Page 80 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘What about this,’ Trish suggested, holding up a trowel with a beautiful beechwood handle.
‘Great choice.’
They strolled towards the checkout, past racks of seed packets, the paper envelopes rustling as someone flicked through them.
She heard a woman’s voice, bright and cheerful. ‘Buying for a gardener?’
Ivy turned to see Helen beside her, shaking raindrops from her coat. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘You too?’
‘Just browsing, looking for inspiration.’ Helen smoothed down her coat. ‘I spoke to that contact, in Kabul, Farid,’ Helen said, her voice softer now. ‘I didn’t mention Omar, just told him I was a journalist, doing a bit of investigating. He won’t help.’
‘Farid,’ murmured Ivy. The name was familiar; he was the man who helped Omar. ‘Do you think he’s too frightened of repercussions?’
Helen nodded. ‘Looks like it.’
Ivy let out a slow breath. Not unexpected, but still disappointing. Farid might help Omar, but Ivy understood why he wouldn’t risk helping a foreign journalist.
‘Robby’s been in touch with me,’ Helen said, changing the subject.
Ivy raised an eyebrow. ‘What did he want?’
‘He asked me if Omar has turned up.’
Ivy exhaled, staring at a row of potted cyclamen, their petals like butterfly wings. ‘For once you didn’t have to lie. He’s gone, just like you told Robby.’
‘He’s gone somewhere safe.’ Said Trish.
The trowel slipped from Ivy’s fingers, clattering to the floor. ‘Where?’
Helen reached out and patted Ivy on the arm. ‘Don’t worry.’
Ivy missed him. The ache was a quiet, persistent thing now, no longer sharp, but no less real. But he was away from Robby and his demands that he return to Kabul. His sister and her family were safe. That was all that mattered.
If the only casualty was her wounded heart, that was a price worth paying.
It was only six days until Christmas, and the Smuggler’s Inn reverberated with enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, singing. The pub was stifling. Bodies pressed tightly against one another, a dense mass of coats and scarves, with barely enough room to raise an elbow or turn without brushing against a neighbour. In less than twenty minutes, the carol concert would start in St Peter’s, and a handful of people had formed an impromptu choir to practise, their voices rising and falling through the thick crowd, each singer tested not just by pitch but by the challenge of finding breathing space.
Shoulders touched, backs bumped, and knees inadvertently knocked as people shifted and swayed. The crush of bodies created a living, moving organism, each person part of a collective anticipation that filled every corner of the pub. Others hovered around the edges, laughing at the missed notes and exaggerated pitch of the singers.
People clutched crumpled carol service programmes. Rose was already taking orders as if she were preparing for a theatre interval, her movements a nimble dance through the packed room, weaving between shoulders and backs with feline precision.
‘Put me down for a large glass of Prosecco,’ Trish shouted above the din. ‘Ice cold. Don’t let me down, Rose.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Rose grinned, scribbling away.
It had been a while since Ivy felt this at ease, like she belonged.A month ago, she’d have hovered at the fringes, too anxious to speak, still weighed down by what people thought of her early retirement. Now, she was in the thick of it, laughing and chatting.
Over Trish’s shoulder, Ivy spotted Fred. He was standing a little apart, talking to Helen. And the teacher was listening. Properly listening, with her full attention, the way someone does when they actually care about something. Ivy’s heart did an odd little twist, but she was determined not to allow anything to spoil her mood. She no longer thought there was any romance there, but it was clear a close friendship had developed, probably over their shared interest in teaching. Just like hers and Fred’s had grown over their joint mission to shelter Omar.
The pub door opened. Cold air swirled in, and the singing stopped, allowing a snatch of Fred and Helen’s conversation to drift towards Ivy.
‘Give it time. When something’s new, there can be hiccups, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work out,’ said Fred.
Helen spoke sharply. ‘I hope you’re right.’
Fred replied, soft and sure. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Yes, I do.’
