Page 87 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Helen killed the music, and Ivy poured a fresh glass of Prosecco, conscious of the silence pressing in around her. Robby took up station by the fireplace, his untouched drink fizzing in his hands. He stared into the flames, fingers tightening around the glass until his knuckles turned white. When he finally spoke, his voice was croaky with suppressed emotion. ‘When my regiment pulled out in 2021,’ he twirled the glass in his hand absentmindedly, ‘we left an interpreter behind. We knew what that meant.’
Silence settled like dust.
Fred straightened in an armchair. ‘Wait, you were military?’ His voice rose a note, a mix of disbelief and something edging toward anger.
Robby didn’t look up. His gaze stayed on his drink, as if it could drown out the memory. His voice was rough, raw.
‘I followed orders. That’s what we were trained to do. No questions, no second-guessing. Finish the job and move on.’ He gave a strained smile. ‘Only some things don’t move on. I see his face every time I close my eyes. He was called Mustafa. He could cook a perfectly spiced dal in the middle of the desert. He once told us a very rude joke about a camel. He had a daughter who had got into an American university on a scholarship –he was the proudest father. And every time someone says, “collateral”, like it’s only a word ... well. I think of him.’
Robby didn’t look up. He continued to stare at his drink and then, almost too fast to register, he downed it in one gulp.
Omar stepped forward from the window, and Robby looked at him, respect in his eyes. ‘You should have told me about your past. That way I’d have known Fowler was lying about the charges against you. You left because you couldn’t risk exposing your past.’
Omar spoke, his voice firm. ‘Yes. But also, because I’d discovered something at the charity that I suspected might put me in danger.’
Robby nodded, jaw tight. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Ivy saw the truth of it: not guilt, exactly, but the unbearable weight of knowing better, and being too late. Ivy could see him unravelling, the cracks in his composure deepening into fissures. His grip tightened on his empty glass until it seemed it might shatter. ‘Christ!’ The word came out as a prayer and a curse.
Robby swallowed hard. When he looked up, his eyes were wet with unshed tears. ‘Do you think Fowler knows what you did before you joined his foundation?’ The question came out like anaccusation.
‘Why do you think he’s pressuring Omar to go back?’ said Helen, her eyes flashing. ‘He knows Omar has information that could destroy him, and he knows exactly what happens to interpreters for the British Army. He’s counting on it.’
It felt as though the world outside had ceased to exist, leaving the moment suspended in time, the only sound the crackling fire.
Steel entered Robby’s expression. ‘I’m not protecting Fowler anymore. I’ll help you to expose him.’ The words rang with finality as he set his glass down with a decisive thud.
For a beat, the cottage was still, the moment crystallizing around them. Suddenly, Fred stood, crossing the room to clasp Omar’s shoulder. Helen followed with a fierce hug and soon they were all on their feet, the small space filled with voices and movement. Fred turned to Ivy, his face bright with relief, eyes shining. ‘We did it,’ he whispered, as if afraid to break the spell.
She smiled, her throat tight with emotion. They had done it. Against all odds, they had done it.
Twenty-eight
Ivy was kneeling by the fire, reliving the euphoria of last night’s party which had carried on until 2 a.m. Omar had insisted that Robby stay to celebrate, talking to him about Afghanistan, showing him his worn picture of Laila, Sami and Yasmin, explaining that she too had been an interpreter and saying how much he wished his family could be with him.
Helen was right: Robby wasn’t a bad man, and he also turned out to be a surprisingly snappy dancer. He apologized for sending those nasty notes to her and Helen – and admitted he was responsible for the men whistling in the churchyard that night. He insisted he had only intended to scare them off and would never have done anything to hurt them. He promised that in January he would launch a full internal investigation into FF’s activities, and involve the Charity Commission.
Ivy had just coaxed the flames back to life when a knock rattled the cottage door. She frowned, glanced up at the clock on the mantel. She wasn’t expecting Omar for another hour. Straightening her skirt, she opened the door. Omar stood, fidgeting on his feet, as if unsure of his welcome, a parcel wrapped in tissue paper in his hands. Droplets of rain clung to his dark hair and coat.
‘You’re a bit early.’
‘This is for you,’ he said.
She took the package, feeling its weight, sturdy, but not heavy. ‘Come in,’ she invited. But he stayed where he was, moving hishands within his coat pockets as if jiggling change. She lifted the parcel, her eyes quizzical. ‘You’ve already given me my Christmas present. My Persian lessons.’
‘It’s not from me.’
‘Then whoisit from?’
He didn’t answer, but she could only think of two people close enough to Omar to ask him to pass on a gift. ‘Is this from Helen or from Fred?’
‘Fred,’ he replied, still not meeting her gaze.
Why was Fred giving her an early present, and why not do it himself? ‘But Christmas isn’t for another five days.’
Omar hesitated. ‘He ... uh ... wanted you to have it.’
Something in his tone unsettled her. She gestured him inside, shutting out the cold, and carried the parcel to an armchair. Her fingers traced the careful folds of the wrapping paper. Fred had always been practical, unceremonious. She glanced at last year’s hideous vase. That had arrived in a large cardboard box. ‘Too big to wrap. It would only be a waste of paper,’ Fred had explained. But this gift was wrapped with care, in gold tissue paper with pictures of red breasted robins stencilled across it and tied with a dark green silky ribbon. She swallowed and tugged at the ribbon. The paper fell away to reveal a book – a beautiful, leather-bound edition ofpoetry. She gasped. It wasA London Plane-Tree, and Other Verse, the volume by Amy Levy that she had so admired in Prosecco & Prose; the one which had cost over £100.
Ivy’s eyes fell on a garish purple leather bookmark anchored halfway through the volume. Goosebumps slid across the back of her neck. She ran her fingers over the embossed cover, the gold lettering glinting in the sunlight, then opened it and read the marked poem.
