Six #2
Trish, stuck behind the counter, raised a knowing eyebrow as she juggled her crutches and tried to top up the sugar bowls one-handed. Jez, ever the opportunist, sniffed around the chairs with the exaggerated curiosity of a detective on a case.
‘Oh, look at the time!’ Ivy said brightly. ‘Must crack on.’
‘Crack on?’ Mabel eyed the two pensioners in the corner, nursing their tea like it was a sacred relic. ‘Go on, who is he?’
The truth teetered on the tip of her tongue.
The only other person who knew was Fred.
Ivy hadn’t even told Trish about Omar yet.
Would it be so bad to come clean? Just say it?
Admit that a man, a stranger, was staying in her shed?
That she’d found him cold, hungry and desperate, and something in her simply hadn’t been able to turn him away?
Mabel tapped her fingers against the counter, a crooked grin on her face, waiting for an answer. She smirked, her eyes never leaving Ivy’s. Eventually, Mabel’s mouth quirked upward.
‘I knew it! A secret romance.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s not—’
And then, mercifully, Jez intervened.
With a purposeful little squat, he positioned himself beside Mabel’s shoe, his expression one of deep, unwavering concentration. Momentarily, Ivy wondered when he would start cocking his leg instead of squatting. Then, a horrified shriek reminded her where she and the puppy were.
‘Oh, that beastly little ... ! Oh, I can’t bear it!’ Mabel shrank back, clutching her handbag to her chest as if warding off evil. Jez, business concluded, trotted away, blissfully unbothered.
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry. The next coffee is on the house.’ Trying to hide her smile, Trish turned her back on the customer, hopping an escape into the storeroom.
‘That’s it!’ Mabel shrilled, backing away. ‘I shall eat my cake at home !’
The door slammed behind her. Ivy sagged against the counter and exhaled.
Trish passed Ivy a bleach-soaked cloth and raised an eyebrow.
‘Jez really does need to be house-trained to be in the café, you know. I don’t want all my customers eating their cakes at home.
Now, more to the point, are you going to tell me about your mysterious visitor, or do I have to stake out your garden? ’
Ivy took a deep breath and told her everything.
The fire in Ivy’s former sitting room fizzled and died with an apologetic sputter.
Anticipating Victor’s dreadful fire-laying, Ivy had come dressed in a tweed suit. The material felt incredibly itchy on her wrists and around her waist, like a hair shirt from the old stories – coarse garments worn for penance, the constant sting against the skin reminding the wearer of their sin.
Victor’s tall frame ducked through the sitting-room doorway like a collapsible giraffe.
His hair was still damp, and he was nearly fifteen minutes late.
Again. One thing was certain, Ivy thought, the Vicar needed an alarm clock.
If he wanted to keep the Church Council on his side, he couldn’t keep scheduling meetings, only to arrive late and unprepared.
At thirty-two, he seemed absurdly young to Ivy, though she’d been even younger when she’d taken over the parish.
He fiddled around with the fire ineffectively until Fred rose from his armchair with a sigh. ‘Let me sort that out, Vicar. You’ve not got enough wood on there,’ Fred said, rolling up his sleeves and starting to pump the bellows, revealing surprisingly toned forearms for someone in his sixties.
‘Marvellous, yes ... thank you. Not got the knack of it yet,’ said Victor. His earnest face beamed down at Mabel and Margaret, who sat with teacups poised like weapons as he launched into his plans for the Christmas Day service.
‘Let’s do a living Nativity. With real animals, donkeys for the wise men, sheep for the shepherds! My friend in London did something similar in their church car park.’
‘What about a live Baby Jesus?’ suggested Margaret sarcastically.
‘Brilliant idea!’ said Victor. Ivy’s eyes popped wide, and Mabel and Margret sat upright so fast they looked like a pair of startled chickens flapping their wings.
Trish came to his rescue. ‘Maybe as this is your first year, it might be safer to stick with existing village traditions? Give you a chance to settle in and get to know the ropes before changing things?’
Victor wilted visibly, his lanky frame folding like a deckchair in a strong wind.
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he muttered, smiling at Ivy. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that the existing plans weren’t marvellous.’ He tapped at his keyboard. ‘Let’s move on to item two. There are some repairs needed in the church. The vestry roof is leaking and there’s a loose flagstone by the font.’
From his position by the fire, Fred offered to take a look.
‘Thank you, Fred.’ said Victor. ‘And thank you for trimming the hedge round the churchyard and tidying up that fallen branch.’
Fred looked bemused. Ivy quickly winked at him, knowing who had completed both tasks.
Trish gave her a thumbs up, and she seized her chance.
When she’d told Trish everything in the café, they’d discussed the best way to tell the village.
‘Let something slip at a church meeting and Mabel and Margaret will do the job for you.’ Trish had suggested.
Ivy spoke brightly. ‘Actually, I’ve got someone helping me with odd jobs. He’s staying in my garden shed. Does beautiful work.’
A hush descended, broken only by the crack of a log settling in the grate.
‘Your shed?’ Mabel asked, her voice climbing an octave.
‘Well, it’s quite a substantial shed,’ Ivy said defensively. ‘More of a workshop really. The last tenant used it for his woodworking.’
‘Why’s he living in the shed?’ Margaret thundered.
‘He’s homeless,’ said Ivy.
‘I should visit him,’ Victor said, closing his laptop with a snap. ‘As his vicar.’
‘Oh, there’s no need,’ Ivy cut in, perhaps too quickly. ‘He’s quite private. And anyway, I don’t think he’s a Christian.’
She felt the weight of collective stares, heard the unasked questions suspended in the air along with the scent of wood smoke. Nothing exciting ever happened in Brambleton.
‘Is he ... ?’ Mabel began delicately, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her tea with a gentle clink. ‘Was he on that dinghy? Is he a refugee?’
Ivy fiddled with her skirt. She was certain Omar had been on that dinghy but was reluctant to confirm Mabel’s fears. ‘He’s someone who needed help,’ she said finally.
And still does , she thought. Something was clearly festering within Omar, eating at his soul, preventing him from settling. ‘Why doesn’t he approach Social Services for help, or are you dealing with that for him, Ivy?’ questioned Margaret, tilting her head to one side like an inquisitive bird.
Ivy chewed at her lip. Margaret might as well have asked if Ivy had checked his passport and verified his legal status, which, of course, she had not. She was sure he was hiding from the authorities, but she wouldn’t allow Margaret to send him packing.
‘Oh, we must get him involved in the village activities!’ Victor exclaimed.
‘I wonder what he’ll make of our Christmas traditions,’ said Fred, retaking his seat, ‘being Muslim and all.’
Mabel’s teacup rattled in the saucer, tea slopping over the sides. ‘Muslim?’ she said, ‘Whatever is a Muslim man doing in Brambleton?’
Ivy realized Fred knew more about Omar than she did – maybe her guest found it easier confiding in a man. ‘Islam is an Abrahamic faith, just like Christianity, Mabel,’ said Ivy, slightly sharper than she had intended.
‘Quite right, thank you, Ivy. And I am sure we will all welcome him with our Christian hearts,’ added Victor.
‘Of course we will,’ Trish said firmly.
The fire was blazing properly now, filling the high-ceilinged room with light that danced across the dark wallpaper.
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the room, and Ivy realised that by refusing to engage with Margaret, she had protected Omar.
Everyone simply assumed she had verified his immigration status.
‘That reminds me,’ said Victor. ‘The new supply teacher arrives tomorrow. She’s called Helen.
Which means we have two newcomers to welcome.
’ At the change of subject, Ivy felt a sense of relief, but her thoughts drifted to her shed.
She should check, shouldn’t she? Make sure everything was proper and legal.
But then what if it wasn’t? What would she do?
She gazed around at the sea of faces – they were all looking at her.
Was she supposed to say something? It was so difficult to know when to speak and when to stay silent now she wasn’t the vicar.
‘Ivy,’ said Victor kindly, ‘I was saying ... the new supply teacher, Helen. Is that one for you? She’s going to be living in one of the old alms houses – the cottage the other side of Fred.’
‘Yes. Of course, I’ll look out for her, invite her over for tea or something.’
Her mind drifted back to Omar, worrying she’d revealed too much.
He was such a private person, she was certain he wouldn’t want Victor coming to visit, or heaven forbid Mabel and Margaret poking their unwelcome noses in.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck four, its deep chime reverberating through the floorboards.
Ivy tuned back into the conversation just in time to hear the end of item three – Victor had found a YouTube video and would be making sustainable Christmas decorations for the church.
‘Speaking of which,’ said Victor, ‘I’m having a new carpet fitted in the room where I’m storing the trunk of Christmas decorations I brought from Hull. Anyone got space in their garage to take them for the next week?’
‘Ivy’s shed is enormous,’ Margaret chimed in helpfully from the kitchen, appearing with fresh tea. ‘Practically a small barn, isn’t it?’
Ivy’s mind raced. She’d implied she was helping a homeless man, just meals and the occasional night’s shelter, not a permanent arrangement that could land her in trouble with the Council.
If Victor saw the transformed shed, the small heater, the cooker, the carefully organized supplies that clearly showed someone was living in there long term, it was a whole different story.
‘The thing is,’ she said carefully, ‘Omar’s a private person and the shed’s sort of his now, and I’m not sure he’d be comfortable with—’
‘Oh, I’m sure he won’t mind,’ Victor interrupted. ‘I’d love to meet him properly. Maybe I can help him too.’
‘I—’ she began, then stopped. Victor was looking at her with such hopeful expectation, and Margaret was already nodding approvingly at her own suggestion.
‘That’s settled then,’ Margaret declared. ‘When shall we bring the chest over?’