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, and he 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 the sighs when her hand rested on someone’s head as she blessed them.
These days, a week could pass without her feeling the touch of another human.
‘What can I get you?’ Trish asked. ‘And while you’re deciding, you can tell me why you’ve got the same worried face you wore at yesterday’s church meeting.’
That bothered Ivy. Had worry become a permanent look? ‘Job-hunting, you know. Bills to pay.’ Her pension covered the rent and utility bills, but food for her and little Jez had to come out of her savings, and there was worryingly little left.
‘Don’t give me that.’ Trish leaned closer, her voice dropping. ‘I’ve known you too long. Now spill!’
She wanted to confide about Omar but held back. Trish’s father wasn’t born in England, but he had arrived legally; Trish might have strong views about those who ignored the rules. ‘What are you hiding?’
A refugee! Ivy went pink. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
A bell chimed, saving her from having to finish that lie. Fred walked in, bringing a gust of chilly air with him. Today he wore a tie patterned with umbrellas, presumably to match the weather. He stopped to chat to Mabel before making his way toward the counter.
‘Are you alright, Ivy?’
Her relief evaporated. Had he seen her taking a tray of food to the shed?
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she asked cautiously.
‘It’s all this talk about refuges on the loose.’
‘I think everyone’s being a bit alarmist.’ Inspecting his face for clues, she added, ‘I mean, has anyone seen anything suspicious apart from the dinghy?’
‘No, but if you’re feeling unsafe, I could pop over and reinforce your window locks?’
She let out a short, breathy laugh and shook her head. Unlike Mabel, Ivy wasn’t afraid of some unknown figure lurking in the shadows. She knew exactly who was there. And while Omar lived in her shed, she expected he would prevent any of his fellow passengers causing her to question her hospitality.
‘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 with that 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.
She was a terrible liar, and she couldn’t risk Fred or Trish seeing her burning face.
They couldn’t have guessed, could they? Not yet.