Page 7 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Of course. But I will borrow someone else’s words – an Englishman called Reynold Nicholson. It means ‘O soul, seek the Beloved, O friend, seek the Friend.’The words hit her like a gentle blow. She had spent decades officially “seeking the Beloved” and guiding others in that search. After retiring, she’d assumed that work was done, that chapter closed. But Rumi’s ancient call suggested something different – that the seeking itself never ends, only changes its form.
She didn’t reply immediately. Recently she’d doubted herself too often to trust her own instincts. But this time it wasn’t her analytical mind that had brought her to this moment of unexpected recognition. It was something deeper, something in her that recognized truth when it heard it.
She swallowed. ‘That’s a beautiful line,’ she said.
‘Especially in Persian.’
She met his eyes, dark, shadowed, yet pleading for kindness. ‘I’ll fetch you that blanket.’
She would give him some bedding and some warm food. It felt right, that here, in a cold shed with a stranger whose voice carried poetry like prayer, her usual uncertainty had faded. Yet who was this man she’d decided to help?
Three
Ivy spent the morning wrestling with the previous night’s decision to let the refugee stay. Would he leave willingly, grateful for a night of shelter? Her thoughts were interrupted by Jez, who bounded into the kitchen with a plastic ball in his mouth, his tail whipping against the cabinet doors.
‘Just a minute, you menace.’ She sighed, setting down a half-written shopping list.
Jez skittered across the tiles as she filled his bowl, spilling kibble across the floor in her haste. The puppy dived headfirst into his breakfast bowl, gobbling it down with ferocious speed, while Ivy cleaned up the scattered food.
‘We’ve got to work on your manners,’ she murmured, scratching behind his ears. ‘Both of us need more practice at this.’ The puppy replied with a deep belch. ‘Hmm, time to discover if someone else’s manners have improved.’
Balancing a tray of tea and toast in one hand, Ivy opened the door to the shed. The usual dank smell hit her first. But now, underneath it, there was the smell of something human: of socks, sleep, and sweat. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant, just unfamiliar.
‘It’s only me,’ she called, her voice sounding steadier than she felt, fingers clutching the tray. Had she made a mistake, would he leave willingly? A figure shifted in the corner, sitting up with a blanket wrapped around him. In the daylight, she was able to see him more clearly. He looked younger than she had thought,perhaps late twenties, with sharp eyes that assessed her with unsettling directness. He was very handsome despite the dirty smudges on his face, like a Bollywood actor, made up to look like a vagrant.
‘Good morning, Omar.’ She didn’t ask if he’d slept well. It must have been cold, with only a blanket for warmth. ‘I brought breakfast,’ she said, placing the tray on her potting bench. ‘I thought we might talk about ... arrangements.’
‘Why did you let me stay?’ he asked abruptly, ignoring the food. ‘Most people would have called the police.’
Ivy pursed her lips. ‘Well, I’m not most people. I used to counsel people in need.’
His voice was slightly disbelieving. ‘So, you think you’re a good person?’
Ivy took a breath. For someone trespassing on her kindness, he was surprisingly crabby and ungrateful. ‘Why did you choose my shed?’
‘Because the key was easy to find,’ he said curtly. ‘You should keep it inside your cottage, not beneath a flowerpot outside the shed. Your neighbours are more careful. Yours was the fifth shed I tried.’
Ivy’s cheeks burned. Decades of serving her parish, and here she was being lectured on security by an intruder. He switched to a language she didn’t understand, and when he finished speaking, she asked him to translate. ‘It’s a Pashto proverb.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘The water may look calm, but it carries the fish away. You thought the key was safe, but you shouldn’t trust appearances.’
‘Right. So, you chose my shed because I was careless.’
‘And I didn’t need anywhere spacious’ he added, kicking the duffle bag at his feet. Ivy rubbed her chin. English was not his mother tongue – his accent proved that – but his vocabulary was extensive: “spacious” not “big”. Ivy realised she was staring, andhe scowled at her. She dropped her gaze to his bag – so small to contain someone’s entire life. The fabric, though worn, was clean. Frequent use had polished the zip. ‘I’m a handyman,’ he continued. ‘I fix things.’
Ivy’s gaze switched to his hands, now folding her blanket. Long fingers, clean nails. No calluses. Those weren’t a workman’s hands.
‘I could stay a few weeks,’ he pressed. ‘Do odd jobs. In exchange for the shed, a bit of food?’
Wind rattled the window, sending a chill across her skin. She heard birds chirping their morning chorus outside, oblivious to the peculiar negotiation happening close by.
‘I don’t eat much,’ he added.
Something in his voice – resignation, perhaps – made her pause. The shed floor was hard beneath her sensible shoes as she shifted her weight, considering.
‘A few days,’ she heard herself say. ‘Just until—’
‘Thank you.’ He cut her off curtly, somehow simultaneously grateful and dismissive.
When Ivy pushed open the door to Prosecco & Prose an hour later, the bell announced her arrival. She stamped the rain off her boots. The warmth hugged her and she pictured Omar trying to keep warm under that single blanket last night. She would bring him another one later. Yes, she was doing the right thing, giving him a brief respite.
