Page 75 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘I’m not trained for this sort of thing.’
‘But you won’t sit by and watch people get exploited.’ Helen’s voice was gentle, but hereyes were hard. ‘Not Ivy, the woman who took on the diocese about someone fiddling their expenses.’
A display of Christmas crackers toppled as Ivy backed away, their wrapping crinkling underfoot.Who had told Helen? It could only be Fred.‘That was different. That was—’
‘That was you, the real you’
Ivy’s fingers curled around the basket’s wire handle, her knuckles white, not from fear, but determination. Helen was right – she shouldn’t back down. Not now. Not ever.She wouldn’t be bullied into silence.
She set down her basket and stooped to gather the scattered crackers. Helen squatted to help. Their hands met over a silver one. Ivy noticed Helen’s were shaking slightly, too. It wasn’t wrong to feel frightened – but she must feel the fear and act anyway.
‘I ...’ Ivy straightened up, clutching crackers to her chest. The words tumbled out. ‘Would you like to come for Christmas dinner? It’s just me and Trish and ...’ she remembered who she was, a woman who could be counted on to do the decent thing, and added, ‘hopefully Fred too.’
Helen’s eyes softened. ‘Trying to protect me by keeping me close?’
‘Maybe protecting myself.’ Ivy attempted a smile. ‘Strength in numbers?’
‘I’d like that.’ Helen took the crackers from Ivy, arranging them back on the display with meticulous care. ‘I miss him too, you know.’
Ivy’s eyebrows arched. ‘Omar?’
‘Yes.’
A weary-looking woman pushed past with a trolley full of reduced vegetables while somewhere behind her a child’s voice whined about wanting chocolate coins, such familiar Christmas sights and sounds.It wouldn’t be the same without Fred at the table, how could she leave him eating Christmas dinner alone in his cottage next door – what had she been thinking?
‘Fred always carves the turkey,’ she said. ‘Hasn’t missed a Christmas in twenty years.’
‘How nice to have traditions,’ Helen said mildly. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’
‘And he’s always so secretive about the presents he squirrels away,’ Ivy added with a knowing look. Fred would have bought her present well before their row. Thinking of her tiny cottage, she hoped this year’s offering was slightly smaller than last year’s.
‘I’m meeting Trish for a drink in the pub tonight – why not join us?’ Suggested Ivy.
‘I’d like that. I’m nearly done here, I’ll dump this lot at home, and we can walk there together.’
Ivy suggested the shortcut to the pub through the churchyard. The December darkness clamped them in its vice. Each footfall muffled by the carpet of frost-brittle leaves. Ivy shivered as the wind slithered between ancient tombstones, some leaning atprecarious angles, tilting like drunken witnesses to centuries of silent decay.
A putrid smell drifted through the air, a blend of wet earth, decaying leaves and something else. Something older. A mustiness that spoke of damp stone crypts and long-abandoned bones, of secrets buried deeper than the roots of the gnarled yew tree that stretched its gaunt branches overhead.
‘Hope you don’t mind taking this route,’ Ivy said, her voice sounding unnaturally loud, ‘but I said we’d meet Trish at seven and it’s already five past.’
Helen shook her head. In front of them, the old stone church vibrated with the extraordinary voices of the choir practising ‘O Holy Night’. Pure, clear notes seemed to float above the cold ground, momentarily transforming the sombre space into something ethereal.
‘Oh, listen to that, Ivy!’ exclaimed Helen. ‘The choir sounds wonderful. Shall we pop in for a moment?’
Ivy shook her head. ‘It will be locked from the inside. Mabel will have seen to that.’
‘Locked? But why?’
‘Five years ago, some youngsters started creeping in wearing masks, catcalling from the back. I was fairly certain I knew who they were, but it was simpler just to lock up during practice. No more disruptions.’
‘That’s a shame. You’d think Christmas would bring out the best in people.’
‘Mostly, it does. But you always get a few troublemakers. Anyway, we don’t have time. And it’ll be a much nicer surprise for you at the service tomorrow. That’s half the joy of Advent, isn’t it? A little waiting never did anyone any harm.’
The singing followed them, a peaceful counterpoint to their quick footsteps.
A branch snapped somewhere in the darkness. Both womenstopped. Ivy swallowed, her eyes darting round the churchyard. ‘Probably a fox,’ she whispered, trying to ignore her heart hammering against her ribs. The shadows between the gravestones seemed to shift and breathe.
