the astringent scent of a recent salon visit to the smell of burned toast, ‘and I am sneaking off for some more ‘me time’ before I’m tracked down.’
‘Good plan,’ said Ivy, grabbing the card machine.
‘Are you frantic in here over Christmas too?’ asked Rose.
‘No way. I’m shutting,’ Trish grinned. ‘Can’t wait to hang these crutches up.’
‘Careful, or you’ll take that chair with you,’ Ivy smirked, watching as Trish attempted to hook her crutches over the back of it. ‘What about the pub?’ asked Ivy.
‘Christmas Day itself is fully booked for lunch,’ Rose said. ‘But actually, we’re surprisingly busy with rooms too.’
‘Regulars?’ asked Trish
‘Mostly,’ Rose nodded, cradling her coffee like it was the only thing keeping her upright. ‘But there’s that man you don’t like. What’s his name ... the one who hangs around Helen and Omar.’
At the mention of Omar, Ivy felt a pang of something – nostalgia, regret. She missed him, and he had only left last night.
‘Robby,’ supplied Trish, glancing at Ivy with an expression that was hard to read. ‘Is he coming back for Christmas?’
‘Not for Christmas lunch,’ Rose said, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘He’s going to his sister’s for that.’
‘Well, at least this time he’ll see that Helen was telling the truth,’ Trish mused. ‘Well, mostly the truth. Omar isn’t in Brambleton, is he?’
‘No,’ Ivy admitted. She had no idea where Fred had taken him. Maybe it was as far away as Truro.
Ordinarily Ivy didn’t go home until late afternoon, but with tensions simmering between her and Fred, it didn’t feel right to ask him to look after Jez. As she trudged uphill past the village hall, movement caught her eye. A figure emerged from the back garden of Helen’s cottage, a short squat man in a dark coat moving with quick, furtive steps. He glanced around before hurrying toward the lane, his footsteps sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet village.
Ivy sped up, her heart hammering. The man passed under a shaft of sunlight filtering through bare branches, but she couldn’t make out his face beneath a pulled-up hood. Within seconds he’d disappeared into the maze of narrow streets that threaded through Brambleton.
At the sound of her key, Jez’s excited barking grew frantic. ‘Alright, boy, I’m here,’ she whispered, unlocking her door, but her eyes stayed fixed on Helen’s cottage. Every window wasdark.
She let the puppy into the garden, then crept to the end where so recently Omar used to burn the trimmings and scrambled onto the bench so she could see over her fence, past Fred’s garden, and into Helen’s. Helen’s cottage sat silent; the back door shut, no sign of movement. Nothing seemed out of place, yet something felt wrong. She and Trish were invited to Helen’s later tonight; she would mention what she’d seen then.
Jez bounded back to her side, tail wagging, oblivious to her tension, placing his front paws on the bench. She leaned down and scooped him up, his warm weight a small comfort, but her eyes still scannedHelen’s cottage. The man was gone, but whoever he was, he hadn’t come by accident.
Helen opened the door before Ivy could knock, dressed neatly in jeans and a navy jumper, her hair brushed back and a hint of lipstick on.
‘Come in,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ve opened a bottle, fancy a glass?’
‘Definitely,’ Ivy said, stepping into the hallway carrying Jez. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind him joining us?’
‘I love dogs, pop him by the fire,’ suggested Helen leading Ivy to the kitchen, where a half-poured glass of red waited on the counter. She handed it over just as the doorbell rang again.
‘That’ll be Trish. Hang on.’
