Eight
On the second Saturday in November, the village hall buzzed with voices and the rustle of greenery being sorted.
Mounds of foliage were heaped onto trestle tables: prickly bunches of dark green holly next to smaller piles of a variegated variety, the pale ivory contrasting with slashes of dark green.
The snap of pruning shears punctuated cheerful chatter as volunteers trimmed bunches of flowering ivy and branches of fir, the space infused with the smell of fresh pine and spiced apple.
Steam curled from cups of mulled juice – Victor’s compromise.
‘It’s not very culturally sensitive to serve alcohol,’ he had said when Margaret suggested a warming tot of whisky.
‘It excludes alcoholics, abstainers, people of other faiths.’ Ivy thought it was a shame.
She saw the volunteers’ disappointment. In her day, there had been mulled wine and homemade mince pies.
At five past twelve, when there was still no sign of Victor, they decided to start without him.
Ivy stood beside Omar, watching his hands as he worked, noting how deftly he wove the branches despite his scowling expression.
She’d practically dragged him from Fred’s house that morning, ignoring his protests about having ‘real work’ to do in her garden.
She wanted the villagers to get to know him a little better.
It seemed important that Brambleton’s ‘doers’ saw him being public spirited; no one other than her and Fred knew of his work in the churchyard.
Shortly before half past twelve, a red-faced Victor finally burst through the door. Margaret and Mabel exchanged knowing looks.
‘Car trouble again, Victor?’ Margaret called out, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Ivy stifled a smile – the vicarage was a five minute walk from the village hall. ‘Perhaps Father Christmas might bring you an alarm clock.’
‘Or teach him how to set one,’ muttered Margaret.
Victor huffed as he unwound his scarf. ‘Actually, I was delayed because Mrs Kingdon’s cat got stuck in my garden shed. Took ages to coax the thing out.’
‘Funny how animals always seem to need rescuing precisely when meetings start,’ Mabel whispered loudly to Margaret. ‘Remember last month? It was a hedgehog in his recycling bin.’
‘Now then, ladies,’ Victor began, his voice floating down from somewhere near the ceiling, ‘I was thinking we might try something more eco-friendly for the wreaths this year.’ He ducked, forcing his knees to practically bend at right angles as he surveyed the greenery.
‘Perhaps recycled newspaper bows? Or cardboard—’
‘Cardboard!’ A sharp click echoed through the air as Margaret’s scissors snapped shut. ‘Young man, I’ve been making wreaths since before you were a twinkle in your father’s cassock.’
The Reverend’s gangly frame folded itself into a nearby chair. He reached for a sprig of holly, only to have Margaret snatch it away.
‘Tradition, Vicar,’ she declared, popping a dusty ribbon between her teeth to measure it, ‘is the life blood of Brambleton.’ She mumbled round the satin.
Victor’s elongated shadow fell across their work as he stood.
‘But surely,’ he ventured, his head now brushing the light fixture, ‘sustainability is rather ... Christian?’
Margaret rolled her eyes so dramatically they nearly disappeared into her hairline. Then Mabel delivered her pithy retort. ‘So is a pine wreath.’
Victor positioned himself next to Helen and picked up a wire frame and a pine branch.
‘No, like this,’ Helen’s voice, laden with teacherly authority, rang out across the hall as she demonstrated a wreath-binding technique to a frustrated Victor. ‘You’re letting it all go loose at the bottom and it will fall apart. You need tension.’
Ivy noticed how Omar’s shoulders tightened each time Helen spoke, how he moved further down the trestle table, away from her.
She wondered if he found her attractive; she was only a few years older than him, and very pretty.
‘I think it’s sweet,’ she teased gently, keeping her voice low, ‘the way you blush whenever Helen speaks.’
The pine branch in Omar’s hands snapped with a sharp crack, releasing the resiny scent of fresh sap.
‘I do not blush,’ he muttered, reaching for a sprig of holy.
Ivy watched Helen reorganize the ribbon box efficiently into shades of colour.‘Oh. Well then, have you met Helen somewhere before?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.
‘No.’ His next words fell between them, jagged as splintered stone. ‘And I don’t wish to.’
Mabel walked past their table, clutching her half-finished wreath protectively to her chest, as if Omar might steal it. Ivy spotted Omar’s eyes dart briefly towards Mabel, saw the tiny flinch he tried to hide and the way he averted his eyes.
She traced her fingers along a pine branch, the prickly sensation grounding her.
She used to lead these wreath-making sessions, and it felt strange being demoted to just a helper in the background.
‘Do you know why we make wreaths?’ she said to Omar.
‘It’s because the circle represents God’s endless love.
The promise of everlasting life through Jesus Christ, whose birth we are about to celebrate. ’
‘And the evergreen represents hope and renewal,’ Omar added without looking up, his fingers still working steadily. ‘It signifies that believers have life everlasting, even in winter’s darkness.’
Ivy blinked. ‘How did you know that?’
But Omar had already turned away, his attention caught by Victor’s increasingly frantic attempts to attach a red ribbon to his wreath.
The young Vicar had somehow managed to tangle himself in the fabric.
His glasses sat lopsided, and pine needles stuck out from his dark hair, making his head look like a peculiar green hedgehog.
‘Here,’ Omar said, his voice gentler than Ivy had heard before. He moved to Victor’s side, carefully unknotting the ribbon. ‘You’re thinking too much. Let the material guide you.’ His hands moved confidently, demonstrating the technique. ‘Like this. See?’
Victor’s face lit up as the ribbon finally cooperated. ‘That’s brilliant! Where did you learn to do that?’
The shutters came down behind Omar’s eyes again. ‘Nowhere important.’
A burst of laughter from Helen’s end of the table made Omar jump, the ribbon slipping from his fingers. He scurried to the other end of the workspace, his movements stiff and controlled.
‘Whatever’s eating that man,’ Trish murmured, appearing at Ivy’s elbow, leaning heavily on a stick, ‘you’ll get it out of him. You always do.’ She patted Ivy’s arm. ‘You’re good at knowing when to push and when to hold back. You always used to tell me that people open up when they’re ready.’
Ivy tried to smile, though she feared that the person who had once dispensed that wise advice was a lifetime away.
Through the hall’s windows streetlamps flickered into life in the gathering dusk, spilling light across the darkening streets.
Omar was finishing another wreath, adding small, dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks.
His fingers moved with the sure confidence of someone who’d done this many times before.
The finished piece looked almost professional, the kind you’d see in an upmarket shop window.
‘Beautiful,’ Ivy said. Don’t you think, Mabel?’
Mabel gave a grudging nod. ‘Reckon that one will sell quickly next Saturday,’ she said.
Omar looked up, startled. For a moment, pride flashed, and Ivy saw a brief glimpse of another person entirely – someone who took joy in creating beautiful things.
‘It’s only branches and string,’ he muttered, but he placed the wreath down with careful hands, adjusting it until it lay perfectly centred on the table.
Outside, a breeze tossed a pile of fallen leaves, scattering them in restless swirls that caught the light from a nearby streetlamp before fading into the darkness.
Ivy noticed Omar watching the dance, saw something like longing cross his face as Helen’s laugh rang out behind them.
What are you running from? she wondered and, almost before she could stop herself, the question turned inward.
How long had she been running from her own doubts? How long had she let the persistent erosion of confidence pull her away from the woman she used to be?
For Ivy, the following week passed in a flash, and finally she started to believe she was getting the hang of things at the café.
She arrived especially early on Friday morning to unpack a box of antique books Trish had purchased at an auction, hoping to tempt Christmas shoppers.
With the scent of old paper curling into the air like a forgotten story, Ivy unpacked the books one by one.
The worn leather spines felt supple under her fingers as she lifted each volume, pages whispering when she opened them to check their condition.
She admired each cracked spine and gilded title before sliding them into place on already packed shelves with a satisfying soft thump.
Spotting a beautiful 1889 edition of Amy Levy’s poems, A London Plane-Tree, and Other Verse she took a moment to leaf through, her eyes skimming the lines.
She ran her fingers over the leather binding.
It was gorgeous, but at over ￡100 it was far too expensive for Ivy.
By nine o’clock the café was chaos. Steam hissed from the coffee machine while voices and clattering crockery filled the room.
Trish, still hampered by crutches, was stuck behind the counter, sawing one-handedly through a crusty loaf while the till beeped insistently.
A customer waved a fiver with sharp snaps and Jez was making troubling scraping noises beneath a table.
The smell of strong coffee couldn’t quite mask something burning and Ivy’s palms were damp with sweat from the frantic pace as she balanced yet another precariously wobbling tray.
At least she could put her feet up tonight – Fred had invited her around for dinner. ‘Jez, if that’s chewing, I swear —’