Seventeen
On Friday morning, after helping Trish with breakfast at the café, Ivy met Omar and Fred for a mid-morning walk.
A pale winter sun slipped between scattered clouds, laying a cold silvery light across a snow-blanketed Exmoor.
Snow dusted the ancient gorse bushes, their yellow flowers peeking through like tiny suns.
The air was crisp and clean, carrying the rich scent of damp moss and fallen leaves mingled with the saltiness blown in from the Bristol Channel.
Ivy wore her coat, Omar a jacket, curled up against the cold, while Fred sported an impossibly colourful tweed hat with a purple pompom that bounced with each step.
A panting Jezreel zigzagged from one side to the other, leaving chaotic patterns in the snow.
It felt like watching someone learning to drive a powerful car – despite the right actions, the coordination remained a work in progress.
Ivy’s mind raced, dredging for ideas of someone she hadn’t tried who could help Omar. She fingered the bunch of keys in her pocket, stroking the longest one – a key to the vestry, her talisman, a tenuous connection to her life at St Peter’s.
The path wound between weathered stone walls, their grey sides softened by caps of white. In the distance, the moor stretched endlessly, its usual browns and greens transformed into a monochrome wonderland.
‘What about speaking to Bill Mathews, our local councillor?’ suggested Ivy. ‘He might have heard of this sort of thing before.’
Omar’s response was a noncommittal shrug; his eyes fixed on the horizon. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath their feet and Jez’s occasional snuffle.
‘Drop it, Ivy,’ whispered Fred.
She squinted across at him, ‘I was only ...’
‘What a lovely day for a walk,’ said Fred with a forced cheerfulness.
They paused in a natural hollow, sheltered from the wind by ancient hawthorns. A cock pheasant landed a few feet away, its feathers a striking mix of iridescent greens, deep blues and rich chestnut, with a bold white ring around its neck and a shimmering copper breast.
It coughed a harsh, rasping call, kok-kok , followed by a loud, abrupt cackle that echoed around the hollow.
With bated breath, Ivy watched Jez. He sat calmly at her feet instead of charging after the bird.
She adjusted her scarf, stealing glances at Jez’s distant expression.
She must have done something different these last few days.
Maybe a subtle change in routine, or could it be the change in his kibble?
She couldn’t put her finger on anything significant.
Fred shrugged off a rucksack and produced a thermos of coffee, which he poured into plastic mugs.
And then Omar began to whistle – softly at first and then louder, a haunting melody that seemed to belong to the winter landscape yet somehow filled it with joy.
It was unexpected, this cheering sound from someone so withdrawn.
The sound was infectious, and Ivy started tapping her foot to the rhythm.
Fred set down his coffee cup with exaggerated care.
His eyes twinkled as he swept into a deep bow, extending his hand to Ivy.
‘Madam, might I have this dance?’ he asked in his best theatrical voice, already moving into an elaborate waltz step that sent snow flying.
Ivy stared at him, torn between embarrassment and delight.
Fred’s cheeks were red from the cold, his hat askew and he was grinning like a schoolboy.
The absurdity of it struck her – dancing on Exmoor in the snow – and she felt laughter bubbling up.
She took Fred’s hand, trying to ignore the bolt of electricity that shot through her skin, and concentrated instead on trying to waltz in her wellington boots with Jez nipping at her ankles.
Omar’s whistling grew stronger, more playful, and Fred held Ivy’s hand aloft, inviting her to spin, but that was a difficult feat given her footwear, and she stumbled, sprawling inelegantly in the snow.
Fred looked alarmed and came to help her up, but Ivy waved him away, laughing, and then pushed herself up and stood aside, swaying to the music and clapping along while Fred, his pompom bobbing up and down, undertook a solo performance that nearly sent him sprawling too.
Watching this man she’d known for decades transform a heavy moment into something light and joyful, Ivy caught herself thinking how different Fred was from her.
His ability to find fun in this situation –as he did with so many others – both baffled and delighted her.
All afternoon, Prosecco it was people, too. And yet here was Helen, offering help, asking Ivy to trust her.
Helen continued, her voice dropping to a more strained tone.
‘Robby still thinks I’m trying to convince Omar to go back to Kabul.
But I’m going to tell him that Omar has gone.
That he’s left Brambleton. I told you that I think Omar is innocent.
He’s no more a drug smuggler than you or I. And I like him.’
Ivy noticed a blush spread across Helen’s face.
‘He’s a good man,’ said Helen.
‘He is.’