Twenty
While Ivy and Trish fielded lunch orders, Helen sat at the counter, a screen open in front of her, delving into FF’s murky secrets.
The café was a swirl of activity. Ivy darted between tables, taking orders and carrying laden trays.
She could feel the adrenaline kicking in as the familiar chaos engulfed her.
There was never a moment to breathe. Her body ached, her mind too, but the rhythm was her own.
She had mastered it, at least on the surface.
Then the thought hit her – when was the last time she’d even looked for another job?
She hadn’t updated her CV in days, maybe more.
She’d stopped searching. A customer smiled at her, but Ivy barely registered it.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered: was this what she wanted?
Between this job and trying to unravel FF’s secrets, she filled her days and scraped together just enough money to live.
But while striving to help Omar always gave her a jolt of satisfaction, at the café it was different.
She liked the social interaction, was grateful for the money, but, if she was honest with herself, Ivy was just keeping busy.
There was no sense of achievement from opening a bottle of Prosecco.
Mastering the espresso machine wasn’t the same as seeing the joy on a couple’s faces after pronouncing them man and wife.
She paused in front of Helen, and the teacher’s voice sliced through the fog of Ivy’s racing mind.
‘Hazim sent me some more documents last night.’ Helen tapped her screen with a manicured nail.
Her voice dropped. ‘Payment authorizations, supplier contracts. That’s what I emailed you this morning.
Did you have a chance to print them out? ’
Ivy reached into the fridge, removing and uncorking another bottle of Prosecco, pouring it deftly into three flutes. ‘Yup. Brought them with me.’ She dashed to the stock room, retrieved the printouts and popped them on the counter. ‘What about the latest annual return?’
‘Got it this morning.’ Helen’s smile was triumphant. ‘I’m going to give it a detailed read tonight.’
‘I’ve got no formal training, but I’ve got experience of reading accounts,’ Trish commented, her eyes falling to the printed pages. ‘I’ve had to, to get to grips with the business.’
Ivy caught Helen’s expression register surprise.
She also caught something in Trish’s tone, a determination that spoke of battles fought beyond balance sheets and profit margins.
Ivy understood why Trish wanted to help.
Some injustices left scars too deep to ever heal, and the only salve was preventing them from scarring another.
‘Trish would be perfect,’ said Ivy, perhaps too eagerly.
‘We’ll need all the help we can get,’ she said, walking off with a tray.
By the time she returned, Helen was spreading pages across the counter as if he were dealing a deck of cards, her eyes gleaming as she picked up a page.
‘We need to look for anything unusual. Inflated executive salaries, suspicious consultancy fees, duplicate payments ...’
‘Split the work between us,’ said Ivy, noticing Trish pulling papers toward herself, scanning them with practised eyes.
The screen snapped shut. ‘I must get back to work,’ said Helen, ‘pub tonight?’
In the Smuggler’s Inn, Bing Crosby crooned softly at the customers.
Ivy spotted Fred, Helen and Trish gathered round a table in the middle of the room, scattered papers, half-empty glasses and crumpled crisp packets marking out their territory.
Her jaw tightened as she watched Helen shunt closer to Fred, showing him something on her phone.
‘Ivy!’ Trish called, waving her over. She navigated her way between tables, mostly empty, a few occupied with villagers enjoying pre-Christmas drinks, as she breathed deeply, steadying herself.
The smell of spiced cider and roasting meat filled the pub, mingling with the wet-dog scent of someone’s spaniel dozing under a bench.
Ivy desperately wanted normality tonight.
Anything but more talk of corruption and cover-ups.
She craved the familiar rhythms of village life, the gentle complaints about the weather, news of someone’s grandchildren visiting for Christmas.
She wanted reminders of why she and Helen were trying so hard for Omar, so he could have ordinary moments of peace, too.
‘How did you get on with those papers?’ asked Helen.
‘I’m sorry.’ Ivy replied, ‘I did have a look, but I can’t make head nor tail of them. If the charity is paying suppliers twice, I can’t see it.’
‘I’ll have another look myself.’ Said Helen.
Phew thought Ivy, off the hook .
‘Unless our accounting expert ... ?’ said Helen, smiling coyly at Fred.
Ivy felt that unwelcome taste of resentment in her mouth, and clamped it shut. Fred wriggled uncomfortably, and as if taking pity on him Trish changed the subject. ‘I was just telling these two about my cunning plan,’
‘What’s that?’ asked Ivy, sliding into a vacant chair.
‘For Operation Ghost Refugee,’ Trish declared, lowering her voice conspiratorially her, eyes sparkling with mischief.
‘I thought a good plan needs a proper code name. After what you said to Helen in the stockroom last night, I spoke with my cousin in Exeter. He’s had a cancellation, and one of his holiday cottages is empty until mid-January. Perfect hiding spot if we need it.’
‘Oh, well done!’ cried Ivy.
Trish was looking pleased with herself. ‘And Helen here has been equally brilliant.’
At the mention of her name, Helen straightened up, finally putting some distance between herself and Fred. ‘I filed my false report with Robby this morning,’ she announced, raising her glass in a small toast. ‘Very convincing, even if I do say so myself.’
‘What did you tell him?’ Ivy asked.
‘That I bumped into Omar yesterday and he told me he was leaving and heading to Truro,’ Helen explained, her face alight with triumph. ‘I even mentioned that he seemed to be in a hurry, had a bus to catch.’
Fred chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘And Robby bought it?’
‘Hook, line and sinker,’ Helen confirmed. ‘Remember I told you how he’s got a reputation for being gullible? Quite handy that.’
Ivy felt the knot inside her loosen slightly. ‘So, if anyone starts looking ...’
‘They’ll be on a wild goose chase in Cornwall,’ Trish finished with satisfaction. ‘Giving us breathing room until after Christmas at least.’
Helen raised her glass higher. ‘To Operation Ghost Refugee,’ she whispered dramatically. ‘May Omar have the most boring, uneventful Christmas possible.’
‘Hiding in plain sight,’ Fred added, clinking his pint against Helen’s glass.
The conspiracy felt almost festive, their secret smiles and hushed voices no different from those planning surprise Christmas presents across the other tables.
As Helen launched into an elaborate description of the children’s chaotic dress rehearsal for the Nativity play, Ivy felt herself relax.
For a few precious hours, they could pretend they were just friends planning for Christmas, not a makeshift resistance cell.
Ivy sipped her wine as she watched Trish laugh over Helen’s impression of the shepherds’ disastrous entrance, straight through the middle of the manger, trampling over the Baby Jesus.
Perhaps this was exactly what Christmas was: protecting the vulnerable, creating safety in a dangerous world.
‘Lunchtime tomorrow in P&P to compare notes?’ suggested Helen.
Trish shook her head, ‘I can’t make it. Someone’s ferrying me to Bath to visit the Christmas market.’
‘How about a night off,’ suggested Helen. ‘Hey, why not come to mine for a belated housewarming?’