Twenty-six
Although she appeared calm, Ivy’s fingers trembled as they traced the rim of her wine glass, the adrenaline still sharp in her veins. She lifted the glass, letting the fragrant steam rise – cinnamon and cloves, forming a barrier between her and the memory of what she’d just endured.
Helen slid into the seat opposite. The tight line of her mouth and the deliberate way she arranged her scarf betraying her usual composure. ‘Interesting start to the evening,’ she said, voice pitched low enough that only Ivy could hear the slight tremor.
At the next table, Mabel and Margaret, bundled in thick coats, were deep in discussion.
‘I swear, Ivy and Helen bring more drama than Netflix,’ Mabel whispered, eyes bright with intrigue.
Margaret sniffed. ‘You’d think they could at least wait until we’d finished before storming in like that.’
‘Well, it certainly livened up practice,’ Mabel said, taking a sip of her sherry.
Margaret pursed her lips. ‘I must say, Ivy’s changed since she retired. Used to be all calm authority. Now look at her, charging in like a hurricane.’
Mabel nodded. ‘Respectfully, of course.’
‘Respectfully,’ Margaret agreed, though her expression suggested otherwise.
Victor swivelled in his chair, peering down and catching Ivy’s eye.
‘They actually chased you?’ His dog collar seemed too tight, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. ‘Through the churchyard?’
‘Whistling,’ Helen said grimly. ‘Like it was some sort of game.’ She drained half her whisky in one go.
Trish leaned forward. ‘But don’t you see? They’re scared. Nobody wastes time frightening people unless they’re protecting something big.’
‘Or dangerous,’ Victor countered, his voice cracking. ‘The diocese won’t help if this goes wrong. They’ll distance themselves faster than Peter denied Christ.’
‘Thanks for that biblical reference,’ Ivy muttered, but shot him a soft smile. The young vicar meant well.
‘Last Christmas’ floated across the room, incongruously peaceful.
Despite hearing the words every December for over thirty years, tonight the familiar melody transported Ivy instantly back to her cramped flat in Bristol.
It was late November, less than three months since James had broken her heart; snow fell past the window and that same song played softly from her old radio, as she stood watching James pace in circles, his dark hair dishevelled from running his hands through it.
‘I know it’s a lot to ask,’ he said, stopping to face her. ‘But you’re the only person I trust with this. You understand my pain; how much I’m sacrificing. My faith journey ... it means everything to me, Ivy. I need your help.’
She stared at him, this man she had loved for three years. The man she still loved, watching the earnest hope in his eyes. He was asking her to guide him through his conversion from the Anglican to the Catholic faith.
‘I ... , I ...’ she stuttered. Ivy stared out of the window at the tumbling snow, unable to meet his eyes.
‘I need help,’ James said, his voice soft but pleading. ‘And you’re not the kind of person who crosses to the other side of the street.’
George Micheal’s singing echoed Ivy’s torment – she’d given James her heart and he’d betrayed her love.
‘I can’t,’ she said finally, the words barely audible. She dragged her eyes away from the snow and looked at him. She owed him that much. ‘I’m sorry, James. I just ... I can’t’.’
She’d fled Bristol the next morning, leaving behind her flat, and the bewildered hurt in James’s eyes.
She’d broken her vow, the most sacred promise she’d ever made.
And it was James, of all people, that she had refused to help.
She had crossed to the other side of the street to protect her own heart.
For more than thirty years since, she had lived by that failure, determined never to break that vow again.
Omar was only the latest person, to whom she held herself bound.
The song ended, jolting Ivy back to the present. Her hands were shaking.
‘You should stop.’ Victor tried again. ‘At least until after Christmas.’
‘That’s what they want.’ Ivy’s voice was fierce. She took a gulp of mulled wine. ‘Every time good people look away, bad people win.’
‘And we’re not looking away,’ Helen said; her colour was returning, bringing her confidence with it.
Ivy slept soundly.
After sharing breakfast with Jez, she picked up a bag of training treats and led the puppy into the garden.
It was just over a week to Christmas. Frost clung to the bare branches and coated the shrubs in glistening white.
Last night’s snow crunched underfoot as she stepped onto where she gauged the path to be, her breath unfurling in misty plumes.
She bent down to check the bird feeder, brushing ice from its wooden frame, when the unmistakable sound of footsteps the other side of the fence made her freeze, her hand in mid-air.
Her heart twisted. It had been four days since their fight. She wished she hadn’t accused him of being a coward. Ivy winced, recalling she’d told Fred he was both weak and selfish.
And yet there he was, just beyond the fence, close enough that she could hear the grating scrape of his shovel as he cleared his path. Not long ago, he would have offered to clear hers.
A battle waged within her. Part of her wanted to retreat inside, avoid the inevitable awkwardness. But another part, the stubborn part, held its ground.
Through the gaps in the fence, she glimpsed him.
Fred wore his thick gardening coat and a hat pulled low against the cold.
She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he would have a tie knotted around his neck.
His movements were precise, purposeful. As if he hadn’t spent the last few days avoiding her. As if he hadn’t broken her heart.
And then Jez did something entirely unexpected. He walked to the fence, sat down and let out a single, clear bark. The same bark Ivy had heard him use when he’d shot to Helen’s front door two nights ago.
The pieces clicked into place. Jez had started behaving, but Ivy hadn’t done anything to train him.
She hadn’t even read the wretched book Fred had given her.
Jez liked Fred. Fred had been looking after the puppy while she worked at Prosecco & Prose.
Jez had stopped munching cushions and seemed to respond to Fred’s commands.
Had Fred been secretly training Jez? Her heart squeezed as she realized that Fred was the explanation for why Jez now sat like a patient debutante waiting to be asked to dance, rather than tearing round her cottage destroying the contents.
Before she could stop herself, she cleared her throat. ‘Good morning.’
The scraping noise stopped. Fred’s shovel paused mid-air. For a moment, he didn’t look up. Slowly, he straightened, put his shovel down and stepped closer to the fence. His expression was deadpan, but something in his eyes caught her attention, something restrained, hesitant.
‘Morning,’ he said, his voice gruffer than usual.
Silence stretched between them, thick as the frost-laden air. Ivy busied herself by kicking at a patch of ice while her mind whirred. There had been a time when any silence between them had been comfortable, companionable. Now it was a chasm.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Are you still coming for Christmas dinner?’
He blinked, as if caught off guard. ‘Do you still want me there?’
The question stung. Of course, she didn’t just wanthim there. She wanted him all the time, everywhere . She desperately wanted things to go back to how they had been before. But that was gone, lost in the wreckage of that row.
She swallowed, pushing her emotions aside. Telling herself it was the right thing to do, the Christian thing to do, she spoke, trying to inject brightness into her voice. ‘Come any time after the family service. Trish and Helen are coming too.’
Fred’s mouth twitched, something close to a forced smile, but it faded quickly. He studied her for a long moment, as if searching for something in her face. Then he nodded. ‘Alright.’
Ivy exhaled, surprised by how tight her chest felt. She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath.
‘Can I bring anything? A bottle of wine, my winter vegetables? Or can I help in some way?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly, ‘wine would be nice. As for help, yes to that too. You can use your accounting skills and bring me proof of what’s really going on at the Fowler Foundation – help me clear Omar’s name.’
Their eyes met, hers full of challenge, his full of something she couldn’t quite discern. Sorrow, maybe, tinged with resignation.
‘I’ll bring wine,’ Fred said, and without another word, he turned back to his path, shovelling once more.
And Ivy, with a hollow ache in her heart, retraced her steps.
Even now, he wouldn’t help them. The distance between them had never felt wider.
And then, in the silence, Ivy heard the distant sound of carollers drift through the garden, hopeful, steadfast.
Christmas had a way of softening even the hardest hearts.
The little market town of Barnstaple was dressed up for Christmas.
Shop windows sparkled with an infectious exuberance, each display a kaleidoscope of ribbons, baubles and tinsel.
Winking fairy lights draped from shopfront to shopfront, as if embracing the High Street.
Ivy stood amid the bustling crowd, her heart light, her nostrils filled with the rich smoky-sweet aroma of roasting chestnuts, intertwined with a buttery warmth oozing from an open bakery door.