A Perfect Devon Christmas #2
‘Not so fast,’ Mabel said, raising a hand.
‘Before we break, can I run through the Christmas schedule?’ She flipped a page and continued.
‘Wreath making is next week. We’re selling them at the Christmas market on Saturday the 22nd of November.
After that, we’ve got the Christmas pudding race – same as always, first of December, which falls on a Monday this year.
’ She paused, scanning down her list. ‘The Christingle service is two weeks later, followed by the carol concert on the eighteenth – a Thursday,’ she added, glancing up at Victor.
‘And the nativity play is on Christmas Day itself.’ She set her notes down with a small sigh.
‘Phew. Christmas at Brambleton seems to get bigger every year.’
‘Spot on,’ said Ivy, but her heart warmed at the thought.
She adored preparing for a Brambleton Christmas – the scent of cloves and citrus as she pierced oranges for the Christingle service, the streets transformed for the Christmas market with twinkling lights strung from every eave, and the sweet sound of carol singers drifting through the crisp evening air.
Brambleton came alive, dressed up in festive finery to charm winter tourists. Even the garish army of flashing plastic snowmen that one villager always crammed into their front garden – tacky, over-the-top, and utterly beloved by everyone.
‘I’m terrifically excited,’ said Victor, beaming round the room. ‘My first rural Christmas, what fun!’
In the kitchen, Ivy watched Victor fumble with a jar of instant coffee, spilling granules across the counter.
‘Ivy always served proper coffee not instant,’ scolded Margret waspishly.
A plate of chocolate digestives teetered precariously as the vicar spun around, nearly knocking over the milk jug. ‘I’ve got this under control,’ he insisted, though watching him drop a third spoonful of coffee granules into the same mug Ivy thought otherwise.
She stepped forward, catching the plate of biscuits in freefall. ‘Victor, I think you’ll find, one heaped teaspoon per cup is plenty. Why don’t you make the tea, Margaret can carry the tray for you, and I’ll finish making the coffee.’
Victor smiled sheepishly ‘Yes, yes good idea. I’m a tea man myself. I’ve no idea how to make proper coffee, is that really what I should serve?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows quizzically.
‘Instant coffee won’t hurt anyone,’ replied Ivy.
The meeting resumed. Ivy’s phone buzzed in her pocket – probably another rejection. Let them say no – she only needed one yes. Somewhere out there was an employer who would value her skills.
The door burst open, and in rushed Rose, the landlady of the local pub, the Smugglers Inn. She was panting, and her cheeks were pink, suggesting she had run all the way from the pub.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ puffed Rose. Ivy suppressed a laugh; late!
They had only just moved past the first agenda item.
A series of setbacks had delayed the start of the meeting.
First, Fred had to embark on a full-scale manhunt to track down Victor, whom he eventually discovered mid-serenade in the shower, bellowing Jerusalem like a one-man choir.
Then came the ten-minute search for the missing agendas, which they finally unearthed from beneath a pile of tea-stained minutes.
And just when they thought they were ready, Victor had declared himself completely unfit to read anything without his glasses – which had been right there on the end of his nose all along.
Rose shrugged off her coat, releasing the smell of spilt beer and fried food.
Ivy tried to recall the last time she had joined her friends at the Smugglers Inn on a Friday night.
Weeks ago. When she was the vicar, she used to go all the time.
‘But you’ll never believe what kept me.’ said Rose, her eyes widening. ‘Something’s been found on the beach.’
A ripple of anticipation shot through the room.
‘An inflatable dinghy,’ Rose said, drawing out the words for dramatic effect. ‘An abandoned one.’
Silence settled for a beat as imaginations leapt ahead, then the whispers began.
‘Migrants,’ muttered Margaret, glancing nervously toward the darkening sky outside. ‘It’s happening all along the coast.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ scoffed Fred. ‘This is North Devon, not Dover. It’s a long way across the channel to Brambleton.’
‘But no one’s looking for them here, are they?’ said Margaret, wagging a warning finger at Fred. ‘That’s the point. It’ll be the sort who stand no chance of being granted asylum. The desperate ones.’
Mabel’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The dangerous sort. My sister had asylum seekers moved near her, do you know what happened? Break-ins started the very next day.’
Ivy shot a look at Victor, but when he didn’t intervene, she did. ‘Mabel, your sister lives in Hackney. It’s not the safest part of London, is it?’
Fred shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘Could just be kids messing about. Tourists bringing their teenagers down for the weekend.’
‘I wish. Not many tourists in November, Fred,’ quipped Rose.
‘Or smugglers,’ Mabel added, eyes widening. ‘People still run booze, you know. Drugs too. I read about it in the Mail.’
Victor cleared his throat. ‘Um, perhaps we could ... turn our attention to item two? The roof fund?’ he ventured, his voice cracking.
Undeterred, Rose crossed her arms, surveying her audience. ‘No footprints in the sand, no sign of anyone. Whoever arrived in that boat they’ve covered their tracks well.’
‘What if they’re still here?’ Mabel asked, her voice slightly wavering.
‘Watching us right now,’ Margaret nodded. ‘Planning God knows what.’
‘Margaret, please,’ intervened Victor.
Fred rolled his eyes. ‘Next you’ll be telling me they’re hiding in your garden shed.’
‘Don’t joke about such things,’ hissed Mabel.
More whispers spread through the room. Someone muttered about needing to mount a search party, another suggested a night patrol.
A nervous energy crackled in the air. In the silence that followed, Ivy could hear nothing but rapid breathing, as if each person was visualising the threat.
A sudden crash from outside made them all jump.
Victor seized his moment, speaking with forced brightness, ‘Why don’t we form a neighbourhood welcoming committee? I’ve some lovely pamphlets about cultural sensitivity from the diocese ...’
His words trailed off as several pairs of eyes fixed on him with identical stares of incredulous horror.
Ivy agreed with Victor – they should welcome refugees, not turn them away – but again she bit her tongue.
She folded her hands together, a habit from years at the pulpit.
She thought about the empty dinghy, the absence of footprints on the shore.
Perhaps the rain had simply washed all the footprints away?
From across the room, Victor’s eyes met hers, his expression grave.
He seemed to be the only other person concerned about the passengers’ fate.
Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes.
Questions stirred in her mind. Where had those passengers come from?
What were they fleeing? Where were they now?