Five
Over the weekend, Ivy and Omar established a tentative routine that continued into half-term week and the first week of November.
While Omar tidied the bedraggled garden – aided by Jezreel, who approached every tool as a potential toy – Ivy trawled the internet.
First, she diligently checked the job websites, then she searched for recipes and started ordering ingredients she had never heard of: toor dal, mung beans, tamarind paste.
At lunchtime, Omar and the puppy would join her in the kitchen.
Previously, Ivy would have made herself a sandwich and given Jez a bowl of kibble.
Now she served a dal. The food was earthy and rich, with a mild nutty undertone.
She liked the texture: thick, smooth and creamy, ranging from velvety and silky to chunky and hearty depending on whether she used lentils, urid beans or split peas.
Each meal left her much fuller than a sandwich, and she was grateful for discovering this cheap source of protein.
She was careful with the spice, but Omar soon took over, demonstrating how a touch of chilli could add a pleasant heat which lingered at the back of the palate but didn’t overwhelm.
As they ate, she listened to Omar’s plans for the garden.
He didn’t say much beyond that, but he didn’t scowl quite so often.
On Friday evening, Ivy met Trish outside the Smuggler’s Inn.
The windows were foggy but behind the glass the pub glowed like a lantern in the dark.
Ivy hesitated on the threshold. Trish gave her a gentle shove.
‘Just a quick one. When did you last join us? It’s not good for you holing up in that cottage of yours night after night. ’
Ivy felt a surge of warmth inside her. Trish was right, it was important to socialize.
That was the advice she’d given to so many widows and widowers over the years.
Maybe it was time she took a bit of it herself.
No, she hadn’t lost a partner to death, not like they had, but still, the village had once been her constant, her comfort.
And now someone else fulfilled her role.
There was a gentle ache. Not the same kind of grief, no, but a kind of loneliness all the same.
She pushed open the door. A leather-tinged scent met her, coming from the old horse tack decorating the walls, mingled with the salty tang of the sea.
Despite December being still three weeks away, ruby-red tinsel had already been coiled around the beer taps, and Rose, the landlady, wore a bright green elf costume.
For the pub, Christmas was a vital flash of revenue during the barren stretch between the October half-term rush and Easter’s revival of the tourist season.
It seemed to Ivy that the hospitality industry orchestrated an ever-earlier onset of festive cheer in their quest for survival.
‘Look who’s rejoined the land of the living!’ called out Rose. ‘What can I get you ladies?’
Ivy ordered them each a glass of wine. Rose bustled off, returning with the drinks,
‘Rose, I was wondering,’ Ivy asked, ‘could you use any help over Christmas?’
‘Behind the bar?’ Rose’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Love, you don’t belong back here. Can’t have you wasting your talents pulling pints!’
Ivy felt crushed. She’d received another rejection email that morning, accompanied by the usual dull frustration of being overlooked when she thought she’d nailed it.
She sipped her crisp wine, reminded herself that of course Rose needed experienced bar staff to manage the crowds over Christmas, and felt a bit better.
Yet the nagging sense that this was yet another ‘not for you’ in a long string of them made it hard to shake the sting.
Spying her neighbour at the bar, Ivy slipped onto a stool beside Fred, who was chatting to a group of villagers. ‘I’m sure I saw a gaggle of strangers outside the shop earlier,’ said Mabel.
‘That’s no way to refer to tourists,’ snipped Fred.
Mabel huffed. ‘They didn’t look like they were on holiday.’
‘Someone told me they’d seen a man erecting a tent in the churchyard,’ claimed Margaret.
‘I heard there was an encampment there. At least a dozen tents,’ said Mabel.
‘Tell me, have you actually seen anyone acting suspiciously, Mabel?’ asked Trish. ‘Cos I haven’t, and if there were people scavenging for food, I’d be one of the first places they’d try, don’t you think?’
Mabel huffed again, but Ivy frowned, wondering how many people Omar was protecting. Was he handing out the food she gave him, sharing it with these other unfortunate souls? Fred turned to her and whispered, ‘What are you going to do about Omar?’
Ivy shook her head. ‘I don’t really know. What if he is dangerous? My instincts are useless.’
‘Or maybe they’re working just fine.’ Fred shuffled closer, speaking in a muted hush. ‘He’s an excellent gardener, you know. I had a chat with him yesterday while he was pruning your apple tree. Man knows his Latin names better than me.’
‘In that case, why did he tell me he was a handyman?’ Ivy watched Rose arrange a tray of sausage rolls, the savoury aroma making her stomach rumble; she asked herself what it would be like to be properly hungry – had Omar experienced real hunger?
Why was he claiming to be a handyman if he wasn’t?
‘Why is he so ...’ She paused, unable to bring herself to say ‘beastly’, and finished lamely, ‘unfriendly? Withdrawn.’
‘Perhaps,’ Fred said carefully, ‘he doesn’t want us poking into his business.’
The thought sat with her as she sipped her wine.
‘Well,’ she said, keeping her voice low, ‘I suppose if he’s reluctant to speak up, I’ll have to work harder to help him tell us who he is.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Fred raising his glass. ‘Though mind you don’t get bitten trying to feed a stray cat.’
After finishing their drinks, Fred insisted on escorting Ivy home. She opened her front door and stooped to scoop up Jez, swiping a few fluffy feathers from his whiskers.
From behind her she heard Fred blow out a long sigh, ‘What the—? Ivy!’
‘It’s just a cushion.’ Cradling the puppy in her arms, his coat felt impossibly soft and plush against her skin, like hugging a cloud that radiated heat.
She breathed in his scent – sweet, clean, like fresh grass, milk and sun dried blankets all mixed together.
A sense of tranquillity washed over her.
‘It was just a cushion,’ mumbled Fred, kicking his way through the tunnel of feathers. ‘You really must train him. Why not read the book I gave you?’ He rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘Brr, it’s freezing in here. Do you have a problem with your heating? Want me to check your boiler?’
Ivy looked away so she didn’t have to lie. She couldn’t afford the central heating and relied on her wood fire and having a hot shower before bed to keep her warm.
‘Later,’ said Ivy, ‘There’s a more important task. Come on, Jezreel. Let’s get you outside where you can’t do so much damage.’
Ivy led the way, Fred hard on her heels. ‘I’m coming too, Ivy. We’ve no idea who he is, and if you’re going to force it out of him, he could get nasty.’
Ivy stepped inside the shed, conscious of the wind rattling through the corrugated roof.
The oily tang of WD-40 filled her nostrils, replacing the usual smell of damp.
Omar had totally transformed the space. Tools hung in military precision from hooks that hadn’t been on those walls two weeks ago.
The ancient workbench given to her by a well-meaning parishioner gleamed with fresh oil.
Omar was whistling to himself, arranging her collection of garden twine in an old cardboard box, each roll perfectly aligned in descending order of thickness. He didn’t turn around.
‘You keep saying you weren’t on that dinghy,’ she said to his back. ‘But, if that’s true, we have a right to know where you did come from.’
‘I told you already, I came by foot.’ He turned and straightened up, his posture a juxtaposition to his tattered clothes, like an antique silver communion chalice being used as a pencil holder.
Fred hovered in the doorway. ‘Best come clean, lad. We’re not your enemies here.’
Something flickered behind Omar’s eyes. ‘No? Then why the interrogation?’
A crash from outside made them all jump. Jez bounced in, trailing one of Ivy’s wellington boots, the top ragged and thoroughly chewed. He dropped it proudly at Omar’s feet.
‘Another excellent example of your dog training skills,’ Omar said drily. ‘I picked one of these boots out of the compost heap yesterday.’
Fred chuckled, then seemed to catch himself. ‘He’s got a point, Ivy. That puppy needs a firmer hand.’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ Ivy said, feeling her cheeks flush. She ignored Jez’s frantic clawing at an unopened bag of compost. ‘If you’re not a refugee then who are you hiding from?’
Omar’s shoulders tensed. ‘Who says I’m hiding?’
‘What other explanation is there for you skulking in my shed?’ She took a step closer and grabbed his hands, turning them palm side up. ‘Your hands are too soft for a handyman’s.’
‘Careful, Ivy,’ Fred warned. ‘Don’t corner him.’
‘I told you my story,’ Omar said, but this time, his voice sounded less confident. ‘I’m a roving handyman.’
‘No, you told me a story.’ She gestured at the meticulously organized shed. ‘This isn’t the work of someone used to drifting between odd jobs. This is ...’ She paused, searching for the word. ‘This is someone who needs to control their environment. Someone used to order.’
Omar’s laugh was harsh. ‘Playing amateur psychologist now, are we?’
‘Just tell us who you really are,’ Fred said, stepping fully into the shed. ‘We can help, but not if you’re lying.’
‘Help?’ Omar’s voice rose slightly. ‘Like that bunch of villagers helped by hunting for imaginary refugees. Like you are helping by insisting I am one of them?’ He turned and she heard him muttering in his own language again. ‘I didn’t catch that, Omar,’ she said.
‘I was quoting from a Persian poet.’