Seven
‘I don’t need your charity,’ Omar snapped, his accent thickening with anger when Ivy suggested the vicar might pop by. ‘Or your village festivals.’ The tiny cottage seemed to shrink further with the force of his emotion.
Ivy spoke softly, wanting to defuse matters. ‘Omar, why not let us try?’ She raised her eyes at Fred, seeking help.
‘We want to make you feel welcome in Brambleton,’ said Fred, and Ivy could have hugged him for his diplomacy, although recalling Mabel and Margaret’s tart words in the vicarage, she wasn’t sure that was true for the entire village.
‘Huh!’ spat Omar, as he turned and left.
The back door slammed behind him, making Ivy wince. She felt the floorboards vibrate.
Startled by the noise, Jez started yapping frantically, his high-pitched bark bouncing off the low ceiling and echoing round the space, setting Ivy’s teeth on edge.
‘Jezreel, please, hush now little one,’ she pleaded, rubbing her hands over her face The dog ignored her, continuing his shrill protest.
‘He’s hiding something,’ she said, having to raise her voice over the racket. ‘I know it. The way he tenses up whenever I suggest something which involves him coming out of that wretched shed ...’
Fred set his teacup down with a decisive clink.
‘Ivy, we both know what he’s hiding. He’s an illegal immigrant.
He won’t tell us anything about his background, or where he’s been living before now.
He almost certainly arrived on that dinghy.
’ His voice was gentle but firm. ‘We really should let the authorities handle this.’
‘No!’ The word burst out louder than she’d intended, setting Jez off on a fresh wave of barking.
She watched the rain trace paths down the window, the same way memories slipped through her thoughts.
After all these years, she still felt the tug, that pull toward anyone hurting, anyone alone.
Some promises, once made, never stopped echoing.
Not if you’d broken them once already. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t do that to him.’
‘Ivy . . .’
Her thoughts whirled back to the meeting and Margaret’s ambush. ‘What are we going to do about Victor and his wretched trunk of decorations? If he sees inside that shed ...’
‘Leave that to me. I’ll offer to go and collect his trunk and find some room in my own shed.’
He was a dear friend. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
Ivy felt tiny paws climbing her shin in clumsy bursts, little nails snagging in her tights.
Jez’s quick puffy breath whispered against her leg.
Looking down, she met his gleaming, round eyes.
A tug – deep and unexpected – tightened in her chest. Her fingertips brushed over his silken ears.
The tights were history, but his bright face made it impossible to mind. He yapped at her, and she smiled.
Then he launched himself at Fred’s legs, barking. Fred caught him mid-jump, his weathered hands gentle as he examined the squirming puppy. ‘Sorry,’ said Ivy, ‘I don’t know what’s got into that pup today. He’s hardly stopped all day.’
‘He’s barking to get your attention. They bark for a reason.’
Ivy shrugged. ‘Do they?’
‘Have you fed him?’
How incompetent did Fred think she was? ‘Yes! Three times. And he’s been out to do his business after each meal.’
‘When did you last check his water bowl?’
Ivy chewed her lip. Fred handed her the puppy, crossed to a ceramic bowl in the corner and picked it up. ‘Look. Empty,’ he said, upending the bowl. ‘He’s thirsty. That’s why he’s being so vocal.’
Ivy felt her face flush. ‘Oh.’
Fred filled the bowl, and Jez lapped eagerly, water droplets splashing onto the floor tiles.
‘You can’t fix everything for everyone,’ Fred said quietly, scratching behind Jez’s ears as the puppy drank. ‘Sometimes the kindest thing is to let the proper authorities handle things.’
Ivy sank into her armchair, the soft wheeze of old cushions offering little comfort.
Through the window, she could see Omar’s figure, his shoulders hunched against the wind as he raked the fallen leaves, heaping them into the composting pile.
The last rays of sunlight caught the edge of the shed, turning its weathered wood to gold.
‘He trusts me,’ she said finally. ‘Maybe he is wrong to, but he does. I can’t betray that. Promise me you won’t betray him either.’
Ivy looked over at Fred, who sighed but nodded. ‘Alright. I won’t say anything.’ He paused, watching the puppy nose hopefully around his empty food bowl. ‘Just as long as you don’t try to save any of his fellow passengers. You can’t save them all.’
‘No,’ she agreed, reaching down to ruffle Jez’s ears as he trotted over to her, water dribbling from his mouth. ‘But I can try to save this one.’
Staring out from behind the lace-curtained window the next morning, Ivy watched a brisk autumn wind whip a young woman’s scarf around her face – this must be Helen, the supply teacher.
The woman strode up the path, dragging two smart suitcases behind her.
She was slim, with long, dark blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, a few loose strands curling around her pale face.
Even in jeans and a fitted navy blazer, she moved with the ease of someone accustomed to being noticed.
Her low-heeled ankle boots clicked smartly against the pathway before she paused to adjust the leather strap of a designer handbag slung over one shoulder.
‘Here’s another visitor’ said Ivy, beckoning Omar over.
A small frown creased the teacher’s smooth brow as she surveyed the Virginia creeper-clad cottage, her lips – painted a bold ruby red – pressed together in assessment.
Ivy wrinkled her nose, suddenly self-conscious of her shapeless jumper.
This newcomer – this polished, self-assured creature – was going to be a surprise for Brambleton.
Omar put down his mug and crossed to the window.
Ivy was about to go and welcome Helen, when she noticed Omar staring at Helen with an expression Ivy had never seen before: something between recognition and fear.
Before she could say anything, he scuttled off and out the back door, moving with the furtive quickness she associated with his early days.
Poor Omar. He was probably terrified the new neighbour would report him .
She must introduce them early, imply he was a village fixture, use herself as his shield like she’d done at the church meeting.
Ivy hurried outside, her skin prickling under the persistent bite of the wind.
‘Good morning, and welcome to Brambleton. You must be Helen. Let me help you with those.’ Ivy introduced herself and grabbed the larger of the suitcases, its wheels clattering against the uneven ground. ‘How was the journey?’
‘Long,’ replied the woman, extending a hand. Ivy shook it, noting that her nails matched her lipstick. Helen laughed, shaking her ponytail. ‘But worth it. The village looks exactly like I imagined. So picturesque.’
‘Yes, although a bit wind-blown at this time of year. Why not unpack and get your bearings for an hour, then would you like to come over to mine for tea? I’ll invite Fred too. He lives in the cottage between our two.’
Ivy glanced out at Helen’s back garden, expecting to see the bleak damage of autumn storms. She frowned. It was as tidy as her own: fallen leaves raked into a pile, shrubs pruned, and the lawn mown. That must have been Omar.
After helping Helen get her cases inside and showing her around the cottage, a mirror image of her own, Ivy headed out to her shed. The smell of exotic spices grew stronger as she approached. Omar was cooking again. She knocked on the wooden door.
‘I’ve brought that Afghan tea you mentioned,’ she said. She’d spent twenty minutes researching online before finding the right kind, and with delivery charges, it had cost ￡10, though she didn’t mention that. ‘The green one with cardamom? Please come in for a cup. It’s cold out here.’
Inside her cottage, Ivy watched Omar examine the tea packet, his fingers moving slowly over the familiar Arabic script.
For a moment, his guarded expression slipped – not much, just a softening around the eyes – but it was enough.
Seeing his reaction, she felt a small warmth rise in her.
She hadn’t misjudged this. She hadn’t overstepped.
Just a packet of tea, but perhaps not such a small gesture, after all.
The scent of her baking filled the cottage’s open-plan living space. She had made scones, although they had turned out a bit hard. Another skill I’ve forgotten , she thought ruefully, remembering when she used to bake for the whole parish.
Her laptop screen caught Omar’s attention – job listings for part-time cleaning positions glowed softly.
‘You need money?’ he asked, frowning.
Ivy winced at the bluntness of the question.
Perhaps Omar’s culture didn’t consider poverty shameful.
She chastised herself for her pride, but that wasn’t what sealed her lips.
She didn’t want to divert people’s charity from those more deserving.
‘Not at all. I need purpose,’ Ivy replied, then wished she hadn’t when she saw his expression soften. She didn’t want his pity.
Ivy piled the scones on a plate, watching Omar’s eyes track her movements.
‘You have many books,’ Omar remarked, gesturing at her overflowing shelves.