Page 9 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘That’s kind of you, Fred, but really, I’m fine. Anyway, I’ve got Jezreel.’
Fred snorted. ‘He’s a puppy. He won’t be any use.’
From behind the counter, Trish hooted with laughter, slipping a mug of cappuccino towards Ivy. ‘That’s on the house. You with a puppy! I’ve never seen you with a dog before. Whatever possessed you?’
Ivy grinned, reaching for her coffee gratefully and taking a sip. ‘I’m beginning to wonder myself.’ Her niece Fiona had stayed for a few months shortly after Ivy retired, and after she returned to London, Ivy had yearned for someone to spend her evenings with.
A week ago, when she’d seen a cardboard sign outside a local farm advertising ‘Puppies: free to good homes’, it had seemed a wonderful way to fill the yawning gaps in her diary.
‘He seems to be training me, not me him. Any tips?’
Fred laughed. ‘You could start by reading that book I gave you. It’s important to begin training early, show them who’s boss. Be firm. Don’t let him get away with anything you don’t want him doing as a fully grown dog.’
‘Dog-speak is a bit of a mystery to me.’ Ivy said.
‘Speaking of mysteries,’ Fred said, slinging his tie over one shoulder, ‘what’s with the midnight shed visits, Ivy? Locking up last night I could see that light was back on.’
From behind the counter, Ivy noticed Trish watching her withthat look she got, like she was solving a puzzle, and she lowered her eyes to her drink. ‘Sorting boxes,’ she said innocently. Her hand tightened around the mug. Forget training Jez. What Ivy needed to focus on was setting out ground rules for Omar. She would start with an obvious one: lights off at night.
Ivy spotted Mabel shrugging on her coat. Evidently, Fred noticed too and steered Ivy towards the vacant table. He sat her down, pushing the dirty crockery aside.
‘Moving boxes, at midnight? In this weather?’ he asked.
‘I was wrapped up,’ she said brightly, apologizing mentally for her lie. Trish came over and wiped a damp cloth over the table, then stacked the used crockery on a tray.
‘You know,’ Fred said, clearing his throat, ‘if you need any help with heavy things ...’
‘Actually,’ she cut in, spotting an opportunity, ‘have either of you heard of a travelling handyman? There’s supposed to be one staying in Brambleton, I can’t recall who mentioned him to me.’
She watched Trish’s forehead crease. ‘Can’t say I have. Though if you need work done ...’
‘I’d be happy to help,’ Fred interjected quickly.
‘Oh, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t want to interrupt that accounting course. Anyway, it’s not that kind of ... I mean, I’m just asking. Generally.’
Ivy caught Trish watching, her eyebrows raised, and that was enough. Ivy stood, gathering her coat.
‘Thanks, but it’s nothing really.’
‘When this rain stops, I’ll be over to clean out those gutters,’ offered Fred.
‘I should go. Getting late,’ said Ivy.
Trish gave her a piercing look. ‘It’s only ten o’clock.’
‘Places to be!’ Ivy called out, pushing through the door into the cold. Behind her she could hear the familiar hiss of the coffee machine, the murmur of voices, but she didn’t look back. Shewas a terrible liar, and she couldn’t risk Fred or Trish seeing her burning face. They couldn’t have guessed, could they? Not yet.
Four
When Ivy got home, damp despite her raincoat, she saw that someone had tidied her recycling boxes, stacking them in a neat pile by the front door. That must have been Fred, before he popped down to Prosecco & Prose. He was a good neighbour to do all that in the pouring rain. The green food caddy was open, and she smiled – he’d even sluiced that out for her, which was a first. She carried everything inside, dumping it in the hallway, next to the ghastly pot.Well, no one is perfect,she thought.
Jez bounced over, snuffling at the side of an empty recycling box, before clambering up, toppling over and landing inside with a thud. She left him where he was and slumped in front of her laptop. She pulled up her favourite recruitment website, scouring through new postings. There was someone advertising for help cleaning a school in Barnstaple. That was much more appropriate than Fred’s suggestion of applying for a teaching position. Jez barked from his new basket. ‘If you can get in there, you should be able to get out, you little monster’, she chided, scooping him up and cradling him under one arm. She wandered into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. The rain had turned to sleet. The shed roof, slick with moisture, glistened like a skin – holding the cold in place, not letting it go. Her mind kept feeding her images of Omar huddling in there, shivering and hungry. The kettle clicked off. Ivy put the dog down, washed her hands and removed a bottle of milk from the fridge, before returning it and taking out butter instead.
Five minutes later, she stepped outside into a swirl of sleet, clutching a cheese sandwich wrapped in cling film, a banana and a glass of water. She cast a furtive glance over her garden fence – no sign of Fred. Stuffing the food into her coat pocket, she hurried to the shed, knocked and pulled the door wide. A wave of fetid air assaulted her nostrils. Omar’s gaunt frame was lying between her rust-flecked lawnmower and a precarious stack of garden chairs. As she entered, he sat up. Dirt streaked his face and those dark eyes darted wildly, like a cornered animal. Over her thirty-year career, Ivy had met plenty of destitute parishioners, but nothing like this. She removed the food from her pocket, held it out and then withdrew her arm. She wanted some answers before she fed him. Despite her attempt at authority, her voice faltered. ‘How many of you were on that boat?’
His eyes blazed at her. ‘I didn’t come by boat. I walked here.’ His voice was harsh, defensive.
He must be protecting his fellow passengers. She couldn’t criticize him for that. ‘Your accent – where are you from?’ Ivy shivered despite her jacket – the shed with its thin walls seemed barely warmer than outside. As if mirroring her actions, he wriggled under the blanket, a bright splash of colour at odds with the hopelessness projected by the man.
