Five #2
‘And . . . ?’ she prompted.
‘ Of the wicked, you can learn only wickedness. A wolf will not take to sewing jackets .’
Ivy flinched. No one had ever called her a wolf before.
‘Rumi in the words of Nicholson again?’
‘No. A different Persian poet – Saadi – and another English translator, Edwin Arnold .’
‘Well, your Persian poet was correct. I agree that what the villagers did was wrong, searching my shed and throwing accusations – I’m trying to make it right.’
‘By interrogating me?’
‘By offering you a safe place to stay,’ she countered. ‘Even if you’re just a homeless immigrant, not a refugee.’
‘Homeless immigrant?’ This time his laugh was bitter. ‘Is that your new theory?’
‘Listen here,’ Fred stepped between them, protective as always. ‘Ivy’s offering you shelter, but it comes with conditions. If you want to stay in the shed, you’ll start being straight with us.’
Omar’s eyes darted between them, calculating. The silence stretched, broken only by Jez eating from the now open bag of compost.
‘The shed needs proper insulation,’ Omar said finally. ‘And that window leaks.’
Ivy felt her muscles relax slightly. He was going to stay. ‘Fred’s good with his hands. He can help.’
Fred nodded.
‘And the condition is what? That I must deliver you a tragic backstory?’
‘No,’ Ivy said, surprising herself with her certainty. ‘I hope you’ll tell us the truth eventually, but we will give you time, and a chance to trust us.’ She managed a small smile. ‘Consider it my interim project, since I’m between jobs.’
Fred cleared his throat. ‘Speaking of jobs – compost isn’t a recommended alternative to kibble.’
Omar sighed with exaggerated patience. ‘First lesson in dog training: persistence and consistency. Both notably absent with this dog.’ He exchanged a look with Fred, and Ivy thought she detected the glimmer of a smile.
‘Right then,’ Ivy said briskly, dragging Jez away from the mangled bag. ‘Looks like we’ll all be learning something new.’
The morning sun shone brightly through the windows, and inside the shed, sweat beaded on Ivy’s forehead as she wrestled with a box, the cardboard damp from years in the vicarage garage.
The scent of compost and WD-40 was now mixed with the nose-prickling smell of overused disinfectant.
Fred, moving with surprising grace for a stocky man, was methodically clearing cobwebs from corners with a long-handled feather duster.
Fred gestured at the box. ‘What’s in there?’ he called out, his voice slightly too loud for the cramped space, making her wonder if he had once again neglected his hearing aids.
‘Just some old curtains,’ she replied, holding up a faded floral fabric that reeked of mothballs. ‘Bit flowery for a man, but they’re long and they’ll help to insulate the place. These walls are paper-thin.’
Omar appeared in the doorway, a determined expression on his face. ‘This is remarkable!’ His enthusiasm made both Ivy and Fred smile, though Fred quickly turned back to his task, hiding his amusement.
‘You two make quite the team.’ Omar observed, looking around appreciatively.
Ivy nearly dropped the curtains. ‘Oh! No, no ... we’re not .
.. Fred and I aren’t ...’ She laughed, shaking her head.
‘Fred’s wife died twenty years ago, and I’ve never been married.
’ She shook off a dusty memory of a tall man with a gentle laugh.
She’d come close though. ‘Fred’s just helping because he’s good with his hands.
’ She blushed, realizing how that sounded.
‘I mean, he knows about building things. He’s fixed the leaky window. ’
Fred continued working, apparently absorbed in measuring for curtain hooks, though a slight smile played at the corners of his mouth.
‘Omar, love, make yourself useful,’ Ivy said, eager to change the subject and capitalize on his good mood.
She gestured towards a folded camp bed leaning against the wall.
‘I can’t recall when anyone last used that.
Could you check the hinges? Make sure they’re all screwed tight? Don’t want any accidents.’
Omar rushed forward, as if glad to have a specific task. ‘Of course! I’ll screw them tight right away.’
Fred’s head snapped up, his eyebrows raised, and he shoved Omar aside. ‘No one’s screwing anyone while I’m around!’ he declared firmly, his voice booming in the small space.
Omar froze, his expression a perfect mixture of confusion and concern. He looked at Ivy helplessly, clearly wondering what social faux pas he’d committed.
Ivy pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. ‘Fred’s hearing isn’t what it used to be,’ she explained gently. ‘Sometimes he ... misinterprets things. Especially if he’s not looking at you when you speak.’
‘Oh!’ Understanding dawned on Omar’s face, followed by relief. ‘I was going to check the bed’s hinges,’ he said carefully, enunciating each word as Fred turned to face him.
‘Ah.’ Fred’s cheeks coloured slightly. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Right. Carry on.’
The awkward moment dissolved into a companiable silence, broken only by the soft clink of tools and the shuffle of shoes as they worked.
Ivy watched Fred hang the curtains carefully, noting how his weathered hands moved with unexpected delicacy, how he stepped back to check each panel was perfectly level.
There was a gentleness to him she’d never noticed before, hidden beneath his practical exterior.
The afternoon light was growing soft and honey-coloured when they finally stepped back to admire their work.
They had transformed the shed. Old cushions from Ivy’s spare room softened a salvaged armchair.
A worn rug decorated the newly swept floorboards, and the curtains reached the floor, their faded patterns lending a shabby-chic charm to the space.
The workbench, pushed snugly against the wall, held a single burner hotplate, its surface worn from frequent use.
In one corner, a small electric heater hummed quietly, pushing back the November chill.
‘It’s a proper home,’ Omar declared, genuine admiration in his voice. ‘Like something from a magazine.’ Then he said something in a foreign language, but before Ivy could ask for a translation, he smiled at her and said, ‘ Under the shadow of the Friend ... you are a shining sun .’
I vy paused as she was tucking the worn quilt around the mattress.
Such beautiful words flowing from his lips; she knew ‘the Friend’ referred to God, was he saying that even though she was overshadowed by God, her kindness still shone brightly?
The poetry felt layered, just beyond her full grasp.
‘Rumi or Saadi ?’ She found herself asking – decades of literary curiosity bubbling up even while arranging linen.
She felt slightly embarrassed, as if she were trying too hard to connect.
‘Rumi.’
The certainty in his voice made her realize he was trying to communicate something important. Whatever Rumi’s poetry meant, she was sure Omar meant it as a compliment; her efforts were appreciated. Ivy continued smoothing the fabric with unnecessary precision, trying to decode his meaning.
‘Translated by Nicholson?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
Ivy felt a small flutter of relief at getting it right, then she immediately felt foolish for caring so much.
But there was something in his smile – recognition, perhaps.
As if he’d seen her struggle with the metaphor and appreciated the effort.
She wondered if the quote was simply his way of saying thank you, or of blessing her small act of kindness.
Fred nodded, satisfaction evident in his stance.
‘Quite right, lad. Just needs a kettle now,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘Every proper room needs a kettle.’
Ivy looked at Fred, surprised by the softness in his tone.
She’d thought he was suspicious of Omar, but his voice was full of fatherly concern.
For a moment, their eyes met, and a glimmer of understanding passed between them.
Then Fred turned away, busying himself with gathering up his tools, and the moment passed like leaves scattering in an autumn wind.
Her phone rang. Trish.
‘Have you got some time for an old friend?’
Ivy chuckled. Time was something she was no longer short of. ‘Want me to pop down for a chat?
‘I’ll buy you a coffee.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
The bell jangled overhead as Ivy pushed open the café door.
Her fingers tingled, still stiff from the cold, and she flexed them absently.
Something felt off – it wasn’t as crowded now that half term was over, but it was more than that, a subtle change in the atmosphere that she couldn’t place.
She scanned the space, but it looked the same as usual: the velvet chairs, the rows of bookshelves, the clutter behind the counter.
The space smelled right – coffee and pastries.
Everything appeared normal, yet a feeling of wrongness persisted.
Then she saw it. Trish was in her usual place, but the quick movements, the effortless grace with which she juggled plates and orders, were missing. Instead, her weight rested awkwardly on a pair of crutches, one arm stretched to steady herself against the counter as she hopped about.
‘Trish!’ The concern in Ivy’s voice startled her friend. ‘Whatever happened?’
Trish rolled her eyes, but there was a wry smile tucked in the corner of her mouth.
‘Slipped on the pavement locking up last night. Stupid, really. Landed in a heap and now I’m paying for it.
’ She tapped one crutch lightly on the floor.
‘I can still manage, but ... well, I thought of you. Of your offer to help Rose out over Christmas. I’ve a busy month coming up.
’ She gestured at the crutches. ‘I’ve been trying to manage on these most of the day, but I’d love a hand. Minimum wage, it’s all I can afford.’
‘Of course!’ The words left Ivy almost too fast. Hesitantly, she added. ‘I might have to bring the puppy though.’
Trish raised an eyebrow. ‘Is he house trained?’
‘He is.’ Ivy hesitated a beat before adding. ‘Well, nearly. But I’m very swift with a bleach-soaked sponge.’
Trish snorted. ‘Fine. As long as he doesn’t terrorize the customers. So, when can you start?’
Ivy grinned, thinking of the long, aimless days she had endured over the past few months. ‘Now,’ she said, rolling up her sleeves. ‘Are you open this evening – should I get some bottles of Prosecco in the fridge?’